Feeling free to leave made me want to stay. It made me feel free to love.
Two years on, love and freedom don’t seem quite so connected. I’m deeply attached to James. I can’t imagine what my life would look like without him. So, if I wanted to up sticks one day and head off to, say, Tibet, I’d obviously need to take him into consideration. And if I wanted to go farther afield . . .
Because the truth is, I know what it is that’s been gnawing at me.
Mars.
I can’t get it out of my head. Even now I’m here, on my dive. It’s every adventure I’ve ever wanted, all wrapped up in one mission. All the training, the physical and psychological preparation. And then, at the end of it all, shooting off the face of Terra Mater, never to return. The idea is so appealing that it makes me want to cry with relief.
“Yo, Deano?” It’s Rich. He’s peering at me from the bunk above. “You look stoned. Y’all right?”
“Just thinking.”
“Ugh, you don’t wanna do that. Not while you’re in here. ’Scuse my feet.” Rich climbs down from his bunk and heads off to the toilet.
While he’s gone, I look at the Mars Project website on my phone.
It’s not that I’m worried that James would forbid me from entering the competition. For a start, it’s so unlikely the mission will happen. But there’s a slim possibility it might. And my love for James makes that possibility feel impossible. It’s not the green fields or the deep blue sea that I’d miss. It’s James.
I scour the competition guidelines yet again. Something that’s been playing on my mind is this: to get through to the next round, entrants must write an essay entitled “Why I Want to Be One of the First People to Live on Mars.” It sounds like a school project for ten-year-olds. How do you know if someone’s cut out to be an astronaut based on some dumb essay? Get them to tackle a military assault course, or put them in a centrifuge, but writing words?
Google tells me that the Dutch organisation is funded by a few anonymous private investors—that doesn’t exactly fill me with confidence, either. Who’s backing this thing? And why does the Mars Project exist in the first place? To take a giant leap across the solar system? Or to put money in pockets that remain firmly on Earth? I can’t help but come to the conclusion that the competition is a joke. A scam.
It’s a shame, because if I were to enter it, I know I’d be in with a chance. Saturation divers and astronauts are not dissimilar. We’re both okay with being locked in confined spaces. We both work in dangerous environments, relying on complex machinery to keep us alive. We both know how it feels to be far away from home. And I’m sure you’d get used to missing people. The brain adjusts, I imagine.
9
“Surface,” I say. “I’m ready for the checklist.”
“Let’s start with communications. Diver helmet? One, two, three, four, five. How do you read me?”
“Five by five.”
“Auto-generator? One, two, three, four, five. How do you read me?”
The safety checks go on like this for about half an hour. It’s imperative to make sure everything is just so, and although I won’t be going into the water today, my role as bellman is essential. I’m responsible for the other two. Any problems, it’s down to me to keep us safe. I haven’t brought the malachite Anouk gave me into the diving bell, and of course I don’t believe in lumps of enchanted rock, but still I find myself making a fist, imagining I’m holding it for a moment.
“Okay, pal,” says Hamish on the intercom, once the checks are done. “I’ll call the divers in.”
“Right, boys,” I say, once Cal and Rich have joined me. “Let’s get you sorted.” I help them put on their gear, making sure they’re safe and warm. We all become mothers when it’s our turn in the bell. The thought briefly flashes through my mind that I might be pregnant now, and one day the cluster of cells inside me will need me to dress her like this.
It takes about five minutes for the bell to travel through the moon pool and down to the seafloor. That doesn’t sound like long, but when there are three of us crammed into this humid metal dome, which is not much bigger than a shower cubicle, it feels like an eternity. Once we’ve been lowered, I open the hatch and get the guys into the water. They head off in opposite directions, and I set up my hammock. It’s much more comfortable than sitting on a stainless steel bench for the next few hours. I keep an eye on the valves and wires and lights ahead of me.
I’ve been taking the pill for eighteen years. I was roughly halfway through a pack when I stopped. I’m not sure if that means I’m ovulating about now, or if I’ll skip that part of my cycle and get an early period. It’s bizarre how little I understand about my own anatomy.
I’ve heard that women feel more aroused around the time they’re ovulating. Also, apparently, our faces become more symmetrical and our hip-to-waist ratio becomes more pronounced, making us more attractive to potential mates. Is that happening to me right now? I don’t feel aroused or attractive. What if I don’t ovulate for a few more days? How long can sperm live inside a woman’s reproductive system? Surely James’s sperm have either completed their quest or they’ve croaked. Even if they have fertilised an egg, there’s no saying whether the zygote will implant in the lining. Making a baby is a low-chance, high-risk event.
I touch my abdomen through my diving
