raised both eyebrows. ‘You went to a divorce party? Are you supporting a different cause now?’
‘I’m not supporting divorce, I’m supporting Cassandra.’
He shook his head. ‘She’s a nut job, that one. I don’t even want to imagine what went on at that party.’
I sighed. ‘It was a divorce party, not a swingers party.’
He scowled at me. ‘It’s still weird. And not the sort of place I want my wife hanging out.’
‘Hanging out? I haven’t hung out anywhere since I was fifteen and wore Reebok Classics.’
He smirked.
‘Besides,’ I added, ‘it’s my job. You have to respect that.’
‘No,’ he replied. ‘Your job is to run a business. You have matchmakers to do all the other stuff now.’
‘Ah, thanks for telling my what my job is.’
‘Well, at least I know what it is you do.’
I tutted. ‘I know what you do.’
He raised an eyebrow. ‘Go on then?’
I sat up in bed and lifted Rupert onto my lap. ‘You work in finance.’
Nick rolled his eyes. ‘Yes, me and the rest of the working population of London. What precisely do I do in finance?’
‘You manage risk.’
‘Manage? What does that mean?’
‘It means you oversee risk algorithms.’
‘Oversee?’
I huffed. ‘Look, I don’t follow you around all day taking notes. How am I supposed to understand the intricacies of financial technology?’
‘You’re not. But it would be nice if you cared enough to find out the intricacies of my life.’
I forced a laugh. ‘Says he who didn’t even know where his wife was on Friday night.’
‘That’s because I was too busy doing a job I hate.’
‘Too busy entertaining. What a drag.’
‘It is a drag spending time with a bunch of wide boys who think Chateaubriand is a type of wine.’
‘If you hate it so much, why don’t you leave?’
Nick sat back and glared at me. ‘That’s exactly what I’m trying to do.’
‘But I don’t want to move to New York,’ I said.
‘What about what I want?’
I glanced around the bedroom, then back at him. ‘I can’t believe you’re so quick to give up on our dream.’
Nick sighed. ‘What dream, Ellie? The dream you’ve been spoon-fed by your friends and those silly magazines you read. The dream that involves stripped floorboards, a herb garden, Petit Bateau-ed children and an ultimate migration to Surrey. The dream you’ve been trying to shoehorn your life into since the day we met.’
I looked down at Rupert. His shiny blue eyes stared back up at me. It seemed as though he knew exactly what I was trying to say.
Nick’s expression softened. He leaned towards me and squeezed my hand.
‘We can’t have children, Ellie,’ he said. ‘We have to accept that and move on with our lives.’
I snatched my hand back. ‘I’m not going to leave my clients and I’m not going to leave Rupert.’
Nick pulled himself up in bed. ‘You want to stay here instead? In a town with the highest birthrate in Europe, torturing yourself? And, what, try IVF another twenty times until you’ve bankrupted us or turned into even more of a mental case?’
‘I’m not going to give up.’
‘On what? You don’t even know what it is you’re holding out for.’
Nick pulled up the duvet, turned away from me and switched off the light. Rupert clambered off my lap, climbed onto Nick then back onto me until finally settling in the valley between us.
I lay there, listening to Rupert’s gentle snores, watching the outline of his tiny ribcage rising and falling, and wondered what precisely it was that I was holding out for.
I awoke to a damp duvet and a deep regret for co-sleeping with an eight-week-old puppy. Nick had already left for work. Usually he woke me to say goodbye so it was clear he was trying to make a point. I helped Rupert down from the bed, pulled on my dressing gown and went downstairs.
On the landing, I stopped and peered into the empty room across from our bedroom. The morning rays sliced through the centre of the room, directly across the space I’d planned to put the cot. I’d envisaged one of those old-fashioned bassinets, draped with a broderie anglaise blanket. I redirected my gaze to the walls, which were presently the dull grey of neglect. I’d planned to warm them with Dulux’s Vanilla Sunrise, topped off with a frieze I’d seen in John Lewis which was covered with Beatrix Potter bunnies. My gaze finally settled in the dusty corner opposite me. It would have been the perfect place for a rocking horse. Rupert nudged my leg as if to guide me downstairs.
In the hallway, I stopped again and glanced around the front room. It was still bare aside from a black leather sofa from Nick’s old bachelor pad. It was going to be the playroom, filled with plump cushions and airy wooden trunks overspilling with brightly coloured toys. I took a deep breath and glanced back up the stairs. Nick was right: so many rooms, now with no purpose. I let out a deep sigh. It seemed neither the house nor I would have the chance to fulfil our potential.
A whimper from Rupert distracted me from my thoughts. He was looking up at me, head cocked as if to say: I live here now too, you know. Then he bounded over to the back door and started pining.
Once I’d opened the door, he sprang across the patio slab without hesitation and began rolling in the grass. The sheer delight in his eyes reminded me of a recent episode of Dr Phil, during which he’d iterated the importance of living in the moment. There was a yogi on the show who’d explained the art of mindfulness. At the time I’d found it hard to take the expert seriously; however, now, as I looked up to the sky and inhaled the fresh morning air, I wondered if perhaps Rupert could bring new meaning to my life.
‘That’s fox poo, you know.’ Victoria’s voice hit me from above. I swung round to see her standing on her stadium-sized roof terrace, swigging an isotonic drink from a flask. ‘Hunting dogs love to roll in it. It masks their smell.’
I looked at her, then back at Rupert, who was still writhing in the grass, the orangey brown streaks along his fur now clearly visible.
‘Rupert. No!’ I shouted.
Rupert sprang
