‘It can’t be mine,’ William said, when I broke the news over his favourite meal of guinea fowl and gnocchi.
‘Of course it’s yours,’ I said, placing the little stick telling me the best news ever onto his side plate, and trying to smile despite his tactless comment.
‘That’s got your pee on it, Amelia,’ he said, pushing it away. ‘Are you positive it’s mine?’
‘OK, for one …’ I held up my index finger ‘… I’ve only slept with you in all the time I’ve known you. And two …’ I burst into tears.
William jumped up, grabbed a serviette – he always insisted we had them on the table, as I had, still have in fact, a habit of getting ‘stuff’ on my face when I eat – and thrust it into my hand.
‘OK, great, I’m going to be a dad,’ he said, and left the room. He’d barely touched his gnocchi. I guess the pee on the stick hadn’t helped.
So this portrays William in an awful light. But, in fairness to him, he’d been through my hell with me, and was no longer ‘Fun-Loving Will’ the man with the amazing smile who I met on a night out with the girls three years ago. He was a faded, tired version. In fact, I couldn’t recall the last time he’d smiled. He wanted out of our relationship, but, at the time, he didn’t have the heart to leave a woman weighed down by a bucket-load of tragedy. And now, a baby – our baby – would trap him forever.
*
Things improved after that. We began picking up the scattered pieces of our relationship, and I tucked the loss of my mum and sister into a little velvet box at the back of my mind, determined to move on with my life – our lives. It’s what Mum and Lark would have wanted, I told myself. And I desperately wanted to make William happy.
But that small snatch of happiness lasted no time at all. My life, the life I thought was back on a safe, even road, plummeted into another deep dark ditch, and I wasn’t sure I’d be able to climb out this time. After awful stomach cramps I prayed were IBS, I lost our baby at five months pregnant.
So, it’s been a tragic year – a year of heartache and loss. I’ve heard people say bad things come in threes. But how does anyone stay strong when said bad things hit one after the other? One! Two! Three! Wham! Bam! Slam!
Lark vanished.
Mum died.
I lost my baby.
I’m not going to lie; I wondered what I’d done in a previous life to deserve such sorrow.
I tried so hard not to be that woman who everyone felt sorry for. ‘Poor Amelia – nothing goes right for her.’ ‘Oh, Amelia, love, it could only happen to you.’ Or worse, the woman people crossed the road to avoid, fearing her misery was catching. But it was impossible. I was that woman wallowing knee-deep in self-pity, and I hadn’t got a clue where to find the strength to pick myself up; still haven’t. In fact, I fully understand how some women lose their mind following a miscarriage, as I’m pretty close to losing mine right now.
With the loss of our baby, my life with William was over. He’d seen the worst of me – not a pretty sight. Couldn’t take any more. Wasn’t strong enough. He said, as he touched my cheek gently a week after our loss, his fingertips drying my skin, ‘I can’t do this anymore, Amelia.’ He’d lost his baby too, he said – he was in pain too, he said – but I know he never felt the same kind of screwed-up agony I felt.
He stayed around for two months after that, spending a lot of time at his mum’s, or crying on the shoulder of an ex-girlfriend. He never did tell me her name. Did he think I would knife her on a lonely street?
For a while it was as though my baby – the little girl I had so many plans for – was still with me. But eventually, with time, I accepted there was an empty place inside me where I once felt her flutter – a timid butterfly trying out her wings for the first time. I’d felt so sure she was happy. I’d held my belly so often, talked to her, sung to her. But we can never be sure when happiness will be snatched away from us. I know that now.
*
‘Amelia, have you got the contract for Jennings and Jennings?’
I look away from the office window, and up at Malcolm. My boss is out of breath, and needs to lose a few pounds before he keels over. His tone, as always, is anxiety-tinged, his face stretched into a shiny-cheeked smile. He won’t make old bones at this rate.
‘You need to shave off that ridiculous moustache, Malcolm.’ I’ve wanted to say that for years, if only to help him find his soul mate. No wonder he’s single. ‘You look like Hitler.’
His eyes widen, as much as they can in their puffy sockets, as he touches the hairy culprit under his nose. ‘You need more time away from the office, Amelia.’
‘I need forever,’ I say. I haven’t even turned on the computer and it’s almost midday. I’ve spent most of this morning gazing out at the grey day. Thinking. ‘Can you give me forever, Malcolm?’ I ask, in a maudlin tone – that’s pretty much my only tone right now.
‘Take more time out if you need it. You’re no use to us here.’
‘Cheers for that.’
‘I think you know what I’m saying, Amelia.’ He strides off, in his creased shirt and too-short trousers.
I’ve got to go home, or hide in the loos for the rest of the day. I fidget in my swivel chair. I won’t get paid if I go home.
