Page 92 of The Day Shelley Woodhouse Woke Up
When I get in, Matt comes to the door to greet me. He always does this, and I love it.
‘How was your day?’ he asks, kissing my lips.
‘Long,’ I say, ‘but good. How was yours?’
‘Same old. We ran out of soup and you would have thought the world was coming to an end. I sent someone out for some tins of Heinz tomato in the end.’
He takes my coat and puts it away in the cupboard while I remove my shoes. ‘Dinner will be ready in ten.’
‘Okay. I need to nip upstairs for five minutes, freshen up.’
In the bathroom, I take out one of the tests I keep in the drawer. It’s a formality, really. I already know. My body doesn’t feel quite like mine. I’m off tea, and my breasts are sore. I watchthe test for the two minutes. How many of these have I taken? And how has my life come down to this – taking tests over which I don’t really have any influence of the outcome? There have been so many periods, so many tears. Not a single positive. But this time, I am so sure that a second line will appear. Still, when it does, I make a small gasp of excitement. I wrap it up in toilet roll and sneak it back into the drawer where Matt never goes. It is our anniversary at the weekend, and I want to give it to him as a present. I imagine the look in his eyes, how we will talk about names and plans. It is perfect. It is a new starting point. It is our future.
‘Is it taking too much out of you, the shelter?’ Matt asks, grinding pepper over his mushroom tagliatelle and then mine.
‘No, it’s like, it’s the opposite. Yes, I never get away from the topic of domestic abuse, but the fact that I’m doing some good, helping some people, it’s like it feeds me.’
‘Good. Because I think it’s an amazing thing, but if it ever gets too much, you need to focus on yourself, you know.’
I feel so lucky to have someone who cares about how I’m doing. Who monitors me, checking for signs of burnout.
‘I’m fine. Now, what do you want to do at the weekend? Dinner out? Or cinema? Or I could see whether the Royal are still doing those spa days?’
Matt reaches across the table and holds my hand. ‘I don’t care,’ he says.
And I know he doesn’t mean it in a rude way. I know he just means that he wants us to be together, and the details don’t matter much.
‘I’ll sort something,’ I say. ‘Keep it as a surprise.’
I think about the test, upstairs, what it means for us. Next time we’re celebrating our anniversary, there will be three of us. The joy of it fizzes in my stomach. I don’t like keeping secretsfrom him. It isn’t normal, for us. But this will be worth it. Two days, and I’ll tell him, and he will be overjoyed.
‘How is tomorrow looking?’ he asks.
This is something we do, each evening. Talk about the day we’ve just had and the one ahead. Discuss who needs to be where and at what time.
I shrug. ‘Just a normal day at the shelter,’ I say. ‘You?’
‘Hospital. But I’m finishing at three, so if you need me at the shelter after that, I’m all yours.’
We have an early night. Our days start at six, and we both like our sleep. Matt is gone almost immediately, as he always is, but I read for half an hour or so, trying to switch off, to stop my mind racing. When I do fall asleep, I dream of babies. I dream that I’m in the hospital after the birth, that there are rows and rows of babies and I have to identify my own. They all look the same, in their white sleepsuits and little matching hats.
In the morning, he leaves first. I don’t feel rested. I feel stressed. What did that dream mean? And will I dream like that for the next nine months? I can’t wait until I can share the secret with Matt, until something like this will be a funny story we’ll tell friends rather than something I have to keep to myself.
I’m just about to go, have one earring in and the other in my hand, when my phone rings and Mum’s name flashes up on the screen. It’s like an alarm bell, because she rarely calls to chat. She typically only calls when she is in need.
‘Mum?’
‘He’s found me. Shelley, please come. He’s found me.’
The line goes dead and I grab my bag and go to the car. My head is spinning and I know I should call Matt, let him know, but I just want to get there first. It’s impossible to know whether Mick’s already been or if he’s on his way. If I can get there quickly, I might stop something awful from happening. I try tofocus on the fact that Mum sounded all right. Frightened, but not hurt. She was able to make the call.
I haven’t even got out of town when it happens. The roundabout, the people carrier, the impact. The blackness.
47
NOW
Dee and I stand on either side of her kitchen island with mugs of tea.
