Edward sighs. ‘He’s a really nice man. I’ve always liked him. In fact, I was friends with him first at Rhodes – that’s how I met Miriam. But he worries about me all the time. It gets tiring.’
‘What about his wife?’
‘Ah,’ says Edward. ‘Poor man. His wife left him about ten years ago for a trainer at the gym. It was the most shocking scandal at the time, because we all liked her so much. And Larry was devastated, of course. Plus, she left him with two young sons. She just walked out on the family.’
He sighs again, obviously reliving that time. A part of me is interested that he’s even able to engage with another person’s historic suffering. Again, that unbidden thought: He’s going to be okay.
‘Okay,’ I agree. ‘I’ll come. I’m visiting Mike in the morning and I’ll come straight from there. Want me to pop in and see Miriam?’
‘Please would you?’ says Edward. ‘I usually go, but I have to get ready for this lunch. She’s going to be so worried – I always go on a Saturday.’
I know better than to say Miriam doesn’t know whether he’s there or not. I mean, she can’t even breathe on her own. But I want to reassure him.
‘You know,’ I say, ‘I don’t think they feel time the same way an awake person does. I mean, I don’t think they know what day it is. They just know that we visit. I don’t worry when I change days. As long as I go often.’
Edward is quiet for a moment. ‘You’re probably right,’ he says eventually, but I know he doesn’t agree. He just doesn’t want me to feel bad. We’re so gentle with each other, us damaged people.
‘Either way,’ I say, ‘I’ll pop in and chat to her. She’ll be glad of a visitor whatever day it is.’
I can hear the relief in Edward’s voice. ‘Thanks, Helen. It’s so wonderful having someone who understands.’
I suddenly realise Edward has probably never had to cook a lunch on his own. ‘Oh, can I bring anything tomorrow? A salad or dessert or something?’
He laughs. ‘Actually,’ he says, as if reading my mind, ‘I’m quite the chef. I’ve always been the one who cooks for company. Miriam used to tease me.’
‘In that case, I’ll be sure to tell her you’re toiling over a hot stove.’
‘Oh yes,’ he says, sounding happy. ‘She’ll like that.’
We make final arrangements about times and I get his address – I’ve never been to his house before and I’m relieved that it’s not too far from me. I can have a glass or two of wine.
‘I’m looking forward to it,’ I tell Edward.
And to my surprise, I actually am.
Julia
‘You look good,’ says Daniel as I get ready to leave the flat. I took particular care this morning, knowing that I would see Steve again today. But this is the nicest thing Daniel’s said to me for ages, and I perk up.
‘Thanks,’ I say.
He strolls over to kiss me goodbye, and pulls me in hard, slipping his tongue between my lips. ‘Do you have to go to work right now?’ he says. ‘Or we could have a quickie?’
I know this worked for me just yesterday. But right now it feels like the baby is sitting on my bladder, and all I can think about is how I don’t want to have to change clothes. But I have kind of an idea that if I refuse sex, I’ll be like Claire. Only without the good bits. And I don’t even know why I have it in my head that Claire refused sex, because Daniel’s never said so. But if she didn’t, then why is Daniel with me at all? And that thought worries me. Do I believe that Daniel is only with me for the sex? That he’ll leave if I say no?
While I’m evaluating my inner world, Daniel’s concerns are more corporeal, and he’s edging me against the wall, taking my silence for consent. For a moment I let him carry on, kissing me and touching my breasts and pushing me against the wall. And then the baby does that strange wiggly thing, like bubbles in my abdomen, and I’m absolutely sure I’m going to wee, and anyway I can almost feel my linen maternity trousers creasing in real time.
‘I’d love to, babe,’ I say, trying to sound as though I mean it. ‘But I have an early meeting. Can’t be late.’
‘Are you sure?’ Daniel’s still holding my breasts and nuzzling at my neck. ‘Can’t you feel how much I want you?’
The truth is I can feel, and it’s not really doing anything to ease the whole needing-to-wee situation.
‘I want you too, babe,’ I say huskily, but I push him away. ‘It’s just that I’ve got to get to work. Later.’
I do a strange sort of manoeuvre to get past him and out the door, and try to throw a sultry look back at him, but suspect I just look relieved. Then I realise I haven’t weed, but I can’t go back in because he’ll think I’m up for it. Rather than risk that, I drive to work as fast as I can, and by the time I get there I’m so desperate that I virtually throw bodies out of my way to make it to the toilet. But it’s completely worth it.
My next stop is the meeting room where, despite the early hour, Steve has already set up. He’s working hard and doesn’t notice me walk in. I watch him for a moment, his head bent over a hard-copy ledger as he tries to reconcile what he’s reading with something on his screen. His shirt sleeves are pushed up over his wrists, and he’s wearing his glasses. He looks like the dad in a 1950s movie – an impression enhanced by the dust motes dancing in the few sun rays that have managed to squeeze through the perpetually closed blinds.
I cough,
