Truly Madly Guilty(96)

‘We’ll work it out,’ said Oliver. ‘We forget about the inside and focus on the outside. That’s all that matters until the neighbour sells.’

He’d always been so gloriously calm when it came to the problem of Sylvia.

When he realised how distressed Erika got whenever she visited her mother’s house, which used to be a couple of times a week, he had initially insisted that she simply refuse to ever go there, but Erika’s sense of responsibility for her mother couldn’t let her do that. She needed to ensure her mother’s living conditions hadn’t become a fire or health hazard. So Oliver developed a plan, with a spreadsheet of course, setting out a schedule of visits. The idea was that Erika would go to her mother’s place only six times a year, together with Oliver, and each time they went they would have at least six hours blocked out, and they would be armed and ready for battle, with gloves and masks and rubbish bags. There would be no more going over for ‘dinner’ as if Sylvia were a normal mother. What a sick joke those dinner invitations had always been. Sylvia would promise to make some meal from Erika’s childhood – long, long ago, before the kitchen disappeared, she’d been a good cook – but the meal had never, ever materialised, and yet each time part of Erika had believed that it would happen, even though she knew perfectly well that Sylvia’s kitchen was no longer usable. ‘I was a little tired,’ Sylvia would say. ‘Shall we just get takeaways?’ Those nights had always ended in a screaming match over the state of the house. Now Erika no longer begged her mother to seek professional help. Oliver had helped her see that Sylvia was never going to change. She would never be cured. Oliver said to Erika, ‘You get professional help. You can’t change her, but you can change how you react to her.’ So that’s what she’d done.

He would be the most wonderful, calm, wise father. She imagined him explaining the world to a son, a little boy with Ruby and Holly’s startling blue eyes, sitting at the table with them, with his own placemat and his own glass of water. Their child would never have to eat a meal sitting on his or her bed because the dining room table had disappeared beneath piles of junk. Their child’s friends could come over to play any time. Any time! Even for dinner. They would have extra placemats.

That was the plan. That was the dream. To give a child the precious gift of an ordinary childhood. It was just that she could see Oliver in the dream so much more clearly than she could see herself.

Tell him, she told herself. Just tell him. He deserves it.

‘Clementine called again today,’ she said. A tiny white lie. ‘While I was at Mum’s place.’

Oliver lifted his head and she saw the hope, so naked and raw, it made her feel sick.

‘She’s happy to do it,’ she said. ‘To donate her eggs.’

Let her do it. They’d saved Ruby’s life. A life for a life. Clementine owed them. Let her do it.

Oliver carefully put down his knife and fork on either side of his plate. His eyes were shining. ‘Do you think …’ he began. ‘Are you worried she’s offering for the wrong reasons? Because of Ruby?’

Erika shrugged. The movement of her shoulders felt unnatural. She wasn’t going to tell him what she’d overheard. It would only upset him. And it shamed her. She didn’t want Oliver to know that her closest friend didn’t really care for her. ‘She says it’s nothing to do with that but I guess we’ll never really know, will we? Anyway, it’s a fair exchange. We saved Ruby, she gives us a baby.’

‘Um … are you joking?’ said Oliver.

‘I don’t know if I’m joking,’ said Erika reflectively. ‘I might be serious. We did save Ruby’s life. That’s a fact. Why shouldn’t they repay us by doing something in return? And what does it matter what her motivations are?’

Oliver considered. ‘Yes, it matters,’ he said. ‘Doesn’t it? If she doesn’t really feel comfortable with it? If she wouldn’t have done it otherwise?’

‘Well, she has to see the counsellor at the clinic anyway,’ said Erika. ‘Before it all goes ahead. Surely it’s up to the counsellor to talk to her about all that sort of thing. Her motivations. Her … psychological state.’

Oliver’s brow cleared. There was a procedure to follow. Experts who would decide.

‘You’re right,’ he said happily. He picked up his cutlery. ‘That’s great news. Amazing news. A step in the right direction. We’ll get there. We’ll be parents. One way or another.’

‘Yes,’ said Erika. ‘Yes, we will.’

He put down his knife and fork again and wiped the side of his mouth. ‘Can I ask you something that might sound strange?’

Erika stiffened. ‘Sure.’

‘The day of the barbeque, Clementine said that you’d always told her you didn’t want children. You’re not just doing all of this for me, are you?’ His glasses slipped forward a fraction as he frowned. ‘All that you’ve had to go through over the last few years …’

‘It hasn’t been that bad,’ said Erika.

IVF had been a well-ordered process. She appreciated the rigour of it, the rules and the science. She especially enjoyed the sterility: the gowns that went straight into a basket after you wore them only once, the booties you put on over your shoes, the blue paper hairnets. And it had been nice, spending time with Oliver, working on this important secret project together. She remembered each retrieval and transfer, breathing in that beautiful antiseptic fragrance, holding Oliver’s hand, nothing to do except submit to the process. Oliver had taken on the responsibility of all the medication. He had done all her injections, tenderly, professionally. Never left a single bruise. She didn’t mind the early morning blood tests. The dizzy rush to the head. ‘Yes, that is correct, that is my name,’ she’d say as the nurse held up the neatly labelled test tube of blood in a blue-gloved hand for her to check.