I’m watching him closely, trying to discern his reaction in the candlelight.
“A mistake?” he says, in an odd voice.
“Yes,” I say.
I’ve said it now.
It’s out there.
Not so bad.
“They mixed up my file. Can you believe it? They gave me the results of someone else’s blood test. They got it WRONG!”
I’m expecting him to scream the way Isabelle did. Or bounce up and down and hug me like Olivia. After his thoughtful declaration, he might even burst into tears of joy or burst into song. What I’m not expecting is for him to fold his arms and rock (quite precariously, I think) on the two back legs of his chair.
“You are fucking kidding me!” he says in a kind of deadpan.
“No,” I say, shocked. “I’m not.”
His chair slams down. “Jeez, Jennifer. That sure is one hell of a mistake!”
Bad sign! He’s called me Jennifer.
He makes a puffing sound like it’s quite ridiculous. And I can’t blame him. Because it is. BUT STILL. “You’re not messing with me, are you?” he says.
My face falls. “Why would I mess with you on this, Harry?” I dig my fork into the potato crust and the cheese sauce oozes out like pus from a wound. “It’s true,” I say. “I got someone else’s results. God knows what’s happened to her.”
“Bloody hell,” he says and shovels some food into his mouth.
“But it’s good news for us, isn’t it?” I say, feeling the need to prompt him.
He flaps his hand in front of his mouth. “Hot!” he says, hand still flapping. He blows out quick breaths, swallows, grabs his wine, and knocks it back. “I think I burned the roof of my mouth! Fuck!!” His eyes are watering, this time from pain. He gargles with the wine then looks across at me, clocks my horrified gaze, knowing I’m waiting for a more appropriate response.
He gets his composure back. “Yes!” he says. “That is good news.” He’s staring uneasily, puffing and blowing. “Sorry! But fuck! Painful mouth. Yeah. Good news.” He smiles a big fake grin.
“You don’t sound that thrilled, or maybe this is you breaking the rule that says you should be nice when your girlfriend says she’s not dying?” I don’t care about his burned mouth. All I can see are his veneers glowing in the dark.
He nods his head in exasperation. “Of course I’m thrilled! I am,” he says. “If I sound otherwise, it’s because . . . well, you caught me unaware. I mean, it’s a major surprise, isn’t it?” He leans in. “But I’m thrilled for you.”
“What about for you?” I say.
“Yeah, yeah. For me, too,” he says. “Of course. I’m really thrilled.” He looks down at his plate then starts cutting up the fish from under the potato the way you would a child’s. “But it changes everything now. Doesn’t it?”
“Yes,” I say, trying to be upbeat. “It does. For the better.”
“Yes. Of course, for the better, “ he says. He blows at a forkful of potato and smoked haddock and puts it cautiously into his mouth, chewing slowly. We sit in ominous silence. I’m not going to be the one to break it. He owes me an apology.
He’s staring at his plate. “So I guess I should cancel my plans for a sabbatical then?” he says.
I stare at him aghast. “Is that the nicest thing you can think to say?”
He shifts uncomfortably. “Sorry. Sorry,” he says. “Forgive me. This is coming over badly. I’m tired and I need time to properly absorb your news. That’s all.”
“Sure,” I say. “Trust me. I’ve needed time to properly absorb it too. But for now can you at least pretend to be happy about it? Treat it like good news as opposed to an inconvenience!”
He rubs his temples. “Oh, shit, sweetheart. I’m sorry. I’ve been ungracious. Look—I’ve had a tough week. Just ignore me.” He stands up. “I need more wine. What about you?” he says. He can barely meet my eye.
“I’m fine.” It’s obvious my glass is practically untouched.
He suddenly stops in his tracks and turns back, staring at me, accusation bulging from his eyes. “So why the doctor’s orders?” he says. “Why can’t you drink if you’re okay now?”
I want to kick myself. Why did I have to say that? Now he’s smelled the rotting rat.
“Because I’m still . . . because the doctor still needs to check my blood. He’s not entirely happy even though there’s absolutely no doubt I do not have the ’osis.”
“So there might be something else?”
“Oh,” I say. “Now you sound thrilled!”
His eyes do a strange pirouette. “This is all going horribly wrong,” he says. “I’m getting the wine.”
“Bring in the damn bottle,” I say. “Maybe I need to get drunk after all. One of us should celebrate my good news.”
He lets out a frustrated sigh and walks toward me, crouches at my knee, and props up my sullen chin. In any other circumstances, I’d think he was about to propose.
“Don’t be like that,” he says. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to sound anything but thrilled. It’s just . . . what can I say? Unexpected.” He gives me a big cheesy grin. “Good, though,” he adds hastily. “Unexpectedly good.”
He’s placed a wretched feeling in my stomach that’s going to be hard to shift. This was not how it was meant to be.
“I’ll get the wine,” he says.
I sit there, waiting for him, recovering from the upset. I try to tell myself I’m overreacting, that he’s entitled to feel shocked, to feel doubt. He’s tired and uptight. He’s had clients on his case. It’s a knee-jerk response. Of course it is, and I should forgive his clumsy reaction.
And then I wonder: If I’m pregnant—if that crazy possibility is true—will Harry forgive me?
“Listen,” he says, returning with the wine. Looking contrite. “Will you forgive me—?”
“Of course, I forgive you—”
“No,” he blusters. “I mean, will you forgive me if I don’t stay the night?”
“Are you going now?”
“Not immediately, no, but I’m tired.”
“So stay!”
“I can’t,” he says. “Too much to do. Can I take you out to celebrate properly tomorrow? When I’m less stressed? You choose where. Tomorrow night will be better. I’ll be in a better frame of mind.”
I suggest Ham Yard, which seems to be in the forefront of my mind. If Martin brings it up over Christmas, then at least I’ll know what I’m lying about.
“I’ll book,” he says. But he doesn’t seem pleased about it at all.
Our dinner at Ham Yard goes better than I could have hoped. Harry is back on form. It’s like he’s had time to absorb my news and he’s decided he can cope with the fact it was all a big horrible mistake. I stop worrying about his inelegant reaction. I understand.
“Isabelle has invited me to spend Christmas with them this year. She’s invited you, too, but I told her you go to your mother’s.”
“That’s kind of her,” he says. “In fact, my mother has asked if I can stay with her longer this year; she’s getting old, Sally. It’s sad.”
“I’m so sorry.”
“I was going to ask if you wouldn’t mind doing Christmas earlier, like a pre-Christmas Christmas, before I go and see her. You don’t mind, do you? We’ve done our New Year’s, after all.”
I smile at the memory. “That will always be my best New Year’s ever. Of course I don’t mind. Anyway, the earlier I can start celebrating Christmas, the longer it will last.”
We go back to my place and he leads me by the hand up to my bedroom and we make love. He’s armed with the obligatory protection.
In the morning when I wake up, I reach across the pillow but he’s already left. There’s a sweet note apologizing for his early morning getaway. He says he’ll call.
As I’m making the bed, I notice something on the sheet. My heart misses a beat. It’s blood. Not much but enough to panic me. I clasp my hand to my mouth. Maybe I am pregnant? Am I going to lose it? Probably. But no cramps yet. I sit down and place my hands protectively across my stomach. And that’s when it occurs to me I know exactly what I want.
I want it all.