Ben, however, felt differently. Kirsten knew that he had been broken-hearted once they’d agreed that a third round of IVF was not for them, either emotionally or financially, and that it was time to close the door on the whole endeavour. Give up. He had sunk into quite a depression for months afterwards, been listless and subdued, as if the hope that had been sucked out of him had caused an emptiness inside, a hollow space that nothing could fill. In turn, she’d had to grapple with her own feelings of guilt that she didn’t grieve more about them being childless, the self-criticism that she wasn’t similarly mourning the family they could have been. Was something wrong with her on a fundamental level? Friends had rallied round them, consoling and sympathetic, while even Ben’s sisters tactfully talked less of their own babies and children for a time, leaving Kirsten with the uncomfortable impression that she must be a fraud, who hadn’t earned such compassionate responses. She’d hated going through IVF, the injections and the hormones; she was a private person and found the lack of control and dignity humiliating, however nice the nurses and staff. In some ways – yes, it was a relief when they decided not to go through that again. Did that make her a bad person to admit as much?
‘We’re enough,’ she kept telling Ben, trying to shoulder his pain, supporting him as if he were an invalid. And he’d come out through the other side eventually; their marriage had survived the ordeal, and that, she thought, had been the end of it.
But now look at her, with the deep, uncomfortable sense that something was missing in her life, that a hole lay beneath the surface. That maybe the two of them weren’t enough for one another as things stood. He’d rung her earlier and sounded very pleased with himself as he suggested meeting for a drink that evening, saying that he’d booked them a table for dinner at the tapas place she liked on Green Street. After she’d been on earlies all week and was knackered. When they’d just been out to Charlotte’s the night before, and she was desperate for an early night.
She’d hesitated before saying yes, great, because she knew he was making an effort, but she still felt numb. Could this be the belated bereavement her female friends had warned her about, finally making itself known? Or was her mum right, that married life always bumped along the bottom of a few long troughs during its course? Whichever, the fact that she’d had more of a thrill tracking down the phone number of a man she’d met briefly when shopping for paint, than at the prospect of going for a lovely dinner with her husband, was not exactly a healthy response to the midlife blues.
The other night, she had lain awake for hours while Ben slept beside her, snoring gently into the pillow. I need something else, she’d thought, gazing up through the darkness. I am ripe for something to happen – some drama, a challenge, for my heart to thump with excitement once more.
Talking of a heart thumping . . . She moved the Doppler and there it was, the fast drumming sound of the foetal heartbeat, like tiny galloping hooves. A smile broke across Alice’s face and she opened her eyes.
‘There’s your baby,’ Kirsten said, smiling back. She must have been getting soft or something because as a tear broke free from Alice’s eye and went spilling down the side of her cheek, Kirsten felt a lump in her own throat, as if she too was on the verge of a sob. ‘Perfect!’ she said instead, squeezing Alice’s hand.
Somehow it was already five o’clock in the afternoon and Lara felt as if the day was slipping away from them. Having arrived at their budget hotel, they had made an emergency dash to the high street where she’d bought a denim skirt and a short-sleeved zebra-print blouse that was flattering and not too try-hard. She’d also shelled out on a few toiletries for the night, some cheap cotton pyjamas and clean underwear for them both and a lipstick because, sod it, she needed every little boost she could get. ‘Can I have this perfume?’ Eliza had asked, trying her luck at the counter. ‘It is a special occasion, after all.’
‘Yes, yes, all right,’ Lara had replied, so flustered that she hadn’t noticed, until the cashier rang their items through the till, that the scent cost way more than she’d ordinarily spend on an impulse treat.
Having now spruced up in their bland bedroom, Lara procrastinated further by bagging up the remains of their garage-bought lunch that she’d carried in from the car – the empty sandwich wrappers and crisp packets and the punnet of half-eaten grapes. Grapes, she thought, her hand on the plastic carton, and then a memory returned to her suddenly: of Eliza, aged three, choking on a grape one Saturday lunchtime, her small face startled and then frightened as she gasped for air. Lara’s first thought had been that she would kill Steve for giving their little girl a whole grape without cutting it in half – hadn’t she told him a million times already that grapes were a choking hazard otherwise? But her next thought was of a voice in her head telling her what to do with a choking child: Hang them upside down and whack them on the back. Let gravity do its thing – and then she was leaping up from her chair, swift and decisive. Grabbing Eliza and turning her upside down, slapping her back once, twice. Please God, please let this work. She brought her hand away to go in for a third slap – just as Eliza let out a cry and a shining green grape tumbled down on to the lino.
‘Oh my God,’ she murmured to herself now, finally making the connection. She hadn’t thought about it at the time – too busy with comforting Eliza and glowering at Steve – but the voice in her head had been Ben’s. He’d said those words to her in Stefano’s and they must have lodged deep in a part of her brain marked ‘Useful Stuff’. ‘I’ve just thought of something,’ she said, and went on to recount the story to Eliza. ‘Don’t you see how weird that is? Your dad saved your life – without even knowing he had given you life in the first place.’
‘Eww, gross, don’t say “given you life” like that,’ Eliza scolded her, pretending to vomit. ‘But yeah, I guess that is kind of spooky,’ she added grudgingly. Then she hopped off the bed. ‘We should get going, anyway. Head over to meet Grape-Defeater McManus himself.’ She checked her phone. ‘Like now, Mum. The shop closes at six.’
Lara pushed the bag of rubbish into the small hotel room bin, simultaneously trying to dump her own reluctant feelings. ‘Okay,’ she said. They were going to turn up at his shop unannounced, having figured that the end of the day might be an opportune time to chat. ‘I hope he’s there after all this,’ she fretted, as the possibility occurred to her. ‘We have to prepare ourselves for the fact that he might be on holiday or—’
‘He’s not on holiday,’ Eliza said, walking across the room. ‘I phoned from the service station when I was waiting for you and hung up when he answered. He’s definitely there, flogging his crumbly old maps across town. So shall we go and say hello?’
Setting off through the narrow streets, Lara and Eliza had to dodge between tourists, cyclists and shoppers. The sky was darkening and the bright shop windows cast gleaming splashes of light on to the wet pavements. The city had a buzzy, Friday-evening feel but after a few minutes, they turned off into Hobson Street, leaving the crowds behind. The sudden quiet heightened Lara’s nerves. Nearly there.