Chapter 41
HENRY
They’d been married for two years when Marielle mentioned children again.
He’d thought, hoped, that she’d forgotten all about it. Or, like him, realized that parenthood wasn’t for them. But then she appeared before him, bright-eyed and excitable, telling him they needed ‘to talk about something’ and his heart had thudded to his feet.
By now they were living in a townhouse at ‘the wrong end’ of Islington, according to Marielle’s father, who’d said sniffily, ‘It’s practically the East End,’ when they told him they’d made an offer.
But Henry had stood his ground, insisting to Marielle in private that he wasn’t happy to live off her father and, to his surprise, Marielle had agreed with him.
Although the area had already been gentrified, it was still a far cry from the manicured parks and white stucco-fronted houses that Marielle was used to.
Henry had recently had a great promotion at the private hospital where he worked, helped, he suspected – although the thought didn’t sit well with him – by the fact he’d married into such a prominent family.
Marielle was brilliant at entertaining his bosses: she made up for his awkwardness.
People liked him a lot more when she was at his side.
He was earning more than he had ever thought possible, and even though he had relented and let Marielle use some of her trust fund to renovate the house, he felt a sense of pride that he could meet the mortgage payments with his salary and bonuses alone.
It was a Saturday morning, warm for early June, and peaceful: he loved their small garden, and he could hear the birds singing and the tinkle of water from the fountain.
The French windows were ajar and a gentle breeze reached where he sat at the table of their recently refurbished kitchen, which was always awash with light.
In that moment he felt truly happy. He had everything he’d always dreamed of.
He couldn’t believe how his life had turned out, especially considering the way it had started.
He was a lucky man. A lucky, lucky man. And then Marielle, the beautiful, intelligent, complex wife he adored, had had to come in and ruin it with a single sentence.
‘So, I’ve been thinking,’ she continued.
Words that struck the fear of God into him.
She sauntered over to where he sat. She was wearing a silk shirt dress and her feet were bare, her toenails painted the same shell-pink they always were.
She pulled out a chair and lowered herself onto it gracefully.
She was beaming at him and he tried to push down his unease.
‘What have you been thinking, my love?’ he said, closing his paper. Marielle got annoyed if he didn’t give her his undivided attention.
‘I think we should have a baby.’
His jaw hurt with the effort of trying to keep a neutral expression. ‘We’ve talked about this and decided that’s not what we want.’
She hesitated, her smile wavering. ‘I think it’s what I want, Henry. I’m nearly thirty-two now.’
He tried to keep the emotion out of his voice. ‘You know how I feel about children. I don’t want the past repeating itself.’ He didn’t want to share her with a child either. He didn’t want their lives to change. But, more than that, he didn’t believe he was capable of loving a child.
She tipped her head to one side, her eyes flashing. ‘I know you didn’t have a great childhood, Henry, but we have so much to give a child. It would be different for us. We would be good parents.’
He studied her face, shocked that she could lie to herself so easily. ‘No, we wouldn’t. You know we wouldn’t. We’re not the same as other people. I’m not the same. I’m damaged.’ He added silently, We’re damaged.
She gave a little laugh. ‘What are you talking about, Henry? Of course we’re the same as other people.
Lots of people have tough childhoods but they go on to be amazing parents.
Look how much we love each other. Did you ever think it would be possible to love someone else as much as we love one another?
I certainly didn’t. So, imagine how we’d feel about a baby. Our baby, Henry.’
He wanted to scream and shout and shake that nonsense out of her. But he did what he always did. He sat there, his face impassive, hiding his true feelings. He was good at that. He’d spent most of his childhood and adolescence doing the exact same thing. ‘You know I don’t want children.’
She got up and went to him, perching on his lap, her arms around his neck.
‘We agreed …’
‘I never agreed.’ She pouted and removed her arms from around him. ‘You were the one who said you didn’t want them.’
‘And you married me knowing that.’
‘But you’d do it for me, wouldn’t you, Henry? You always said you’d do anything for me.’
‘Not this.’
She stood up abruptly, her eyes stony. ‘Then we have a real problem, Henry,’ she said.