Beneath the Skin(92)

‘One of each?’

‘No, a houseful! You’ll be a fantastic mum.’

But did she know then, really know and understand? ‘The infection is severe, Sophie. It might well affect your fertility in later life.’ The consultant’s words might have been said long ago, but which eighteen-or nineteen-year-old listens, let alone cares?

The confirmation, the one she actually listened to and took in, was a shock, like a hard, unexpected blow to her chest. ‘The sperm count is fine, Sophie. But the pelvic examination. I’ve re-read the forms. You’ve answered “no” to the questions about previous fertility issues, STDs. But it seems fairly clear that the problem is with you.’

Perhaps she could have told Sami then and dressed it up not to sound so base, but she’d already told the pregnancy-before-marriage-and-miscarriage-after lie. Sami wasn’t there at the appointment, he was away on business, and so she had time to think.

‘What should I do? What the fuck should I do?’ she had asked Antonia, there at the clinic, waiting to drive her home.

Antonia’s face was serious, her eyes huge. ‘Sometimes you have to lie,’ she’d replied.

‘You’re quiet, everything OK?’ Sami asks, interrupting Sophie’s rumination. He kisses the top of her head and pulls the duvet back over them.

Sophie turns towards him, her breasts touching his chest, heart to heart. ‘Actually, Sami, I have something to confess.’

Sami moves away, props his head on his arm with an enquiring look on his face. ‘Go on, fire away.’

She stares at him, the man she will always love, whether she wants to or not. ‘Good on your side. You only end up cheating yourself,’ she repeats in her mind.

Taking a breath, she opens her mouth to speak and then closes it again. The expensive lip gloss had been placed carefully beneath the mirror in the downstairs loo, like a malicious wink. She couldn’t have missed seeing it if she’d tried. She binned it immediately, but still it nags. The champagne she’s kept, perhaps he’s bought it for her, it’s possible. But he hasn’t shaved. Sami always shaves.

‘I’ve been to the doctor. He’s prescribed happy pills.’

He looks at her, clearly shocked. ‘What? You mean anti-depressants? That can’t be—’

‘I haven’t been well, Sami. Not for a long time. Things have got me down and I’ve tried to hide it.’

Sophie gazes at Sami’s face, his beautiful face.

You’re struck dumb and I’ve told you virtually nothing, she thinks, as she watches him search for the words.

‘Oh. I didn’t realise.’

She sees his eyes flicker. Embarrassment? Self-reproach? It’s difficult to tell.

‘You can be poorly mentally as well as physically, you know. I need to get better. So now isn’t the time for trying for a baby.’

‘Yeah, of course. Absolutely. Poor you.’

He still looks stunned, but there’s something else in his face that she can’t quite decipher. Guilt? Relief, even? She leans into him. Perhaps she is ‘cheating herself’ but she doesn’t much care. What Sami doesn’t know won’t hurt him.

She thinks of the lip gloss one more time before deciding to hide it in her mental box with all the other hurt and pain. She’ll never let him go. And she’s home now. Back for good. Things will be fine. There’s no more to confess …





CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE


Antonia presses The Ridings front door intercom. ‘Sunday, it’s Sunday,’ she wants to point out to a passing nurse. Not that she’ll visit any other day again, but the implied criticism still rankles.

Signing in as usual, she feels a tap on her shoulder. ‘They’re putting up the decorations in the lounge. Candy’s in her bedroom today, love,’ the carer with the long grey plait says. ‘Shall I let you through?’

Antonia hesitates for a moment, her eyes taking in a Christmas raffle prize covered in cellophane with a huge purple bow. It’s displayed on a table next to a plate of mince pies with a note saying, ‘Please help yourself’. A few weeks to Christmas, she thinks. The first without David.

She turns back to the carer. ‘Is Mrs Jones in her office for a quick word first?’

‘Oh, I haven’t seen her. I’m not sure if she’s in today. Maybe try later?’

Antonia nods, feeling a flip of disappointment. She’s grown to like Mrs Jones. ‘Laura, please call me Laura.’ She wants to show Laura what she’s unearthed from her day-long investigation at the Manchester central library. She could have cut corners and saved time by telephoning Zara Singh, she supposes, but that would’ve been cheating, she feels. Besides, the thought of talking about her dad to a journalist, of all people, still makes her heart flash and her neck prickle. Looking back it seems silly to have been so fearful of the woman’s calls, of her interest. She was researching local young heroes of boxing. That’s all. The postcard still remains on the kitchen island untouched. Antonia hasn’t yet thrown it away, but she will. She has what she wants. From her own efforts too.

She looks towards the empty office door. She wants to say thank you to Laura. Thanks for caring, thanks for sharing, for pointing her in the right direction. But there’s another question she’d like to ask about her mum and religion. She’s been dwelling on it, more of the ‘detail’ which nags her before sleep at night.