Her Living Image by Jane Rogers

sweat, both shocked by the force of what had happened. At last Alan wriggled and shifted slightly.
“There’s somethig biting into my bum. A zip, I think,” and Carolyn raised herself up from him and began the furtive scramble for clothes. Not until they were fully dressed and
sitting in the front seats again did they look at one another properly, for a moment with absolute curiosity, as if at strangers. Then Alan smiled at her broadly, and Carolyn felt her surprised
face grinning back. Their grins widened into giggles, and then into open-mouthed laughter, as if some huge joke had suddenly been revealed to both. It was minutes before Alan leaned forward and
started the car.
    On Saturday Alan borrowed his father’s car to go on a day trip, and they made love all afternoon, drugged with it, unable to stop. In the evening they drove to a pub for food and drink,
and as she tidied herself in the Ladies and distantly admired the way her skin was glowing and her eyes sparkling, and thought that everyone who saw them would be sure to know what they’d
been doing, Carolyn suddenly remembered she was pregnant. It was an extraordinary thing. But it wouldn’t matter. She could tell him easily now. As she slid into her seat next to him and
picked up her half of lager she said quietly, “I think I’m pregnant.”
    He looked at her and laughed.
    “No. I mean I am. From before.”
    Alan hesitated, and put his glass down. “You are or you think you are?”
    “I am.”
    “Have you seen a doctor?”
    “I’m sick every morning.”
    “And how late?”
    She shrugged. “They’re never very regular, but usually five to six weeks. Now it’s been eight.”
    “Eight weeks?”
    “Since my last period.”
    Alan scratched his face. “Why didn’t you tell me before?”
    She was remembering how she’d felt, now. In fact she felt like it again. Completely. Pregnant? Not me. It was impossible and awful. She shook her head. “I couldn’t. I
don’t know. I couldn’t believe it.”
    “You knew yesterday?” he said, and then, flatly, “– last night. Today.”
    She nodded.
    “That’s why it was different.”
    “I don’t know. I don’t think so. I forgot it. I don’t know.”
    “Why do you think it was?”
    “We just – I wasn’t afraid any more – and – we – fitted together –” Talking about it made her terrified and doubt it, that it had been so
much. Talking might reveal it not to have been, or to be just something you can talk about. He bent his head over the table, staring at the wood grain. There was a very long silence. She watched
the barman reading the evening paper at the quiet bar, holding each page half open as he read it, tilting his head to scan the columns. Perhaps he was reading the advertisements. Looking for a used
car or a lawnmower. Perhaps he had a wife and children and didn’t have to worry, perhaps if she stared hard enough she could turn herself into him and be standing there peacefully propped
against the bar, half-open paper lying there, pint of bitter in arm’s reach and the pub cat rubbing warm against her leg.
    Alan moved. He raised his head and said, “Well.”
    “Well,” she said.
    “What d’you want to do?”
    “I don’t know.”
    He put his arm around her awkwardly, making her want to flinch away and snap despite herself, “I’m not ill.”
    “No.” Humbly he took his arm away, and then said grudgingly, picking at the edge of the table, “I love you, I suppose.”
    “I suppose,” she said. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
    “Oh fuck off!” He jumped up and ran out of the room, leaving her open-mouthed and horrified.
    Pretending for the barman’s sake that nothing had happened, she sipped her drink slowly, anxiously replaying the conversation in her mind’s ear and unable to make any sense of his
reaction. Would he leave her here? Was that it? How would she get home? Did he hate her? She felt she had not understood anything, ever, that had happened