The Last Love Note(26)

It’s probably the hormones, but I want to cry. Faith in myself has been in short supply lately. ‘Why are you looking so concerned, then?’ I ask him.

‘I’m not concerned. Just thinking. What do you need from us to make this easier?’

I don’t know what he means and it must show on my face because he continues. ‘Would it help if we set you up a home office for a while? Take away some of the stress of having to act more well than you feel?’

I have to stop myself from clambering over the top of his desk and hugging him out of gratitude.

‘We’ll have a conversation with HR about flexible hours. We could potentially spread your three days out over five if that would make things easier. Leave it with me.’

Take me to the hot coals.

‘For now, just take your time settling in. First day, it’s all about working out who people are and where everything is. I think we’re gathering for an informal morning tea soon – about fifteen people? I’ll introduce you then. We’ll meet in a day or so and talk through strategy for the donor program. How does that sound?’

I’m still back at the offer of a home office, trying to unpack his magnanimity.

‘And, Kate, if you’re too sick to be here, just let me know and take yourself home.’

I thank him profusely, for the opportunity and the support, and when I come back out of the office, Sophie catches my eye and winks. I get the fangirling now.

The real mystery is why a man like Hugh is still single. All those one-night stands must get very tedious. If only I knew a truly wonderful single woman in search of a deserving man to assist in her quest to prove the fertility doctor wrong about that five per cent chance . . .





12





Cam and I go for an ultrasound at eleven weeks because my hormone levels are a little off where they should be. We’re holding hands and feeling weak with anticipation and fear as we watch the image of our tiny child come into focus on the screen, and even though there’s a strong heartbeat and the sonographer doesn’t look worried, I can’t shake an inkling that something is off.

The technician starts capturing images and measuring various things, including the tiny heartbeat. My own heart is pounding with nerves. I’ve had a rapid immersion in second-time-mummy love for this teeny one. I’d been so terrified about doing this, and suddenly my terror is all about not doing it.

‘Everything looks good so far,’ the technician says with a smile for me and Cam, who looks worse now than he did when I was in labour with Charlie. ‘This your second bub, Dad?’

Cam’s still staring at the screen. I squeeze his hand. He doesn’t squeeze it back.

‘Yes, we have a son,’ I explain for him. ‘He’s fourteen months.’

‘Two under two, eh? Brave!’

‘We’ll be okay,’ Cam says, smiling at me. Squeezing my hand now. ‘How does everything look?’

The radiographer glances at me and repeats her info. ‘Great so far.’

‘We’re going to have two under two,’ Cam explains, and the technician looks at me again. I wonder what could possibly be more important to Cam than this ultrasound in this moment. Why won’t he pay attention?

Everything checks out and we finish up and pay at the desk and Cam suggests coffee in the little bistro next to the radiology centre.

I check my watch. ‘But don’t you have an eleven o’clock lecture?’

He frowns. ‘Lost track of time,’ he admits.

We get in the car and he backs out of the space carefully and drives out of the car park, hesitating at the T-intersection slightly too long.

‘Could have gone,’ I say unhelpfully, turning my attention back to the little print-out of our baby’s first photo in my hands – such a delicate little bean of a person.

Cameron jams his foot down and accelerates, fast, across the intersection. There’s nowhere near enough space or time for an oncoming car to swerve, and it clips us on Cam’s side, spins us around and slams us up onto the concrete Jersey barrier on the median strip.

There’s steam hissing out of the bonnet. I’ve dropped the photo of the baby. I’m silent, in the passenger seat. He’s holding the steering wheel and staring forward.

‘Katie . . .’

‘I’m okay. You?’

He looks at me, his face contorted in pain. He seems nineteen again, and twenty-four, and thirty and every other age I’ve shared with him, all at once. Whole years seem to pass before his next words. ‘I think there’s something wrong with me, Red.’



Everything around us slows down. At first, I think it’s because we’re an obstacle on the road, facing the wrong way, but it’s not just the cars slowing down and the pedestrians dawdling so they can look. It’s our future, coming at us in nightmarish slow-motion. Cam and I and Charlie, and our unborn baby. Every moment up until now collides with every future moment, as if we are warping time.

He is not okay.

I entertain myself with a fantasy that it’s because he’s been injured in the crash.

We sit here, for what feels like countless lifetimes, until the helpers arrive. They open each of our doors and ask us questions. But I don’t want them asking questions of Cam. If they don’t ask, he can’t fail.