Rule Seven Always leave the party together
The Anniversary
Jessica
‘Remind me why we’re doing this again?’ Jack calls, from our bedroom. It’s still mostly not unpacked; there are cardboard boxes, bubble wrap in neat piles, a mirror and a handful of framed prints propped against the wall. It’s surprising our stuff has made such a mess, given that our previous flat was like, five square metres, and this is a three-storey house. Honestly, I’d have been tempted to get rid of everything from that place, donate it to charity and start again. But obviously Jack would never have countenanced it.
‘We’re doing this,’ I call back from our pristine en suite, newly painted the exact colour of the inside of a shell, ‘because we barely even had a wedding last time.’
‘I liked the first time,’ Jack says defensively.
I loved our wedding too, but it wasn’t what I would have chosen. We were broke, we wanted as little help from our parents as possible, and we were in our mid-twenties so we’d barely been to any weddings and had no idea how you were supposed to plan one. So in the end we had a little ceremony at a registry office on Upper Street in Islington and then we rented out a pub with the lowest minimum spend we could find. We put cash behind the bar and ordered loads of pizza. The photographs were all taken by our friends, and someone Jack worked with at the BBC, a nice middle-aged dad in a Supergrass tribute band, did some songs for free because they liked the chance to practise. They played My Girl , fairly badly; everyone drank Punk IPA. I wore a dress I’d got on a mega discount and then tried to starve my way into, which never properly fit because I kept forgetting I was on a diet and eating crisps. All the pictures show me with chubby arms and a huge grin on my face, clinging on to Jack in his blue suit and shiny brown shoes. We look like teenagers going to prom.
So when the money from the book deal, the big fat sexy money, hit our bank account, I proposed that we do a party to celebrate our seventh wedding anniversary. And yes, a little part of me was thinking that it would make good content and that we could probably partner with, if not a champagne brand, then at least an English sparkling wine label, and that someone would probably lend me the kind of wedding dress I’d spent the last decade watching my friends wear for their own big days. Jack had rolled his eyes a bit, but more in a performance of being a typical man than anything else. He’s not really the kind of blokey bloke to object to putting on a beautifully tailored suit and hosting our friends for an evening.
‘Bloody hell,’ he says, looking up from his chest of drawers, haphazardly unpacked, where he’s searching for his aftershave. ‘Look at you.’
I look in the mirror behind him. The dress is floor-length and almost white. There’s the merest hint of ivory in a nod to the fact that I’ve been married for an age so if I’m still a virgin then things have gone pretty catastrophically wrong. It’s got tiny lace edges and little straps, and I’ve had the best spray tan of my life so for once I’m not the colour of printer paper. My hair is slicked back and a make-up artist has applied gentle pink-gold make-up. I look nice. For the first time, possibly ever, I can’t see anything in the mirror that I could improve. In fact, there’s only one thing which is going to improve this moment and I can’t quite believe I’m about to do it.
Jack goes back to putting cufflinks in, his back to me. I grab my phone and take a picture, his back, and in my hand a positive pregnancy test. The last photo ever taken of him before he learns he’s going to be a father.
‘Jack,’ I say. ‘Turn around.’
He looks at me for a moment, smiling, and then notices what’s in my hand.
He bounds across the room and wraps his arms around me, smelling of the same spiced fragrance he’s been wearing since we were students. ‘Let me see!’
I hand him the test and watch as he drinks in the two lines, one very strong and dark, the other light but still very much there.
‘It’s light,’ he says, ‘that line, is that okay?’
I nod. ‘That’s normal, it just means it’s really early. So we can’t tell anyone.’
‘Of course,’ he agrees, clearly trying to fight the smile lighting up his face, trying to seem cautiously cool. ‘But fuck me, Jess. We’re having a baby.’
The car arrives and drives us to the venue, the top floor of an art gallery with panoramic views of London. Everyone is already there, milling around, drinking, chatting. My father and Karen have found seats and are probably complaining that the food is vegetarian. Jack’s parents are talking to his brothers and their wives, all wearing the plain navy shift dresses they whack out for every single occasion. Our friends, our lovely friends, Tom and Grace holding hands, always so in love, Jack’s work friends, the team from our agency and our publishers, everyone’s here. We walk in, hand in hand, and the band I found after hours of scrolling start playing My Girl , just like at our real wedding.
