I’m sitting cross-legged on the sofa with Tom as we watch a new TV series we’re into and drink tea – wine has too much fertility guilt in its sediment to enjoy now, hurrah – but my mind’s whirring, once again.
Did I get too complacent? Have too much faith in us? Was I naive to think we weren’t susceptible to the things that everyone else is?
I look at him and feel enraged. How the hell am I supposed to focus on fertility drugs and babies when I am dealing with this shit too, Tom?
The oven beeps and Tom goes into the kitchen to take out the lasagne. I simmer with silent rage.
‘Low-fat cheese!’ he declares, like he’s announcing the Oscar winner for best film, and I shoot him a look that says he has read out the wrong result and everyone thinks he’s an idiot.
‘I can be healthy without us having to go on about it all the time, Tom, thanks,’ I snipe, a hand going protectively around my middle.
He looks hurt.
‘I was only trying to be—’
‘Supportive, yes, I know. Let’s just watch this, all right? They said relaxation is as important as anything else.’
He kisses me. But the other … The thing …
My mind is in overdrive. I can’t say it and he won’t bring it up, so it hangs there between us every day. It hangs there today as cheddar clings to my fork and my tea cools to lukewarm. It hangs there as there is a loud explosion on the TV and a loud burst of song from next door. We laugh, because when Harriet does her high notes we always laugh, and that helps things. I hold on to that because I need him. I do. With all this and so many unknowns, I need him to be in my team.
Then Tom goes to the toilet and I grab my phone. I’m trying to stop myself reaching for Tom’s, which is sitting balanced on the side of the sofa. Except, I see with a glance, it’s not. He’s taken it with him to the toilet.
And for the first time, I genuinely think: Tom is cheating on me.