Page 39 of Seven Rules for a Perfect Marriage

‘Sorry. Um. I think my parents have a different idea of success to Jessica. They only really like old books and professors and stuff. So I guess they’d say hindrance.’

There’s a noise of approval from the group.

‘Did I get it right?’ He laughs. ‘Oh, amazing!’

Arguably it’s not amazing that his parents regard my career as detrimental to their son, but okay.

‘Next question!’ says Suze. ‘What do you think your family would change about Jessica to make your relationship better?’ Then I put the headphones on and listen to a blast of Dolly before Suze motions at me to take them off. Everyone’s looking at me all misty-eyed, like they just watched the last five minutes ofThe Notebook.

‘What d’you think he said?’

‘I don’t know,’ I say. ‘Hopefully not that many things.’

‘It was lovely,’ pipes up Ken. ‘He said he’d not change anything about you, and if anyone suggested it, he’d be telling them to get stuffed.’

‘He said it nicer than that,’ Sue adds.

I look across at Jack, who is blushing because he always blushes.

‘Thanks.’ I smile.

‘Welcome,’ he says, looking at the ground.

It’s not quite the seismic breakthrough that Ben and Chloe had; it doesn’t change the energy in the room the same way theirs did. But it’s something. I can feel that it’s something. And I think maybe he can too.

The Abortion

Jessica

In films, when someone takes a pregnancy test, they turn it over and wait for three minutes until they can see a result. I assume this is a narrative device designed either to build tension or to let the characters talk about what might be, because when you take apregnancy test in real life, it shows both lines almost instantly. I know this because I’m currently sitting on the loo with my jeans around my ankles, watching my pee soak down the stick, bringing up two vividly pink lines, crossed over each other in the middle.

I am pregnant.

This is not good news.

We could not be less ready to have a baby. I’m twenty-five. If I break a glass I still wait for an adult to come and tell me that I need to put some shoes on while they clear it up. I don’t want to do this. I don’t want to be a mother. I don’t want to get through it and learn to love it. I want more of my life. I want more time to be selfish, to believe that my career is going to take off. I want more time to be me.

We have absolutely no money and we live in a one-bedroom flat, the entirety of which would fit comfortably inside my childhood bedroom. I am working in a job that I hate, that I’m not very good at, for almost no money. Jack and I drink too much. We smoke too much. And clearly we weren’t responsible enough to use contraception properly. God, isn’t it ironic that being irresponsible results in the biggest responsibility a person could have?

I look at my phone. Jack’s at his work Christmas party. He caught my eye in the mirror this morning, while he was getting dressed, and beamed. ‘I can’t believe I’m going to the BBC Christmas party,’ he’d said. I’d laughed at him, pointing out that he does work there so it would be a bit weird not to be invited. He just laughed, and despite the disparity in our career satisfaction, I can’t help being delighted for him. They’re paying him about six pounds a week, he works the worst hours imaginable, and he’s the happiest person I know. Tonight he’s at some pub near Great Portland Street, mixing with all the people he wants to be when he grows up. It’s the best things have ever been for him. My fingerhovers over his name. I could call him. I know I could. I would have every right to tell him that I need him, that I’m not okay and that he needs to come home. But I don’t want to. Ruining his evening isn’t going to change this.

Instead, I search for the Marie Stopes phone number. I think I knew when I saw the lines that I was going to do this. I just wanted to pretend that it was a hard choice – that I searched inside myself and really tried before I gave up. It’s not like I’m a teenager anymore. You don’t tell people that you had an abortion at twenty-five, in a long-term relationship, and expect them to feel bad for you.

Jack comes home a little after midnight. He’s pissed but full of joy. ‘Merry Christmas,’ he says, tumbling in the front door. Our flat is so tiny that I can feel the cold air from our bed. ‘I missed you.’

‘I’m pregnant,’ I say, abandoning all my good intentions about breaking it to him gently.

I’ve heard people say before that they sobered up instantly thanks to a shock, and I’ve always assumed that it’s bollocks. But the warm boozy glow around Jack is instantly gone.

‘Are you sure?’ he asks.

‘Yes.’

‘Wow.’

‘Yes.’

‘Are you ... okay?’

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