A squirrel stops momentarily on the path ahead, stopping to look towards David and me. I go for my phone, but the animal quickly decides he or she has better things to do than pose for pictures. The squirrels skips away into the undergrowth with a rustle.
‘You’ll have to be quicker next time,’ David says.
I don’t reply as we continue along the dusty trail, deeper into Little Bush Woods. It’s not rained for weeks and the green along the edges is starting to turn a yellowy-brown.
This isn’t an official country park, but locals from Gradingham use it as such. It’s busy at the weekends, with dog-walkers and parents using the trails as free entertainment for their children.
‘You got in late last night,’ I say.
‘I know – you were out like a light.’
‘How was Estonia?’
‘Wet – but I found a Hank Mobley LP that should be worth a fortune.’
‘I have no idea who that is.’
‘There was an Agincourt, too – and some Led Zep. I brought it back in my hand luggage. Didn’t want to risk them losing it in the hold.’
He stretches and takes my hand. Apart from a groggy coffee this morning, it’s the first time we’ve seen each other in ten days. This has been the pattern since we got married. Instead of being the start of something, that wedding day has increasingly been feeling like the end. I’m not sure if that’s my fault, or his.
We continue along the path, my hand in his.
‘How much can you get for them? I ask.
‘Maybe a couple of thousand for the Mobley if I can find a buyer.’
‘Wow.’
‘What about you?’
‘I dropped a class this week because I signed up two more PT clients. I’m up to 400 followers on Twitter, too.’
He squeezes me hand. ‘That’s great. I’m so proud of you. It’s good that the name change didn’t create a problem.’
‘No…’
We had discussed keeping my name as Morgan Noble, figuring that it would be easier to pitch as someone running their own business. David wasn’t keen and so I went with him. He was insistent that we should be linked through our names. There are battles to pick and this didn’t feel like one of them. Morgan Persephone, which rhymes with ‘knee’ and not ‘phone’, is quite the mouthful. It doesn’t feel like me and perhaps it never will.
David lets go of my hand and we continue along the path slowly as a pair of boys race past us, heading in the other direction. Another couple is walking towards us and we swap a series of smiles and hellos until we’ve gone our separate ways.
The sun is dappling through the leaves, throwing a speckled quilt of rays across the track. I find myself sticking to the shadows, stepping over the patches of light without trying to make it obvious. Like avoiding the cracks in a pavement.
It’s as we’re walking that I realise how nice it is to have David at my side. The doubts have never really gone away, ever since that afternoon in the service station, but it’s true what they say about absence making the heart grow fonder.
That’s not stopped me wondering if his ten days in Eastern Europe has really been ten days in cheap motels. He’s been forwarding me emails of his itinerary under the guise of me being able to check whether his flights and trains are on time. We both know that wasn’t the only reason he was sending on those things.
‘How long are you home for?’ I ask.
‘I’m not sure. There’s a fair out Bristol way in a couple of weeks – but that should be down and back in a day. You can come if you want…?’
He knows I won’t, but that isn’t the point.
‘I’ll see what I have on,’ I reply, which is a not very subtle code for ‘no’.
We continue along the path, which is gradually starting to fill with more and more walkers. There are some in flip-flops and shorts; others with hiking poles, backpacks and enormous water bottles, as if they’re on their way up Everest. The route takes us in a full loop until we arrive back at the car park. It’s just off a country lane, half a mile down the road from the rugby club. There’s a barrier that was installed after an outcry in the local paper because of apparent doggers during the summer nights – though it never seems to be down.
The day is getting warmer and it doesn’t feel as if either of us is ready to head back to the flat yet. It’s taken us a while to find this groove, but perhaps morning walks on a sunny summer’s day is what married life is supposed to be.
Without needing to discuss it, we stroll along one of the other paths that quickly leads to a bridge that crosses the lake. There are signs warning of ‘deep water’ and I remember kids at school saying there was a shark in here. That was before we knew how ridiculous it sounded. I think Jaws had recently been on TV, which got everyone’s imaginations racing.
There are waterlilies dotted around the edge of the lake, though many are massed on the soil verge. The water is low and there are footprints around the slope down from the bridge, where kids have gone wading. A family of two-point-four children are crossing the other way, with the father holding onto the youngest son’s shirt to stop him charging ahead. There are more nods and smiles. The countryside code, I suppose.
It’s after they’ve passed that David stops and half turns, resting his forearms on the rail of the bridge and peering down to the water below. I swing around until I’m at his side, elbow to elbow.
‘Yasmine’s pregnant,’ David says.
It’s the first time I’ve heard her name since the wedding two months ago.
He pauses and then adds: ‘I was wondering…’
David doesn’t finish the sentence because there’s no point. In everything that’s happened between us, we’ve never properly had this conversation. We each said that we’d like kids one day – but it was vague and undefined. There was never a timetable; never a plan.
‘We’re both self-employed,’ I say. ‘I’d have to put my career on hold. I don’t think we can afford that.’
It’s a practical reply to a question from the heart.
‘I think I might be running out of time…’
I fix on a point on the furthest side of the lake, where a deer has appeared from the trees. It stoops and laps at the water and there’s a beautiful serenity to the moment.
Sometimes I forget that David’s a decade older than me. I wonder if I can do this for us.
For him.
‘You’d have time afterwards,’ he says.
‘Time for what?’
‘To still have a career.’
I don’t reply, though he’s probably right. I’m young enough to get my body back after a birth and then, with the free time he has, perhaps he can take on the role of day-to-day carer? Perhaps that’s what he wants? Perhaps it’s what I want?
‘Maybe…’ I say. ‘But what about money?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Your work is so unpredictable.’
Since marrying, we have a joint account, into which we both pay a certain amount each month. We still have our separate accounts, though I have no idea how much David has squirrelled away – if it’s anything at all. He’s never asked about my accounts, either – although I want the flat to remain in my name. I want it to be mine.
‘We can figure it out,’ he says. ‘I think we’re ready to be parents.’
‘We’d need something bigger than my flat.’
‘That’s the other thing – perhaps we can look for a house…? Something with three bedrooms – or four?’
I don’t know what to say. Five minutes ago, there was none of this in my mind – and now we’re talking about houses and children.
‘Where’s the money going to come from?’ I ask again.
‘It will work out.’
I move my weight from one foot to the other and the wooden bridge creaks ominously. The deer looks up, perhaps startled by the noise. Its ears are pricked high and then it turns and darts off into the trees. Perhaps that’s the omen? That should give me my answer.
‘What do you say?’ David asks.
‘I don’t know.’