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‘I was sure I was pregnant this time,’ she said. ‘I felt different, somehow. And I’ve been so regular. I don’t know why my period would suddenly be late.’
‘Stress can do that,’ Alfie said. ‘This is a difficult time for you. For us.’
She wiped a tear from her eyes. ‘I can’t stop crying. It’s the sense of loss. Even though I wasn’t pregnant – so there was nothing to lose – I’d let myself think I was, and I was already imagining a future with us as parents. And now it’s gone.’
‘Only for now,’ Alfie said. ‘We’ll get there in the end, I know it.’
He held her tight, then sat up.
‘I have to get ready for work,’ he said. ‘I’ve got an early meeting.’
In the bathroom, Alfie stripped off. He looked in the full-length mirror. He flexed his pectoral muscles, then turned sideways and admired his flat abdominals. His chest and back were waxed and smooth, unlike the thick, brown hair on his scalp. He kept himself in shape; the only thing he couldn’t do anything about were the pock-marks on his face, the scars left by the acne he’d suffered from as a teenager.
He turned on the shower and stepped in. He let the hot water run over him. He washed his hair, massaging the shampoo into his scalp. The shampoo he used cost over thirty pounds a bottle, but it was worth it. According to his hair stylist, he had the kind of hair that movie stars had. He could be a hair model, she said, and it was worth paying the extra for good shampoo. So he treated himself.
And besides, they could afford it. Claire’s dad was both rich and generous.
When he was finished, he wrapped a towel around his waist and grabbed his razor. As he started to shave the bathroom door opened.
‘Would you take out the bin?’ Claire said. ‘The test is in there. I don’t want to go near it.’
Alfie nodded. ‘OK.’
‘And thanks,’ she said. ‘For being so supportive. I’m lucky to have you. And we’ll be pregnant, one day.’
He smiled. ‘We will. I know we will.’
She closed the door and the smile fell from his face. He looked at himself in the mirror and shook his head.
Stupid bitch. She wanted him to take out the bin. Of course she did. She was too infantile to deal with a negative pregnancy test so she needed him to deal with it for her, like it was a fucking python or something. It was pathetic.
It was typical of her.
As was the way she used ‘we’ instead of ‘I’. ‘We’ll be pregnant, one day.’ He hated that ‘we’. Hated the cloying, saccharine refusal to accept the biological truth of the situation: it was her who would be pregnant, not him.
The irony – and he took great pleasure in it – was that, whatever words she used, she was wrong. They – she – wouldn’t be pregnant any time soon. Ever, in fact.
Because what she didn’t know was that her husband had no intention of having children. They were the last thing he wanted. There were many reasons why, but the main one was because the arrival of kids would render all his careful plans redundant.
They would tie him to the simpering bitch forever, and there was no way he was letting that happen.
But she couldn’t find out he didn’t want them. Not yet, at any rate. He still needed her for a while, which was why he had never mentioned – and did not plan to – the reason why she would not be getting pregnant any time soon.
Her husband had had a vasectomy.
He’d had it done a year after they married – almost exactly two years earlier, now – when she had started talking about having kids in earnest. He’d gone to see the doctor, told him what he wanted – the doctor was surprised given how young he was and had tried to talk him out of it, but he had referred him nonetheless – and then, one morning, Alfie had gone to the hospital and had the operation.
He’d been back at his desk the same afternoon. He was a bit sore, but it was OK.
And it would remain his little secret.
He glanced at the bin. The negative pregnancy test lay there, pointing at him, accusing him.
‘Fuck you,’ he said, then wiped the shaving cream from his face.
Claire (#ulink_9f912094-033f-5766-91a0-b6f078e1f2e3)
Claire picked up her phone from the bedside table and glanced at the time:
Ten a.m.
She lay back on her pillow, her head thick with a nasty hangover. Friday had been awful, but at least it was Friday. She’d gone out with her colleagues to a bar in the West End and drunk away the disappointment of the pregnancy test. She didn’t even mind the headache. It took her mind off it all.
She did mind the cramps. Her period had arrived and the cramps were worse than they had been for a while, each one reminding her of what had happened.
She turned on her front and buried her head underneath her pillow. She heard the muffled sound of the door opening. She smelled coffee. It made her feel sick.
‘Hey,’ Alfie said. ‘Did I hear you moving around? I brought you breakfast in bed.’
She peeked out at him. He was holding a tray with a bowl of something and a mug of coffee on it.’
‘You didn’t have to do that,’ she said.
‘Of course I did!’ Alfie said. ‘It’s your special day! Happy birthday, darling.’
Claire groaned. She’d forgotten it was her birthday.
