I didn’t respond to Tom’s message, but he gave me plenty to think about that day. Buying those tickets was the sort of thing he’d done when we first met. He loved to give me surprises. Whenever it was my birthday or Christmas or our anniversary he’d be grinning for weeks beforehand, excited to see what my reaction would be to his gifts. And his gifts were perfect, thoughtful. Usually something I didn’t know I wanted until I saw it wrapped up for me. Last night I’d felt vulnerable and scared; Tom’s gift this morning made me feel as though he still loved me. Still cared for me. I knew that if I called him to tell him what had happened he’d come rushing back from Scotland to help me. I knew, too, that if he did that I’d move back into my house. What I didn’t know was whether that would make me happy. Whether he’d ever forgive me. Whether I could ever truly love him again.
I went out for a walk and found myself near the local railway station. On impulse I caught the train into Liverpool. I knew it would be crowded there. I was sick of solitude. But as I walked among the shoppers all I noticed were other couples. Families. Happy mums beaming at their children. Couples kissing. It was too much.
I went to the café in Waterstones bookshop and looked at the Booker Prize shortlist there, planning which books I’d buy when I got paid, then wandered down to John Lewis, a big department store at the heart of Liverpool ONE.
I hadn’t intended to look at the baby clothes there. I hadn’t done that for years, since I thought I had a chance of becoming pregnant. But that day I went up the escalator to the third floor as though I was in a trance, and headed straight for the baby section. Instantly my heart reacted. I wanted to reach out, to touch things. There were tiny white woolen hats and pink velvet dresses. Soft toys, giraffes and teddies and elephants, sat in the perfect little cribs. A little knitted rabbit in a pale-gray-and-white-striped sweater lay on a bright blue blanket. I could feel myself soften as I saw them. I knew I shouldn’t buy anything. I’d learned my lesson from Captain Barker, the little toy dog that Tom had bought me. It was too painful. Pointless.
A member of staff was hanging up impossibly small sleepsuits and turned to me and smiled. “Can I help you with anything?”
“No,” I said, a bit too sharply. “It’s okay, thanks. I’m looking for a gift for a friend.”
I turned to leave. I needed to get out. It was a mistake coming here. When I’d given that little toy dog to the local Oxfam shop I’d vowed not to put myself in this position again.
And then I saw her. Emma. Harry’s wife. The woman he’d chosen to be with, the woman who was having his baby.
She was looking at some crib blankets, stroking them as though they were precious objects. She had a faraway look on her face that I recognized, that I knew I’d held myself when I’d thought there was a chance I’d be pregnant. She seemed to be comparing the colors: the pinks and blues and lilacs and yellows.
“Go for plain white,” I wanted to tell her. “There’s plenty of time for color.”
I stood transfixed as she lifted a blanket to her cheek, as though to test its softness. The same assistant who’d tried to help me hurried over to her and I saw them laughing together and then laying the blankets on the counter to compare them. I remembered what Sarah had said, that Harry was afraid of bankruptcy once Emma saw those baby things. I knew exactly how she felt. I would have wanted to buy everything in the shop.
I hurried away, my heart pounding. I couldn’t bear to see what she bought. I didn’t want to picture her showing them to Harry. I knew how his face would soften when he saw them. He would hug her. Kiss her. I forced myself to stop. I needed to keep