Page 83 of The Last Train Home
Sean takes his headset off. ‘Nothing on that we haven’t already seen,’ he says.
‘I was thinking,’ I say, toying with the sleeve of his T-shirt.
‘You want to go in the toilets with me?’ he asks.
‘No, that’s not what I was thinking.’ I bat his arm. ‘I was wondering if … now we’re married, if you want to think about – I’m not saying we have to do it immediately – but maybe think about … talk about …’
‘Spit it out, Abbie.’
‘A baby,’ I say. ‘If you wanted to think about trying; not seriously, just see what happens and maybe … have a baby.’
He looks at me and a huge smile spreads across his face. We’ve talked about this many times before, but we’ve always agreedwhen we’re married. ‘What does try, but not seriously, mean?’ he asks.
‘It means I don’t want to get stuck in that zone where we’re having sex due to ovulation schedules and it sucks all the fun out of it. Low-pressure sex. I’ll come off the pill and we’ll see what happens. It’ll take my body months to resettle itself anyway, so nothing will happen for ages yet. We’ll have plenty of “honeymoon period” to enjoy.’
He takes my hand and I can see Sean thinking, giving it the serious thought a question like this deserves. ‘Wow, yeah, OK. Let’s make a baby.’ And then he says, ‘But when you say not try seriously, we’re still going to be having sex frequently, right?’
‘Obviously,’ I say.
‘Get in!’ he says with a mini cheer.
Chapter 53
Tom
September 2009
As I sit here in the kitchen, pushing a chicken kebab around my plate that I’ve got no intention of eating, now I’ve collected it from the takeaway, I think again of that night in Samantha’s office when I collapsed. It’s been playing over and over in my head for months now.
I’d woken in hospital, rigged to tubes and wires, to discover that I’d had a panic attack. A really fucking big one. If that’s what a panic attack does to me – sending me clutching my chest and dropping to the floor, passing out through the pain – then I dread to think what an actual cardiac arrest would be like.
I’d thought that was the end. I thought the universe couldn’t hit me with any more warning shots. But that was the warning shot I couldn’t fail to ignore. I can’t do this any more. I can’t live like this. Something has to change.
I’m going to do something I should have done a while back. I’m going to end things with Samantha.
I’ve spent years trying to do the right thing. And it always, always turns out to be the wrong thing. So today I’m going todo the hard thing, and I just have to hope for the best, especially where Teddy is concerned. I’ve sought advice and I’m not rushing into this, by anyone’s standards. Andy’s divorce lawyer is a devil in a sharp suit and he says I’ve got a strong case for sole custody, given that Samantha works away a lot and shows zero interest in Teddy. I’m ready for the outcome of joint custody, though. I think I could be happy with that. I’m not prepared to see Teddy only during weekend visits, though. I want joint custody as a bare minimum, and I will fight hard.
I wait for Samantha to get home from work on Monday evening. Teddy’s gone for a sleepover at Andy’s house. When I had the anxiety attack, Teddy was in bed when I collapsed and had to endure being woken up, going to the hospital with Samantha, because she didn’t have the foresight to ask anyone to look after him, tell him it would all be OK. He’s not been the same since. He watched oxygen masks being strapped around my unconscious face, saw me lifted onto a trolley bed and hauled into an ambulance, blue lights flashing. He thought his dad was dying.
So I need him gone tonight. I don’t want him subjected to any drama. I’m calm, collected, I’ve not had a beer. I need a clear head.
Samantha walks through the door, roller suitcase behind her. She sees me at the table and disappointment floods her face.
‘You’re here,’ she starts.
Where did she expect me to be? I live here.
‘We need to talk,’ she says, as she lets go of her suitcase and pulls the cork from the open bottle of red wine on the side. She pours herself a healthy measure and doesn’t offer me one. She drinks, heavily.
‘Yes, we do,’ I say tentatively.
‘This isn’t working,’ she says, and I’m stunned. Not because her words aren’t true, but because she’s the one saying it. Samantha has come through the door, guns blazing. ‘It’s not been working for a long time,’ she reiterates. ‘And we can’t go on like this.’
I nod in agreement. ‘No, we can’t.’
‘This is going to hurt, Tom, so I’m going to say it quickly. I don’t think it will come as any surprise to you to find out I don’t respect you any more.’
Ouch. That is actually a surprise.
