The work was Daniel’s big idea. I wasn’t convinced we needed it at first – to me, the house is beautiful as it is. It has a huge garden, which Mummy loved and filled with flowers – foxgloves, delphiniums, rambling roses. Upstairs there are five big, light-filled bedrooms, perfect for us and the three children I hope we’ll have one day. Admittedly, the bathroom on the ground floor is a bit old-fashioned, as is having the kitchen, larder, dining room and living rooms all separate and comparatively small – but they are always like that in homes as old as this one. It had never bothered me before, and anyway, you can’t just knock through walls – not in a Grade II listed house.
Eventually, though, Daniel convinced me that once we had a family, we would want a big, modern living area: open plan, for the children to run around, with light flooding in from above. Daniel knew that the English Heritage people wouldn’t let us change the old house, or stick a modern extension on the back. But they loved the idea of his ‘underground courtyard’ – a huge, free-flowing living and dining space built around an ultra-modern kitchen with an island – especially since it will be almost invisible from the ground, save for the old patio becoming a huge skylight window. To one side of the main ‘courtyard’ will be a wine cellar and laundry room; to the other, a study for Daniel. A new staircase will lead up our old cellar steps, with a landing where the bathroom used to be.
The whole project is a dream for Daniel, and I don’t want to keep punishing him for it. I have seen the way he cringes when he sees me bending to wipe dust off the expensive new carrycot in the hallway, or haul kettles of hot water upstairs for a bath because they’ve had to turn the water off. But as I get bigger and heavier, the pile-up of small miseries gets harder and harder to bear. The hideous layer of filth over everything. The constant unsettling presence of strangers in our home. The head-splitting sound of drills. Sometimes I even hear it in my dreams. Then, I wake up to find the noise was real, that it has started again.
When I told Daniel I was worried about being stuck at home alone for weeks on end because of my early maternity leave, he’d rolled his eyes at first. ‘Oh, come on, Helen,’ he laughed, through a mouthful of toast. ‘It’ll be great! Watch daytime TV and eat biscuits.’
Then when he looked up and saw my face, he stopped eating. Reached out, put his hand on top of mine. ‘Oh, love, I’m sorry. I’ll have a word with the builders, OK? Make sure they keep the noise and mess under control.’
But there is little evidence of that happening. On the day of the next antenatal class, I arrive with yet another headache from the drilling. It is so intense that it feels as if it is pressing against the sides of my brain, the insides of my eyes. I arrive at the pub early, slump down at a table by the door to catch my breath.
‘Helen! You’re here!’
It’s Rachel, standing at the bar. She is wearing a short denim dress which is clearly not designed as maternity wear, the buttons straining over her bump. Her feet are clad in lime-green flip-flops. She walks over to the table and sits down next to me, without asking first. She is holding two glasses of orange juice in her hands. Up close, I can see she has slightly misapplied the blusher on her cheeks. It gives her face a lopsided appearance, like a badly hung painting.
‘Finally got you that juice you asked for, ha! Only a week late. Look, I’m having one too. Being good. Don’t worry, I promise I haven’t spiked it!’
I smile awkwardly and take the drink. ‘Thanks, that’s really kind,’ I say. The glass feels sticky, as if she has been holding it for a while.
‘How’s things, anyway, hon? How’s it all going with the mega-basement?’ Rachel leans in towards me, resting on her elbows, sincerity etched on her face. It is almost as if she has been genuinely looking forward to receiving an update on the progress of our extension. When I don’t reply, her smile wilts a little.
‘What’s up?’ she asks, cocking her head to one side. ‘Why is Daniel not here again?’
I look down at the juice, then at Rachel, and to my horror I feel my throat tightening in the face of her kindness, the sting of tears in my eyes.
‘Helen?’ She frowns. ‘What’s wrong?’
‘I’m sorry … It’s just … it’s just …’
There is no stopping it. I’m a trembling mess of sobs, my face hot and wet in my hands. I’m causing a scene, but I can’t seem to calm down.