When I sit back into the orange sofa, Charlie rises and plucks an Action Man from the beanbag, and throws it into the toy box, then sinks into it, so that he is now opposite me.
‘You didn’t need to come all this way, Helen,’ he says eventually. ‘You must be knackered. I’d have come to see you, if you’d said. If you’d wanted to talk.’
I nod. I say nothing.
‘Why did you come?’
I pass him the photograph Katie took from the club. He looks at the picture, and I see his pupils dilate. He inhales sharply.
‘Where did you get this?’
I don’t answer the question.
‘I need to know the truth, Charlie. About you and Rachel.’
41 WEEKS
HELEN
Daniel and I get to Serena’s exhibition late, and it is busy, glasses of wine clinking, the hum of chatter spiralling up into the high roof of the warehouse. The room is dark, except for the white beam of the light boxes that display her photographs. There are eight on each wall. The pictures cast blurry white reflections in the shiny floor, like a moon over water.
‘What do you think?’ I ask Daniel.
He shrugs. ‘We’ve only just got here.’
I turn and look at him. ‘Daniel, is something wrong? You’re being so short with me.’
He looks at me, then at the floor. ‘I’m sorry,’ he mutters. ‘I’m just stressed about work. And I know you’re cross with me about coming home late.’
He looks so dejected, like a little boy.
‘I don’t mean to give you a hard time,’ I say. I take his hand. ‘I just need you at the moment, that’s all. And all this Rachel stuff doesn’t help.’
He sighs, pulls me to him. I’m so big he can barely hold me close.
‘I know,’ he says. ‘I’m sorry. I promise I’ll do better at being around, all right?’
I exhale, feeling tears gathering in my eyes. ‘Thank you,’ I murmur into his shoulder. When he pulls away, I blink the tears back, try to smile. He takes my hand.
Rory and Serena have been away in Italy. She has been posting pictures on Instagram of their holiday, a hotel painted in bright opal colours, a turquoise sea. In one of them she is sitting in a jacuzzi, even though the books tell you not to during pregnancy. I couldn’t see her bump in it. I’m looking forward to seeing her, seeing whether she is looking bigger now, like me. If her baby is early, it is not inconceivable that it could even come before mine.
While Daniel stares at the first photograph, I crane my neck around the room, but I can’t see Serena. I grab a glass of orange juice from a passing waiter and follow Daniel around, trying to look like I’m deep in thought.
Eventually I get bored of going at Daniel’s pace, so I skip a few pictures ahead. I need to find one photograph and think of something to say about it if I need to. Not this one – I can’t actually quite see what it is supposed to be. It looks like something wet and bumpy, like the back of an avocado, or a snakeskin handbag. Something reptilian. Glancing to the side first, I cheat and look at the little card next to the light box. Cobbles on the mews in rain, it says. It doesn’t give a price.
I try the next photograph. It is an image of a slender man, almost in silhouette, leaning against the wall of their upstairs balcony. Behind him the city is a mass of light, and his face is in darkness, a plume of smoke escaping from his lips. It takes me a moment to recognise the outline as Daniel’s. He doesn’t look like my Daniel. He looks strange, unknowable. The outline of his face seems no more human than the squiggle of the London skyline.
The picture gives me a strange feeling. When was it taken? I look at the card, but it says simply: Untitled. There is a little red dot next to it, to indicate that it has been sold. I turn to Daniel, to ask him about it. Only then do I notice that he seems to have taken off somewhere.
‘Helen! So good to see you!’ Serena is beside us all of a sudden, a column of silk and perfume. She is bigger now, her bump cocooned in the pale, shimmering fabric of her dress, round and perfect, like a huge pearl.
She kisses me, her soft cheek brushing against mine. ‘I can’t believe you came – you must be so fed up. How long are they letting you go over?’
‘Only until Sunday Or it’s the dreaded induction.’
We grimace at each other.
‘Poor you.’
‘Thanks,’ I say. ‘I hope he gets a move on soon. Did you have a good holiday?’
‘The best.’
‘I’m glad. You look great.’ I hesitate. Should I mention Rachel? I wonder whether the police have been to see her or Rory. I decide not to bring it up. Instead, I gesture at the photographs. ‘This is all amazing – as usual. You’re so talented.’