She’d forgotten they had to go to the party at her dad’s house later.
Claire sat on the bed in her childhood bedroom. It was a single bed with a pink-and-purple duvet cover. On the wall next to it were faint stains of Blu-tack from the posters she’d had up there – David Beckham, Robbie Williams, the usual teenage girl crushes. It was an hour until the party. Her hangover was gone – two ibuprofen and a mid-afternoon nap had seen it off – and Alfie had texted to say he was on his way. He’d been playing golf that afternoon. It was his new hobby, and he’d been spending a lot of his weekend afternoons on the golf course. He’d tried to persuade her to join him, but she couldn’t think of any way she’d less like to spend an afternoon than hitting balls around an over-sized garden.
She’d been hoping the party would be a celebration of a little more than her birthday. Not that she would have announced the pregnancy to everyone this early, but she’d wanted her and Alfie and her dad to know a baby was on the way and to spend the day giving each other secret smiles, the knowledge too momentous to ignore. She’d pictured herself holding a glass of wine (but not drinking it), so nobody would suspect she was pregnant but the baby would come to no harm.
It was not to be. It was a birthday party and no more.
She’d learned her lesson, though. Don’t get carried away with the hope. It only led to disappointment, which was a new and unwelcome shock to her. She had never really had to face not having something she wanted. Her parents had come from humble backgrounds in the North East, but had managed to build up a chain of estate agents together. They had both worked long hours to do it and, in her mum’s case, developed unhealthy ways of coping with the stress. After her mum died, her dad threw himself into the business even more, assuaging his guilt at his absence from the home with extravagant gifts.
And as the years had gone by the gifts had grown more and more extravagant, from the house in Fulham where she and Alfie lived, to the holiday they’d recently had in Cannes, to the Range Rover they drove. In truth, she found his generosity a bit uncomfortable. A few times she and Alfie had discussed telling him they didn’t need any help, but Alfie had persuaded her there was no harm in it. He also pointed out how happy it made her dad, so they kept accepting his gifts.
Apart from in her career. That was the one area Claire refused to let him help her. She was a partner in a design firm, a world her dad knew nothing about, and she had worked her way up from the ground floor.
But now, all pride aside, she would have accepted any help her dad could have given her, but there was nothing he could do. She had everything going for her: a loving dad, a wonderful husband, her career. She was smart, athletic, healthy.
And she would have given it all to be a mother.
But she couldn’t shake the feeling that being a mother was the one thing the universe was going to deny her. She felt almost as though she was in a fairy story, the lucky princess given everything, except the thing she wanted most.
She knew she was getting sick with worry – she’d been losing weight – and it made her want to hide away from the world, but she’d have to put on a brave face for the party, would have to smile and say Oh, no, we’re so busy we haven’t even thought about it yet when people asked her whether she and Alfie were planning to start a family.
She took off her jeans and sweater and opened a large cardboard box. It came from an internet company that sent new clothes; depending on what you kept and what you returned someone – although, according to Jodie, it was most likely not a person at all but an algorithm of some type, whatever the hell an algorithm was – figured out what you liked. Whoever or whatever was doing it, was uncannily accurate.
She pulled out a sleeveless navy-blue dress. It had a one-shoulder neckline, and an asymmetric hem. She pulled it on and looked over her shoulder at the back.
There was a knock on the bedroom door.
‘Hello,’ Alfie said, the door opening a crack. ‘Are you decent?’
‘Come in,’ Claire replied. ‘I’m trying on a dress.’
Alfie whistled softly. ‘Wow. You look amazing.’
‘You like it?’
He nodded, and moved behind her, running his hands from her hips to her buttocks, then around to her stomach. He pressed his lips to her neck.
‘Very much,’ he said. He reached down and pulled the dress up, stroking the backs of her thighs as he did so.
‘Alfie,’ she said, her voice low and breathless. ‘We can’t. I have my period.’
He turned her round and kissed her.
‘I don’t care,’ he said. ‘I want you too much.’
‘No,’ she said. ‘I want to, but no. It’ll only be a few days.’
‘Ok,’ he said. ‘I can wait. Let’s get ready for the party. I have a surprise for you.’
‘Really?’ She was not in the mood for surprises. ‘What kind of surprise?’
‘You’ll see,’ he said. ‘You’ll see.’
Alfie (#ulink_e57b07cb-c4c7-5eb2-80e9-1e17fd147858)
Standing in front of the fireplace, Alfie tapped his glass – crystal, full of vintage champagne, he loved this stuff, he really did – with the handle of his fork – silver, antique – and watched as conversations died down and heads turned to face him. When the room was silent, he smiled and started to speak.
