Marshmallows for Breakfast (15 page)

The dinner party was fun.

Lively atmosphere, good food, expensive wine, interesting conversation.

I'd recently returned from a trip into unreality. Earlier that day I'd been to the hospital to receive the results of a la-paroscopy My periods were heavy, cripplingly painful, and because they'd already found I had chlamydia that had been untreated for years, the laparoscopy was the latest investigation to see if it had caused pelvic inflammatory disease. A week earlier they'd sliced into my belly button and inserted a tiny camera inside to see the condition of my reproductive system. Earlier in the day I'd sat in the surgeon's office, having caught him between procedures so he still had his green hat on his head, and heard the findings. They were: blockage of both fallopian tubes, extensive scarring on both ovaries and uterus, nothing we can do at this present time. Permanent infertility. “But there are medical advancements all the time, things may change in the future.” All those things I remember because I read them again on the written confirmation. After he told me, I slipped quietly, gently into shock. Then wandered into a place inside where none of this was happening and none of it mattered. I must have spoken to the surgeon, I must have picked up my bag, I must have gone back to my flat, must have had conversations with people, carried on as usual, but all of it is gone.

The next thing I remembered was sitting in the back of a cab with Gabrielle, being her plus one for a dinner party. She'd mentioned she and her husband, Ted, were going through a hard time so were socializing separately, but I didn't realize what an understatement that had been—they were actually on the last miles of the road to divorce. In the back of the darkened cab, we were both drowning in the reality of our lives, but had no idea we were each suffering as much as the other.

And now I was at a dinner party pretending to be normal. Pretending that I didn't know the exact date when this had begun. I'd always been so serious—paranoid—about safe sex, about becoming accidentally pregnant, that I made sure it was safe
every
time, so I knew the exact date I'd contracted chlamydia. I had only been stupid the one time; I'd only trusted the wrong person once and …

I pushed my chair out. Escaped to the bathroom. I ran the cold tap over my hands, gently patted my neck with cool water. Calming myself down. I forced myself to look at the mirror, to see myself, to look into the depths of my own eyes for more than a few seconds.

You're single,
I reminded myself in the mirror.
It's not like you're trying to have a baby. Or that you've met the man of your dreams and you want a baby. Forget about it for tonight. Do this one day at a time. Think about it one day at a time. It's only because someone's told you that you can't have children that you want them.
I shut off the tap, dried my hands on a towel.
Think about it. What would you do with a child right now anyway?

Back at the table, I took a drink of wine. It slipped down my throat, warming me up inside, and the grip of agony began to subside, loosened its hold on me. I could handle this one day at a time.

“I've got an announcement,” our hostess said over the hum of conversation to get our attention. My eyes went to her glass—water. I took in her face: glowing skin tinged ever so slightly with green, gleaming eyes, thick glossy hair.
She's pregnant.
The thought zipped through my mind. Joy welled up inside, rippled through me until I was overwhelmed with happiness for her. And then it hit me: she was experiencing something I never would. She was going to press a kiss onto the soft head of her newborn baby; she was going to take his or her hand in hers and stare at each crease and line, trying to memorize them; she was going to delight in the soft scent of milk and skin and baby; she was going to gaze at her child and think, “Look what I made.” It was like a pillow being pushed over my face, smothering the air out of me. I couldn't take in oxygen, grief was compressing all my internal organs, a vice of loss, twisting tighter and tighter. I hardly knew this friend of Gabrielle's, but I was filled with such happiness and such envy. She was going to have a baby.

“I'm having a baby,” she said, and the table became a mass of squeals and women jumping up and running towards her, hugging her, asking about due dates, names, nurseries, schools. I was one of them. I was overjoyed for her, I couldn't help myself feeling that. Just like I couldn't help myself feeling cheated at the same time. I had two strong and conflicting emotions stirring inside me. Over time they became stronger, more polarized.

I saw them everywhere. Mothers. I was probably just more attuned to them because of what I'd been told, but everywhere I went I saw women with abdomens swelled with babies, I saw women pushing infants in prams, I saw women playing with their children, women shopping with toddlers, women taking their offspring to school, women watching their little ones play, women screaming at their kids, women trying to bear the embarrassment of a full-on tantrum. In shops, in traffic, on trains, on buses, on the street I saw women who, if for this one thing, would be like me. I ached over it. I wouldn't begrudge anyone the right to have children, but it hurt. It hurt more than I could describe. And it was a reminder of that monumental mistake I'd once made.

I decided to change my life. I decided to start again somewhere else. Australia seemed as good a place as anywhere. I could get a travel visa relatively easily, they spoke English (sort of) and I wouldn't need lots of vaccinations.

Yes, there were children there, but they weren't children I knew. I wouldn't have to see my friends becoming pregnant and starting their families. I wouldn't have to play with my nieces and nephews knowing that they'd never have a blood cousin from me. I wouldn't have to be happy for them and miserable for me. One step removed, one half of the world removed, I could start to rebuild myself in the light of this knowledge.

For months I was so caught in a whirlwind of looking for somewhere to live, looking for work, acquainting myself with the Australian way of life, deciding whether to be sponsored so I could stay in one job for more than three months, eventually starting my new job, that I forgot everything else. It became buried. I could ignore it and move on.

Then I fell in love.

I eased the car into the space behind Brockingham High Street, where most days I needed to I managed to get a parking spot, and turned off the engine. I was still a bit disturbed that I'd told Kyle something so private about myself.

I hadn't told anyone else. It's not something I'd ever broadcast and it wasn't as if people ever asked you that sort of thing.
Well,
I decided as I locked the car and put on the alarm,
it's probably a good thing. Now he knows something personal about me, I can try to get him to open up about his wife without feeling as if I'm too much of a trespasser.

