‘You must remember, Daniel.’ Helen seems upset. She searches Daniel’s face for signs of recognition. But he looks at her for a moment as if she is someone he has never met before. He shrugs, looks down. The flames from the fire pit dance on his face, sharpening the shadows under his eyes, the ridge of his brow.
‘I’m sorry we bailed on the antenatal classes, Helen,’ I say. ‘I hope you don’t mind me switching to those other ones. They’re a bit nearer to here.’
Helen smiles weakly. ‘Oh, no, don’t worry about it.’
I suspect a better explanation is demanded. Not having one to hand, I decide to change the subject. ‘Shall we eat?’
Rory sits down at the table, starts filling glasses. It is our practised routine: he does drinks, I do food. Helen reaches out two hands for Daniel to haul her out of the swing seat. Daniel does it, effortlessly, with the wiry strength he has, a strength that his slim body hides. Daniel won medals for gymnastics when he was at school. He showed us once how he can support his entire body aloft with just his wrists, the sinews in his forearms straining. He held himself like that for over a minute on the pommel horse in the university gym, his torso as flat as a pencil, his face a blank oval of control. When he takes his glasses off, Daniel looks like a completely different person.
‘So,’ I ask, ‘how have they been, anyway? The classes? Are you finding them useful?’
It’s true that I had agreed to come on this course with her, that I’d let her book it and get all excited, when, in all honesty, I couldn’t imagine anything worse. Sitting in a hot room with her, Daniel and Rory. All that talk of stretching, bleeding, pushing, cutting. I had also completely forgotten about it until the day itself. Helen seemed to think we’d had a letter or something, but I don’t remember it. By the time I saw the reminder on my calendar, I’d made other plans.
‘They haven’t been that great, really.’ Helen is watching me carefully. She has registered my lack of enthusiasm and tempered her own accordingly. ‘Actually, they’re pretty boring. And it’s been boiling hot in the room where they hold them. Awful! So stuffy. You haven’t missed anything.’ She takes a sip of her water. ‘Daniel hasn’t managed to make it to any of them yet, either.’ She looks accusingly at Rory. ‘But I suppose someone has to hold the fort at work, with all this uncertainty over the project.’
Neither Daniel nor Rory reacts to Helen’s remark. Sometimes I think they simply don’t listen when she talks. I sense danger, reach over to pour more wine. I watch it wash around the sides of the fishbowl wine glasses. I can almost taste it, feel it whizzing into my bloodstream, sending the baby somersaulting dizzily in utero. But I glance at Helen, and decide to refrain.
I often find myself wishing Helen wouldn’t be such a stickler for the rules. At least, I wish she wouldn’t make such a song and dance about it, leaning over in restaurants to make sure the waiter can hear her tell him she’s pregnant, as if the poor bloke doesn’t have eyes in his head. It’s not her fault, of course. She has reason not to trust her own body. It has let her down before. This time, she is taking no chances. I think she believes that if she follows the rules, she can make a bargain that way. With God, the universe. Whoever. If she follows the rules, the rules will keep her baby safe.
I had been planning to make a toast, to the babies. But as soon as I fill his glass, Daniel brings it straight to his mouth, draining nearly half the wine in one go. For a few moments there is quiet, just the scrape of silverware against dinner plates, the snap of the fire, the faint sound of music from a party in one of the other gardens on the hill. The candles flicker darkly in the smoked-glass lanterns.
I glance at Rory. He is sipping his wine, cheerfully piling mouthfuls of tart and salad onto his fork. I kick him under the table. He looks at me blankly. I glare at him.
‘This is lovely, darling,’ he says loudly.
There is a murmur of assent.
‘It’s super easy. Loads more if you want it.’
It is cooler now – perhaps eating outdoors was a mistake. But no one mentions the temperature. No one is saying anything at all. The evening feels like it has blown off course. I wonder how to steer it back. I glare at Rory again until he catches my eye.
Rory looks up, flicking his head straight and pressing his hands on the table, as if the conversation is only just beginning now that he has started to pay attention to it.
‘So. I hope you guys are coming to my little birthday dinner?’