I can’t believe I am going to say this. I inhale and finally look up at her. She’s so beautiful sitting there opposite me, and I hate myself for what I’m about to say, but it needs to be said. ‘I don’t think we can keep this baby.’
Paige stares at me, dumbfounded, as if she’s waiting for the dots to connect. As if she didn’t see this coming.
She backs away to the far side of the sofa. ‘I can’t believe you said that,’ she says slowly. She sits there, shaking her head, and then all of a sudden, she throws the cushion to the floor. ‘Nick, what the heck? You’re talking to your wife. We are a couple. This is our baby you’re talking about. You don’t come out and say it like it’s some business transaction we need to take care of! We are supposed to decide something like this together.’
‘Surely you knew this was a possibility,’ I say.
‘Of course I know it’s a possibility. But…’
My expression remains stoic. ‘Paige,’ I say softly, but there is still a firmness in my voice, a firmness that sends a wall up between us, one that becomes thicker and more blurred with each word that follows. ‘I’m sorry… but we can’t do this. It’s too risky. Given your history, it’s too much of a gamble.’
‘No!’ she says.
‘You almost died! I almost lost you!’
Her hand moves under her top and rests against the space between her pelvis and belly button. She’s thinking of Max.
‘It’s not your body! This isn’t only your decision!’
I lean forward. I’m not angry any more, just sad – sad that we are having this conversation in the first place. ‘Nor is it solely yours. You need to take the emotion out of this one and think about the risks.’
The oven timer gives a shrill beep, warning us that our dinner’s ready. She stands up and shakes her finger at me. ‘I can’t believe, after everything we have been through, that you think not keeping this baby is the way to go without even considering the alternative.’
I follow her into the kitchen.
‘Dammit, Paige. Think about what you’re saying. Take a minute to really think about what you’re deciding and how it affects not only you but me.’
Paige yanks open the kitchen drawers, trying to find an oven mitt. ‘I don’t want to think about that today,’ she says, pulling the tray out of the oven. ‘Dinner’s ready. You can eat alone. With all this talk about getting rid of our baby, I’ve lost my appetite.’ She slides off the oven mitt, storms down the hallway and yells, ‘And don’t you dare lecture me on the importance of nutrition and pregnancy!’ She snatches her keys from the buffet and steps out the front door, but she doesn’t drive away. She just sits in the driver’s seat of her car, alone in the driveway, until the lights inside turn off for the night.
Ben’s back from his honeymoon in Bora Bora. He’s come back with a tan that would make anyone envious, and there’s a three-centimetre gash above his eyebrow from an accident with a catamaran. Obviously Tahiti, or marriage, or both, agrees with him because he’s perched on my desk with a beer as if he’s still on holiday. The only thing missing is a wedge of lemon and some sunblock.
‘I thought Sarah drew the line at stocking the fridge with Red Bull,’ I say.
‘Not if you know how to ask nicely.’
‘I always ask nicely.’
‘Oh, but do you score her tickets to Billy Elliot?’
‘This is why you’re much more brilliant than I am.’
‘I told her they were from you.’
‘Why would you do that?’
‘Because she likes you better. And she was pretty firm about the no beer in the fridge rule. She thinks it would encourage us to stay back even later when we should be at home with our wives.’
‘That’s because we should be at home with our wives.’
‘Agree.’
‘We should get her tickets to that day spa she keeps talking about – I’ll have to ask Paige the name of it.’
‘She’s a one-in-a-million receptionist.’
‘She is.’
We run out of words and the room goes silent except for the hum of the printer in the corner. As much as I appreciate Sarah, this whole Ben and the beer thing is bordering on weird.
‘There’s something I want to tell you,’ he says finally. ‘I want you to be one of the first to know.’
This can only mean one thing: Pamela is pregnant.
‘Congratulations. That’s great news.’
‘Jesus. Can anything get past you?’
‘You’re smiling like an idiot. Drinking beer in my office. What else could it be?’
He shrugs.
‘Really, I’m happy for you.’ Only I don’t sound all that happy, which makes me sound like a complete asshole. Thankfully Ben doesn’t seem to notice.
‘I know it’s probably a bit awkward.’
‘It’s not. This is a good thing. A really good thing.’ This time I sound more sincere. And I am happy for Ben. He’ll be a great dad. Hands-on. Definitely the good cop.
He chews his lip. ‘Okay.’
There’s a beat of silence, which only makes the printer sound louder than it is. It’s churning out pages and pages of documents. It stops and beeps, protesting for more paper. I go to get up.
‘I’ve got it,’ he says, handing me a beer. ‘Finish writing that email. Or whatever it is you’re staring at there.’
I go to protest, but it’s too late. Ben’s at the printer, gathering up the documents and refilling the tray with paper. He walks back to my desk, stealing a glance at the papers, and I know what he’s thinking. He will be asking himself why I’ve got a stack of research papers on the topic of pregnancy outcomes in peripartum cardiomyopathy.
‘Thanks,’ I say, taking them from him. I shove them into my briefcase and down half my beer in one go.
Ben stands there, expectantly.
I fire off the email I’ve been obsessing over for the past half hour – one to a doctor in the US specialising in PPCM to see if he can shed some light on his experiences with expectant mothers like Paige – and shut my laptop. Ben’s still standing there, all the joy that was on his face moments ago gone, like it was never there to begin with.
‘So, you heading home soon? To celebrate?’ I ask.
‘We already celebrated.’ Next thing, he pulls out a chair. Right opposite my desk, as if he’s setting up camp for the night and doesn’t intend to go anywhere. And then he helps himself to the papers in my bag and talks to his watch. ‘Hey Siri, send a message to Pamela. I’m going to be home late. A friend who would never in a million years admit it needs help with something.’ He licks his fingers and starts reading, glancing up at me briefly. ‘We should order a pizza. We’ll be here for a while. Don’t forget I hate anchovies.’ And then, ‘How many weeks is she?’
By the time I head to my car, it’s eight thirty and my head feels woolly, like there’s too much information stuffed in it with nowhere to go. I could go to the gym, the pub, the beach for a jog, but I need to talk to someone who isn’t Ben, someone who doesn’t know me or Paige or how messed up this whole situation is. Someone impartial.