Postscript(50)

I rush to open the door. Her eyes are filled with tears and I embrace her.

‘On the other hand,’ she says, tearful voice muffled, ‘life is peculiar. Gerry may very well have had a dark side we didn’t know about and he was fucking with you from the grave.’

I hug her tight.



Gerry and I moved at different paces. Me, slow and inconsistent, in all directions, few steps forward and then a few steps back; him solid, fast, eager, curious, focused. Mostly I wanted him to slow down, to enjoy the moments instead of rushing through everything with such high energy. He thought I was lazy and was wasting moments. We were the couple equivalent of patting your head and rubbing your belly. A brainteaser, a bimanual interference manifested in a relationship.

I wonder if his body always knew what we didn’t: that his moments were more limited than most, that he didn’t have the time that I had. His rhythm was in sync with his time. He needed adventure because he wouldn’t live to see his thirties. My body had longer, and it took its time to gather momentum, to become curious and adventurous. By the time that happened, he was gone. Perhaps it was his leaving that made that happen.

I wonder if he was frustrated with standing still with me when there was a clock inside him ticking and pushing him to move forward. I wonder if I held him back. I wonder, if he’d met somebody else, would he have lived a more fun, exciting, fulfilled life. I wonder, I wonder all these distressing thoughts as a form of self-punishment, but my heart always responds. My heart holds the answer with confidence, firm in the knowledge that we may have had different rhythms but we were always in sync.





23


The bottle of wine is open. Denise and I are on the couch, our feet tucked underneath us as we face each other. Denise’s wine glass trembles as it travels to her lips.

‘Start from the beginning and leave nothing out. Why have you left Tom?’ The words feel alien in my mouth.

The reservoir inside Denise bursts its banks and she goes from being completely in control to losing it completely. I watch her cry but I’m too impatient to wait for answers.

‘Did he have an affair?’

‘No,’ she half-laughs, wiping her eyes.

‘Did he hit you? Hurt you?’

‘No, no, nothing like that.’

‘Did you?’

‘No!’

I search for a box of tissues but can’t find any so I return from the bathroom with a toilet roll. She has calmed a little but her voice is so shaken and broken I have to concentrate on hearing the words.

‘He really wants a baby,’ she says. ‘Five years, Holly. We’ve been trying for five years. We’ve sunk all of our savings into it, we’ve nothing left and I still can’t give him a baby.’

‘It takes two people to make a baby, this is not all on you.’

‘It is me.’

We’ve never discussed this before. I never asked, it’s none of anybody’s business but their own.

‘If I step aside, then he could meet somebody else and live the rest of his life the way he wants. I’m standing in the way of his dream.’

I stare at her, my mouth agape. ‘This is the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard.’

‘It’s not,’ she replies, turning away from me and crossing her legs. She directs her justification to the fireplace instead of me. ‘You haven’t lived in our shoes. Every month he was so hopeful. You’ve no idea what that’s like. Disappointment after disappointment. And then every meeting, appointment, every single time we began IVF again, he believed every single time that it was going to happen, and it didn’t. And it’s not. It never will.’

‘It could still happen,’ I say gently.

‘It won’t,’ she says firmly. ‘Because I’m not trying any more. I’m exhausted.’ She wipes her eyes, a definite look in her eye. ‘I know that Tom loves me, but I know what he wants, and he can’t have that with me.’

‘So by breaking his heart and leaving him, you are actually making it easier for him?’

She sniffs in response.

‘He wants you, Denise.’

‘I know that he loves me, but sometimes that’s not enough. The past seven years, since we got married, we’ve been obsessed with making a baby, making a baby. It’s all we talk about. We save and plan, plan and save to make a baby. There’s nothing else. And now there will be no baby. So what the hell are we? If we move on, I know what I won’t be. I won’t be a wife who couldn’t make a baby, and he won’t be a loyal husband who settled for second best. Does that make sense?’

‘Yes.’ I finally agree. ‘But it’s wrong.’

We drink silently. I sip, searching my head for something wise to say, something that will flick the switch and reverse her thinking. Denise takes a huge mouthful of wine.

‘Have you had any offers on the house yet?’ she asks, changing the subject, draining her glass.

‘No.’

‘I don’t understand why you don’t just move in with Gabriel now, while the house is on the market.’

‘I’m not moving in with Gabriel.’

Denise’s eyes widen. ‘You changed your mind?’

‘Gabriel’s daughter is moving in with him, and he wants to wait until she adjusts before we take the next step. And before you ask, he thinks the transition could take up to two years.’