Page 64 of Seven Rules for a Perfect Marriage

He’s back with Jack within moments. One look at my face, at my stained dress, and he knows what’s happening.

‘What do you want to do?’ he asks. Why does everyone keep asking me that? I take the champagne glass out of his hand and down it in one.

‘I want to go home,’ I say.

‘I’ll call an Uber,’ Jack says, grappling with his phone, putting his passcode in wrong. His hand is shaking.

‘No,’ I say, ‘I think maybe you should stay.’

They both look at me. ‘What?’ Jack asks. ‘Why?’

‘I don’t want them to know. You can explain. Make an excuse.’

His face twists with worry; clearly he doesn’t think this is a good idea. ‘Are you sure?’

‘Yes,’ I say, resolute. I can’t go home with him and feel the disappointment radiating from his skin.

‘Okay,’ Jack says, pulling himself up taller. ‘Okay, I can do that. And then I’ll come straight home. Do you need to go to hospital?’

I shake my head. I’ve had enough friends go through this to know that you don’t need to go to hospital, that they can’t do anything at this stage. You just ride it out and let it happen. I think there’s a part of me that wants to believe I might still be pregnant. But I know I’m not. And right now my main concern is how I’m going to get out of here, and get home without anyone noticing that I’m bleeding, and without bleeding on some poor Uber driver’s car.

‘Okay. I can take her,’ Clay says. ‘You manage the situation here. Suze is around, she can give you some comms advice. I’ll drive Jessica home.’

I look at Jack. Maybe this isn’t what I want. Maybe I don’t care what everyone thinks. Maybe I want Jack to take me home and hold me and make me chicken nuggets like he did before.

‘Okay,’ I say quietly.

Clay slips his jacket off and hands it to me. I put it on, and it’s just long enough that it covers the back of the dress. He pauses outside the ladies’ bathroom downstairs, without my needing to ask. I go inside. There was a part of me upstairs which was hoping that maybe it was a mistake. Maybe this wasn’t really happening. I’m on the pregnancy forums, I’ve read the books, I know that spotting can be normal in early pregnancy. This is not that. The nude shapewear I wore, to conceal any evidence of having a bodyunder the dress, is soaked in blood. I stuff handfuls of tissue paper between my legs and then put the jacket back on. When we reach the car, I realise to my horror that his vintage sports car, the one I’ve taken the piss out of on various occasions, has light-tan leather seats. When I pause, he takes a navy tartan blanket from the back and chucks it down without saying anything.

We drive home in silence. I unlock my door. He hunts down a bottle of whiskey in the half-unpacked kitchen. Then he squeezes my arm. ‘Do you want me to stay for a bit?’

I shake my head. ‘I’m going to have a shower. And then I’m going to bed. Jack will be home soon.’

Clay nods. Clay leaves. I take the dress off, dropping it on the floor. I borrowed it from a brand. I was supposed to send it back. Obviously, I can’t do that now. I run a shower the hottest it will go, sitting and watching the blood mix with the water. I’d like to cry, but I held it in for too long in the car and now I can’t manage it.

I don’t have any pads because I use tampons, but I remembered from when I had the abortion that you’re not supposed to use tampons for this. Something about infection. I go to the study, the fourth bedroom in our huge new house. Ironically the one I’d earmarked for a nursery. I pull out boxes and boxes of free press samples I’ve been sent until I land on some eco sanitary-product PR box. Mercifully they’ve sent towels. I press a massive thick wadded one into my knickers, then put on a pair of pyjamas and get into bed.

When Jack gets home, he comes straight upstairs and crawls in next to me.

‘I shouldn’t have let you go home alone.’

‘No,’ I say into the darkness. ‘You shouldn’t.’

‘I was in shock.’

I shrink away from him. ‘Me too.’

There’s a little pause.

‘I’m sorry,’ he says eventually.

‘I know.’

Jack

We take a taxi back to the house in icy silence. The driver probably thinks we’re two nervous singles who met in a bar and decided to make a night of it. That would explain the feeling of expectation hanging in the air. But it’s not actually sexual tension. It’s just horrible tension, like a headache pressing at the inside of my skull. I notice Jess pulling down her dress and can’t help but sneer. I can’t believe that she was spending the evening with Clay, probably having a great time bitching about how useless I am and being told she’d be better off without me. But they’re not sleeping together. Obviously they’re not sleeping together. Fuck, what am I going to do if it turns out that they’re sleeping together?

It’s a stupid question because I trust Jess. I love her, I know her, and I’d stake my life on the fact that neither of us have ever seriously considered for a moment that we might be with someone else. Our lives are too tightly bound, and we were too happy. Even while we’ve not been so happy, sleeping with someone else has never felt like it would help. Sure, I notice women. Occasionally I notice their bodies or their faces. But I’ve never had any meaningful desire to take one to a hotel room and ruin my marriage for aclumsy fuck. And I know Jess is the same. She likes a flirt at a party, but that’s it. Which surely means that she was with Clay for something else. But is that actually any better? If she’s off with him because she wants someone to talk to about what a shit I am – or worse, because he’s the only person she thinks she can talk to about work stuff – then honestly, I think maybe I’d rather shewasshagging him. Sex is one thing, it’s just sex. But as I watch the lights of London on a Saturday night pass through the cab window, I think there’s a very real prospect that it might be the big life shit that she’s sharing with him and by rights I’m fairly sure that stuff is supposed to be mine.

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