then,’ I say, forcing a laugh.
‘And Martin? Is everything okay with you both?’
I nod, make some sort of affirmative noise. I don’t want to go down that particular conversational route.
‘Look, Mum, I’ve just got out of the bath. I need to get dried off and into my pyjamas. Martin’s making dinner. I’m planning to get something to eat and go to bed. Work was so busy.’
‘You’re doing too much,’ she says and I feel myself bristle.
This is something she and Martin agree on. They don’t realise that right now, work is the one place I feel in control.
‘I can handle it, Mum. It’s just been a long day,’ I tell her.
‘Well, I don’t like the sound of you one bit,’ she says. ‘I’m going to come and visit on Saturday and I’ll hear no arguments.’
There’s no way I’m going to argue. I could use some maternal TLC. I tell her I’ll look forward to it and that I love her and then I hang up, lie back on the bed and promise myself just five minutes of rest before dinner.
I wake, of course, much later, as Martin comes up to bed. Blinking and stretching, shivering a little, I ask him what time it is.
‘It’s gone eleven. You should just go back to sleep.’
‘I’m sorry,’ I say. ‘I didn’t mean to sleep. I was planning to come down for dinner.’
My stomach grumbles to reinforce my point.
‘Don’t worry about it,’ he says, unbuttoning his shirt and throwing it into the laundry hamper. ‘I’ve plated some up for you. It’s in the fridge.’
Is it my imagination or is his tone not as soft as it was? He sits on the edge of the bed, looking out of the window over the blackness of the lake. I feel the need to be close to him.
‘C’m’ere,’ I say, reaching my arms out to him.
He turns, gives me a soft smile and climbs under the covers, pulling himself across to me and allowing me to hold him. His hand slips under my dressing gown, to my still naked body. I shiver again, only this time in anticipation. But his hand moves directly to my growing stomach.
‘All this’ll be worth it,’ he says. ‘I know you’re feeling rotten, but this little one’s going to bring us so much happiness and I just know you’re going to be the best mum in the world.’
With his words, our house feels like our bubble again and I smile at him, place my hand on top of his and feel calm. He kisses the top of my head and squeezes my hand.
Tempted as I am to fall back to sleep there and then beside him, I know I need to eat something or the nausea will be much worse when it swoops in again.
I sit up, tell him I won’t be long.
‘I just need a bit of toast or something.’
‘Are you shunning my pasta bake for the second time in one night?’ he asks with a crooked smile.
I stick my tongue out at him. ‘Might be too much considering it’s so late, but it’ll do tomorrow night.’
‘Ah, that might be good, actually,’ he says, sitting up. ‘I still need to talk to you about that.’
I pull on my pyjama bottoms and look around to him while putting on my oversized maternity pyjama top.
‘Yeah?’
‘I need to go to London again.’
My heart sinks. It’s been just a week since his last trip. I know it’s a big job, but I hadn’t expected him to have to travel quite so much.
The note in my bag niggles at me again.
‘A snag with the communal play area,’ he says. ‘And the landscaper wants to discuss the garden plans with me. Boring stuff, but I have to be on site. I need to feel the space to see how it would work. They want doors moved from the original plan – which means moving the storage area and redesigning the mezzanine slightly.’
There’s little point in arguing. What would it look like, anyway? I really would be the Wicked Witch of the West if I asked him to pass the work to one of his colleagues at this stage. This project has been his baby, long before we had an actual baby of our own to worry about.
‘How long will you be away for?’ I ask.
Last time it was just two nights, which wasn’t so bad; even if, by the second night, I found myself increasingly anxious without him close by.
‘That’s the kicker,’ he says. ‘I need to be there for a meeting on Tuesday and, realistically, to get the plans done and drawn up … There’s not much point in me coming back until Tuesday night.’
Friday to Tuesday – four nights – over the weekend.
‘I know that means the weekend …’ he says as if reading my thoughts. ‘I thought maybe you could go and see your mum.’
‘I’m working on Saturday,’ I mutter. ‘But Mum was planning to come and visit anyway. See how I am.’
‘Well that’s perfect, then,’ he says, smiling widely. ‘You’ll be well looked after and I won’t have to worry about you so much.’
‘You don’t have to worry about me anyway,’ I say, my tone sharper than I’d like. I cringe at how petulant I sound.
‘But I do, because I love you,’ he enunciates slowly as if to make the point extra clear.
‘If you loved me …’ I start, the words out of my mouth before I’ve had time to think.
‘If I loved you? Really? And what? I’d quit my job? I’m too tired to go over this again, Eli. I know you’re pregnant. I know it’s tough. I know your hormones are raging, but …’ He shakes his head. ‘No. I’m not doing this. Not now. Goodnight, Eli.’
Our earlier exchange feels soured.
All I can think is how, despite the nice dinner and the hugs and the smiles, things are far from right between us.
I leave him to sleep. A couple of slices of toast and a cup of decaf tea later, my brain still doesn’t want to switch off. I sit in the living room, trying to distract myself from my thoughts by watching some American TV show in which a bride-to-be has to choose between a brand-new wedding gown or having her mother’s wedding dress remade into something more suitable for a modern bride.
But, of course, my mind keeps drifting back to my own wedding and my own marriage. To my husband lying upstairs resting
