‘You want peas? We’ve got some frozen peas? I can throw them in.’
Peas! Frozen peas in a casserole!? Was he trying to break her?
‘They’re frozen straight from the field. Rich in proteins and vitamin C.’
‘It’s your recipe, Rex. Just don’t do that thing when you keep adding ingredients until it’s reheated leftovers…’
‘It’s not MY recipe. I just want to make sure you’re getting all your greens. You know. To make you strong and…’
‘… and a viable incubator for your progeny.’
‘Err, yes, I guess, if you want to put it like that.’
Rex appeared in the kitchen doorway. His face was flushed and his reading glasses on top of his head were still steamed from the heat of the oven. His face beamed with pride at his nurturing efforts. He was still in his work shirt. Baby blue. He wore the same colour (more or less) every day, she realised as if for the first time. Her pinny was too small for him. A present to her from her father. A ‘joke’ apron: The Turkey Will Be Ready for Xmas… Next Year! Hilarious.
‘Food’ll be ready in two minutes. Just trying to boil the rice dry.’
He came and sat beside her, perched on the edge of the sofa. He stroked her head, as if, she thought, he was trying to calm her – she used to love it when he did that. He stared at the blank TV screen. She let her gaze return to the window ledge where the last of the sun had disappeared. A cat miaowed outside and she wondered if it was Boris come to beg forgiveness.
‘What’s on TV?’ he asked after a pause, and reached for the remote.
‘Oh, please, Rex. I can’t.’
‘Sorry. Right. Absolutely. Can I get you anything? A cold towel.’
He was trying, she knew that. He was trying so hard, but the harder he tried, the more trying he was.
Ana and Rex were just carrying on with life as normal. They had spent the previous weeks going through a range of emotions: Ana’s mind trying to come to terms with the fact that she might or might not be a mum, and that she had possibly left it too late. She kept tearing up, and having to walk out of the room so that Rex couldn’t see. She didn’t want him to see her suffering, her doubts, to know how hard it was hitting her. It was probably just her hormones settling down, she told herself. It also wasn’t just something that you could think about and be fine with, like the decision had been made, and you just needed to accept it, because life wasn’t that simple, and the prognosis was not that black and white. The fact was that she could in reality just say: never mind, that didn’t work, and they could return to normal life, sex, and hoping that a little miracle might happen. But she wasn’t quite there yet, they had to try this route, and it was making her question everything. Had she put enough time into finding the right man? Was this the right time to be having a baby? If she’d really wanted one, wouldn’t she have done it earlier? Even if she was lucky enough to have a child, she thought, she would be lucky to see them grow up – she would most likely be dead by then! These sad thoughts led her back to the loss of her own mother. Was post-IVF depression a thing?
And then with all this swilling around her head, she started to find Rex incredibly annoying, and not just his insistence on frequent and for Ana, pointless pill-safe-sex. The way he slurped his tea was disgusting, and she loathed the way he casually played with his balls all the time while he was watching TV – she wanted to shout at him to leave them alone! His failings taunted her… and as for his brown hoodie, his weekend, dress-down style, that bore the name of his favourite teen rock band, well, she just wanted to burn it. He was 45, for god’s sake, and was probably oblivious to all of this. If she mentioned it he would be mortified. Why was she suddenly so irritated by him? What did it mean? Was it normal?
‘Dinner is served,’ announced Rex. Thankfully, he’d taken off the pinafore. The casserole was served in large bowls. Ana took hers and wriggled upright.
‘Sausage casserole with a rainbow of vegetables.’
Indeed, thought Ana. The onion and tomato base had been ‘improved’ with tinned sweetcorn, overcooked peas (now brown) and some slices of pickled beetroot. The dark blue glaze on the bowl highlighted the mess of colours.
‘Latest nutritional advice recommends a rainbow of vegetables. Not bad, huh? No more pizza for you. No more curry. Instead, proper wholesome, home-cooked food.’
‘Thank you, Rex. It looks… exciting.’
‘TV? Isn’t that baking programme on tonight?’
‘No TV. Please… I’m a little fragile.’
‘Radio? I could—’
‘Just quiet, please.’ She didn’t mean to snap. But she’d had to stop listening to the radio. Joel’s track was relentlessly climbing the charts and seemed to be the tune of choice for every pub, café, taxi, cab, shop. Every music channel and music show seemed to have prioritised playing ‘Brown Eyed Girl’ whenever Ana was in the area. It was starting to feel like a conspiracy to further destroy her equanimity.
She lifted a spoonful of the casserole. The fine grain of the pink sausage flesh did not bode well. The tomato sauce was separating into tomato essence and water. A mouthful confirmed her fears. Nothing had been properly fried and browned before simmering the tomatoes. Nothing had been reduced sufficiently to intensify any flavour there might have been and the additional peas, sweetcorn and beetroot added an unwelcome sweetness.
‘Mmm. Taste the goodness. You like?’
‘I like,’ said Ana with what smile she could summon. She couldn’t bear to hurt his feelings. She couldn’t bring herself to tell him that she’d rather swallow one of Boris’s unwelcome live sacrifices than endure a fragile pregnancy being catered for by Rex. He was a good, funny and kind man, but he was not a cook. If she tried to last until term on his cooking, their offspring would be born underweight and malnourished.
‘Eat up! Oh god, poor you, Ana – you are feeling really shit, aren’t you. Are you going to miss the sex? I think I’m going to miss the sex. Did you know that other than for forty-eight long hours every month, we have had sex nearly every day since we first “committed”? That’s like two and a half years. Amazing, huh?’
It was three years, she thought, but didn’t say anything. The doctor hadn’t prohibited penetration so technically they could, but Ana was so relieved to have an excuse, and so physically averse to any kind of sexual interaction, that she’d suggested that they abstain until they’d had some good news.
She pushed the bowl away and fell back. ‘It’s lovely, Rex, but I’m just feeling a bit queasy at the moment.’
‘Oh, darling, I’m so sorry. I’ll put it in the fridge and we can microwave it later.’
‘Is there any fruit? I think there’s a banana in the bowl.’
Rex reappeared with the banana and began to peel it slowly and seductively, in jest.
‘Just give it here, please,’ said Ana, refusing to make eye contact with Rex. Her ability to eat a banana erotically had long been a shared joke. Ana ate as innocently as she was able while her insides bucked and roiled in panic. What if she got pregnant with this man’s child and could no longer stand the sight of him? Was that fate, or was that some strange karma she’d earned somehow?