The Other Child by Lucy Atkins Page B

roses, wine, candles across the parquet floor. ‘Go on – a
what
?’
    ‘Such a complicated thing.’
    ‘You were going to say “mistake”.’
    He doesn’t answer.
    ‘Why can’t you be honest?’
    ‘What do you want from me, Tess?’
    ‘I want you to be honest! When I called to say I was bleeding a part of you was relieved, wasn’t it?’
    ‘No.’
    ‘I don’t believe you.’
    ‘Look, if you’d wanted a termination, I would have supported that decision. I was always clear with you that I didn’t want a child, so yes, you’re right, in a way, that I am struggling a little to adjust, but none of that –
none of it
– is the same as wanting the foetus to die inside you at twenty-three weeks. How could you think that?’
    It is only one word, but it says everything.
    ‘Baby,’ he reads her mind. ‘It’s just terminology, Tess. I’m a surgeon for Christ’s sake and I’m exhausted.’
    ‘What I don’t understand,’ she says, ‘is why is it so awful for us to have a baby? What’s so disastrous?’
    ‘I just told you.’
    ‘No, you didn’t. You really didn’t. It’s not time pressure; plenty of surgeons have families. So what is it, really? Is it something to do with your own childhood? Is it about your fears that something will go wrong with the baby’s heart? What aren’t you telling me?’
    His jaw tightens, but he doesn’t answer.
    ‘You have to make me understand, Greg.’
    There is a long pause.
    ‘I can’t,’ he says, at last. ‘I just can’t.’
    ‘Why not?’ She throws up her hands, fingers splayed.
    He thrusts back his chair and looms on the other side of the table, his jaw lit from below, his torso inflated, his nostrils flared, and she feels herself recoil, but then he reaches out a hand.
    ‘I can’t do this right now. I’m going to do the washing-up.’ His voice is calm. ‘And then I am going to bed.’
    She shoves her plate at him and turns her head away. She hears him walk through the arch into the kitchen and dump the plates into the sink. Water splatters against a pan. She looks back at the table, at the trembling wine glasses and the flickering candles. She knows it is unfair to expect anything of him tonight. He has had a ridiculously intense day, even by his standards. But there is something he is not telling her – she can feel it sitting there, like a lump beneath the skin. Instinct made her push him because he is weaker tonight and she wanted him to crack, open himself up, show her the truth. But he will never crack. She hears a Brillo pad begin to scrape against a metal surface, furious and rapid, She pictures his powerful shoulder jerking to and fro as the steel filaments score into the non-stick surface, damaging, scarring, ruining it forever.

Chapter Eight
     
    Autumn has arrived with almost no lead-in and the mid-October trees are in crisis, shedding leaves in great, panicky flurries. The temperature has dropped and as she steps onto the porch she shivers and wraps her scarf around her neck. It is nearly dark already and there is a cold drizzle. Joe is furious to be wrenched from the Disney Channel and is putting on his trainers with exaggerated slowness. She glances at her watch, trying not to bark at him to hurry up.
    Greg went into the hospital for a couple of hours to get some paperwork done. He was supposed to be home by six; it is nearly seven now and he has called twice to say he has been held up but is coming as soon as he possibly can.
    The day after their row over dinner, he arranged for animal control to remove the opossum – it turned out that there was a nest of them, tucked beneath the deck. And since then, for the last few weeks, he has been full of love and concern – calling or texting during the day to check how she is doing, bringing home big bunches of flowers wrapped in brown paper and raffia, calling to see if he can pick up food on his way home, rubbing her feet at night on the sofa and running her bubble baths, telling her how