I have imagined what it must have been like, month after month, to have hoped and prayed for my period not to come, have imagined the sorrow that must have accompanied every stomach cramp heralding its imminent arrival. I have tried – and failed – to remember those two rounds of IVF, tried to envisage the cautious optimism and the crushing disappointment. I have wondered whether those turbulent swings from hope to despair put a strain on our marriage or whether they brought us closer. I have questioned whether my acceptance of our childlessness is the whole story or whether there is a private grief I keep stored in a corner of my heart, like a pair of knitted baby booties, bought with hope but never worn, wrapped in tissue paper and kept out of sight, to be looked at only in moments of quiet contemplation.
The doorbell chimes and my whole body flinches. There is nobody I am expecting, no reason for anyone to visit. Unease creeps across my skin and I think about the head injury leaflets that I have read countless times now, their words so familiar I can recall them verbatim: Nervousness and anxiety are common symptoms after a head injury. Patients can experience irrational fears and oversensitivity to light and noise.
Peering out of the window, I try to see who’s there, but my eyeline cannot achieve the right angle. Entering the hall, I slip the security chain into position, pull down the Yale lock, open the door the few inches that the chain will allow.
On the other side is a man in his early twenties, wearing loose denim jeans and an unironed white t-shirt. He looks at me expectantly, but when I say nothing, he is the first to speak.
‘I’m here to mend the leaking tap.’
It is a statement made with conviction, but sweat prickles the skin at the base of my spine.
‘Can I come in?’
My throat feels hot and when I speak there is a tremor in my voice, like unintended vibrato. ‘Who sent you?’
‘The letting agent.’
My head spins, too much information to absorb. ‘What letting agent?’
The man on the doorstep sighs, glances down at his watch. ‘The person you pay your rent to.’
He looks at me as if I am mad, or stupid, and for a moment I wonder if perhaps I am both.
‘Do you want to let me in?’
I hear the impatience in his voice, spot the toolbox in his hand. It is true that the bathroom tap has been leaking for the past few days, true that Stephen said he would organise somebody to fix it. But he did not warn me they were coming today. And, more importantly, he has never mentioned our house being rented. I have assumed that we own it, and the revelation that we don’t leaves me feeling as though I am standing on shifting sands.
Pulling the chain out of the chrome bar, I open the door, let the man in.
‘Bathroom tap, isn’t it? Upstairs?’
I nod. ‘Just at the top, straight ahead.’
The man leaps up the stairs, two at a time, and I hover below in the hallway, tell myself that it is okay: he is meant to be here, Stephen must have arranged it. And yet, having this stranger in the house has knocked something out of kilter, like a collision of asteroids, shifting them onto a different orbit.
A few minutes pass and I cannot help myself, call up the stairs. ‘Is everything alright?’
‘Fine. Just a faulty valve. Won’t take a minute to fix.’
Relief fills my lungs and I tell myself it is okay, he will be gone soon. I find myself craving the silence and solitude that only a few moments ago I had found oppressive.
The telephone rings, thrusting its way into the quiet, and I run to answer it, assume it will be Stephen.
‘Hello?’
‘Can I speak to Anna Bradshaw, please?’ It is a woman’s voice: educated, softly spoken, the faint hint of an East European accent.
‘Yes, speaking.’
‘My name’s Carla Stanislaw. I’m a therapist with the West London Wellbeing Service. You’ve been referred for a course of therapy after your recent accident. I’d like to make an appointment for you, if that’s okay.’
It takes me a moment to get my bearings. In the emotional disarray of the past two weeks, I have forgotten about the consultant’s referral.
‘Anna?’
‘Yes, sorry, of course. That would be great, thanks.’
She offers me some dates and times, and I tell her I am always free, am grateful when she does not laugh as if I have told a joke. We agree on an appointment for next Friday, and I’m relieved it is in the afternoon, that I will not have to miss Zahira in the park in the morning.
Writing the details of the appointment on the notepad by the phone, I say goodbye and replace the handset in its cradle. Footsteps thud down the stairs, and by the time I reach the hallway, the plumber is already standing by the front door, one hand on the latch.
‘All done. Any more problems just give the agent a ring.’
He smiles a little cautiously before opening the door and letting himself out. My belated thank-you trails behind him.
Heading into the kitchen, I pour a glass of water, check the time, take a couple of tablets in the ongoing battle against the pain clawing at my temples.
Leaning against the kitchen sink, I try to recollect any mention of our house being rented. But I don’t remember Stephen and I discussing the ownership of it at all. It is simply an assumption I have made.
Thinking of all the boxes in the spare room, I recall Stephen’s explanation on the day I came home from hospital: ‘Every weekend we promise ourselves that we’ll finally tackle all this and every weekend we somehow manage to find something more interesting to do.’ The empty weekend stretches before me like a weary sigh, and it occurs to me that I could make myself useful while Stephen’s away. I can begin to unpack all those boxes and perhaps, in the process, I may find something that will restore a fragment of my past to me.
LIVVY
BRISTOL
Livvy’s fingers fumbled with the key, unable to find the precise angle required for it to turn, cursing under her breath as it jammed in the lock. All the way home she’d kept checking her phone, but still nothing from Dominic.
With a satisfied click the key swivelled in the barrel and Livvy tipped the buggy onto its back wheels, steered it through the narrow doorway. The hall door was shut – she always left it open to avoid a tight manoeuvre – and she sucked in her tummy as she squeezed past the buggy, one leg suspended in the air as if performing an ungainly arabesque, and pushed open the door.
Wheeling the buggy into the sitting room, she found Dominic in the armchair at the far end of the room.
‘I’m so sorry we weren’t here when you got home. Why didn’t you tell me you were coming so early?’ Unstrapping Leo from the buggy, she picked him up, settled him into his activity chair.
‘I wanted to surprise you. I just assumed you’d be here.’ Dominic’s voice was low, unemotional, but there was something uneven in it, like a misaligned paving stone that might trip Livvy up if she didn’t watch her step.
‘I’m sorry.’ It was only now that she noticed the bouquet of flowers – pink freesias, orange gerberas, red berries – lying on the floor beside him, cellophane crumpled, a handful of petals scattering the floor. Dominic usually favoured white flowers, said he found bright ones gauche. ‘You bought me flowers. They’re beautiful. Thank you.’ She picked them up, put them on the coffee table, pulled up the pale grey footstool next to Dominic. ‘So did you get all your work done?’