“The what, sorry?”
“There’s this Palaeolithic figurine, made of limestone,” I say, running my fingers along the walls of the cave. “James and I watched a TED Talk on it. The archaeologists who found her assumed she was an erotic sculpture because of her voluptuous figure, but later, other people thought maybe she wasn’t erotic at all—that she was a symbol of fertility. Her round belly was carrying a child. Most people view the figurine as one or the other: erotic or fertile.”
“You mean, rather than seeing it as both at the same time?”
“Exactly. The mother or the lover.” After I put the octopus onesie on the table, James got us to watch the entirety of TED’s pregnancy series.
“Is that how you feel, Solvig? That you can’t be both?”
“Is it bad that I don’t feel drawn towards either? I’d rather go to Mars.” Saying it outright feels freeing. “Yes. I want to go to Mars.”
Obviously, Rachel doesn’t get the significance of this. “How are you feeling now?”
“I suppose I’m wondering something. If it’s okay for me to not know what I want, then what happens when I need to make a decision?”
“Well, you need to—”
My reception cuts out.
I put my phone in my pocket. Never mind.
I look up at the hole in the rocks above me, and then I head towards it. I crouch to enter the cave.
Inside, I perch on a slab, and I switch on the light on my phone. Everything is pink and glistening.
The water in this cave is said to be holy. This has been a pilgrimage site for hundreds of years, helping ease sickness and grief. I dip my hand into a shallow pool and feel a tingle run up my arm, straight to my heart.
“Mum,” I whisper. “I miss you.”
My voice echoes around the chamber.
Mum’s ashes ended up in the sea. Dad tipped them off the pier at Weston-super-Mare. He left me at home with my aunt Marie. I don’t remember that day, but I do remember searching for my mum in rock pools while I was on holiday in South Wales.
I wonder when my next dive will be. Obviously, I haven’t quit diving yet—not now that everything’s so uncertain. If James is going to leave me, what’s the point? But I’m not missing it as I normally do.
Soon, the water will rise so much that going back won’t be an option.
I climb down the steps and emerge into the afternoon sunlight, flooded with unexpected relief.
As I retrace my steps back towards the main beach, my phone vibrates. Is Rachel calling to check I haven’t killed myself? Is James ready to talk? No. It’s a London number.
“Miss Dean,” says an unfamiliar male voice. “This is Pim Jansen. I’m a recruiting assistant at the Mars Project. I’m not sure if you realise this, but your online entry has amassed over one thousand votes. In addition to this, you impressed the moderator at the conference you attended.”
“I did?”
“We love your CV, Miss Dean. Your diving experience is of particular interest. I’m delighted to inform you that we have selected you for an interview, which will take place at the end of the month in Washington, DC.”
“An interview? In Washington? I thought you were based in the Netherlands?”
“The fantastic news is that we’ve recently entered into a partnership with a popular American soda company. This incredible dream of ours is very quickly becoming a reality!” The stranger informs me that he’ll send an email confirming my flight details. He wishes me good luck.
Good luck.
I’ll need it, although I’m not sure which direction to channel it in.
I know it’s so unlikely, and it’s probably just a miscarriage thing, but my period is late again.
31
I’m at the Rumbling Tum. It’s an alleyway café between the high street and the harbour. Normally, if James were here, we’d go to one of the hipster hangouts like Beerwolf: a bookshop-cum-bar with retro arcade machines in the corner and creepy dolls hanging from the rafters. Or Espressini for a strong AeroPress coffee, brewed by our friend Issam.
But I can’t risk seeing anyone I know. I expect James has told people what’s been going on between us.
I’m not sure whether James has spoken to Anouk yet. I’m guessing not, because she hasn’t been in touch. Which means she doesn’t know about the pregnancy or the miscarriage or Evie. I think there’s a limit to how much you can hide from your best friend. If you keep too many secrets, you’re not really friends any more, are you?
James came home last night and packed another bag. He took some nature encyclopaedias, which he uses for reference at work, plus some Kilner jars, because he says fermenting vegetables is his new raison d’être. He’s staying between his parents’ house and Eloise’s flat now. When he told me about Eloise, I felt a sudden, jubilant sense of vindication.
“I knew you were sleeping with her,” I said.
“Eloise is going out with Kensa,” James replied. “She’s a friend. You’re the one who cheated, Solvig.”
I bite into my sausage and egg roll, feeling the yolk dribble down my chin. I eat hungrily, even though I feel sick. Really sick. Worryingly sick. The greasy food makes me feel better, if only briefly.
It’s been six weeks since the miscarriage, and my period still hasn’t come. I can’t think about it right now. I flick through the Daily Mail lying on the table, left behind by the last customer. Same old stories: election fraud, Russian spies, gun control, Brexit. I turn the page, and a headline catches my eye.
FIRST HUMANS ON MARS WILL DIE WITHIN THREE MONTHS
The controversial Mars Project may soon have the funding to send humans to the red planet, but according to boffins at the Massachusetts Institute of Technology (MIT), inhabitants would start dying after just 68 days.
As I finish my roll, I drop a dollop of ketchup onto the article, smearing it with red. I’m about to close the paper, to hide the mess I’ve made, but I’m distracted
