One Small Mistake(45)

Lowering his phone, he sighed. ‘I know you’ve had more pressing matters, but this is important and it’s time-sensitive.’

He was talking about my age. My eggs. My withering, less-than-spritely eggs. I am thirty-three and if we want to carry a healthy baby to full term, then he’s right, we’re against the clock. For the last six months, I’d ignored my fertility app, silencing the notifications on my phone which have always made me uncomfortable; it’s like getting a text from your vagina reminding you to fill it with a penis. ‘Well, I haven’t checked so I don’t know. I’ll start again tomorrow.’

He reached across the table and took my hand. In the first few years of our relationship, he took my hand all the time. Now, he only takes it to soothe an argument. Sometimes, I wish I could go back and spend one night with the Ethan I met all those years ago. He was so tanned and toned and youthful back then. Not like now, where his hair is receding, and he has the slightest paunch because he takes new clients out for dinner every week and doesn’t have time for cycling like he did before his promotion.

‘I’m sorry,’ he said tenderly. ‘I know you’re missing Elodie. This is a bizarre situation, but we’ll get through it like we get through everything – together.’

And just like the world forgave Hugh Grant after his appearance on Leno back in the 90s when he apologised for getting caught with a prostitute, I forgave my husband. He looked equally as repentant, equally as sheepish, and I thought, Oh, I love him, I love him, I love him so much. I know I’ve complained about him – to you, at least, but I do love him. We’re married. We have a house together. No, we’re no longer that young, carefree couple who talk endlessly and kiss in the middle of a cooking class, but we’re still in love.

Then his hand slipped from mine and onto his phone in one motion, and I was forgotten again. Our touching moment evaporating in the sweaty, summer heat. ‘It’s Elodie’s birthday today,’ I said, pining for that connection.

‘Hmm,’ he said, because he was scrolling and refreshing, scrolling and refreshing, and not really listening.

‘Me and Mum had a fight, actually.’ I don’t do emotional so I overcorrected as I spoke, my words coming out cool and clipped. Perhaps that’s why he didn’t respond. Perhaps he thought I wasn’t bothered about the fight with Mum. Or perhaps he wasn’t paying a blind bit of attention. Sometimes I think Ethan has only two settings: on his phone or trying to impregnate me.

‘Sorry,’ he muttered. ‘I’ve just got to reply to this email.’

He tapped at the screen and I waited. And waited. I was close to slapping it out of his hand when he got to his feet, pocketing it. ‘Right, I need a shower,’ he said, coming around the table and kissing my cheek. ‘Can we talk about this when I’m done?’

While he showered and I tidied away dinner, my phone rang. It was Christopher. I immediately thought he was calling to tell me they’d arrested your stalker; you’d been found, and they were bringing you home. I was so overwhelmed with these thoughts, I accepted the call but couldn’t speak.

‘Ada … you there?’

‘Yes, I’m here. Is there news?’

I heard him suck in a breath, which meant it wasn’t good.

I was thinking they’ve found your body. He’s going to tell me they’ve found your body.

‘No, sorry. I was just calling to see how you are.’ A self-conscious laugh. ‘It’s Elodie’s birthday today, isn’t it? How’re you holding up?’

I leaned against the counter. If I closed my eyes and listened to the sound of his voice, I could pretend I was eighteen again, lying on my bed with my flippy Motorola pressed to my ear. ‘Not great, actually.’ He waited, genuinely interested to know more. ‘I had a fight with my mum about her delusional theory that Elodie’s hanging out on a beach, and she lost it, said some pretty hurtful things actually.’

‘I’m sorry.’ And he sounded sorry too. I imagined him with a look on his face of honest sympathy, just as he did in the police station car park after he interviewed me. ‘People say things they don’t mean when they’re under stress and heartache. This isn’t your garden-variety family strain either. Your mum’s just handling it differently.’

‘I’ll say. I just feel so … so …’ I grasped for the word, to understand the swirling in the pit of my stomach. No doubt you’d know instantly, you’re so much more in touch with your feelings than I am. ‘Alone,’ I said. ‘I’m so alone.’

I was glad we were on the phone so he couldn’t see my teary eyes. Ethan hates it when I cry. He says women only cry to end a fight.

‘Well, you’re not alone,’ said Christopher. ‘Even if you feel like you are.’

We rang off, and I couldn’t stop thinking about how Ethan dismissed me. Perhaps he was just tired. Had a long day. We’d talk about it when he was out of the shower and then maybe I wouldn’t feel so guilty for opening up to Christopher.

I finished cleaning and went upstairs. Ethan was already asleep, sprawled across our king-sized bed. I stood over him, hurt, then I got changed into pyjamas, banging about louder than needed in a pathetic, passive-aggressive attempt to wake him before climbing into bed beside him. I scrolled through my phone, through all the well-wishers, through the people I haven’t spoken to since secondary school, through strangers and friends alike. I don’t know if they’re kind-hearted or morbidly fascinated. I didn’t reply to any of them, but I did think, look at all these people who want me to talk to them about you, about how I’m coping, and look at my husband who’s snoozing soundly.