When I Wasn't Watching (32 page)

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Epilogue
Thursday Evening

The door was ajar when Matt finally returned to Lucy's, exhausted after an afternoon interviewing a rambling Ethan. The lawyer would no doubt go for a diminished responsibility plea, though Matt doubted the validity of it. He would bet his life on it that Ethan Randall had known exactly what he was doing when he set fire to Giles Murray, even if he hadn't been the intended target, just as he had known what he was doing when he had put his hands on Lucy. It had taken every ounce of willpower Matt possessed to not strangle the life out of him when he had the chance. But then, that would make him no better.

Lucy let him in without a word then retreated to her usual spot at the counter, looking out of the window. After he had subdued Ethan she had fainted, giving both Matt and Ricky a moment of panic before she had come back round, blinking in confusion. He had left her with a uniformed officer to take her statement – she had refused any offers of medical attention – and Danielle, who had been very vocal in insisting she had always known Ethan was ‘bad news'. Lucy had been calm when she came round, which he had put down to shock, telling him about her visit from Margaret Prince as if the whole episode with Ethan had never happened.

He wondered what the after effects would be.

Lucy gave a tired smile now and turned to him, though she made no move towards him. They faced each other, saying everything and yet nothing as their gazes met. It was Lucy who broke the silence first.

‘Will he go to prison?'

‘I would imagine so.' In fact, he thought it almost certain her ex-husband would be looking at a life sentence, diminished responsibility or not, but he was reluctant to give her a definite reply. If the last two weeks had taught him anything, it was that there were never any definites.

He was certain of one thing where this woman and her son were concerned though: they were now an indelible part of his life. They stepped toward each other then, simultaneously, Matt's hand twitching by his side, wanting to touch her, if only to erase the memory of Ethan's hands on her, hurting her.

The shrill tone of his mobile cut through the heavy silence and Matt snapped it open impatiently.
Now what?
He listened, carefully, to Dailey's voice on the other end of the line, keeping his eyes firmly on Lucy's face as he did so. She tensed visibly, expecting bad news.

‘Thanks for letting me know.'

Matt cut the call and replaced his phone with a sharp inhale. This piece of news he hadn't been expecting.

‘It's about Terry Prince.'

Lucy went rigid at the name, the expression freezing on her face. ‘What is it?' Her voice came out sounding strangled. Matt had no idea how she would take this news. Last week he might have thought he knew, but now? After Ricky, Ethan, and the visit from Terry's mother, he couldn't even hazard a guess as to how she might feel. He didn't even know how
he
felt about it, other than it seemed somehow fitting, a worthy footnote to the chaos his release had set in motion. He recalled Lucy's previous comments on the death penalty and wondered if her new-found compassion for Prince's mother would colour her reaction to his death.

‘He committed suicide last night. He hung himself. He was found this morning by his new Parole Officer.'

Lucy didn't say a word, just stared at him, emotions warring on her face until her expression settled into one of calm. She turned and looked out of the kitchen window. The sun was shining, the children from across the road out playing in their garden. Matt felt he should say something.

‘At least it's an ending, of sorts.'

Lucy turned back to him then with an almost beatific smile and held a hand out to him. He took it, feeling the coolness of her palm against his.

‘No,' she said quietly, smiling up at him, ‘it's a beginning.'

Ben was glad to be home, glad to be warm again in his bed and to have Mummy to tuck him up at night. Last night she had stayed in bed with him all night, something she never did any more because he was too big. She wouldn't let him out to play in the garden either unless she was there, and she kept looking at him like she was about to cry, which he didn't like much. After all he was home from his adventure now, so she didn't need to cry any more. She was giving him lots of cuddles though, and that was nice.

They said that the Ricky man had been wrong to take him, but Ben kind of felt sad that he wouldn't be allowed to see him again. He wanted to be his friend.

But perhaps he wouldn't be so sad now that he had the other little boy to play with, the boy who looked a bit like him. He hadn't said anything though, the other boy, he had just appeared out of nowhere, smiling, but the man seemed to know him.

