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THE EIGHTH SUMMER – 2018

A fortnight before they were due to go to Paris, she woke in the night to find herself alone. Tom’s side of the bed was cold; he’d clearly not been there for a while. Then she heard a noise from the living room – a brief, strange cry of pain.

Brow furrowed, she slipped out from under the covers and made her way to where Tom lay on the sofa, his arms wrapped around his middle. The TV was on, quietly flickering in the corner – an old film she recognised from years ago.

‘What’s up?’ she asked.

‘It’s nothing,’ he said. ‘Go back to bed.’

‘It doesn’t look like nothing.’

‘Just one of my stomach aches. It’ll pass. Probably ate too much at dinner.’

She thought back to their simple meal of mild curry and rice. He’d barely touched it, she remembered.

‘Are they getting worse?’

He shrugged. ‘Hard to say.’

He’d mentioned the stomach aches before. Had been taking antacids after meals for a while to stave off indigestion. The GP had mentioned stress when he’d finally made an appointment. And it made sense – he’d been working doubly hard on a new project at work, and she knew her own stress about their inability to conceive had made things more difficult between them.

‘Well, you need to go back to the doctor,’ she said decisively. ‘If this goes on, we’ll book something when we get back from Paris.’

She saw something change in his face – a flicker of embarrassment running across it. ‘Actually,’ he said, ‘I’ve got an appointment tomorrow. I was going to tell you.’

‘Oh good,’ she said.

‘It’s with a specialist. Mum booked it up.’

‘A specialist?’

He shrugged. ‘It’s just Mum overreacting as normal. You know what she’s like. Bypass the GP and go straight to the top.’

She sat on the edge of the sofa, rubbed a hand across his back. ‘You don’t think there’s anything really wrong, do you?’ It was the first time it had occurred to her. He’d started having the pains a few months ago, sometimes in his stomach, other times in his back. Had been a little tired.

When the GP had said it was stress, she’d felt guilty, and then angry because of the guilt. It was hardly her fault that he was picking up on the stress she felt at their possible infertility. How did he think she felt when it was her body refusing to comply?

He’d gone silent on the matter afterwards, popping chalky tablets into his mouth but never talking about pain. She’d assumed it was clearing up.

‘I don’t know,’ he said now. ‘Maybe. I’ve been googling.’

‘Oh, come on, Tom. Dr Google always paints the worst-case scenario.’

‘I know. But I think it might be gallstones, or something.’

‘Not even sure what they are.’

He glanced at her, amused despite his pain. ‘You and me both. At least until I started research. Now I’m quite the expert! Anyway, the long and short of it is, if the doc agrees, I might need to have surgery.’

‘Before the holiday?’ She felt instantly selfish to have said it out loud.

‘Not necessarily.’ He grimaced as another spasm ran through him. ‘I’m guessing he might give me some seriously heavy painkillers though.’

‘Sorry, the holiday – it doesn’t matter, really. I don’t know why I said it.’

‘It’s OK. We need it after the year we’ve had, I get it.’

She rubbed his back a little, feeling her eyelids get heavy. ‘Do you want me to get you anything?’ she asked. ‘Paracetamol? Hot water bottle?’

‘Nah. I’m fine. It’ll be gone in a minute probably.’

‘OK.’

‘Look, go back to bed, Soph. It’s OK. And you need your sleep.’

‘If you’re sure?’

‘Course,’ he said with a slightly pained smile. ‘Go on. I’ll be fine.’