Chapter 41
Rachel
Laughably, Lawrence and I came up with what we’d thought to be a fairly watertight plan, for after Emma arrived. We agreed to stay together five nights out of seven, leaving two nights flexible in case of travel, or work meetings, or really terrible sleep.
But it takes Lawrence all of three weeks to begin heading back to his place most nights, so he can – in his words – stand half of a chance of not turning up at work looking as if he’s slept in a bus depot.
His daytime calls and messages have become increasingly sporadic, the excuses ramping up. He starts saying, late afternoon most Fridays, that there’s been some kind of data- or compliance-related cock-up at the office, which means he has to work all weekend so as not to upset the ombudsman.
We have frequent arguments. Some of them trivial, some not so.
Like one Saturday, as I am sitting in the armchair with Emma and we are disagreeing – again – over why he has to leave so often. The table next to me, much like the rest of my flat, is a sea of snacks and half-drunk cups of tea and paracetamol packets and nipple balm and muslins.
‘What if it’s damaging Emma? All this coming and going.’
Lawrence laughs derisively, rubs his face. ‘She’s two months old, Rachel.’
On the back of my neck, sweat prickles. ‘Attachment is really important during the early—’
‘Actually, babies under six months don’t have a preference for any particular adult, as long as they’re being well cared for.’ He spins this little factoid at me with a note of triumph, as if he’s been saving it up for precisely this moment.
Blinking back tears, I think of my mother. I’ve been starting to wonder lately if I have somehow inherited her dysfunction. Are Lawrence and I destined to be defective too? I try not to fixate on this, but the worry only gets worse the more tired I get.
‘Lawrence, that’s really—’
‘You signed up for this. You knew the deal. We both did.’
‘What deal?’
‘That we were having a baby before we’d lived together. That we were still just having fun. If you wanted to be married with a joint bank account and picket fence before we did this, then we should have bloody waited.’
I stare at him, open-mouthed. ‘How can you possibly say that to me while I’m holding our daughter?’
But he just turns his back, as if my question is rhetorical.
I feel hot and sweaty and exhausted. I am craving a shower, to sleep, to tame my tangled hair, to brush the taste of biscuit from my mouth. But what I am desperate for, more than anything else, is a hug.
For some reason – delirium, probably – Aruba floats into my mind.
The holiday Josh wanted to take us on, three years ago.
The kind of indulgence I’ve never experienced in my life.
I fantasise about it sometimes. Diving into a warm blue sea.
Sleeping spreadeagled in bed for as long as I want.
Ingesting, at the very least, food that contains some vitamins.
I realise my worst fears are coming true. That having a baby is threatening to crush Lawrence and me, the shape of our future collapsing fast, like clay spinning out of control on a potter’s wheel.
Is this how it was for my parents?
I haven’t dared to ask Dad yet, not in so many words. Because I think a big part of me would rather not know. Denial to me right now is survival. Sometimes, it is all that carries me through the days.
Lawrence leaves because he can, because he does not have a newborn attached to his body. He slams the door with such force it makes a hairline crack in the wall, and Emma cries so hard, I feel guilt like I’ve never known.