I had no plans like that, or not for a long time. When I’d married Tom, I was still young and children weren’t something I’d really thought about. Having Josh around seemed to fulfill whatever maternal desire I had, though really he and I were more like friends. I had learned early on not to take on a maternal role. Josh was Tom’s child, not mine. After a while I was worried about being tied to Tom for life; I’d seen the bitterness between him and Belinda, and I’d slowly realized that at least half of the time their animosity was down to him. I knew that if he and I split up, it would be unbearable if we shared a child.
“I don’t think we should go down the IVF route,” Tom had said, when I’d suggested it after a couple of years of trying for a baby. “It can do so much damage to marriages. People tend to get obsessed with it; it’s all they can think about.”
It was all I could think about anyway. I knew he was right, though. If I’d had hospital appointments and treatment and so on, I knew what I’d be like. I’d be totally obsessed.
“And we know we can have children,” he said. “I have Josh. We have Josh. You know he sees you as family.” He gave me a sympathetic smile. “And, well, you were pregnant, too.”
I winced, hating to think of that time in my life. When I was eighteen and about to go to university, I discovered I was pregnant by a boy from school that I’d been seeing for a few months. I hadn’t known whether to go through with it or not, but decided to go ahead, to defer university for a year, and to have the baby. A couple of days after the twelve-week scan, the baby clearly thought otherwise.
“If we just keep on trying, we’ll be lucky. They’ll come one day.”
But they hadn’t. It wasn’t for want of trying, though. Soon Tom was waiting with me, month after month, buying me pregnancy tests, holding me as I sobbed each time the words Not pregnant were revealed. I thought of the soft toy he’d bought me right at the start, the first time we tried to get pregnant. He’d come home with it, a long, soft, furry dog, the color of caramel with treacle toffee eyes and the floppiest ears. When you squeezed its ear it made a barking noise and Tom nicknamed him Captain Barker, saying it was clear that the dog should be a higher rank than a mere mister. When he gave it to me that first night, we were so full of hope and promise for the future and we’d laughed so much I’d cried with happiness. Over the months and years the dog moved from the armchair in our room to the wardrobe in the spare room and eventually, just before I moved out, I took it to a charity shop for another baby to have. A real baby.
I thought of the dog’s new owner that afternoon in my flat, sitting at the window not knowing whether it was my tears or the rain that blurred my vision, and wondered whether they could smell my perfume, feel the hope that clung to the dog for all those years. I hoped they could, hoped they never felt the despair that led me to give it away.
* * *
• • •
Eventually, I grew sick of feeling so bad and forced myself out into the rain. There was a cinema nearby and I booked myself in for a movie that was so loud and action-packed that I didn’t have time to think. The cinema was nearly full and just seeing other people nearby gave me the illusion of company. Though I wanted someone to talk to, when my phone buzzed at the end of the movie and I saw it was Oliver, I felt too fragile to see him just then.
Ruby, I’ve just spoken to Tom. He said you’ve left home. Is everything OK?
I winced. I knew I was going to have to face this with everyone. I kept my reply short.
All OK, thanks.
His reply came within seconds. Fancy meeting up to talk about it? I’d invite you round but Tom’s at home so I doubt you’d want to call here. Just say where and when and I’ll be there.
I thought about the day I’d had, with no human interaction, and the day ahead—Sunday—always the most miserable of days.
Meet me for brunch at the Marino Lounge at 11 tomorrow?
He replied immediately. I’ll be there x
CHAPTER 20
Ruby
It was odd sitting in the bistro having brunch with Oliver. He’d been to our house tons of times, for meals and barbecues and drinks. One year he’d even had Christmas lunch with us, because his fiancée had just left him. We’d bumped into him in the supermarket, looking forlorn, and when I heard he was going to be alone, I invited him to our house. He’d brought the makings of cocktails and I’d been plastered by the end of the night. And we’d been to his house, too, when he got promoted, when he got engaged. I’d never been out with him on my own, though. Why would I?
But most of the times Oliver and I talked, I realized now, we were on our own. And I grew used to not telling Tom about it; I knew he wouldn’t like it.
I remembered the first time I kept quiet. A couple of years ago, Oliver and I were sitting on the garden wall, chatting. Tom was working late and Oliver was telling me that he’d been promoted at work. He told me all about the interview and the other candidates and what the panel had said to him when they offered him the job. We’d been interrupted as usual by Tom calling me on the house phone, to check I was there. A few days later Oliver was around at our house for a drink and when Tom asked how his job was, Oliver said, “Oh, well, I’ve been promoted at work. I’m their marketing director now.”
There was a split second where I could’ve said, “Oh yes, of course!” but I didn’t. I knew it would lead to endless questions from Tom about when we’d spoken, what was said, and why I hadn’t told him. I just couldn’t do it anymore. So instead I said, “Wow, congratulations! When did that happen?” And there was the slightest hesitation on Oliver’s part as he answered me, as though he hadn’t told me about it in great detail just days before.
I knew it was wrong of me. There was a complicity between us, that we knew something that my husband didn’t. It’s not right. I know that. But sometimes, well . . . sometimes you just want to keep things to yourself. And that’s what it was with Oliver; it wasn’t that I was colluding with him, more that I was keeping just a fraction of myself to myself. I was allowing myself a private life.
And that was the start of it really; it wasn’t long after that that I started to work with Harry, and by then I was skilled at deception, adept at keeping my thoughts and, later, my actions to myself.
* * *
• • •
So,” said Oliver, after we’d finished eating. We’d just ordered coffee and I’d thought I was going to get away without having to answer anything personal. We’d covered his job and his upcoming holiday to Ibiza. “Why did you and Tom split up?”
I flushed. “Have you spoken to him?”
“Yes. It was a bit strange, really. I noticed your car wasn’t there for a few days and when I saw him bring Josh home I asked him whether you were at your mum’s. I was really shocked when he said that you’d left. He said he didn’t really understand why you’d gone.”