to help her with Peter.
By the time I get home, I’m in a good mood. I take my key out of my handbag and unlock the door. As the door swings open, I stop still. I hear voices. Men’s voices. Inside the house.
I’m suddenly aware of my vulnerability. I’m completely on my own. My heart races. What if I’m interrupting burglars? What if they feel threatened and attack me?
I creep into the house, grabbing an umbrella as a makeshift weapon. I shut the door quietly behind me. I don’t shout out hello.
The voices are getting louder. They sound conversational, almost jovial. I hear the weather mentioned, the observation that snow might be coming.
Richard. One of the voices is Richard’s. I let out a shaky breath.
I put down the umbrella. ‘Hello?’ I shout out.
Richard comes running over. ‘Oh, Beth, hi. I didn’t think you’d be back yet.’
A suited man appears beside him. ‘Dave,’ he says, holding out his hand. ‘Nice to meet you.’ He hands me a card and I read it. Dave Richards. Estate agent.
‘My ex, Beth.’ Richard says. His words sting. Ex. That’s all I am to him now.
‘What’s he doing here?’ I ask.
Richard looks sheepish. ‘A valuation on the house.’
‘Why?’
He sighs. ‘I wanted to talk to you about this, but I know you’ve been having a tough time lately, so I was going to wait until I’d got a bit further in the process… I’ve found a house I want to buy and I’ve put in an offer. So I need to get moving on selling this house. You need to prepare yourself, Beth. You’re going to need to move out.’
Twenty-Six
Danielle
I struggle through my mid-morning Saturday yoga class, battling nausea and guilt. I was supposed to work on my client’s appeal this morning, but instead I slept in. I dragged myself to yoga thinking it would make me feel better, but I wish I hadn’t bothered. I feel like I want to lie down on the mat and nap, instead of doing the stretches.
When I get home Peter is settled on the sofa watching the rugby. I’m planning to go to the study and catch up with work on the appeal, but I need to speak to him first. We’ve hardly seen each other since the counselling session with Beth. I’ve felt like he’s been avoiding me, making sure that we’re never in the same room at the same time. If I’m cooking dinner, he makes sure he’s in the living room. If I settle down in the living room to watch some late-night TV, he decides he needs to iron his shirts in the utility room. He doesn’t want to talk about the baby, won’t confront it. But we have to.
‘Do you want a drink?’ I ask, suddenly hesitant about opening up such a difficult conversation.
He grunts, not listening.
‘Did you want a beer?’ I hope the alcohol will improve his mood. He’s been grumpy for days.
‘Yeah, OK.’
I pour him the beer, place it beside him.
‘We need to talk,’ I say.
‘Hmmm…’ Peter stares intently at the TV.
‘We need to plan for the baby.’ I can hear the edge in my voice, hear my annoyance with him, although I’m desperately trying to contain it. My mood has been all over the place lately and I feel angry at the slightest thing.
‘Can we talk about this after the rugby?’
‘How long until it finishes?’
‘Another hour.’ He turns up the volume.
I move closer, grabbing the control out of his hand and turning the TV off. ‘Peter, we have a lot to talk about.’
‘Don’t do that! How about we talk at half-time?’ He reaches for the TV remote and turns it back on.
I sigh. ‘OK, then.’
I get out my laptop and open my files on the appeal. But I can’t concentrate. Not with the conversation I need to have with Peter hanging over me. I scroll through social media instead. An ad appears for a baby show in the centre of London, and I imagine wandering contentedly down aisles of buggies and cots, toys and clothes. I wonder if Peter will come with me. I’m not sure if his outburst with Beth the other day was just a sign of nerves or something more. I need to find out.
As soon as the whistle blows for half-time, I reach for the control and turn the TV off.
‘What’s wrong?’ he asks.
‘You know what’s wrong. What you said about the baby. That you’re not sure if you want it.’
He sighs. ‘It can’t be a surprise to