“I picked up a couple of books for you on my way home,” James says, nodding at the coffee table.
I get a lot of reading done on my dives. Problem is, the library lends books for only three weeks, so I have to buy them. Inevitably, I end up taking a weird mix of whatever secondhand books this seaside town has to offer. Fortunately, the wintertime choice is generally more interesting than the summer. Come July and August, the shops are brimming with discarded tourist reads. That’s how I ended up with three books on the history of fascism in November, whereas in August, it was seven romcoms by Marian Keyes.
I look at the books on the table: a crime novel and a book of Cornish folktales.
“I had a flick through,” James says. “Some of the folktales look more disturbing than the thriller.”
I laugh. “Thanks. You really don’t need to make such a fuss. It’s my job.”
“I’m worried about you,” James says, stirring the black-eyed peas. “This—I don’t know what it is—depression, or whatever you’re feeling.” He carefully places two fillets into a sizzling pan. “You don’t have to do it, you know. We can find something else. Some of those inland diving jobs are—”
“Love you,” I say, getting up from the sofa and going to give him a kiss. My lips miss and hit the corner of his mouth.
•
“Soul food.” James puts a plate in front of me.
There’s a vase of snowdrops on the table and Van Morrison is singing about the fires of spring on the record player.
“Turns out breakfast cereal and fish are a great pairing,” I say, after taking a small bite.
James sighs. There are dark circles under his eyes. “Needs more spice.”
I put down my fork. “How was work, love?”
“The customer wanted a jellyfish at the bottom of his back. He said he wanted it to literally glow . . . I’ll show you the crime scene later.” “Crime scene” is what we jokingly call the photos James takes straight after he’s done a tattoo, when the customer’s skin is raw and beads of blood are bubbling up out of the puncture wounds. I love those pictures; James is normally so gentle that it excites me to see evidence of his brutality.
“James,” I say. “I’m definitely thinking about it.”
I’m not lying. I think about it over the rest of dinner, and I think about it while we watch Alien on the sofa. I think about it when the creature bursts out of the man’s stomach, and I think about it while I load the dishwasher, and I think about it while I brush my teeth, and I think about it when we turn off the lights, and then, under the covers, in complete darkness, in the tiniest voice, I whisper: “Yes, let’s do it. Let’s make a baby.”
5
How are you ever supposed to know what you want?
I remember being in the garage with my dad when I was a kid, about ten. My aunt Marie popped in and said, “I’m off to the shops, ducky. Want to come?”
Dad was in the middle of welding a table, and I was meant to be helping out. Helping out involved handing tools to Dad when he needed them, and it was a sacred job. My father was a craftsman and an artist. He welded everything from massive yard installations to miniature model cars. I loved to watch him work.
But I also loved going to the shops.
“Are you going to the Entertainer?” I asked. I was on the lookout for a new onionskin or peewee to add to my marble collection.
Aunt Marie smiled. “I think we can manage that.” My dad’s older sister lived with us for a few years after Mum died. I was grateful to have her around, but then she died too. An infected hip replacement.
“Okay,” I said. “I’ll come with you.” I skipped down the street until I reached next door’s hydrangea bush; then I froze. “Gah! I’m going back.”
I ran back inside and handed Dad a length of steel tubing. And then I thought about all the marbles I might never own, and I ran outside again. Aunt Marie was at the lamppost on the corner.
“Hurry up then, child,” she called, shaking her head.
“No!” I shouted, realising it was my dad I wanted to be with after all. I ran back to the garage, and instantly regretted it. I rushed out, panting, but Aunt Marie was too far away to catch up.
I cried too much to see the table being finished.
Now I’ve learnt the secret to making decisions. It’s all about diving in. Am I hungry? I’ll eat a sandwich to find out. Am I tired yet? I’ll go to bed and see. Do I want a baby? I don’t know. Let’s have unprotected sex and see how it feels.
•
“I Want to Break Free” by Queen plays on my phone at 5:30 a.m. It’s been my alarm for years. I normally press snooze around the time Freddie Mercury announces that he’s fallen in love, but today I don’t. I don’t check my emails, I don’t jump out of bed, and I don’t take my birth control pill. Freddie Mercury repeats the phrase “I want” four times in a row.
I begin to stroke different parts of my boyfriend. Collarbone. Sternum. Hips. I can feel the ridges of tattoos on his skin. I try to trace shapes with my fingertips, but it’s impossible.
I know what I’m touching anyway: Poseidon; a wolf with a woman’s face coming out of its mouth; a sword piercing a peach.
“Don’t go.” James rolls over and pulls me in close.
“I’m not going anywhere,” I say. “At least, not right now.”
6
Whenever I’m in Aberdeen, I’m about to start a job or I’ve just finished one. It’s a portal between worlds.
I lived in Scotland for a few years, back when I was doing my training. I got my offshore qualifications in Argyll, then my saturation certificate in Fort William. The whole lot cost
