Martin Edwards - The Cipher Garden

Before she knew it, she was sobbing. She hated herself for showing weakness, even when there was nobody to witness it. Thank God Marc was late, she still had time to compose herself. She wanted to swallow a couple of pills to calm her nerves, but she couldn’t do it, she’d have to tough it out. Even though she could no longer dodge the truth. She was frightened that this was the night when she’d lose him forever.

Kirsty served their meals with a smile so bright, so fixed, so forced, that Daniel knew she must be unhappy. Either that or she was one of the Stepford Waitresses. Yes, she assured him, she was fully recovered. No harm done. She’d spent too long in the sun without a hat, more fool her, that was the top and bottom of it. Yes, she was keen on skydiving, and she was doing a jump for charity tomorrow afternoon. But when he said that he’d spoken to her mum on the phone and met her brother, a hunted look came into her eyes and she fled back to the kitchen without another word.

‘She only wanted to know whether you wanted anything else with your fish.’ Miranda spoke more loudly than usual. By Daniel’s calculation, she was on her third large glass of wine. ‘It wasn’t the opening gambit in a conversation. She’s got work to do. Just because her boss can talk for England, it doesn’t mean all the staff love a gossip.’

‘You seemed to be getting on well with Oliver,’ Louise said.

Miranda gave a dreamy smile. ‘He’s rather nice. We have things in common.’

‘Don’t tell me,’ Daniel said. ‘He’s into self-help manuals and aromatherapy.’

She kicked him under the table. ‘Jealous?’

‘Madly.’

She laughed so raucously that an old woman on the next table looked round in alarm. Louise caught Daniel’s eye and flashed a wicked grin. He wished she wasn’t about to leave him. Without her, he’d feel alone.

‘You stayed up, then?’

Marc kicked off his shoes as he walked into the living room. He smelled faintly of old books. Hannah glanced at the clock. Ten to midnight. He was later than expected and she’d had all evening to rehearse, but she hadn’t prepared a word of the little speech she meant to make. Her bones were weary, but she was on edge and there’d never been any danger she would fall asleep.

‘I said on the phone, I wanted to tell you something.’

‘Can’t it wait? I’m dog tired, there was a hold-up on the road. Overturned lorry. Ambulance, fire engines, the works.’

‘Sit down.’

He stared, then slowly moved to the armchair facing her. ‘What?’

‘This is important, Marc.’

‘The build-up is daunting enough. You’ve got me shaking in my socks.’

‘I’m not in the mood, Marc.’

He screwed up his face, as if trying to read mirror writing. ‘You’re upset.’

‘Not exactly. No, I’m just — wound up, that’s all.’

‘Go on, then. Tell me.’

Her throat was dry. She couldn’t think of an alternative to blurting out her secret.

‘I’m pregnant, Marc. We’re going to have a baby.’

Sam belched and said, ‘What’s up?’

‘Nothing,’ Kirsty said.

‘Come on.’ He pushed aside a coffee mug emblazoned with a picture of a pair of bare buttocks. The odour of last night’s curry masked the smell of burned bacon. ‘You’ve not said a word since you came down.’

‘I’m having my breakfast.’

‘Doesn’t normally stop you gabbing on. And you’ve got a face on you like…’

‘Like what?’ She expected the usual insult, but it could no longer wound her.

‘I dunno. Like you’re a stranger here, like you don’t belong any more.’

She tasted the last of her pineapple juice. Funny he should say that. Was it possible that he was more than an insensitive plank? Too late to find out now. But he was right, she was seeing their home with new eyes. She felt like a traveller wandering through a foreign land without a guidebook. Or even a passport.

‘I don’t believe it. You’re not actually concerned about me?’

‘Suit yourself.’ The jeering tone reminded her of their father. ‘Wetting yourself about jumping out of that plane, are you?’

‘No, I’m looking forward to it.’

The phone rang. Waiting for her to pick up the receiver, he leaned back on his stool; he had a circus artist’s knack of making it wobble madly, while somehow managing not to fall over. When she didn’t move, the phone kept on — they hadn’t switched on the voicemail — and in the end he gave a long-suffering sigh and answered the call himself.

‘Yeah?’ He made a face. ‘Roz? Yeah, she’s here. Just finished her breakfast.’

Kirsty shook her head vigorously but he stuck his tongue out at her and said, ‘Fine, yeah, I’ll hand you over.’

She didn’t want a conversation, least of all with Roz, but he’d left the handset on the breakfast bar and she couldn’t leave the woman hanging on. Even now, even after their conversation yesterday and everything that had passed through her mind since then, her instinct was to show good manners. She’d spent so much of her life waiting on people.

‘Hello?’

‘Kirsty, thank God! I tried your mobile, but you’ve switched it off. I was so worried about you.’

‘Oh yes?’

‘Well yes, of course I was. Look, I know it’s dreadful, I know you’re angry and hurting…’

‘Sorry, Roz, I have to go now.’

She’d never heard panic in Roz’s voice, but it was unmistakable. ‘You’re not going to tell anyone, are you? Please say you won’t. Promise?’

That’s what she cares about, Kirsty thought. More than whether I’m hurting.

‘No, I won’t tell anyone,’ she said and slammed down the phone.

Saturday was Marc’s busiest day. If he wasn’t in the shop, he’d be exhibiting at a book fair. Today he’d risen before six to load his car and set off for a fair at the Pavilion Gardens in Buxton. Hannah had still been in bed when he bent over her huddled body and she felt his moist lips touch her brow.

‘Let’s talk again tonight.’ His voice was hoarse.

‘Ummmm.’

What’s to talk about? she wondered as she picked at a piece of dry toast. Does he think I’ve hoodwinked him, that the pregnancy was no accident? On the rare occasions they’d talked about having children, they’d both agreed they weren’t that bothered. She had her career, he had the bookshop; a screaming baby or two would get in the way. Not that she lacked maternal instincts; when she spent time in the company of friends with young kids, she began to understand the appeal of the small, warm, grubby creatures. She wasn’t like Terri, who made it clear to each husband that she wasn’t a bloody breeding machine. But she always pushed the idea of starting a family to the back of her mind. Plenty of time yet, she used to tell herself. As for Marc, he was like so many men. Wary about fatherhood in the abstract, but once he held his own child in his arms…

A sick feeling flooded her stomach. Not a symptom of pregnancy, but down to Marc’s reaction. The colour had drained from his face as she broke the news. He’d stammered that’s…that’s wonderful , wearing the look of a man about to walk to the scaffold.

Face it, she told herself. You want this to strengthen the relationship, make it secure and work long-term. Forget the daydreams about Daniel Kind, Marc is the man you’re with. You’ve never been hung up about having a ring on your finger, but a child is different. You’re committed forever.

But she wasn’t naive. This wasn’t guaranteed to finish up happy-ever-after. There could be a dread alternative ending, like those you see as special features on DVD movies, rejected by the producer because they were too dark for the cinema audience’s peace of mind. What if having a baby tore them apart?