When he tried to tell Mummy about the other little boy, who had appeared and then gone again, like magic, she just shushed him and hugged him harder. Ben wanted to ask questions, wanted to know who the boy was, but Mummy wouldn't know and besides, she would just get upset, like she did when Daddy shouted at her and threw things.

Anyway it didn't matter if he didn't know the boy's name, because he didn't seem to talk anyway. Twice he had seen him now since he had come home, sitting at the end of his bed when he had gone and hid under the quilt to get away from Daddy being mad. He liked the boy; he hoped he came again tonight.

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When I Wasn't Watching
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This Fragile Life

Chapter 1
MARTHA

It's not good news. It never has been, so at least I'm expecting it and it's easier to take. Except maybe it isn't, because after I disconnect the call I bow my head and press my fingers to my temples and then I do something I
never
do. I cry.

I can hear the snuffling sobs I'm still trying to suppress echoing through the empty bathroom stalls at work. They sound awful.
I
sound awful, like some completely pathetic nutcase instead of what I am, which is a highly successful advertising executive with everything I've ever wanted.

Except a baby.

“Come on, Martha,” I say aloud. “Pull yourself together.” And it almost works, my little self-scolding, except another sob tears at my chest and comes out of my mouth, an animal sound I absolutely hate. Plus I've got snot dripping down my chin; if anyone saw me they'd think I was falling apart. And I'm not. I am absolutely not.

“Pull yourself together, damn it,” I snap, and my voice is a sharp crack in the silence, a warning shot. I take another deep breath, tuck my hair behind my ears, and let myself out of the stall.

I stare starkly at my reflection because I've never been one to shy away from the harsh truths. Like the fact that I'm thirty-six and have gone through five rounds of IVF and none have worked. I'm essentially infertile, and I'm not going to have a baby of my own.

That's too much to take right now, so I focus on the immediate damage. My reflection. My make-up is a mess, my supposedly waterproof mascara giving me raccoon eyes. My lipstick is gone, and there are marks on my lip where I've bitten it. I don't remember when.

I set about repairing the worst of it. I take a travel-sized bottle of make-up remover and my make-up bag out of my purse. I even have cotton balls, because I am always prepared. Always organized, always with a to-do list and a bullet-point plan, and within a few minutes my make-up is repaired, and I fish through my purse for my eye drops since my eyes look pretty reddened and bloodshot. I've thought of everything.

Except this.

Despite everything pointing to it, I haven't let myself think about failure.

Tonight I'm going to have to go back to our apartment and tell Rob it hasn't worked again. It feels like it's my fault, and it is, really, because it's my body that is rejecting the fertilized eggs. And even though I know he'll be easy and accepting about it because he always is about everything, I can't stand it. I can't stand the thought of admitting defeat,
failure
, even though I know that I must.

This is the end of the road. Five rounds of IVF. Over sixty thousand dollars. Not to mention all of the doctor's appointments, the investigations, injections, invasions. All pointless, wasted.

We agreed a while ago that we wouldn't try again.

And so we won't.

I tuck all my equipment back in my bag, zip it up, give my reflection a firm no-nonsense smile. Yes. Good. I look good; I look pulled together and in control as usual, as always.

And I act as if I am for the rest of the day, going over ad copy and giving a PowerPoint presentation for our new account, an environmentally friendly laundry detergent. I hesitate for only a second, not even a second, when the screen in front of the dozen listening suits turns to an image of a mother tickling her newborn baby's feet. I'd forgotten I'd put that one in there, but of course you've got to have the baby shot when it's laundry detergent, right? It's all about the perfect family. The perfect life.

Resolutely I stare at that image and drone on about how Earth Works will transform lives. As if laundry detergent actually makes a difference. I feel like Miss America simpering about world peace, but it's okay because everyone is listening and nodding and I know this is working, I'm working, because I'm good at what I do. I'm amazing.

