The Wolf Border(50)

He props himself on his elbows and they lie for a while. Everything shrinks back, wetly. An owl is calling hollowly into the darkness. He rolls over, taking her with him, so that she is lying on top. She sits up. He is smiling.

That was great.

His chest rises and falls. She puts her fist in the cavity, which is deep, but not deep enough to mean heart problems.

Pectus excavatum.

Come here, Miss, he says.

He pulls her down by the shoulders and kisses her – her stomach only just allows it. Then he traces the dark line running up her lower abdomen, to her belly button. Her legs are folded beneath, the muscle of the left begins to twitch and cramp.

Ouch. I think I have to move, she says. Ouch.

He tips her gently to the side, one hand holding her back, then squeezes her calf muscle. They sit up against the headboard. She stretches her legs out, flexes her feet. The mood is light, permissive, strangely comfortable.

Are you one of those guys with a pregnancy fetish? she asks.

He laughs and touches her stomach.

Maybe I am. I hadn’t thought about it. What a pervert. Are you one of those women with a James Herriot fantasy? You want the old vet to f*ck you in the stables?

Of course.

She feels giddy, wary of standing. There’s a chemical brilliance in her body. On and off, a breath of cooler air drifts through the window, not enough to refresh. She wants ice. The owl continues its empty lamentation, or the mate is replying. Alexander looks in no way as if he is considering getting up and going home. She begins to imagine the awkward conversation around departure, then puts the thought aside.

Better drink some water. Do you want some?

Yes, no more tea. I wouldn’t say no to a beer.

I might have some. I’ll look.

She gets up slowly from the bed and crosses the room. He watches her. She does not feel self-conscious, though she is still getting used to the new form, the stiff waist, having to kneel to pick things up, trouble lacing shoes. She is larval, half-staged, swollen at the central interval. She looks for something to put on, but it seems silly to cover up.

It suits you, Rachel, he says. You look like a fertility goddess. Listen, go and have a wee.

Excuse me?

She pauses by the door. His legs are sprawled, giant rimed feet sticking up at the bottom of the bed, his arms resting along the headboard. The sheets are spun about, twisted and half draped on the floor.

Helen got a few urine infections when she was pregnant with Chloe. You’re more vulnerable. And after that – He gestures expansively over the bed, palm open, as if to suggest an area where an extreme event or ruin had taken place. He is grinning, pleased with himself.

What? she says.

You thought I really was being a pervert. With the weeing thing. Doctor’s orders.

You’re not out of the woods yet, she says.

She pads down to the kitchen, the loam of semen slipping between her thighs. She opens the refrigerator door. No beer. Upstairs she can hear creaking as Alexander moves in the bed and stands up. The shunt of the window being opened wider. She drinks a glass of water at the kitchen sink. She fills another glass of water for him. Overhead, the footsteps of a hefty man walking to the bathroom, the drill of urine into the toilet bowl, and, midstream, a casual fart. He flushes. He returns to the bedroom, gets back into bed. This is new, she thinks. She can’t remember the last time she spent a full night with a man. She heads back up with the water.

Later, she lies with him behind her, his arm cantilevered over her hip. He breathes deeply, sound asleep. She lies awake, her leg aching from lying in the same position. The baby is still, has been still for the last few hours. Finally, she moves his arm and turns over. She places a pillow between her legs, and after a few moments drifts off. At some point in the night she has an anxiety dream, in which she is carrying the baby downstairs, knowing she will drop it, and then she does drop it. Panic as she rifles through the blankets and finds that the baby has shrunk, is tiny and red and vascular; she cannot tell what damage has been done by the fall. She wakes, turns over, rests her forehead against Alexander’s back, and sleeps again.

An hour later his phone alarm sounds – the Doctor Zhivago theme tune – confusing and slightly ridiculous. She is half awake, watching the greenish, alchemic dawn filter into the room. He rolls and groans softly as the alarm sounds again. Then he gets up in one swift determined move, as if from his own bed, searches for his boxers on the floor and puts them on, a man on automatic, used to forcing himself into action in the early hours. Rachel lies still, wondering how to tackle the situation. Is it better to feign sleep? He goes downstairs, not silently by any means, but considerately. She can hear him dressing, the clink of his belt, a tired cough. After a few moments of quiet she is sure he will leave, or has already left, but then she hears cupboard doors opening and shutting, the clink of crockery and the throaty purr of the kettle. He comes back upstairs. She lifts her head from the pillow.

Tea, he says. Keighley style. It’s the perfect temperature in case you’re wondering.

Thanks. What time is it?

Five-thirty.

She groans. He takes a sip of tea and deposits the cup on the table, sits on the bed. She puts her face back into the soft swale of bedding. She feels him reach a hand under the sheet and fondle her bottom. Then he pulls the sheet down to her midriff, sighs, and stands.

You make it difficult to leave.

I’m not doing anything. I’m just lying here.