‘Right.’
‘On the back you’ll find the John Lewis number,’ he added patiently, when I didn’t move. ‘Do it now, please.’
I got slowly to my feet. Moved kitchen-wards.
In retrospect that should have been my moment. Before children. My moment to take a deep breath and think: what have I done? Marrying this man who knew his way around B&Q blindfold but not the human heart? Who could spot a speck of damp at twenty paces but not a faint tremble of misgiving from his new wife? A small cry for help? But that way horror lay. And anyway, I told myself, getting the carpet sample from the file, one of seven files, all neatly labelled in Phil’s precise hand, we were so good together. Everybody said so. Such a good team. I ordered the carpet and then went quickly to boil the kettle with the curly spout, the one we both liked and had bought in a junk shop. I made us some tea.
If this all seems a trifle submissive for a hitherto sparky girl, a typical product of the twenty-first century and not the nineteenth, let me say something about confidence. Mine had taken a battering: first on losing Ben, and then, it seemed to me, losing everyone else. So many happily married. And I’d experienced quite a bit of loss in my life; didn’t want to experience any more. Which brings me to family. I didn’t have the backing of a big happy one to wade in and give advice, sit around kitchen tables cradling mugs of tea before brandishing motherly or sisterly handbags if needs be. I had Dad. Who was lovely, but – well, a dad. And I’d never missed Mum so much. Never wished so much that I could talk to her, that she hadn’t died. Which perhaps explains why I’d flown to my best friend’s side. I’m not making excuses here – of course I should have been more punchy, answered back, told him to order the bloody carpet himself. I’m just outlining mitigating circumstances. I’d only been married a short while; I wanted to keep the peace. Wanted us to be happy. Didn’t want to throw saucepans at this stage.
And after all, what would I do without Phil? Phil, who pitted his wits against the entire building industry, plumbers who plumbed in radiators upside down, tilers who used the wrong grouting, the distressed-pine kitchen fitter, who disappeared mid job, with four out of seven cupboards unfitted, and who, when we rang, leaving messages on his answerphone, seemed to have disappeared into thin air. Phil eventually tracked him down. His wife, it transpired, had had a miscarriage. But Phil had him back working in an instant, albeit looking as distressed as his cupboards, I thought, as I took him a cup of tea.
‘It’s the second baby they’ve lost in two years,’ I told Phil as I joined him in the garden, where he was tying up runner beans.
‘So I gather. But life goes on.’
I shot him a look. ‘I hope you didn’t tell him that.’
‘Why?’
‘Wouldn’t be terribly tactful.’
He shrugged. ‘Maybe not, but it does.’
We continued to do the beans in silence.
Teamwork, that was the key. And of course it would be an even stronger team when we were three. When we had a baby. Even I could spot the sink-estate mentality inherent in that notion, but it disappeared the moment I discovered conceiving wasn’t that easy; when nothing happened for a year or two, when we had something else to pit our wits against, another cause to campaign for, besides the house.
Phil read books, went on the Internet, and declared that the first thing to do was to identify the culprit.
‘The culprit?’
‘Yes. See whose fault it is.’
‘Bit soon, isn’t it?’ I said doubtfully. ‘Shouldn’t we – you know – try for a bit longer first?’
‘What, and waste more time?’
‘Might be fun. I read somewhere that if you do it every night for a month you stand more chance of hitting the egg. Blanket bombing.’
I smiled flirtatiously, but he’d already turned back to the computer. And within a twinkling, had made appointments for us both in Harley Street. Me to have my tubes blown, him to fill a test tube, assisted by a girly magazine. This fascinated me. Not that a smart Harley Street joint provided such a thing, but the idea of Phil looking at one. The results came back and we were both declared innocent, which I could tell surprised Phil.
‘Why, did you think you were firing blanks?’
‘Oh, no, I knew I’d be OK.’
