“You’re not bothering me, Fi. Why are you worried?”
“You just seemed so choked up at the surgery this morning, and then when you rushed off you were so funny with me. I’m not accusing you or having a go, I honestly don’t mind about brunch but you were off. It was like you needed to be away from us as quickly as possible.”
Jacob swallowed hard. None of this was Fiona’s fault but at least she was an adult, what kind of man was he to run away from his tiny son or daughter?
“Fiona, I’m so sorry. You’re right…” He slowed down. He had to remember to pick his words carefully.
“It really got me this morning,” he continued, slowly, “it was the heartbeat, it was so strong. I was so amazed and so scared at the same time. I don’t know why. The closer it gets to the due date, the more I worry that I’m going to let you both down.”
Gray clouds swooped out of nowhere and rushed the sun away, like minders. Shadows raced across the hospital yard and Jacob heard Fiona’s voice. “Jacob…J, don’t cry, it’s okay, don’t cry.” Before he realized it, he was gargling on huge, salty sobs and wiping his gritty eyes with his free hand.
“I’m so sorry,” he heard himself burbling. “I’m so sorry.”
—
Jacob had a scheduled face-to-face in half an hour’s time at a client’s office, near the Sussex border. As he made his way into the hospital car park, coughing away the last of the sobs and wiping his eyes with the flesh of his thumb, he called Marc, his colleague—his junior—and asked him to call the client to postpone.
“Thanks for doing this, mate. I owe you,” Jacob told him. Marc didn’t ask what was wrong—of course—but Jacob knew he’d assume it was something to do with Fiona and the baby and Jacob didn’t put him straight. Another guilty notch on the cot bed.
He called Fiona again as he was about to start the engine. He told her to blow work off that afternoon—that he was coming home. She sounded so genuinely concerned that Jacob started sobbing again, head on the steering wheel, and had to wait another five minutes before turning the key.
—
Jacob turned slowly into their road, his black company Audi purring its low whirr. He could see that Fiona’s car—their car—was already in the driveway. A big black shining example of another expense they didn’t really need and couldn’t afford. A seven-seater Volvo XC90, bought on hire purchase the day after their twelve-week pregnancy scan.
They were only having one baby, he’d protested; they were future proofing, she argued. And before he knew it, he was signing the hire purchase agreement while she stroked her barely-there belly and smiled adoringly at the huge car.
His job in field sales for a specialist software company was well paid, but not as well paid as their spending would suggest.
When Jacob and Fiona bought the house, before the baby was a twinkle in its mother’s eye, they just took care of respective bills. He earned more, so he paid a few more. A few months after that, imbibed with two-for-£10 white wine, Fiona had caused an almighty row, bemoaning the unromantic financial arrangements.
The marriage and the mortgage were not, Fiona had declared, worth squat. The real mark of a lifelong commitment was a joint account. Jacob had argued that this would obliterate the romance of secrecy. That he couldn’t buy her a present without it coming off their shared balance, printed clearly on a shared bank statement.
“When was the last time you bought me a present?” she’d yelled. “You just don’t want me to see your bank statements!” and with an adolescent flounce, she’d run upstairs, thrown herself on their bed and howled dramatically.
At the time, Jacob was terrified. Who was this woman in their house? The Fiona he’d first met was so cool and in control, and would have rolled her eyes at anything resembling a tantrum. If she ever cried, she cried in secret, in the bath. Only her eyes
“You just seemed so choked up at the surgery this morning, and then when you rushed off you were so funny with me. I’m not accusing you or having a go, I honestly don’t mind about brunch but you were off. It was like you needed to be away from us as quickly as possible.”
Jacob swallowed hard. None of this was Fiona’s fault but at least she was an adult, what kind of man was he to run away from his tiny son or daughter?
“Fiona, I’m so sorry. You’re right…” He slowed down. He had to remember to pick his words carefully.
“It really got me this morning,” he continued, slowly, “it was the heartbeat, it was so strong. I was so amazed and so scared at the same time. I don’t know why. The closer it gets to the due date, the more I worry that I’m going to let you both down.”
Gray clouds swooped out of nowhere and rushed the sun away, like minders. Shadows raced across the hospital yard and Jacob heard Fiona’s voice. “Jacob…J, don’t cry, it’s okay, don’t cry.” Before he realized it, he was gargling on huge, salty sobs and wiping his gritty eyes with his free hand.
“I’m so sorry,” he heard himself burbling. “I’m so sorry.”
—
Jacob had a scheduled face-to-face in half an hour’s time at a client’s office, near the Sussex border. As he made his way into the hospital car park, coughing away the last of the sobs and wiping his eyes with the flesh of his thumb, he called Marc, his colleague—his junior—and asked him to call the client to postpone.
“Thanks for doing this, mate. I owe you,” Jacob told him. Marc didn’t ask what was wrong—of course—but Jacob knew he’d assume it was something to do with Fiona and the baby and Jacob didn’t put him straight. Another guilty notch on the cot bed.
He called Fiona again as he was about to start the engine. He told her to blow work off that afternoon—that he was coming home. She sounded so genuinely concerned that Jacob started sobbing again, head on the steering wheel, and had to wait another five minutes before turning the key.
—
Jacob turned slowly into their road, his black company Audi purring its low whirr. He could see that Fiona’s car—their car—was already in the driveway. A big black shining example of another expense they didn’t really need and couldn’t afford. A seven-seater Volvo XC90, bought on hire purchase the day after their twelve-week pregnancy scan.
They were only having one baby, he’d protested; they were future proofing, she argued. And before he knew it, he was signing the hire purchase agreement while she stroked her barely-there belly and smiled adoringly at the huge car.
His job in field sales for a specialist software company was well paid, but not as well paid as their spending would suggest.
When Jacob and Fiona bought the house, before the baby was a twinkle in its mother’s eye, they just took care of respective bills. He earned more, so he paid a few more. A few months after that, imbibed with two-for-£10 white wine, Fiona had caused an almighty row, bemoaning the unromantic financial arrangements.
The marriage and the mortgage were not, Fiona had declared, worth squat. The real mark of a lifelong commitment was a joint account. Jacob had argued that this would obliterate the romance of secrecy. That he couldn’t buy her a present without it coming off their shared balance, printed clearly on a shared bank statement.
“When was the last time you bought me a present?” she’d yelled. “You just don’t want me to see your bank statements!” and with an adolescent flounce, she’d run upstairs, thrown herself on their bed and howled dramatically.
At the time, Jacob was terrified. Who was this woman in their house? The Fiona he’d first met was so cool and in control, and would have rolled her eyes at anything resembling a tantrum. If she ever cried, she cried in secret, in the bath. Only her eyes
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