exclaim in frustration. ‘I just want you to be happy! I thought you were happy. But now you want to leave us—’
‘No I don’t!’ he says hotly. ‘You’re the one who wants me to leave! Would you like me to do that now?’
‘I don’t want you to leave!’ I practically shriek.
How has this conversation gone so wrong? I drain my wine glass and reach for the bottle, rewinding back in my mind. OK, maybe I slightly jumped to conclusions. But maybe he did, too.
We eat silently for a while and I take several more gulps of wine, hoping it might straighten out my mind. As I do so, a warm sensation creeps over me and I gradually start to feel calmer. Although by ‘calmer’ I really mean ‘drunk’. The two Proseccos I had at the talk are catching up with me, but I still drain my wine glass a second time. This is essential. This is remedial.
‘I just want a long and happy marriage,’ I say finally, my voice a little slurred. ‘And for us not to be bored or feel like we’re in a jumpsuit, scratching tallies on the wall. And I don’t want a sabbatical,’ I add defiantly. ‘As for sex, we’ll just have to …’ I shrug hopelessly. ‘I mean, I could always buy some new underwear …’
‘I’m sorry.’ Dan shakes his head. ‘I didn’t mean to … Sex with you is really good, you know that.’
Really good?
I would have preferred mind-blowingly awesome, but let’s not pursue that right now.
‘It’s fine,’ I say. ‘We’re inventive, right? We can be happy, right?’
‘Of course we can be happy. Oh God, Sylvie. The truth is, I love you so much, I love the girls so much …’ Dan seems to have sailed straight from belligerent-drunk to sentimental-drunk. (I have a word for that too: wallowish.) ‘The day we had the twins, my life just … it just …’ Dan’s eyes slide around as he searches for a word. ‘It expanded. My heart expanded. I never knew I could love anyone that much. Remember how tiny they were? In their little plastic cots?’
There’s silence and I know we’re both remembering those scary first twenty-four hours when Tessa needed help to breathe. It seems a million years ago now. She’s a robust and healthy girl. But still.
‘I know.’ Drunken tears suddenly well up in my eyes. ‘I know.’
‘You remember those tiny socks they used to wear?’ Dan takes another slug of wine. ‘You want to know a secret? I miss those tiny socks.’
‘I’ve still got them!’ I get up eagerly from the table, half tripping over the chair leg. ‘I was sorting out clothes the other day and I put away a whole bunch of baby clothes, for … I dunno. Maybe the girls will have children one day …’
I head into the hall, open the cupboard under the stairs and drag back a plastic bin bag full of baby clothes. Dan has opened another bottle of wine and pushes a full glass to me as I pull out a bundle of sleepsuits. They smell of Fairy washing powder, and it’s such a babyland smell, it goes straight to my heart. Our entire world was babies and now it’s gone.
‘Oh my God.’ Dan stares at the sleepsuits as though transfixed. ‘They’re so tiny.’
‘I know.’ I take a deep gulp of wine. ‘Look, the one with the duckies.’
This sleepsuit was always my favourite, with its pattern of yellow ducklings. We sometimes used to call the girls our ducklings. We used to say we were putting them away in their nests. It’s funny how things come back to you.
‘Remember that teddy bear mobile with the lullaby?’ Dan waves his wine glass erratically in the air. ‘How did it go again?’
‘La-la-la …’ I try, but I can’t remember the tune. Damn. That tune used to be ingrained in our psyches.
‘It’s on a video.’ Dan opens his laptop, and a moment later opens up a video folder, Girls: First Year. With no warning I’m looking at footage of Dan from five years ago, and I’m so affected, I can’t even speak.
On the screen, Dan’s sitting on our sofa, cradling a week-old Anna on his bare chest. She looks so scrawny with her tiny legs in that froggy newborn position. She looks so vulnerable. They say to you: ‘You’ll forget how small they were,’ and you don’t believe it, but then you do. And Dan looks so tender, so protective. So proud. So fatherly.