I’m having ackee and saltfish with rice and plantain. “Yeah,” I say, reaching for my mocktail. “It’s tasty.”
It’s our three-year anniversary today. Three years since we first had sex, in a tent in the Lake District. I broach this. “Do you remember that first night in the Lakes? Where was it we were staying? Somewhere near Buttermere?”
“Wasdale Head,” says James. “By Scafell Pike. There was that woman who had a tick on her back. You had to pull it out with tweezers.”
I smile. “Yes. And then she gave us those scones as a thank-you. We couldn’t eat them because the raisins looked like ticks.”
James grimaces. “I love you.”
“Love you too,” I echo.
After the Lakes, I left my place in Liverpool and followed James down to Falmouth. As a way of forcing myself to stay in one place for a while, I decided to buy somewhere. The plan wasn’t necessarily for James to move in with me, but he did. Not stopping to think it through is probably what made it work. We just got on with it.
“A big reason that the Caribbean is a melting pot of so many different cultures,” says James, skewering another lump of meat, “is down to its bloody past.”
One of the waiters is looking at us.
“This saltfish is delicious,” I say. “Want to try some?”
James leans towards me, and I guide the fork into his open mouth. Here comes the aeroplane . . .
I’m expecting James to give me a detailed flavour profile of the mouthful he’s eaten, but instead he says: “Listen, Solvig. I’m finding trying for a baby with you to be really gratifying. But if you ever feel like you’re not ready, then say.”
“I want to do it. I do. Honestly.” I raise my mocktail and we clink glasses.
The shepherd’s hut happened three months ago. I told James everything when I got back. About Rich. About leaving saturation early. About driving to the west coast to get my head straight.
Well, I guess I didn’t tell James everything. I didn’t mention applying for the Mars Project. But why bother him with that? It’d be like stirring a pot that doesn’t need stirring.
Since returning to Falmouth, I’ve tried to get on with normal life. I’ve been running every day. I’ve eaten loaf after loaf of sourdough. I’ve had coffee with Anouk a couple of times while Nike’s at school. Anouk still looks tired, but she hasn’t doled out any more magic stones—and I haven’t told her what happened to the last one. Haven’t told her about trying for a baby either. Apart from that, it’s business as usual.
My periods are back. An article in the paper recently said that over 60 percent of people trying for a baby conceive after three months. Over 80 percent conceive within a year. My next dive is in August.
The newspaper article also said that after deciding to try for a baby, couples have sex an average of seventy-eight times before getting pregnant. Since I returned from Scotland, we haven’t had sex anywhere close to that number of times. But we did decide to quit drinking four weeks ago, after reading that it helps. Other things I’m doing: drinking decaf coffee, using an ovulation tracker app, and thinking maternal thoughts. Like, for instance, when I see a baby, I think about how nice it might feel to kiss its head or rub ointment onto its bottom.
But the article said other things too. Bad things. About how a woman’s fertility deteriorates exponentially as she gets closer to forty. Not just affecting her chances of conceiving in the first place, but affecting everything: pregnancy complications, birth defects. If a woman has her first baby when she’s over thirty-five, the article said, she’s deemed a “geriatric mother.” I turned thirty-seven in February.
“What do you fancy doing after this?” James asks. “We could go to the cinema. There’s that film Rampage, about a silverback gorilla who genetically mutates into a monster.”
I shake my head. “Let’s just go home and have sex.”
A young couple walks into the restaurant. Probably students. The girl’s lips are a wild shade of pink, and she exudes a confidence belied only by the magenta lines on the back of her hand: a tally of lipstick testers counting off the hours to go before her date.
“Would you like it if I wore make-up?” I ask James.
“I’d like you to do whatever you like,” he responds.
“But would it turn you on?”
He puts his hand on mine. “Seeing you happy turns me on. Speaking of which, I got you something. For our anniversary.”
We don’t normally bother with anniversary gifts. I haven’t even bought James a card.
“I know we’ve said we aren’t going on holiday this year,” James says. “You know, in case the timing is wrong.”
I don’t remember agreeing to that. My hand drops first to my abdomen, then my thighs.
“So instead of a holiday,” James continues, “I’ve used the money I’ve been putting aside for something else.” He reaches into his trouser pocket and pulls out a small black cube.
I hope that’s not what I think it is. If it is, the answer’s no.
“Here we go.” He opens up the tiny box. Inside is a silver ring studded with a line of diamonds. “It’s not an engagement ring. Don’t worry. I know how you feel about marriage. It’s an eternity ring.”
“An eternity ring?”
“To symbolise our never-ending love,” James explains. “Technically, this is a half-eternity ring, because I couldn’t afford stones all the way around.” He takes it out of the box. “But the symbolism is the same.”
I can’t hide my shock. For my birthday, James got me an oscillating hoe and an ergonomic garden trowel. This is no trowel.
“I don’t know what to say,” I stutter. Do I need to be on my guard every time we come out for food from now on? When James asked if I
