Pulling open the next container, I’m greeted by a pile of clothes, neatly folded. The first item is a yellow blouse in broderie anglaise. Pinching the shoulders between forefinger and thumb, I hold it up in front of me. The blouse is thin cotton, delicate enough to require a vest or t-shirt to be worn underneath. A faint residue of deodorant under the arms suggests it has been worn many times, and yet even as I hold it, I cannot imagine a version of myself who might have dressed in it. It seems too feminine, too yellow to be something I may have worn. Looking at the grey-marl jogging bottoms and loose-fitting t-shirt I’m wearing now, it is hard to reconcile the person I am today with the woman who once chose to wear a top like this. Searching through the box further, I find silk blouses, smart fitted blazers, scoop-necked cardigans in a variety of colours. At the bottom are three pairs of elegant, slim-legged trousers in black, grey and navy which I assume I once wore to work. Checking the labels, I notice they’re a size smaller than the clothes I’m wearing now, suspect it is the tedium of unemployment that has caused me to put on weight.
Placing the clothes back neatly – I cannot imagine having any use for them in the immediate future – I turn to the next box, cut the tape, open the lid.
Inside is an assortment of paraphernalia. Small, brightly coloured pouches of jewellery jostle for space with handbags, purses, sunglasses. I root around, find a creased chiffon scarf the colour of merlot, a cosmetics bag dusted with pink blusher, an empty credit card holder in bright cerulean.
At the very bottom, tucked beside a hairbrush, is a slim cardboard wallet. I prise it out, ease open the flap, extract its contents. And as I look at what it contains, my heart stutters in my chest.
It is a pack of photographs. Colour photographs. A couple of dozen, maybe more.
I stare at the first one and my head begins to spin.
I look at the next, and then the next, make my way through the entire collection. They are all variations on a theme, all iterations of the same tableau.
There is me, centre frame in each one: a different, happier version of me. No dark rings under my eyes, no bleached skin, no haunted expression.
And in every photo, a baby is nestled in my arms. A newborn baby dressed in a white cotton babygrow, a hat cradling its head. The same baby gracing every photo, a different pose each time: cheek pressed against my clavicle; eyes staring up at me; mouth open in a wide gummy yawn.
And in every photo, I am looking not into the lens of the camera but down at the baby in my arms with an unmistakable expression on my face.
I am looking at the baby with love.
I study the photographs and I know immediately what they are. I know it with a level of clarity beyond words, beyond language. It is as though a metal grille has been lifted on my thoughts and I understand something clearly for the first time since the accident.
This baby is mine.
I hear myself say it out loud, and the words sound both preposterous and indefatigably true. My heart is racing and I tear my eyes from the photographs, wonder if I am going mad, whether this is some form of delusional wish fulfilment. Whether the after-effects of the concussion are making me believe things that cannot be real.
I think about the distress in Stephen’s voice when he told me about our unsuccessful attempts at IVF. I think about the grief and longing I felt, about how real it seemed, as though it were not just something I was being told but something that existed within me on a deep, visceral level.
I close my eyes, tell myself I must be mistaken. There is no reason Stephen would lie about our infertility. This must be someone else’s baby, a close friend’s perhaps, and the reason I am looking at it with such love is because it was a painful reminder of what I knew would never be mine.
But then I open my eyes, look again at the photographs, feel it deep inside me, powerful and profound: the absolute certainty that this baby belongs to me.
Nausea rises into my throat and I run into the bathroom, crouch over the toilet bowl, retch, but nothing comes. Just a churning in my stomach, a sense that I do not know if it is me or the world spinning out of control.
I look down at the photographs, the baby lying in my arms, the rapturous expression on my face, and I know I am not wrong.
A thought creeps into my head, so diabolical that for a moment I cannot bear to see it. But it keeps pushing, shoving, until it has forced its way to the front of my mind.
If this baby is mine, then where is it now?
LIVVY
BRISTOL
‘That’s a lovely necklace. I don’t think I’ve seen it before. Is it new?’
Livvy instinctively brought a hand to her neck, felt the three delicate rose-gold discs on the end of the chain. ‘Dominic gave it to me on Saturday.’
‘It’s not a special occasion, is it?’ Her mum frowned as if rustling through a filing cabinet in her mind, checking she hadn’t forgotten any significant dates. On the floor beside them, Livvy’s dad played with Leo, rolling a red metal fire engine across the carpet.
‘No, he just surprised me with it.’
‘What a thoughtful thing to do. It’s beautiful.’
Livvy fingered the necklace, wondered if there was anything in her expression to betray the story behind it.
After they’d made up on Saturday morning, Dominic had handed her a small purple box tied with lilac ribbon. Opening it, Livvy had found the necklace inside with its three gold discs. ‘One for each of us,’ Dominic had said. ‘Our perfect family. And space to add another if we ever need to.’ Instructing her to lift her hair, he had secured the chain at the nape of her neck, kissed the spot where the clasp lay against her skin. ‘I’m sorry things got heated earlier. I saw this in a shop a few days ago and thought of you.’ With his hands on her shoulders, he’d turned her around, kissed her again. It had been such a deviation from his earlier anger that Livvy had felt as though, during their row, she had been visited by an interloper, like Loki shapeshifting into different guises, and only now had the real Dominic returned.
Over the course of the weekend, they had talked endlessly about the possible move to London. Hunched over their laptops, Dominic had shown her emails from the think tanks inviting her in for meetings when she was settled in London, and Livvy had not been able to deny the excitement she felt at the prospect of being employed by one of them. It was not the same as when Tom had shown her endless photographs of Thai beaches and Tibetan monasteries, expecting her to match his enthusiasm for backpacking in their mid-thirties. What Dominic was showing her were great professional opportunities.
Later, Dominic had opened links to flats and houses in London they could feasibly afford. He told her he’d already made enquiries with letting agents in Bristol for their current house and they’d assured him it would be easy to rent out. He’d given her more information about his job, about the interview process, about how invigorated he felt: ‘You know I’ve always been much more interested in the ideas – the philosophy – of construction than the practical reality. This will be so much more intellectually stimulating for me. I need a fresh challenge and this is perfect.’ His words had almost outrun his tongue as he’d listed all the ways in which it would be better to bring up Leo in London: more museums and galleries, greater diversity, better schools. It was as though, in Dominic’s mind, the decision had already been made, the wealth of opportunities spread out before them like roads paved with gold.