Page 53 of Seven Rules for a Perfect Marriage

‘Good,’ says Jack. ‘I mean, I assume it was genuine?’

‘Yes, yes, of course,’ Suze reassures us. ‘You know what I mean. Right, we need to be out of here by five, and you’ll be home at midnight unless you get going.’

We arrive home at 10.30 p.m., and mercifully there’s a parking space right outside our house. We drag the bags in.

‘Weird, there’s no post,’ I say, pushing the door open.

‘We’ve only been gone since Friday morning.’

I suppose he’s right. That’s actually really not very long. It feels like much longer. So much longer that I’m sort of surprised when everything is where I left it, my book on the kitchen table, the spare phone charger I’d meant to pack curled into a snake on the stairs. It’s strange to think that the version of me who left it there didn’t know about the US deal, or Jack being a virgin the first time we slept together. She’d never met Chloe and Ben, never laughed at one of Ken’s dad jokes. It feels impossible that I could have changed very much over the course of a few days. And yet, somehow very possible. True, even.

‘Thank you again for today,’ I say. ‘For the whole weekend, really.’

‘That’s all right,’ Jack replies, kissing me.

‘No, really, you were great. With Kayla, with everyone. You did an amazing job.’

‘I’m glad you think so.’ He drops another kiss on the top of my head.

‘I’m tired. I might go and have a bath,’ I say. ‘Get all the make-up off from the photoshoot. Then get an early night. God, I can’t wait to be back in our own bed.’

‘Okay,’ Jack says, sounding like it’s not okay.

‘What?’ I ask. ‘What’s wrong?’

‘Nothing, nothing. I just wanted to talk to you about something.’

I assume he’s noticed the Tampax packet in the bathroom back at the house, and doesn’t know how to talk about it. We’ve been so bad at this bit lately but I’m determined to keep moving in the right direction.

‘I got my period this morning,’ I tell him, looking at the floor. Obviously I’m not squeamish about periods around Jack; he’s bought me tampons dozens of times. Occasionally when we were younger and shagging all the time, I’d pull my tampon out before we got down to it. No big deal. It’s not the bleeding. It’s the shame of not being pregnant, yet again.

‘Oh,’ he says. ‘Did you think . .?’

‘No, no, not really. I just. You know. As soon as it’s half an hour late, I’m picking out nursery paint colours.’ I laugh as I say it but that only makes me sound sadder. I am sad. Properly, grippingly, miserably sad. I knew I wasn’t pregnant – we’d made one perfunctory, obligatory attempt during the middle of my fertile window. I think I knew even then that it wasn’t going to happen. So this isn’t a logical kind of sadness, it’s the kind of confused and obsessive sadness which not being pregnant drives you into andwhich is so difficult to comprehend for someone whose body doesn’t crave pregnancy.

‘I’m sorry,’ Jack says lamely.

‘Yeah.’

He wraps his arms around me, and I hate that after this many years he doesn’t know what to say, but I’m not sure I actually know what I need to hear in this moment either. I think perhaps I just want some reassurance that he is as sad as I am. Or that he’s not disappointed in me for failing us once again. That’s the problem with infertility, it makes you irrational. I want him to pull me back, sit me down on the sofa and pour me the glass of wine I couldn’t have had if I were pregnant. Even though I think there’s every chance that if he offered it, I’d be angry with him for thinking that a glass of wine was any kind of compensation. I want him to tell me that we can actually do something about this, something proper and medical, with tests and chats, but if he suggests it, I’ll think he’s telling me that I’ve failed, and I’ll be terrified to find out if there’s something wrong with me. This entire thing – all the supplements and sex positions and online forums – they’ve turned me a little bit mad.

‘What are you thinking?’ Jack asks, interrupting my train of thought.

‘Nothing,’ I say. ‘Just that I need to put the recycling out.’

‘Leave the bins,’ he says. ‘Just go and enjoy your bath. I’ll do it before I come to bed.’

That’s love. Doing the bins. Trying to cheer me up, even when he knows that anything he says will be wrong. Giving me space to process alone, then coming to hold me when I’m ready.

‘Jess?’ Jack turns back.

‘Mm?’

‘I’m sad too. It’s just—’ He pauses. ‘Sometimes I don’t want to say that. In case it sounds like I’m making it about me. Or worse, in case you think I’m somehow blaming you.’

‘Are you actually sad?’

He nods. ‘Desperately. For both of us.’

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