Chapter 48
HENRY
Marielle was seated next to him on a park bench, wrapped up in a long houndstooth coat, a purple beret and matching scarf.
Her cheeks were stung pink by the cold and her eyelashes spiky with tears.
They had just come from the hospital where they’d sat with their hands clasped, while a grave-faced specialist had told them that the odds of them conceiving a baby naturally were very low.
They’d had a bunch of tests in the preceding months to check his sperm, her eggs and reproductive organs.
Tests he hated having but knew were necessary if he wanted to stay married to her.
It was Fate, he realized. That was why they were unable to conceive.
He’d always known they shouldn’t be parents and he was right.
Not that he’d said any of this to Marielle.
He hated seeing her like this but he had to stop the corners of his lips curling up with relief when the doctor told them the news.
Henry had had to make a decision that day when Marielle told him she wanted a baby.
Marielle had given him an ultimatum. No baby, no marriage.
And he couldn’t face losing her. He didn’t know who he would become without her, so he’d agreed, and secretly hoped and prayed nothing would happen.
His prayers were answered when nothing did.
After the first eighteen months Marielle had wanted to go to the GP for tests and he had persuaded her not to.
‘These things can take a while,’ he’d said, trying to sound as if he knew what he was talking about.
But as she hit thirty-five, then thirty-six, she told him she was going to seek out a specialist, and he had no choice but to go along with it.
He had even considered getting a secret vasectomy but he knew the specialist would be able to tell, so instead he had to hope there was something fundamentally wrong with one or both of them to stop them reproducing.
‘They did say there’s still a slim chance,’ she said, looking up at him with big, hopeful eyes, taking out a cotton hanky and dabbing at her face. ‘There is no reason why it couldn’t happen apart from your sperm being a bit sluggish, and he said IVF might work.’
He didn’t want to try IVF. He didn’t want any more tests or interference or small, stifling rooms with adult magazines and plastic cups.
But he knew Marielle would try to convince him, and he loved her so much that of course he felt bad for her and hated seeing her upset.
He couldn’t pretend to be disappointed, though.
This obviously annoyed her because she snapped, ‘This has worked out exactly how you wanted it, hasn’t it, Henry?
You never wanted a baby …’ The tears started again and he could do nothing but wrap his arms around her while she cried into his scarf.
He knew that Marielle felt the same deep down. A baby would be catastrophic. She only wanted one because she couldn’t have one, just like she behaved if a dress she liked wasn’t available in her size: it made her want it all the more.
But she wouldn’t give up on the IVF idea until, in desperation, he found someone who could help him: a doctor friend was willing to convince Marielle that IVF wouldn’t work for them. She’d sat, dead-eyed and stock still, as the doctor explained how limited their options were.
Eventually she gave up talking about babies, instead throwing herself into work at the university.
And then, just as he began to relax and to believe they could get on with their lives blissfully baby free, she came to him with the worst possible news.