Postscript(23)

‘Gepetto was a plant.’

‘Gepetto was a living, breathing life form that needed air, light and water, like us. He also happened to be a very expensive bonsai, exactly the same age as our relationship. Ten years old. Do you know how difficult it was to find that bonsai? I had to drive to Derry to get him.’

I groan and pull myself up out of the bean bag. I carry the plates to the kitchen, half-irritated, half-amused by the conversation. Gerry follows me; eager to ensure he hasn’t really annoyed me but unable to stop when he’s in this zone, prodding, poking away like a stick at the fire.

‘I think you’re more annoyed that you had to drive to Derry to a dodgy bonsai dealer than you are at me for killing it.’ I scrape the food from the plates into the bin. I put the plates in the sink. We don’t have a dishwasher yet, the basis of most of our arguments.

‘Ah! So you admit to murdering him.’

I raise my hands in surrender. ‘Sure, I killed him. And I’d do it again if I had half the chance.’

Gerry laughs.

I swivel around for the full reveal. ‘I was jealous of the attention you were giving Gepetto, how the two of you left me out. So when you went away for two weeks, I planned it. I left him by the window, the place that gets the most sun and … I didn’t give him water.’ I fold my arms and watch Gerry double over laughing. ‘OK, seriously, if this conversation about Gepetto is a distraction because you’re not ready for a baby, that’s fine with me. I can wait. I was only bringing it up for discussion.’

He wipes his eyes and the smile off his face. ‘I want to have a baby with you. There is no doubt in my mind.’

‘I’m ready.’

‘You change your mind a lot.’

‘About what dress to wear, and whether I should get tinned chopped tomatoes or whole peeled plum. About work. About wall-paint colours and tiles for the bathroom floor. Not about babies.’

‘You sent the dog back after one week.’

‘He ate my favourite shoes.’

‘You change your job every three months.’

‘It’s called temping. It requires that I must. If I stay longer they’ll have me forcibly removed.’

He leaves a silence. The corners of his mouth twitch.

‘I won’t change my mind on this,’ I say, getting agitated, finally, with this conversation, with having to prove myself – me a grown adult – to my own husband. ‘In fact, I already waited three months to have this conversation.’ Because he’s right, I do always change my mind. Apart from a commitment to Gerry, pretty much any other decision that involves long-term change scares me. Signing the mortgage on this house was terrifying.

He reaches out to stop me from leaving, and pulls me back to him. I know he’s not deliberately trying to wind me up. I know he’s trying to ensure I’m serious, in the only way he feels won’t cause an argument. We kiss tenderly and I feel this is the time for decision, a life-changing moment in our lives.

‘But,’ he says mid-kiss.

I groan.

‘I still can’t help but feel we need to prove it.’

‘I need to prove shit to you. I want a baby.’

He laughs. ‘First,’ he holds his finger dramatically and I roll my eyes and try to move away from where he’s pinned me against the counter. ‘For Gepetto and for the future of our super child, you will do one thing. You must prove you can grow and keep a plant alive. Then and only then can we make a baby.’

‘Gerry,’ I laugh, ‘I think that’s what they tell people who are leaving rehab who want to start new relationships.’

‘Yes, unstable people like you. It’s good advice. In the name of Gepetto.’

‘Why are you always so dramatic?’

‘Why are you … not?’ His lips twitch.

‘OK,’ I say, getting into the game. ‘I want a baby, so I’ll see your ridiculous dare and I’ll raise you. We both have to plant and grow our own seeds to prove we can both care for a baby. I will surprise you.’

‘Can’t wait,’ he grins. ‘Game. On.’

‘Mum,’ I whisper, down the phone.

‘Holly? Are you OK? Have you lost your voice? Do you want to me send over some chicken noodle soup?’

‘No, my throat is fine,’ I reply, then rethink it. ‘But I’d still love the soup. I’m calling because Gerry and I are doing this thing. Kind of like a competition.’

‘Honestly, you two,’ she says, chuckling.

‘What’s the fastest seed, flower thing, I could grow?’ I ask, making sure Gerry’s out of earshot.

Mum laughs loudly.

I clear out a jam jar. Gerry watches me while he drinks a coffee before leaving for work. I stuff the jar with cotton wool, then place two butter beans among the cotton wool. I pour water inside, just enough to make the cotton wool damp.

Gerry roars with laughter. ‘Seriously? If that’s how you think you grow flowers, I’m worried about how you think babies are made.’

‘You watch,’ I say, carrying the jam jar to the windowsill. ‘My little butter beans will blossom where Gepetto perished.’

He holds his heart as though he’s been shot. ‘I only hope the cow that you sold was worth these magic beans.’