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THE SIXTH SUMMER – 2016

‘Come on,’ he said. ‘Just a sip.’ He held out the glass, bubbles running up the golden liquid inside. Her mouth watered and for a moment she was tempted. Then she felt anger course through her veins, feeling a little like she’d been transported back to her teens, when friends had tried to ply her with cheap cider at the park. ‘Tom! No!’

‘It’s not like you’re actually pregnant!’ he said, holding out a glass.

She gave him a look that clearly communicated how that particular reassurance had made her feel. ‘Thanks for reminding me,’ she said coldly. ‘It’s not like I’m thinking about that fact every single day.’

‘I’m sorry,’ he said, so deflated that she felt guilty. ‘I didn’t mean…’

‘You never do,’ she said snappily.

‘Oh, come on. We’re on holiday. I’m just trying to lighten the mood.’ He sat back in his chair, arms crossed.

‘Yes, well, maybe some of us find it harder to switch off from real life than others! I read that article, didn’t I, saying it’s better to avoid drink altogether. And I’m doing everything I can to make this work for us. I just don’t feel as if we’re on the same page.’

‘Of course we are!’ he said, his cheeks reddening slightly. ‘How can you say that, Soph? You know I want a baby just as much as you do.’

A man sitting at the next table lifted his eyes from his bowl of mussels and looked at them for a moment.

‘I do ,’ Tom insisted more quietly, shifting forward. ‘I just don’t think we should put our lives on hold for it, that’s all. And you know, maybe if we stop thinking about it all the time, we’ll be more likely to…’

‘I can’t stop thinking about it. That’s the problem.’

‘Would it really hurt to have a sip of wine? Take a break from it? Look, we could forget about it all this month if you like. It’s not like we’re anywhere near biological clock territory, even with the menopause thing. What’s one month?’

He just didn’t get it. She opened her mouth to say something sharp, but then took in his earnest expression. ‘I know.’ She reached for his hand then. ‘I just… I don’t want to do anything to jeopardise…’

‘I just think, you know… You could relax a bit more about it.’

She stiffened, grabbing back her hand. ‘Seriously? You’re telling me to relax?’

He almost shrank from her. ‘Sorry, sorry.’ He held both his palms up in a gesture of defeat. ‘I just meant, we’re on holiday and…’

‘Well, I can’t relax! Never could. So I suppose now you’re going to tell me it’s all my own fault that I’m fucking barren.’

He glanced over at the man, whose head was now pointedly turned towards the window, then back at Sophie. ‘Come on, Soph. You know I don’t think that.’

She felt herself soften a little, leant forward and touched his arm lightly. ‘I know,’ she said gently. ‘I know what you’re trying to say. I really do. And I get it. I’m sorry that I’m such a…’

‘Bitch?’ he suggested.

‘Mess.’

‘Sorry.’

She smiled then. Sighing deeply, she let her shoulders sink against the back of her chair. ‘No, I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘I just don’t seem to be able to switch off from it all.’

‘I know.’

‘I just wish… I wanted us to…’ she trailed off. He knew all of it already, of course.

He reached for her hand and squeezed it. ‘Want to know what I think?’

‘Yes,’ she said, rather cautiously, ‘as long as you don’t say something about relaxing more.’

‘Noted,’ he grinned. He looked at her, his expression loving. ‘I think, Sophie Gardner, that you’ve had to work hard for everything you’ve got…’

‘I can’t help?—’

‘No! No, it’s a good thing. Well, not good. Admirable though,’ he said hastily. ‘But you’ve kind of equated succeeding – getting what you want – with hard work.’

She nodded, sensing where this was going.

‘But this shouldn’t be hard work,’ he said sadly. ‘There’s no reason why it should be. It should be… joyful.’

‘Joyful? Seriously?’ she cocked an eyebrow.

‘Well, natural then.’

This was also a bad choice of word. ‘If someone tells me one more time that it’s natural, that we have to be patient, or to frickin’ RELAX, I am going to smash something!’ she’d told him a couple of months ago after going out with friends.

She sighed deeply, deciding not to pick him up on it this time. ‘I get it,’ she said. ‘But at the same time, I don’t want to do anything that might… well, hinder our chances.’

‘Even drinking a couple of sips of champers?’

She shrugged. ‘Well, yeah.’

He looked at her, then something seemed to change in his eyes. ‘OK,’ he said, setting his own glass down. ‘OK, then I won’t either.’

Finally, she felt herself smile. ‘Thank you,’ she said. ‘It’ll be worth it in the end. And look, for what it’s worth, I will try to relax.’

‘Good,’ he told her. ‘Because seriously, Sophie, we have all the time in the world.’

And in that moment, it really felt true. But then the worries flooded back, pushing her good humour aside. The stories and stories and stories online of women who’d never made it, others who’d fallen pregnant at the drop of a hat. The fact that it all seemed out of their hands. The helplessness she felt; the fear.

She tried as hard as she could to keep it inside, this rising anger that seemed to engulf her, that stopped her feeling like herself. That made her resent Tom for not being miserable enough, when she was clearly miserable enough for the both of them.

They left the restaurant and began the walk back and she wished for a moment that she’d had the champagne. That she’d grabbed the flute and chugged the whole lot, and allowed herself to escape on a wave of bubbles and alcohol. Then they’d be stumbling back, laughing; instead, they were more or less silent, watching happy couples stream past them as if they were the only ones swimming, defeatedly, downstream against a tide of joy.

Then, ‘Bridge?’ he said, glancing at his watch.

‘What?’

‘It’s nearly midnight,’ he flashed his watch at her as if for proof. ‘I thought we could…’

‘Seriously?’

He looked hurt. ‘Why not?’

‘Tom, I’m exhausted. I’m meant to be looking after myself. I need to get to bed.’

‘OK.’ His tone was flat.

But she couldn’t leave it. ‘What?’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Oh, come on. You’re sulking. Does it really mean so much to you? A fucking bridge?’

‘Yes. It does, actually,’ he said. ‘And I thought it meant something to you too.’

Something turned over inside her. ‘It did once.’

‘But not any more?’ He stopped, looked at her. A man in a black hat walking too close stumbled and nearly crashed into them, then carried on, muttering under his breath.

‘Tom. Seriously? Magic? Possibility? You can’t tell me that you still believe all that crap,’ she said. Hating herself, but feeling unable to stop.

He dropped her hand. ‘It’s not crap. Well, maybe it is. But I thought…’

‘If the last few months have taught me anything, it’s that there’s no magic, no possibility. There’s fucking science and a bit of luck and that’s about it.’

‘Right.’ His tone was final, cutting her off. ‘Let’s go to the hotel then.’

‘Oh look, Tom, ignore me. I…’

‘It’s fine.’

She’d said nasty things to him sometimes, in arguments. She’d been mean, and petty, and done all the things that couples do when they bicker. She’d even, once, smashed his favourite mug during a blazing row. Things she felt ashamed about.

But this, she realised, hurrying by his side, was the first time she’d ever really hurt him.