He pecks my cheek and heads for the bathroom. And just like that, peace returns. It seems trivial all of a sudden, almost as if we didn’t fall out. I’m left feeling I’ve made last night’s disagreement out to be far worse than it really was.
When he has showered, Alex reappears in the doorway, drying his dark curls with a white towel. He has another one around his waist.
‘Shall we walk home?’ he asks.
‘How far is it?’
As soon as the words have left my mouth, I regret asking the question. Alex has discouraged me from doing any sport since I’ve moved in with him. I like running, swimming and cycling, although, unlike Alex, I’ve never been tempted to try out any of those activities competitively, but apart from the walk we went on together when I first arrived in the Lake District, I’ve hardly been out.
Alex even expressed his disapproval a few weeks ago when I walked the short distance into the village of Grasmere. I know he’s concerned about me, but lately I’ve been feeling cooped up.
‘About four miles. Part of it is along the same paths we took when we did the Coffin Trail the first weekend you were here.’ Alex is standing at the mirror in the bathroom, the door wide open, and I watch him rub moisturising cream into his face. ‘We both brought casual clothes,’ he continues. ‘Have you got some decent shoes?’ He doesn’t pause for me to answer. ‘I could pick up our stuff later. It would certainly help clear my head.’
I’m not sure if he means he’s hungover or if he still needs to get our argument out of his system.
‘And it would save us paying for a taxi,’ he adds, as if he’s trying to win me over and that will clinch the deal.
‘Alex, I think walking home is a great idea.’
‘Hmm. On second thought … it wouldn’t be good for the baby.’
‘Alex, the baby’s fine.’
As if to confirm this, the baby pushes my tummy, ever so faintly, from inside.
‘But you lost so much blood.’
‘I didn’t lose a lot. It was in early pregnancy. It happens sometimes, apparently, and it hasn’t happened since. The baby is all right. Really.’
‘If you’re sure. Have a shower and then we’ll go downstairs and get some brekky.’
Alex has used both large hotel towels, and he has dropped the one he dried his hair with on the floor in the bathroom. With a little difficulty because of the size of my bump, I bend down and pick it up, resisting the temptation to make a comment – it’s only a bit damp after all – and seconds later, the hot water gushing out of the shower jet is washing away the tension from my shoulders.
I keep thinking Alex will change his mind. He has been very worried about the baby, and I’m convinced he’ll phone for a taxi instead of going through with his suggestion. But after breakfast, we arrange to leave our suitcases at the hotel and set off for home on foot.
As we walk, Alex chats about the weather and about his mum. I’m not sure if he’s excited or wired, or merely trying to avoid an awkward silence. He doesn’t seem to need much input from me, so I tune out and try to sift through my thoughts.
I wonder if Alex reacts badly to alcohol. Some people lose their temper or their self-control when they’ve been drinking. At least Alex wasn’t violent. I try to imagine everything that happened from his point of view. He’d probably been pleased with himself for buying me that present. Perhaps he’d put a lot of thought into it and the red heart was deliberate rather than a coincidence. If that was the case, then he must have been hurt to see that I wasn’t wearing it.
The fact that we didn’t make love on our wedding night shouldn’t matter to me, should it? It would have seemed inappropriate after our row and, anyway, the idea that I had in my head all through the night – that our marriage hadn’t been consummated – is an old-fashioned concept. It belongs to a time when people didn’t have sex before marriage. I glance down at my tummy. We did, and look what happened. And Alex stepped up to the occasion. He asked me to move in with him and marry him so that we could be a family.
‘Any ideas?’
His question interrupts my thoughts. I haven’t got a clue what he has been talking about. I give him a blank stare. ‘Sorry. I was miles—’
‘I was thinking “Leo” or “Liam” if it’s a boy.’
He wants to discuss baby names. I’m not keen on Leo. ‘I like both of those,’ I say.
‘Liam is an Irish name. It would go well with yours. Kaitlyn and Liam. And mine, come to think of it! Liam Riley!’
I smile, a little wistfully. ‘My mum would have liked that. Her Irish heritage passed down to her grandson.’
‘Oh God, he might have ginger hair, the poor thing,’ he says, elbowing me in jest.
I don’t find it funny, but I smile, a little tightly. He’s right, though. Louisa and I got teased at school – even bullied a few times – just because of our hair colour.
‘What about girls’ names?’ he asks.
‘I love the name “Chloe,”’ I say.
‘I do, too,’ Alex says. He takes my hand.
Well, that was easy. Alex is back to himself this morning. So, why do I feel the need to weigh up every word I say before I speak? Why do I get the impression I’m walking on eggshells with him?
‘Do you still want to know if it’s a boy or a girl?’ Alex asks.
Why is he asking me that? I look at him, trying to second-guess what’s going on in his head, but his expression is inscrutable. When I’d gone for the first scan, alone at the Musgrove Park Hospital in Taunton, it had been too early to tell the baby’s sex. When Alex and I went together for the second scan at Helme Chase Maternity Unit in Kendal, Alex was adamant that he didn’t want to know. I did. I needed our baby to have an identity. I wanted our baby to have a name. I dreamt of buying suitable baby clothes and not having to settle for neutral greys, yellows and whites.
But Alex said he needed some time. He didn’t want to consider a baby girl as a replacement for Poppy and Violet, or as a second chance at happiness when things had gone so badly with his ex-wife Melanie that he could now no longer see his daughters. He argued that as he’d already had two baby girls, he also had to get used to the idea that this baby might be a boy.
We went in for the scan, without having come to an agreement, about a month ago now. In the end, it turned out the baby was in a position that made it difficult for the sonographer to be sure of its sex anyway. And that solved the problem.
‘It’s too late now,’ I say. ‘Have you changed your mind?’
‘A bit,’ he admits. ‘I’m ready now. Either way.’
‘Well, that’s good,’ I say, as we stop walking for Alex to tie up his shoelace, ‘and now we know we’re expecting a Chloe or a Liam.’
Rydal Water stretches
