Apple of My Eye. Claire Allan
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my bag on the marble floor in the hall, I hang up my coat and call out to Martin that I’m home.
He walks out of the kitchen, apron on, wine glass in hand, and says hello with a smile. His smile still has the power to make me feel weak at the knees. Even now, ten years after we first met. I smile back, for a moment feeling comforted by his presence.
But even from several feet way, the smell of wine makes me feel nauseous. I take a deep breath, try to swallow down the sickness. If I just take a few minutes to settle myself, take another anti-sickness pill, I might be okay to sit with him for dinner.
‘Did you not invite Rachel in with you?’ he asks, looking behind me.
‘Erm, no. I thought you wanted to talk, and I’m so tired. I didn’t think …’
‘That’s a shame,’ he said. ‘She’s good company.’
I tense. Am I not good company on my own? ‘Well, I said we’ll have her over for dinner sometime soon.’
‘That’ll be nice,’ Martin says, moving towards me and pulling me into a hug.
‘I’m just going to grab a bath,’ I say, pulling back a little. The smell of garlic is assailing my nostrils. ‘Do I have time?’
‘If you’re quick. Maybe twenty minutes. Perhaps you’d be better waiting until you’ve eaten before you have a soak.’
‘I really need to freshen up. My stomach’s churning, too. Not sure I’ll eat much.’
‘I’ve made a pasta bake. It’s quite light. Not creamy or cheesy. You should try some at least, Eli,’ he says, his face filled with concern. As if he sees me as more vulnerable now, too. No longer an equal partner.
‘You’re very good to me,’ I say.
‘Of course I am,’ he smiles. ‘I even left mushrooms out of the recipe because I know you can’t so much as look at them at the moment.’
I smile. ‘I’ll be as quick as I can,’ I say and continue upstairs, where I run the bath and lie in the water, watching my baby wriggle under my skin, feet and elbows pushing outwards.
I wonder how something so small and innocent can make me feel so sick all the time. I stroke my stomach, whispering, ‘I love you,’ hoping if I say it enough I’ll start to really, really feel it.
After climbing out of the bath, I wrap myself in my fluffy dressing gown and I’m just about to get dressed into my pyjamas, when I hear my phone ring. I look at it and see ‘Mum’ on the screen. I’m so happy to see her name and I wish, not for the first time, that she lived closer.
‘Hi, Mum,’ I say.
‘What’s wrong, pet?’ Her reply is immediate. She can always read my mood. Name that emotion in one.
‘Ah, it’s been a long day,’ I say, trying my hardest not to cry.
How is it that talking to my mother instantly brings all my emotions to the fore? I want to tell her about the note but decide not to. She’d only worry and one of us worrying is enough.
‘And the baby? Everything’s okay there?’ she asks, her voice soft but thick with concern.
‘Still making me throw up on a regular basis,’ I say, a hiccup of self-pity ending my sentence for me.
‘You poor pet,’ she soothes. ‘It’ll be worth it. And sure, isn’t sickness a sign of a healthy pregnancy?’
‘This one’ll come out like Superman then,’ I say, forcing a laugh.
‘And Martin? Is everything okay with you both?’
I nod, make some sort of affirmative noise. I don’t want to go down that particular conversational route.
‘Look, Mum, I’ve just got out of the bath. I need to get dried off and into my pyjamas. Martin’s making dinner. I’m planning to get something to eat and go to bed. Work was so busy.’
‘You’re doing too much,’ she says and I feel myself bristle.
This is something she and Martin agree on. They don’t realise that right now, work is the one place I feel in control.
‘I can handle it, Mum. It’s just been a long day,’ I tell her.
‘Well, I don’t like the sound of you one bit,’ she says. ‘I’m going to come and visit on Saturday and I’ll hear no arguments.’
There’s no way I’m going to argue. I could use some maternal TLC. I tell her I’ll look forward to it and that I love her and then I hang up, lie back on the bed and promise myself just five minutes of rest before dinner.
I wake, of course, much later, as Martin comes up to bed. Blinking and stretching, shivering a little, I ask him what time it is.
‘It’s gone eleven. You should just go back to sleep.’
‘I’m sorry,’ I say. ‘I didn’t mean to sleep. I was planning to come down for dinner.’
My stomach grumbles to reinforce my point.
‘Don’t worry about it,’ he says, unbuttoning his shirt and throwing it into the laundry hamper. ‘I’ve plated some up for you. It’s in the fridge.’
Is it my imagination or is his tone not as soft as it was? He sits on the edge of the bed, looking out of the window over the blackness of the lake. I feel the need to be close to him.
‘C’m’ere,’ I say, reaching my arms out to him.
He turns, gives me a soft smile and climbs under the covers, pulling himself across to me and allowing me to hold him. His hand slips under my dressing gown, to my still naked body. I shiver again, only this time in anticipation. But his hand moves directly to my growing stomach.
‘All this’ll be worth it,’ he says. ‘I know you’re feeling rotten, but this little one’s going to bring us so much happiness and I just know you’re going to be the best mum in the world.’
With his words, our house feels like our bubble again and I smile at him, place my hand on top of his and feel calm. He kisses the top of my head and squeezes my hand.
Tempted as I am to fall back to sleep there and then beside him, I know I need to eat something or the nausea will be much worse when it swoops in again.
I sit up, tell him I won’t be long.
‘I just need a bit of toast or something.’
‘Are you shunning my pasta bake for the second time in one night?’ he asks with a crooked smile.
I stick my tongue out at him. ‘Might be too much considering it’s so late, but it’ll do tomorrow night.’
‘Ah, that might be good, actually,’ he says, sitting up. ‘I still need to talk to you about that.’
I pull on my pyjama bottoms and look around to him while putting on my oversized maternity pyjama top.
‘Yeah?’
‘I need to go to London again.’
My heart sinks. It’s been just a week since his last trip. I know it’s a big job, but I hadn’t expected him to have to travel quite so much.
The note in my bag niggles at me again.
‘A snag with the communal play area,’ he says. ‘And the landscaper wants to discuss the garden plans with me. Boring stuff, but I have to be on site. I need to feel the space to see how it would work. They want doors moved from the original plan – which means moving the storage area and redesigning the mezzanine slightly.’
There’s little point in arguing. What would it look like, anyway? I really would be the Wicked Witch of the West if I asked him to pass the work to one of his colleagues at this stage. This project has been his baby, long before we had an actual