CHAPTER 13

I
‘d become a little obsessed about what Mrs. Gadsborough's illness could be.

At first, I'd decided it was terminal and being a caring, noble mother, she'd left to spare the children the pain of watching her go. Then I thought it through. No one except eighteenth- century explorers and the elderly Inuit did that. There was also the small matter of wanting the children with her, which was what she and Kyle were constantly arguing about.

My next port of call was Gabrielle, a trained counselor who was studying part-time for her master's degree in the psychology of trauma. We'd talked it through and from the small amount of information I gave her she suggested it could be a form of depression. Bipolar disorder, which could explain the highs and lows. Or, she said, it could be untreated postnatal depression, which often increased in severity if not dealt with properly. That would explain the need to leave as well, to get away for a while. Or it could be just depression, which could cause changes in behavior, especially if she hadn't been given the right medication, wasn't being correctly monitored, or if she did something like drink on certain medication.

All of these theories sounded plausible, and I'd been trying to work out how to bring it up with Kyle most of the evening.

He'd made a spicy lamb stew, which we'd eaten at the kitchen table. I'd washed up, he'd made coffee and we'd settled in the living room. I had draped myself over the armchair, my legs resting over the arms of one side, my head resting over the other, which had amused Kyle.

“You sit like the kids,” he'd said.

“So I do,” I'd replied innocently. I'd decided it was a good idea not to mention that not only did we often sit like that, we'd also chase each other over the seats of the armchairs and sofas, bouncing and laughing as we ran.

Despite the two sofas, two armchairs and the chairs in the dining room behind us, Kyle chose to sit on the floor. He sat with his long legs pulled up towards his chest, his bare feet flat on the floor, in front of the sofa I'd found him passed out on. He spread his arms out on the seat and rested his head back.

I wondered, briefly, not for the first time, what had happened to all the bottles of alcohol. I'd decided he was either a heavy drinker who'd fallen off the wagon but had pulled himself together or the threat of social services had scared him into sobriety. Either way, he hadn't been drunk as far as I knew. But what he'd done with the alcohol was a mystery.

So far we'd talked a lot about architecture, design and house prices. He'd asked me about my job and told me what Summer and Jaxon were up to at school. All the while, as we talked, as we bonded, I was working my way up to asking about his wife.

True to his word he'd put on Sarah McLachlan. Currently playing was “Fumbling Towards Ecstasy,” my favorite of her albums because it was the first one I'd bought. I closed my eyes. I was surprised Kyle liked this music; she sang so often about heartbreak and loss and losing who you are. But the music was perfect, it added to the laid-back, friendly,
mellow atmosphere. It set the scene so well that if I asked now, he'd probably tell me. He closed his eyes and I knew this was the moment.

“Erm …” I began.

“So …” he said at the same time.

“Oh, sorry, go ahead,” we both said.

“No, you go,” Kyle said, lifting his head.

“No, you,” I replied.
Maybe I'll ask later,
I said to myself.
Maybe you re just a big hairy coward,
another part of me replied.

“I was going to ask if you went to the beach a lot in Australia,” Kyle said.

“Not really,” I said, casting my mind back to the time I'd been there. “I went to the beach a handful of times. I went to Bondi only once—I'm not really into the beach and stuff.”

“And yet you moved to Australia, land of beach living.”

“What I mean is, I'm not much of a swimmer and not very good at water sports, and if you're not into that, it's mainly about lying around on the beach or playing volleyball, neither of which I'm much good at. And, if I'm honest, I'm not a fan of swimwear.”

“Let me stop you right there,” Kyle interrupted. “I don't want to hear any of that women nonsense about you being fat. You're not. I won't have a bit of it.”

“I don't think I'm fat. I don't think I'm thin. To be honest, I don't think about myself in those terms at all. Even when I weighed less and wore a size ten I didn't go in for swimwear. I'm not a fan of showing off my body. A slightly above-the-knee skirt is as far as I go. And even that's very rare.” My weight fluctuated and it was only partially important to me. I was a curvy woman—I came from curvy genes—and I had larger-than- average breasts, a narrowish waist and slender hips. Someone had once told me I had the most perfect bum he'd ever seen. But my body's weight was not a source of
angst for me. I wasn't obese, so I'd found, over the years, there were better, more serious things to worry about.

“You're an unusual woman, not worrying about your weight. Even Ashlyn, who's tiny, used to fret about it. After she had the twins she became obsessed with losing the baby fat. I overheard her telling her mother on the phone that if she didn't get back into shape quickly I might go off her. The woman had just had my children, she'd done this amazing thing making me a father, how could I go off her?” Kyle shook his head. “I could never ‘go off her,’ not how she meant.”

This was the perfect opening. We were on the subject anyway. I opened my mouth to ask him and suddenly Kyle was on his feet, a troubled look on his face. Almost as though talking about his wife had taken him to a place he didn't want to go.

“Another coffee?” he asked.

I glanced down at the undrunk coffee in my hands. “Erm, yeah, thanks.” I held out the white mug and he came and took if from me. “Actually, I'll give you a hand,” I said. If I went to the kitchen with him, we could carry on the chat and maybe I'd get the courage to bring her up again.

My left leg came off the arm of the sofa fine. My right leg was a little more difficult, protested that it was fused into this position, quite liked being here, and couldn't I just stay put. Kyle saw I was struggling, placed the mugs in his hands on the side table and reached out to me. His large, warm hands closed around mine and he hoisted me up to my feet, bringing me to rest in front of him.