And when the day is over I take my trench coat and my briefcase and I wait for the C train to take me uptown to the two-bedroom preWar Rob and I bought two years ago, when property prices were low even for Manhattan and it seemed like such a good investment. That was right before the third IVF attempt; I was still high on determination.

The apartment is quiet and still when I let myself in, and I'm glad because I'm not quite ready to face Rob yet, even though I know this is more my heartache than his. He's always been okay with not having kids, but then Rob has been okay with most things in life. In that respect we are totally different.

I walk through the empty rooms that smell faintly of the lavender cleaning spray our housekeeper, Melinda, uses. Everything looks neat and in its place, and the sense of order soothes me. I feel my calm returning, my sense of self, and the pain and the crippling disappointment start to recede.

By the time Rob comes home fifteen minutes later I am the epitome of organized calm. Dinner is cooking, I've opened a bottle of wine, classical music is playing on the sound system.

“Hey,” Rob says as he strolls into the kitchen. He has shed his blazer and is carrying it over his shoulder, hooked on one finger. He drops a kiss on the back of my neck and hangs his coat over one of the kitchen chairs, loosens his tie.

And for one blind, blazing second I am furious; I am overwhelmed with a silent rage. Didn't he know Josie—the fertility specialist—was going to call today? Or did it not even cross his mind all day, maybe not even all week, since I went in for the embryo transfer?
So typical.
Sometimes easy-going becomes thoughtless, even cruel. I take a deep breath and when I speak my voice sounds normal, light.

“Hey.”

“Work okay?” Rob asks and takes a beer out of the fridge.

“Fine.”

“You had that presentation today, right?”

“Right.” He remembers that, but not this? I take a breath, flip a piece of chicken. “Josie called.”

“Oh.” Rob stills, the bottle of beer halfway to his lips. “Shit. It's not good news, is it?”

“Nope.” I smile, because I don't know what else to do. I'm not going to cry again. Ever. Rob has never seen me cry, not once. No one has, not since I was about fourteen. I glance down at the chicken, using all my concentration on flipping another piece. Oil spatters and lands on my wrist, but it almost feels good because at least that pain is quantifiable, manageable. At least it ends.

“Martha.” Rob puts his beer down, pulls me a little bit towards him. I resist. “Martha, I'm sorry.”

And then I go, because I need to, I need this. Him. His easiness takes the edge off me, just a little. I rest my forehead on his shoulder and he puts his arms around me; for the first time since I got the news I can imagine feeling normal again. Maybe even happy.

“It's okay,” I say. “After four tries, we didn't have high hopes for this one, did we?”

“Still,” Rob says.

“I know.” My throat is tight and I swallow to ease the ache. “I was expecting it, really. And to be honest, it's a bit of a relief. I mean, no more trying, right? We agreed on that.” I say it matter-of-factly even though there is a question in my heart, bursting in my lungs.

“Right,” Rob says, and he sounds so sure.

“So at least we can close the door on this. That's a good thing.” I'm nodding, too much. I stop. Rob doesn't say anything, just looks at me and I feel my own eyes fill. I turn away quickly to flip the chicken.

Everyone knows the basics about IVF. It's difficult, it's expensive, it doesn't often work. I knew those basic facts even before I did all the research, scoured websites, read books and articles and even medical journals. But no one tells you just how difficult it really is. Or the fact that by the time you consider it as an option, you're already desperate. You wanted to be pregnant
yesterday
, and one of the first things the doctor tells you is that it's going to take a while. First you have to take the fertility drugs to stimulate your ovaries into producing more eggs. Tricking them, essentially. Then you have to get the eggs, and, trust me, that's not as easy as it sounds. I had to take two days off work, the first for the actual procedure, which requires sedation and local anesthesia, and the second because I had such bad cramps afterwards.

So now you've got the eggs. The man gives the sperm; at least that part is pretty simple. The doctor puts the egg and sperm together in a process called insemination; this is what happens when people have sex and get pregnant. For people like me and Rob, think Petri dish.