She sighs. ‘Oh, I know.’
‘For a whole host of reasons,’ I add, and she can’t help laughing. ‘You have far too many opinions on far too many things.’
She slips her hand across the table and squeezes my thumb, and tells me I am her favourite, and I find myself laughing too – and that is our rhythm. That is us. We have been married seven years; together nearly ten, and I know every part of her.
I think it was Kennedy who said we are tied to the ocean – that when we return to it, for sport or leisure or somesuch, we are returning to the place whence we came. That’s how I feel about us. To be near to my wife, to Emma, is to return to source.
So when I learn, in the days following this morning – this innocent, commonplace morning, with dogs and frogs and coffee and dead priests – that I know nothing of this woman, it will break me.
Chapter Two
EMMA
One week later
‘I’m going to be fine,’ I reiterate, into the darkness of our bedroom. I’ve lost track of time. The hours have melted and dripped all over each other and, when Leo fails to reply, I realise he isn’t even in bed. I must have dozed off.
I check my watch: 3.47 a.m. The day of my hospital appointment is here, at last.
I wait for the sounds of a flushing toilet and our cacophonous floorboards, but nothing comes. Leo is almost certainly downstairs, eating something in the yellow glow of the open fridge. An emergency ration of ham, probably: he said that if my chemo doesn’t work he’ll go vegan to support me. I went vegan following my diagnosis four years ago, although on more than one occasion since I’ve eaten cheddar straight from the packet in the Sainsbury’s car park in Camden.
I get out of bed. I never enjoyed hugging in bed before Leo, but when he isn’t here, my body misses his.
He isn’t in the loo, so I go down to the kitchen. I run my hand over the wall as I descend, thickened and lumpy after decades of paint on paint. I sing ‘Survivor’ under my breath.
I edge past a tall pile of books. On top sits an enamel bowl of things we never use – keys for unknown locks, paperclips, an economy pack of Vilene Wundaweb. Leo keeps moving the pile to the centre of the hallway to make me address it, I keep moving it back. The solution is more shelves, but I am no good at shelves.
The problem with this is that Leo is no good at shelves either, so we’re stuck in a holding pattern.
‘Leo?’ I whisper.
Nothing. Just the near-theatrical creak of the staircase, which babysitters find so unsettling none of them ever comes back.
I inherited this house from my grandmother. As well as being an MP and amateur violinist, she became a medium-grade hoarder and didn’t remove anything from the house for the last ten years of her life. Leo thinks I’m showing all the signs of having inherited her problem; my therapist, worryingly, agrees. When we have experienced more loss than is bearable, she says, we hold on to everything.
The house is part of a tiny Georgian terrace in a lane off the top of Heath Street, where Hampstead Village gives way to the glorious roll of the Heath. It’s falling apart and impossibly cramped, and the truth is that we’d probably make a small fortune if we sold it. But these four walls are so much a part of my story, a part of my survival, I couldn’t bring myself to leave.
Last week Leo showed me details of a spacious three-bed terrace in Tufnell Park. ‘Look at the size of those bedrooms!’ he whispered, his face ablaze with hope. ‘We’d have a spare room! A downstairs toilet!’
I felt bad. But what can I do? Sell my one safe space for the sake of a downstairs loo?
Leo isn’t in the kitchen. He isn’t in our tiny little study, either, which is a relief. For a moment I thought he might be in there writing an advance obituary for me, which would be intolerable. Every newspaper in the world has a stock of pre-written celebrity obituaries: obit editors live in fear of being caught out by a significant death. And while I’m no celebrity, I probably would merit an obituary in his newspaper.