Page 66 of Close to You
She calls for Norah, who spins at the sound of her name and fumbles her way around the living room. Jane straps her into a buggy and then I hold the front door.
‘Are you and Andy still all right for later?’ she asks.
I want to say ‘no’, but it feels too late.
‘Sure,’ I reply.
‘Fab. I’ll see you tonight.’
She’s reached the pavement when she stops and turns, offering me a final chance to tell her what’s wrong. I don’t take it and she offers a knowing, slim smile before she turns and disappears out of sight.
I close the door and know I should start packing. It’s only a few more days and I’ll be moving out to put this chapter of my life behind me. My keys are on the otherwise bare kitchen counter and I wonder if the Tigger pot will show up while I’m packing. If I could find it, it would almost make everything else that’s happened seem explainable.
Andy sorted me out with a pile of packed-down boxes, that are now in the corner of the bedroom. I fold the first one out and place it on the bed. I am about to start filling it with summer clothes that I definitely won’t need this week, when the doorbell sounds. My first thought is that Jane has forgotten something and returned to retrieve it. That is instantly forgotten as I get into the living room and spot the police car through the window. I consider finding somewhere to hide and pretending I’m not in. There is no good that can come from answering the door, although I know I have no choice.
It’s the same two officers as from the other day: one a head shorter than the other. I can see in the eyes of the taller one that he recognises me, but I suppose he has to say it anyway.
‘Mrs Persephone…?’
‘You got my name right that time,’ I reply.
He doesn’t smile and instead angles himself towards the police car. He doesn’t need to say it because I know.
Something bad has happened.
Thirty-One
THE WHY
Two years, one month ago
Keeping a secret is like being constipated. It’s a pain in the arse and then, sooner or later, it all comes out anyway.
I’ve somehow lost two hours through watching mindless television, skimming around the internet, browsing videos of cute dogs, scrolling through Facebook and finding out what type of cheese I am via a Buzzfeed test. I am a cheddar because, apparently, people know where they stand with me. I can only imagine that being a stilton involves crumbling at the first sign of resistance and stinking like old socks.
David yawns his way into the living room at a few minutes past six in the evening and heads to the kitchen. ‘I needed that nap,’ he says, partly to himself. He rests on the counter, waiting for the kettle to boil as he fiddles with his phone. ‘I thought you had classes?’
‘I had to cancel them.’
‘You’re still not feeling well…?’
‘Not really.’
He takes a couple of slices of bread and starts to smear margarine across the surface. ‘Do you think you need to go to the doctor? You might have the flu. I think it’s going around.’
‘It’s not the flu,’ I say.
He drops the mucky knife into the sink and returns the margarine tub to the fridge, before removing a block of cheese. He picks up a sharp chopping blade from the block and stands poised.
‘What do you think it is?’ he asks.
‘I’m pregnant.’
It’s what we talked about; what we wanted – and yet, now it’s here, everything is wrong. There’s a sinking sensation in my stomach that isn’t down to the pregnancy. It feels like I’ve woken up on an airbed with a leak and that I’m being swallowed into the centre.
The cheese hits the floor as David stares open-mouthed across the room, knife still in his hand.
‘Pregnant?’
