After the End(84)

“Let’s go!” She stops and looks at me, stricken. “You are coming with us, right?”

“I never miss a butt-kicking.”

Afterward, when the kids are showing off their karate kicks—only slightly hampered by their ice creams—Blair and I sit in the shade of an ash tree, our backs leaning against its rough trunk.

“You’re great with them.”

“They’re good kids.”

Blair chases melted ice cream with her tongue. “I help out at a swim club on Thursday nights,” she says, once it’s back under control. “They’re really short of volunteers, and I wondered if—”

“I’m really busy right now.”

“Right.” She leaves my lie hanging.

When Dylan left hospital I wanted to take him swimming again, like we used to on a Saturday morning, but it wasn’t that easy. We were allowed to take him for hydrotherapy, to a center on the other side of Birmingham, but the public pools were no-go areas, even though they were adapted for disabled use, with hoists, ramps, and specially trained staff. Dylan’s immune system was too compromised.

“Well, if you change your mind, I could really use your help.”

“I won’t.” I don’t mean to snap, and I catch a flash of hurt on her face, before the smile is back.

“No worries.”

We carry on watching the kids make karate kicks, but suddenly the grass doesn’t seem so green, and the sun is no longer as bright.





thirty-eight





Pip


   2015


Max calls me minutes after his plane lands. I imagine him taking off his seat belt before the signs have gone off, and switching on his phone despite the announcement telling passengers not to, impatient to find out what he’s missed while in the air. I picture the blood draining from his face as he realises he’s sent that message—meant for another woman—to his wife.

I turn my ringer to silent and watch his name flash up again and again until it goes to voicemail. Who is she? A work colleague? Someone he met on the plane? I think of the night we met, almost fifteen years ago now, and how certain I was that he only had eyes for me. That we had eyes only for each other. Was I fooling myself? Perhaps that’s what Max does, on his business trips abroad. A girl in every port. He wouldn’t be the first—I’ve seen enough in my job to know that.

We get twenty-four hours on a Joburg stopover, and Max calls at least three times for each of them. I start listening to the voicemails but they all say the same thing. Something and nothing. Pip, please, we need to talk. Call me. I love you.

No explanation. No It’s not what you think, not what it looks like. Because, of course, it is what I think. It is exactly what it looks like. My husband has been having an affair.

I stay in my room while the others go shopping, and cry off their evening on the town. I order room service I can’t eat, and leave the tray outside my door an hour later, the food untouched. I close the curtains and lie on my bed, the only light the silent flashing of my phone’s screen. Max calling, Max calling.

I’m woken by cramps. I lie in the dark with my eyes open, trying to stay calm, but my stomach is twisting in knots so bad my breath catches with each spasm. Gingerly, I push my legs out of bed, sit and then stand, and make my way to the toilet. I brace myself for the bloom of blood in the water.

Nothing. But my stomach still twists, and I bend double. I think of the early pain when Dylan was born—the cramps that pulled my stomach so tight I saw the outline of his feet.

And then my stomach growls. An unmistakable rumble that makes me laugh out loud, the sound echoing in the tiled room. Hunger pangs. That’s all. I haven’t eaten since I left the UK.

I pull up my jogging bottoms, wash my face, and stand for a moment, looking in the mirror. The drawn pallor of the first three months has gone now, replaced by clear skin and flushed cheeks, thicker and shinier hair.

You’re relieved, I say silently, looking at myself. Relieved to still be pregnant.

“Yes,” I say out loud. I splay my hands over my belly, turn to the side and stroke my hands apart until they are above and below my bump. Another rumble of hunger breaks the moment. “All right, baby, let’s get you something to eat.” It’s the first time I’ve spoken to it—the first time I’ve acknowledged it—and the tug at my heart is both tangible and terrifying.

I open the door, but my tray is long gone, so I pull on a pair of flip-flops, and a baggy T-shirt to cover my bump, and go downstairs. Even midweek, the restaurant is busy, and I wait for the server to find space. From the corner of my eye I see someone wave. Lars Van der Werf. I raise a hand and smile politely, just as the server comes back with an apology.

“It’ll be at least forty minutes. Can you wait?” She glances across to where Lars is performing an elaborate mime, rubbing his stomach and gesticulating to the empty chair at his table. “Or perhaps you’d like to join your friend?”

“He’s not really a—” But Lars is coming over.

“Pip! Just arrived?”

“I was on the twenty oh five—I’ve been sleeping.”

“Join me? I’ve not long ordered—I’m sure they could put a hold on mine while you choose.”

“I don’t want to disturb you,” I say, although I’m the one wanting a quiet dinner alone. I need to get my head round Max’s text; what I’m going to say to him when I get home, whether I’m going to call him before I leave Joburg.