didn’t. I offered,’ she says with a smile. ‘It’ll save that husband of yours coming out on a night like this and sure, it’s not that far out of my way. The kids are at their dad’s, so it’s not like I’m in a rush to get home anyway. You’ve had a long day,’ she says, and I want to hug her.
‘If you’re sure?’ I ask. ‘I’ll just check Martin hasn’t left.’
‘I’m sure,’ she smiles.
I dial my husband, who answers after two rings, apologises and says he’ll be with me shortly. I can hear from the background noises that he’s still at home.
‘Rachel’s going to drop me over. You’ve no need to come out,’ I tell him.
He sounds relieved. ‘That’s great,’ he says. ‘I can get on with some work while dinner’s cooking. It’s been a mad day, so busy. But look, I’ll talk to you about it when you get home.’
Work has been ‘mad’ for months now. Longer hours. More trips away. A big project that could bring a lot more work his way. When he wants to talk about it, it generally means he’ll tell me about another ‘vital’ trip away. It’s a good thing I’m not the suspicious type.
Or wasn’t.
I end the call and tell Rachel I’ll take her up on her offer.
‘Are you okay?’ she asks as she leads the way to her car. ‘You’re not still mulling over that silly note, are you?’
I force a smile. Shake my head. Lie and say I’m fine and that I’m just tired. Change the conversation to something less likely to make me feel tightness in my chest. We talk about who we’re rooting for in Strictly Come Dancing until we pull up outside my house.
I feel as if I should invite her in, but I’m too tired to play the gracious host.
‘We must get you round for dinner some time,’ I say to her. ‘Have a proper catch-up outside work, when we aren’t both so tired.’ I hope that makes up for the lack of invite tonight.
‘That’d be lovely,’ she says with genuine warmth.
I give her a quick hug then climb out of the car and walk to the front door of my dream home, nervous about what my husband will tell me.
When we first moved to this house just over eighteen months ago, after several years of enduring a three-hour commute between Belfast and Derry, I thought I was the luckiest woman alive. There were certain perks to marrying an architect, not that it really mattered to me what Martin did for a living. I’d fallen head over heels in love within weeks of meeting him.
Set on the banks of Enagh Lough, just outside Derry city, Martin had overseen the renovation of the old farmhouse himself. It had taken a year – and lots of blood, sweat and tears – but he’d made our home magnificent.
The rear of the house, which looked out over the lake and the surrounding woods, was mostly glazed. Large plate glass windows set in natural wood frames. Bifold doors onto wooden decking, leading to our own personal jetty – it was stunning in all seasons.
It had felt like our home from the moment we’d walked over the threshold of that ramshackle farmhouse; of course, it felt more so now. It was our bubble in a hectic world that moved at a breakneck speed.
It feels less of a bubble these days. Pregnancy has made me feel vulnerable in a way I never did before. Reliant, not so much on Martin as an individual but on Martin and I as a team. A couple. Ready to work together on this next scary chapter. I’d watched my mother struggle as a single parent. I don’t want that struggle. I don’t want my child to grow up not knowing their father. I think of the note, that stupid piece of paper, and a shiver runs through me.
Dropping my bag on the marble floor in the hall, I hang up my coat and call out to Martin that I’m home.
He walks out of the kitchen, apron on, wine glass in hand, and says hello with a smile. His smile still has the power to make me feel weak at the knees. Even now, ten years after we first met. I smile back, for a moment feeling comforted by his presence.
But even from several feet way, the smell of wine makes me feel nauseous. I take a deep breath, try to swallow down the sickness. If I just take a few minutes to settle myself, take another anti-sickness pill, I might be okay to sit with him for dinner.
‘Did you not invite Rachel in with you?’ he asks, looking behind me.
‘Erm, no. I thought you wanted to talk, and I’m so tired. I didn’t think …’
‘That’s a shame,’ he said. ‘She’s good company.’
I tense. Am I not good company on my own? ‘Well, I said we’ll have her over for dinner sometime soon.’
‘That’ll be nice,’ Martin says, moving towards me and pulling me into a hug.
‘I’m just going to grab a bath,’ I say, pulling back a little. The smell of garlic is assailing my nostrils. ‘Do I have time?’
‘If you’re quick. Maybe twenty minutes. Perhaps you’d be better waiting until you’ve eaten before you have a soak.’
‘I really need to freshen up. My stomach’s churning, too. Not sure I’ll eat much.’
‘I’ve made a pasta bake. It’s quite light. Not creamy or cheesy. You should try some at least, Eli,’ he says, his face filled with concern. As if he sees me as more vulnerable now, too. No longer an equal partner.
‘You’re very good to me,’ I say.
‘Of course I am,’ he smiles. ‘I even left mushrooms out of the recipe because I know you can’t so much as look at them at the moment.’
I smile. ‘I’ll be as quick as I can,’ I say and continue upstairs, where I run the bath and lie in the water, watching my baby wriggle under my skin, feet and elbows pushing outwards.
I wonder how something so small and innocent can make me feel so sick all the time. I stroke my stomach, whispering, ‘I love you,’ hoping if I say it enough I’ll start to really, really feel it.
After climbing out of the bath, I wrap myself in my fluffy dressing gown and I’m just about to get dressed into my pyjamas, when I hear my phone ring. I look at it and see ‘Mum’ on the screen. I’m so happy to see her name and I wish, not for the first time, that she lived closer.
‘Hi, Mum,’ I say.
‘What’s wrong, pet?’ Her reply is immediate. She can always read my mood. Name that emotion in one.
‘Ah, it’s been a long day,’ I say, trying my hardest not to cry.
How is it that talking to my mother instantly brings all my emotions to the fore? I want to tell her about the note but decide not to. She’d only worry and one of us worrying is enough.
‘And the baby? Everything’s okay there?’ she asks, her voice soft but thick with concern.
‘Still making me throw up on a regular basis,’ I say, a hiccup of self-pity ending my sentence for me.
‘You
