ONE DAY(124)

‘Do I bore you then?’ she said quietly.

‘Don’t be ridiculous! That’s not what I said.’ Suddenly exhausted, he sat on the bed.

‘But do I?’

‘No, you don’t. Let’s change the subject, can we?’

‘So, what do you want to talk about?’ she said.

He sat hunched on the edge of the mattress, pressed his hands to his face and exhaled through his fingers. ‘We’ve only been trying for eighteen months, Em.’

‘Two years.’

‘Two years then. I don’t know, I just hate that . . . look you give me.’

‘What look?’

‘When it doesn’t work, like it’s my fault.’

‘I don’t!’

‘That’s what it feels like.’

‘I’m sorry. I apologise. I’m just . . . disappointed. I really want it, that’s all.’

‘So do I!’

‘Do you?’

He looked hurt. ‘Of course I do!’

‘Because you didn’t to begin with.’

‘Well I do now. I love you. You know that.’

She crossed the room and joined him, and they sat for a moment holding hands, shoulders hunched.

‘Come here,’ she said, falling backwards onto the bed, and he followed, their legs dangling over the edge. A shaft of murky light leaked between the blinds.

‘I’m sorry for taking it out on you,’ she said.

‘I’m sorry for . . . I don’t know.’

She lifted his hand and pressed the back of it against her lips. ‘You know. I think we should get checked out. Go to a fertility clinic or something. Both of us.’

‘There’s nothing wrong with us.’

‘I know, and that’s what we’re going to confirm.’

‘Two years isn’t that long. Why not wait another six months?’

‘I just don’t feel like I’ve got another six months in me, that’s all.’

‘You’re crazy.’

‘I’ll be thirty-nine next April, Dex.’

‘I’m forty in two weeks!’

‘Exactly.’

He exhaled slowly, visions of test tubes floating before his eyes. Depressing cubicles, nurses snapping on rubber gloves. Magazines. ‘Alright then. We’ll have some tests.’ He turned to look at her. ‘But what’ll we do about the waiting list?’

She sighed. ‘I suppose we might have to, I don’t know. Go private.’

After a while, he spoke. ‘My God. Now that’s something I never thought you’d say.’

‘No, me neither,’ she said. ‘Me neither.

With some sort of fragile peace in place, he got ready for work. The absurd row would make him late, but at least the Belleville Café was running fairly smoothly now. He had employed a sharp, reliable manager, Maddy, with whom he enjoyed good business relations and some mild flirtation, and he no longer had to open up in the mornings. Emma accompanied him downstairs and they walked out into the day, gloomy and nondescript.

‘So where is this house then?’

‘Kilburn. I’ll send you the address. It looks nice. In the photos.’

‘They all look nice in the photos,’ she mumbled, hearing her own voice, sulky and dreary. Dexter chose not to speak, and a moment passed before she felt able to loop her arms around his waist and hold onto him. ‘We’re not being very good today, are we? Or I’m not. Sorry.’

‘That’s okay. We’ll stay in tonight, you and me. I’ll cook you dinner, or we’ll go out somewhere. To the cinema or something.’ He pressed his face to the top of the head. ‘I love you and we’ll sort this out, alright?’

Emma stood silent on the doorstep. The proper thing to do would be to tell him that she loved him too, but she still wanted to mope a little more. She resolved to sulk until lunch time, then make it up to him tonight. Perhaps if the weather cleared up, they could go and sit on Primrose Hill like they used to. The important thing is that he will be there and it will be okay.

‘You should go,’ she mumbled into his shoulder. ‘You’ll be late for Maddy.’

‘Don’t start.’

She grinned and looked up at him. ‘I’ll cheer up by tonight.’

‘We’ll do something fun.’

‘Fun.’

‘We still have fun, don’t we?’

‘Of course we do,’ she said, and kissed him goodbye.

And they did have fun, though it was of a different kind now. All that yearning and anguish and passion had been replaced by a steady pulse of pleasure and satisfaction and occasional irritation, and this seemed to be a happy exchange; if there had been moments in her life when she had been more elated, there had never been a time when things had been more constant.

Sometimes, she thought, she missed the intensity, not just of their romance, but of the early days of their friendship. She remembered writing ten-page letters late into the night; insane, passionate things full of dopey sentiment and barely hidden meanings, exclamation marks and underlining. For a while she had written daily postcards too, on top of the hour-long phone-calls just before bed. That time in the flat in Dalston when they had stayed up talking and listening to records, only stopping when the sun began to rise, or at his parents’ house, swimming in the river on New Year’s Day, or that afternoon drinking absinthe in the secret bar in Chinatown; all of these moments and more were recorded and stored in notebooks and letters and wads of photographs, endless photographs. There was a time, it must have been in the early nineties, when they were barely able to pass a photo-booth without cramming inside it, because they had yet to take each other’s permanent presence for granted.