We Own the Sky(15)

“She looks absolutely lovely,” Anna said. “Goodness and look at you,” she said, pointing to awkward pubescent me. “You’re so skinny.”

“He always was. Don’t know where he gets it from. Certainly not from me,”

Dad said, laughing loudly.

That afternoon, I didn’t think I had ever seen Anna look more relaxed, more at home, her feet up on the coffee table, a can of Carlsberg in her hand. After that, we went to Romford for every Christmas, our family traditions rejuvenated by Anna’s presence. She loved those traditions, the things she said she had never had. The midmorning sparkling wine and ceremonial opening of the giant tin of chocolates. The pub for a pint while the turkey was cooking. The bingo. The party hats that Dad made us wear from dawn until dusk.

In the afternoon, Dad would get overemotional on the bubbly and would tell me and Anna how much he loved us, how she was like the daughter he never had. And then, at almost exactly the same time every year, he would fall asleep on the sofa, just after the traditional sing-along of “Hey Jude” on the PlayStation karaoke.

“We could all spend it together, my dad and your parents,” I said, putting my hand on Anna’s arm. “Although I can’t imagine your mother doing the karaoke.”

“Ha,” Anna said and suddenly she leaned over and kissed me, full on the lips, and I felt a wave of lust, a pent-up desire like that urge to fuck after funerals.

“Wow. Be careful, Anna. Definitely a public display of affection there.”

She sat back on her stool. “It’s the gin, I think. I’m being serious, though. I don’t want to come here for Christmas again. I know they’re my parents, but I don’t want that.” Anna lowered her head, almost as if she was embarrassed by what she had said. “I missed you last night,” she said.

“In your teenage bedroom?”

“Yes. It made me feel quite randy actually.”

“Really? Well, I could always come to yours.”

“No,” Anna said quickly and then looked around her conspiratorially. “But, I will come to you.”

I started laughing. “Are you drunk?”

She giggled. “A little actually. It’s the Christmas cheer. But seriously, Rob, I forbid you to come out of your room. It’s much easier for me. I know the times they fall asleep, you see. I know which floorboards squeak on the landing. I know how to close the door without making the latch click.”

“I’m impressed.”

“I’m not quite as square as you think, darling.”

“But what if we make a noise?” I said, half joking, happily buzzed from the beer.

“We won’t. Or at least I won’t.”

I looked at her quizzically.

“I went to boarding school, Rob. I learned how not to make a noise.” She

smiled at me mischievously and finally got the bartender’s attention.

“Could I possibly have another gin?”

The bartender nodded.

“A double, please.”

We were a little drunk walking home. For safety, Anna made us walk, single file, facing the oncoming traffic. When cars approached, she pulled me into the shoulder to let them pass.

On the final stretch, there was a sidewalk and we strolled along arm in arm.

“Are you still coming to my room?” I said.

“Yes, of course. We have an agreement,” she said, almost solemnly. She then stopped, I thought for another car, but the road was empty.

“Maybe we should try...” she said.

“Try what?”

“To have children.”

“Are you drunk?”

“Tipsy,” she said.

“Really?” I said. We had never really spoken much about children. We were happy with our childless London lives: Anna’s career; Star Wars marathons and pop-up food festivals on the weekends. Boating in the park, museums on rainy days, lazy afternoons in pubs. It was the London life we had always imagined. A world with children was still in the distant future, a future that was no more real, or no more ours, than a future that would have us living in Peru.

I watched Anna whenever she was around children. She didn’t seem to coo

and caw like other women. I saw her hold the baby of a friend once, and she cradled the infant so awkwardly, like a careless Mary in a nativity play. After she had returned him to his mother, I saw her discreetly wipe some of the baby’s saliva on the back of her trousers.

“Yes, really,” Anna said, biting her lip nervously. “During lunch today, I was thinking about your dad and how much I love going there for Christmas. Just that warmth of being in a family. And I really want to have that, as well, to make that my own.”

I pulled her close to me and kissed the top of her head. Loving Anna was like a secret that no one else knew. A secret you kept close to you, that you would never reveal. Because I was the only one, the only who that she let in. We stood like that for a while, on the side of the road, gently swaying in the moonlight.

  *

I think we conceived that night, or perhaps the morning after when Anna’s parents were at church. A couple of weeks later, Anna called me into the bathroom. She was sitting on the side of the bath, examining, up close, in various angles of light, the clear blue line on the pregnancy test. I read the instructions, to check that we were reading it right. Yes, it was really there, irrefutable, a thick blue stripe.