The air smells like flowers and perfume; people are on the terrace smoking and looking at the haze over the city as the sun goes down. Dinner is served at long tables. It’s all sharing plates and I insisted on catering for one hundred when we’ve only got seventy-five because I want everyone to eat as much as they want. It’s perfect. I step outside on to the terrace to take a picture of the sunset, as everyone else is starting to sit down to eat.
‘Jess.’ Clay catches my arm. He looks worried. My stomach drops.
‘What? What’s wrong?’
‘There’s something on your dress.’
I look down at the front of my dress. It’s pristine, I’ve been so careful. Then I look at Clay’s expression and realise what he means. I run my hand down the back of the dress and my hand meets a sickening, sticky wetness.
‘What do you want me to do?’ he asks.
‘Get Jack,’ I whisper.
He’s back with Jack within moments. One look at my face, at my stained dress, and he knows what’s happening.
‘What do you want to do?’ he asks. Why does everyone keep asking me that? I take the champagne glass out of his hand and down it in one.
‘I want to go home,’ I say.
‘I’ll call an Uber,’ Jack says, grappling with his phone, putting his passcode in wrong. His hand is shaking.
‘No,’ I say, ‘I think maybe you should stay.’
They both look at me. ‘What?’ Jack asks. ‘Why?’
‘I don’t want them to know. You can explain. Make an excuse.’
His face twists with worry; clearly he doesn’t think this is a good idea. ‘Are you sure?’
‘Yes,’ I say, resolute. I can’t go home with him and feel the disappointment radiating from his skin.
‘Okay,’ Jack says, pulling himself up taller. ‘Okay, I can do that. And then I’ll come straight home. Do you need to go to hospital?’
I shake my head. I’ve had enough friends go through this to know that you don’t need to go to hospital, that they can’t do anything at this stage. You just ride it out and let it happen. I think there’s a part of me that wants to believe I might still be pregnant. But I know I’m not. And right now my main concern is how I’m going to get out of here, and get home without anyone noticing that I’m bleeding, and without bleeding on some poor Uber driver’s car.
‘Okay. I can take her,’ Clay says. ‘You manage the situation here. Suze is around, she can give you some comms advice. I’ll drive Jessica home.’
I look at Jack. Maybe this isn’t what I want. Maybe I don’t care what everyone thinks. Maybe I want Jack to take me home and hold me and make me chicken nuggets like he did before.
‘Okay,’ I say quietly.
Clay slips his jacket off and hands it to me. I put it on, and it’s just long enough that it covers the back of the dress. He pauses outside the ladies’ bathroom downstairs, without my needing to ask. I go inside. There was a part of me upstairs which was hoping that maybe it was a mistake. Maybe this wasn’t really happening. I’m on the pregnancy forums, I’ve read the books, I know that spotting can be normal in early pregnancy. This is not that. The nude shapewear I wore, to conceal any evidence of having a body under the dress, is soaked in blood. I stuff handfuls of tissue paper between my legs and then put the jacket back on. When we reach the car, I realise to my horror that his vintage sports car, the one I’ve taken the piss out of on various occasions, has light-tan leather seats. When I pause, he takes a navy tartan blanket from the back and chucks it down without saying anything.
We drive home in silence. I unlock my door. He hunts down a bottle of whiskey in the half-unpacked kitchen. Then he squeezes my arm. ‘Do you want me to stay for a bit?’
I shake my head. ‘I’m going to have a shower. And then I’m going to bed. Jack will be home soon.’
Clay nods. Clay leaves. I take the dress off, dropping it on the floor. I borrowed it from a brand. I was supposed to send it back. Obviously, I can’t do that now. I run a shower the hottest it will go, sitting and watching the blood mix with the water. I’d like to cry, but I held it in for too long in the car and now I can’t manage it.
I don’t have any pads because I use tampons, but I remembered from when I had the abortion that you’re not supposed to use tampons for this. Something about infection. I go to the study, the fourth bedroom in our huge new house. Ironically the one I’d earmarked for a nursery. I pull out boxes and boxes of free press samples I’ve been sent until I land on some eco sanitary-product PR box. Mercifully they’ve sent towels. I press a massive thick wadded one into my knickers, then put on a pair of pyjamas and get into bed.
When Jack gets home, he comes straight upstairs and crawls in next to me.
‘I shouldn’t have let you go home alone.’
‘No,’ I say into the darkness. ‘You shouldn’t.’
‘I was in shock.’
I shrink away from him. ‘Me too.’
There’s a little pause.
‘I’m sorry,’ he says eventually.
‘I know.’