‘Thank you all,’ he said, ‘for coming to celebrate this very special day. My wife’ – he turned to Claire and smiled – ‘it’s still a thrill to call her that, even after three years, is celebrating her thirtieth birthday. I told her before the party that I had something special for her, and I do.’
He gestured to Jodie, who moved to the front of the guests and handed him a guitar. It was a Martin D50 which Claire had bought him, after some not-too-subtle hints, for his last birthday. It was an instrument he had dreamed of owning all through his childhood, but which, until he met Claire, had been woefully out of his reach. Woefully out of most people’s reach.
‘Alfie,’ Claire said, ‘what are you doing?’ She looked at Jodie, eyebrows raised.
Jodie held up her hands, palms facing Claire. ‘Merely doing what I was told,’ she said.
‘Thank you, Jodie,’ Alfie said, and then turned to Claire. ‘I wrote you a song,’ he said. He slipped the strap over his neck and held up his right hand. ‘I know, it’s soppy and over the top but I don’t care. I’m the luckiest man alive, and I want everyone to know it. So, here we go. It’s called “Since the Start”.’
He strummed an E chord and started to sing.
‘Since the start
Since the day I met you
Since the start
I have known I loved you.’
He sang the rest of the song. It was pretty good, in a way. Highly derivative, basic chords, minimal musicianship required, but writing and playing and singing it would be far beyond most people, which was what mattered. When he finished, he could tell that the guests’ reactions were mixed: the women were touched at his display of naked emotion, the men looked faintly embarrassed for him.
Which was good. That was exactly what he wanted them to feel. He wanted everyone to see how much in love with his wife and how different to all the other guys he was.
Claire, predictably, had tears in her eyes. As the applause died down she hugged him, kissing his cheek and ear and mouth.
‘Thank you,’ she whispered. ‘That was beautiful. I love you.’
‘I love you too,’ he said. ‘Happy birthday.’
After the song, Mick, Claire’s dad spoke. He gave a tearful tribute to her and talked about how proud Penny, his wife and Claire’s mum, would have been of her daughter. He didn’t mention Alfie – or his song – which was par for the course. When he had finished and the guests had returned to their increasingly drunk and loud conversation about politics or sport or something else they knew nothing about, Alfie slipped out to the kitchen.
He put on his jacket. He had a packet of Chesterfields and a book of matches and he was planning to sneak off and find a secluded spot – there was a bench in a corner of Mick’s vast back garden that would do – where he could light up and have a quiet smoke. He had a packet of mints, too; on one occasion before they got married he’d said he’d do anything for her and Claire had asked him to give up – for his sake, she said, because she loved him so much and couldn’t bear the thought of him poisoning himself, the soppy bitch – and he didn’t want her finding out he’d lied.
He walked through the kitchen and opened the back door to the terrace. There was a footstep behind him.
He turned around. It was Mick. He was holding a large tumbler of whisky, his face red with a combination of high blood pressure and too many drinks.
‘Mick,’ Alfie said. ‘Thanks for hosting. It’s a great party.’
‘No problem. Anything for my little girl.’ Mick nodded at the terrace. ‘Going out?’
‘Could do with a bit of fresh air.’
‘Too warm in here?’ Mick glanced at the window. The moon was visible, still low in the sky. ‘It’s dark out.’
‘It’s fine in here.’ Alfie smiled. ‘I was just thinking of taking a walk. But I don’t have to.’
Mick held up a hand. ‘No. You do whatever you want. I was only asking. I did want to talk to you, though.’
‘Oh?’ Alfie said. Mick and he had never been close. They had probably had no more than two or three one-on-one conversations since he and Claire had met. Mick was not the kind of father who warmed to the men who were sleeping with his daughter. No doubt he had fantasies of taking Alfie shooting and accidentally unloading both barrels on him. Alfie didn’t mind. He’d had the same thoughts himself. He couldn’t stand the old bastard.
He liked his money, though.
And the money he’d given to Claire. There was at least a couple of million in various investments, moved into some kind of trust in her name to avoid inheritance tax. Claire didn’t like to talk about it, but Alfie knew it was there, because Mick had tried to make him sign a pre-nup.
Well, he’d tried to make Claire make Alfie sign one. When she mentioned that her dad thought it might be a good idea, Alfie had agreed.
If you think it’s necessary, darling. I wouldn’t want it to come between us. I trust you totally.
She was visibly uncomfortable. I trust you too. But Dad’s insisting.
Then you should do it. Your dad obviously doesn’t think we’re going to last, and maybe you share his opinion.
