The Younger Wife(73)

‘I’m so sorry, Heather,’ Stephen said.

Now, he sat on the side of their bed, the epitome of a man in pain. It was as though the fact that he hadn’t wanted this baby – the fact that he’d been involved in the death of this un-child – didn’t matter now that it hadn’t been a real baby anyway. And perhaps that was the case? Did it matter if you killed a person who was already dead to begin with? Heather didn’t know anymore.

‘I’m so sorry,’ he repeated. ‘I know what a loss this must be.’

‘For me,’ she said.

She winced at the sound of her own voice. It sounded flat. Toneless. Lifeless.

‘I won’t pretend that having a baby was something I wanted,’ he said. ‘But I didn’t want it to end this way.’

‘How did you want it to end?’

He sighed. ‘I don’t know how to answer that.’

She rolled over onto her back and looked at him. ‘Tell me the truth,’ she said. ‘Those pills . . . did they bring on the miscarriage?’

He reared back, as if not quite believing what he was hearing. ‘I can’t believe you would ask me that.’

‘You didn’t want a baby,’ she said. ‘It makes sense.’

He peered at her, like he was trying to read the fine print at the back of her eyeballs. ‘Heather, people don’t drug women they love to make them have miscarriages, even if they didn’t want the baby. That is just madness!’

She held his gaze. ‘Is it?’

He threw up his hands. ‘I don’t know what to say. Get some rest. I’ll come back and check on you in a little while.’

And he left.

She had to admit, it had worked out well for him. The baby was dead, and he didn’t even have blood on his hands. Now he got to play the role of the grieving father-to-be. It was perfect.

Heather must have fallen asleep, because when she woke up, it was to a knock at the door. By the time she opened her eyes, there was a head poking around the corner.

It was Mary. Stephen’s friend Mary. The lovely dinner party host, Mary.

‘Sorry to barge in, I just wanted to give you these,’ she said, opening the door wider to reveal a large bunch of flowers.

Heather started to sit up, but Mary held up a hand. ‘Stay where you are. You need to rest. Do you mind if I come in?’

Heather shook her head. Oddly, she felt glad to see Mary. There was something comforting about her neatly bobbed hair, her crisp white shirt and the scent of her perfume. Like she was being looked after by a warm, very competent mother or nurse.

Mary sat on the edge of the bed and laid the flowers gently on the bedcovers. ‘I heard about your loss. I’m so, so sorry.’

She did indeed appear to be sorry. The genuine emotion on Mary’s face undid Heather a bit.

‘Oh, sweetheart,’ Mary said, and then, like it was the most natural thing in the world, she wrapped her arms around Heather, enveloping her in her comforting scent. ‘I know. It’s awful. Go ahead and cry.’

It was unimaginably gratifying to hear someone give her permission. It turned on a tap that Heather couldn’t seem to turn off. When she finally managed to, several minutes later, she felt a little embarrassed by her outburst.

‘I’m so sorry,’ she said. ‘I’m not sure what –’

Mary held up a hand. ‘Don’t you apologise. You’ve suffered a terrible loss. Your hormones will be going crazy. It’s absolutely normal for you to feel this way.’

‘Is it?’ Heather said.

Mary nodded with wonderful certainty. ‘I’m not sure if Stephen told you, but I’m a psychologist. I actually worked in pregnancy loss and infertility for many years, so I’m very familiar with what you’re going through. I’ve also experienced two miscarriages myself.’

Heather and Mary talked for over an hour, about the women Mary had seen in her practice, about the two babies Mary lost, about the emotions Heather would go through in the coming weeks. Heather couldn’t remember the last time someone had spent this much time with her, devoted to her, caring for her. There was something about it that made her feel both vulnerable and powerful.

‘Thank you so much,’ Heather said, when Mary looked at her watch and commented on how the time had flown. ‘I didn’t realise how much I needed to talk about all of this.’

‘Everyone needs to talk sometimes,’ Mary said. She stood up, reaching for her handbag. ‘If you ever wanted to talk to anyone in a professional sense, I’d be happy to recommend a colleague of mine. No pressure. You might be fine. But the offer is there if you need it.’

If she had been sent here to see if Heather was crazy, she’d concealed it well. Heather felt completely disarmed. She actually thought she might take Mary up on her offer of a referral to her friend.

‘Thank you, Mary,’ she said. ‘Maybe I will.’

Mary smiled, putting her bag over her shoulder. ‘Well. I’m here if you need me. Please, please, please don’t hesitate to contact me if you need anything at all. Promise?’

Heather smiled. ‘Promise.’

Then, in her most disarming move yet, she leaned forward and kissed Heather’s head.

‘Mary?’ Heather called after her, when the older woman was almost out the door.