I want to ask her if having a kid is worth it. Does she feel sure that she made the right decision? Instead, I say: “You’re doing great.”
Anouk laughs again, then narrows her eyes. “You’re off tomorrow, aren’t you? Don’t worry, I’m not going through another psychic phase. James mentioned it.” Anouk has known James for longer than she’s known me. Sometimes I forget that they’re friends too, that they talk to each other when I’m not there.
Anouk looks like she’s about to say something else, then stops. When we reach her place, a yellow-doored end-of-terrace with two palm trees in the front garden, she pats Nike on the back. “Why don’t you go around the back and play in the garden with Cola, doodle?”
“Okay, pukey Anouky.” Nike sticks out his tongue.
I sit on the sofa while Anouk makes tea. The living room has a nautical theme: blue and white furniture, shells on the mantelpiece, a framed print of a life preserver on the wall. A lot of Cornish homes are decorated like this. The main difference between Anouk’s front room and most of the others around here is the statue of Ganesha next to the television.
Anouk brings in the teas and sits beside me. “I’m glad you got in touch,” she says, an unfamiliar vulnerability in her voice. She reaches into her pocket and pulls out a smooth green pebble. “I’ve been carrying this around with me lately, but I’d like you to have it now.” She passes it to me. “It’s malachite. For protection.”
Anouk used to work in a crystal shop in Camborne, near the Giant’s Quoit: a mysterious megalithic tomb. She took several boxes of stock home with her when the shop closed down, and she would jokingly administer “stones for yer bones” when we met up. “This one will cure your cold,” she’d say, or, “This one will stop you and James arguing over the remote.” Anouk is not laughing now.
“You know I’m proud of you, girl,” she says, looking at the carpet. “But be careful, okay?”
I frown. Has James told her he wants to try for a baby?
“I saw this documentary a couple of nights ago,” she says. “The guy on it, a diver, he made one tiny mistake. He opened a valve at the wrong time, and the whole chamber blew up. I don’t want you to explode, Solvig.”
Anouk must be talking about the Byford Dolphin case. When the chamber exploded, one of the divers was propelled through a sixty-centimetre opening. Fragments of his body were found ten metres away. “It was one of the tenders outside the chamber who made the mistake,” I tell her. “Not a diver.”
Anouk scowls.
“You big dafty,” I say, giving her arm a squeeze. I mean, really, I’m not going to come out and say it, but there’s no way a lump of rock is going to save me. It’s like the old saying goes: if it’s your time to be forced through a sixty-centimetre opening, it’s your time to be forced through a sixty-centimetre opening. Strange to hear Anouk worrying like that, though. She used to call my job “badass.”
I pick up my cup of tea. “Anyway, how’s your work going?”
“It’s fine,” she says. “I mean, it’s awful. Exhausting. Brilliant.”
“Anouk,” I begin.
Anouk looks at me. I notice the dark, puffy skin under her eyes. I think about how she’s been carrying a pebble in her pocket for protection.
“Listen,” I tell her. “If you ever need a night off, and you want me to babysit, let me know. I’d be happy to look after Nike.”
Anouk bites down on her lower lip. “Thank you, Solvig. By the way, you’ll know when danger is coming, because the stone will shatter. If that happens: watch out.”
•
“Good run earlier?” James calls.
I take off Cola’s lead, then go into the kitchen and see James shredding celeriac. He’s been talking about this recipe for days. Crispy catfish with black-eyed peas and Southern-style slaw. The key to this meal, he says, is coating the fish with cornflakes instead of breadcrumbs. It sounds . . . gross.
“My run was great, thanks,” I lie.
I look in the fridge at the selection of half-drunk reds and whites. I take a red and pour it into two glasses without bothering to try any, then put a glass on the counter next to James.
“Cheers,” he says.
“Bottoms up,” I reply.
I wonder if we’re going to keep carrying on as though the conversation earlier never happened. Maybe it’s my responsibility to bring it up first. James said I could take my time to think about it. What would happen if I thought about it for a year? Ten years? I put on my best smile. “Want some help?”
“No need.” James grabs my waist. His breath is vegetal. James once showed me a YouTube video of a whisky taster who advised viewers to develop their palates by tasting unusual things. He recommended starting with a fresh bay leaf. I had a pack of dried leaves in the cupboard, and they were so sharp they sliced my tongue.
I politely extricate myself from James’s grip and put out food and medication for Cola, then collapse on the sofa. Being on the verge of leaving really makes me appreciate what I’ve got here. We might not have cornicing, ceiling roses, or fancy banisters like the homes facing the sea have, but our house—which looks over the harbour—is cosy, with big windows. The winter can be a pain, though. The house gets damp and freezing, and once it’s dark, all you can see out of the windows is yourself.
My reflection is just starting to appear in the window now. I can see James’s too. I’m embarrassed by how we look together. The same height, both with blond hair and blue eyes. James’s hair is long and mine is short. Does that help? Not really. I once bought some dye, but I never
