Limestone and Clay by Lesley Glaister

Simon puts down the phone and remains where he is for a moment too long, his back slightly turned.
    â€˜Your go,’ Nadia says.
    â€˜Do we have to have that?’ he asks.
    â€˜I like it,’ Nadia says, but she switches it off. She is unsettled by the bleakness in his eyes. ‘What’s up, Simon? Everything all right?’
    He puts his hands over his eyes and holds them there for a moment. When he takes them away she sees that he has mastered his expression. There is even the trace of a smile. ‘Not really,’ he says.
    â€˜What’s up?’
    â€˜Celia’s pulled out.’
    Nadia feels a little surge of relief. ‘Because of the weather? So it’s off?’
    Simon shakes his head. He fiddles idly with his letters. ‘No and no,’ he says. ‘Actually it’s because she’s pregnant.’ There is a pause. Nadia finds she is holding her breath. FAT , Simon puts. ‘Six.’
    â€˜Is that all you can do?’ Nadia sits back on the sofa. Energy drains from her, she can feel it, running down through her limbs, leaving her chilled. If it was anyone else … She can feel the leak of blood between her legs. ‘Pregnant?’ she repeats, and her voice has gone flat. ‘That was quick.’
    â€˜Oh God,’ Simon says. He gets up and walks around the room. He goes to the window, pulls the curtain back and stares out at the night.
    â€˜She only said they were going to start trying on Sunday,’ Nadia says weakly.
    â€˜She thought she might be then, apparently. Didn’t want to say in case she wasn’t. Test result this morning. Promised Dan she’d pull out if it was positive. So that’s that.’
    â€˜Well, she could have warned you.’ Nadia manufactures indignation on Simon’s behalf.
    â€˜Mmmm,’ Simon says. Nadia’s belly groans, a sad sound. Simon snorts in half-amused acknowledgement.
    â€˜Still playing?’ Nadia asks. Simon shakes his head. Nadia begins picking up the letters and dropping them into the bag. ‘Lucky old Celia and Dan,’ she says, unable to bear Simon’s silence, unable to keep an edge of bitterness from her voice. She folds the Scrabble board and puts it in the box. ‘You won,’ she says. Simon breathes in very deeply as if he has been winded. ‘What’s up?’ she asks. He shakes his head. ‘I mean I don’t see why you’re so upset. You and Miles can still go, can’t you, if you think it’s wise in this weather?’
    â€˜Oh yes.’ Simon turns towards her. ‘I’m not upset.’ Nadia swallows the last of her – now flat – wine. Simon sits down beside her and puts his arms around her. She pulls back and looks at him, seeing again the bleakness in his eyes. ‘Sorry,’ he says.
    â€˜Sorry for what?’
    â€˜Just sorry.’ He holds her tight, burying his face in her neck.
    There is something she must ask, though she fears the answer. She looks over his shoulder as she speaks, ‘Simon, is it that you still …’
    â€˜No!’ Simon exclaims, quite violently.
    â€˜Well then? What’s the matter?’
    â€˜I don’t know, I … I’m just sorry it isn’t you.’
    â€˜Ah.’ Nadia closes her eyes again. She lets him hold her, but her own arms are limp. Sorry! she thinks, how trivial a word. But sorrow is apt. It is sorrow she feels, but she rebels against pity. She feels, also, rage. But undirected. It is nobody’s fault, is it, that Celia’s reproductive system is so bloody efficient while her own has proved, so far, duff? What can she do with her rage? Where can she send it?
    She does not want him touching her. She moves away, makes herself stiff, her face is like cardboard. He looks at her, puzzled.
    â€˜I’m going to bed,’ she says.
    â€˜Don’t be miserable, Nadia.’ She doesn’t answer, chews viciously on the corner of