He Said/She Said(78)

‘No Christopher today?’ he asks, nails shining as he taps numbers on a keyboard.

‘He’s gone off to watch the solar eclipse in the Faroes,’ I say. ‘Last big trip before the babies come.’

‘Oh, yes,’ he said. ‘Always wanted to see one of those. We took the kids down to Cornwall in ’99. Probably before your time. Total wash-out, anyway.’

I smile and lie down, preparing myself for the slick of cold gel. I’m an old hand at this by now.

‘And how about you?’ says Mr Kendall. ‘When are you going to slow down?’

The truth is, I’ll be working right up to the wire. We need the money.

‘I’ll stop soon,’ I say.

Mr Kendall keeps the screen turned away from me as he slides the probe around the protruding nub of my navel and analyses the measurements. Kit would like this; this is the kind of quantifiable progress he can relate to. I must get a print-out of the numbers as well as the all-important picture.

‘They’re both growing fine,’ says Mr Kendall. ‘Your placentas are in the right place and so are the umbilici. You’re sure you don’t want to know whether they’re pink or blue?’

I turn my head away. I decided to keep their sexes a surprise from the word go, to show Kit I am, in fact, capable of being laid-back. Although Kit has never called me a control freak in so many words, he’s begged me to loosen up, slow down, take it easy and, even once, to our mutual horror, chillax, more times than I can count.

‘Oh, well this one’s definitely a . . .’

‘No!’

Mr Kendall and Ling both seem taken aback by the violence of my reaction. I aim for a joke.

‘Actually, we’re going to raise them gender-neutral. Orange clothes. As an experiment.’ It lands, but only just. It’s a relief to get out of there.

Ling gives me a lift home.

‘You sure you’re ok on your own?’ she says, even though I know she’ll be working late to make up for accompanying me.

‘I’ll be fine,’ I say, slamming the car door.

‘EAT SOMETHING!’ she calls, before driving off.

Back home, from the squidgy comfort of my sofa, I send a picture of the scan to Kit; he FaceTimes me by return. He’s in a bar or something, dark shadows in the background, the rim of a beer glass just in shot on the table in front of him. The signal is patchy; his newly smooth face keeps turning into squares and the black and white pattern on his Faroese jumper jumps in and out of binary code. Even chopped into pixels I can see the drag of remorse on his features. The hard cold chip of my anger starts to thaw. I don’t want us to argue again. For once, I’m the first one to end the sulk.

‘Aren’t they beautiful?’ The warmth in my voice is the real thing.

‘Everything’s as it should be?’ he asks. ‘They’re growing at the right rate? No horns or tails?’

‘They’re perfect.’ He twitches a little smile. Only now do I remember why we’re having this conversation on the phone and not in person. ‘Sorry, baby, tell me about the eclipse. Were you completely clouded out?’

‘Worst one yet,’ he says dolefully. ‘What about in London?’

‘Shite.’

‘That’s a shame,’ he says. Kit’s voice is completely devoid of expression and my early warning system stirs into action. I search his face for clues but it’s dark and the picture quality is poor.

‘Something’s wrong,’ I say. ‘Something’s happened because of that sodding video.’

‘It wasn’t the video,’ he says.

So something is wrong. I feel my skin start to prickle. ‘What wasn’t the video? What’s going on?’

The signal falters again; his words click and screech like dolphin song.

‘Look, don’t worry. I’ll be back on the boat soon, and then we can both relax.’

I scratch the arm that’s holding the phone. ‘Why can’t you relax on dry land? Kit?’ I can hear my voice going shrill and interrogative. I know it’s like poking a snail’s antenna; he’ll only retreat into himself, but I can’t help it. ‘Have you seen her?’

‘No.’

‘Don’t go all monosyllabic on me.’

‘Stop over-analysing things,’ he snaps back. ‘You know me, I always get a bit of the old black dog when I’ve been clouded out.’

‘Swear on our babies that nothing’s happened.’

The connection cuts out for a second, so I can’t tell if the pause before ‘I swear’ is his hesitation, my imagination or some kind of satellite delay, and then he’s gone.

The magnitude of what I’ve done hits me. I’ve made him swear on our unborn children. Kit isn’t superstitious and would say anything to talk me down from a panic attack. I have tempted fate. I put my hand on my belly and wait for the babies to kick, but nothing happens.





Chapter 41





LAURA

20 June 2001

‘Seven thousand totality freaks, all gathered together,’ said a girl with a ring in each nostril and purple dreads twisted into upside-down cones on her head. ‘It’s gonna be fucking filthy.’ She had a point; the location, deep in the Zambian bush, seemed to have filtered out both the casual ravers and the serious astronomers, many of whom disliked sound pollution almost as much as light pollution. Kit and I were five hours into a six-hour journey from Livingstone Airport to the festival site, in an unventilated bus with poor suspension and fifty hippies who used only natural deodorant. Scrubbing-brush trees sprang green against apricot soil. Cattle walked between speeding, laden trucks without flinching. Roadside greengrocers displayed rainbow wares. Old painted advertisement hoardings and towns made of corrugated iron came and went in the turn of a wheel. When we stopped for lunch in a Fanta-branded café, dozens of children emerged as if from nowhere, and all of them wanted to touch my hair, shrieking with delight as tiny fingers tugged and twirled it into knots.