She weeps freely, uncontrollably, and it takes all her resolve not to fall on her knees before him and tell him about what happened that night with Clive.
He tightens his grip on her, pulling her as close as he can with Coco strapped to his chest. He leans over and kisses Aurelia’s forehead, whispers in her ear that everything will be OK, he promises. He’ll build a new house. He’ll beg, borrow, and steal if he has to. Sell his body. This gets a laugh from her, so he goes with it: he reckons he could get at least a couple of quid for his body, what does she think? Maybe he’ll invest in a thong, shave his chest, pluck his eyebrows. And on the side he’ll deliver pizzas. Anything to raise the cash. In his mind, a new design is already beginning to take shape. Not a house on the cliff, but in the cliff. Like a nest, unobtrusively settled into the nooks and crannies of the rock face, hovering over the water.
She smiles. “I like that,” she says, wiping her nose on her sleeve. “It sounds beautiful.”
She turns to him, her eyes wet, her smile wide, flooded with gratitude for him. Maybe she’ll tell him someday about what happened with Clive. But she needs to understand herself first. She’s reeling at what she did. She can’t believe it. He cups his hand to her cheek and leans forward to kiss her. She responds with a chaste peck, but he holds her in that kiss, so glad of this sudden affection because it means she still loves him. In the warmth of his touch and the light in his eyes she feels the darkness slip away.
“You need to talk to someone,” he tells her, brushing strands of unwashed hair from her face. She looks so delicate, she might shatter into pieces. “When we get back we’re going to find you a therapist,” he says, surprised by how confident he sounds. To his own ears he sounds like he knows what needs to happen. This idea barely brushed his mind before the words came out, but it sounds so very wise. Of course she should talk to someone! Why hadn’t he seen it before? He’s been so busy with the build. She’s been crumbling before his very eyes and he hasn’t once suggested she talk to someone.
“I promise I’ll make this right,” he tells her, holding her close. “I’ll build your house, Aurelia. I promise.”
“OK,” she says, nodding and crying. “OK.”
* * *
—
In the office at home Tom searches online for a therapist in Norway. He finds a number and pulls out his mobile phone to call them, but Aurelia won’t have it.
“Let me contact my midwife,” she says. “She asked me to get in touch if anything . . . you know.”
“It’s important we get you seen to, Aurelia . . .”
She gives him a look of I promise. He relents. “OK.”
He watches as she sits down in front of the computer and begins to type an e-mail to her midwife. Hi, Clare. How are you? How to put this situation into words? Hey, I had suicidal thoughts while watching my kid play on the swings in a park yesterday, can I get therapy, please?
It’s a hard thing to put into an e-mail, she thinks, covering her eyes with her hands. She hates asking for help. Always has. She can give help, no problem, but asking for it? For her it’s the hardest thing on earth. Tom rubs her back, utterly relieved and heartbroken all at once.
“You can do this. We can put you on the next plane home.”
She nods.
Hi, Clare! Could we talk sometime? I’m feeling a bit low lately . . . I remember you said to get in touch if I was struggling and I’d like to find out if I can get some kind of support.
Thanks,
Aurelia Faraday
Satisfied, she hits send.
She rises from the leather office chair, heads to the kitchen, and puts the kettle on. While it’s boiling she heads upstairs, pulls out the drawer of her bedside table, and retrieves her red diary, the one in which she writes down her dreams. Once she’s made a cup of tea she sits back at the desk, watching the cursor blink on her screen, and reads through her dream diary.
I was pregnant again but with triplets and there was a doctor standing over me about to perform a C-section.