iris is flecked with an amber flame. Last night they had seemed very bright, but now, in the cold light of morning, they looked dull and ringed with fatigue.
He leaned forwards, putting his mug on the floor by his feet, then straightened up, taking his cigarettes from his pocket.
‘Harry,’ I said, watching him put one to his mouth, a wry smile starting on my lips. ‘Haven’t you forgotten something?’
He looked up, puzzled. And then he saw my amusement, and the confusion cleared from his face.
‘Christ. The baby! I’d forgotten.’
He shook his head and laughed, returning the cigarette to its pack, and then sat there, a little stunned, as if processing anew the information, and all the while I looked on, willing him to be pleased, willing him to show some indication that he could be happy about this.
And then he ran a hand through his hair and said, ‘A baby. I still don’t believe it,’ and the smile broke out on his face – a grin that sliced through the hangover and the tiredness and the tension – and this time the words seemed to have adifferent meaning. It seemed, in fact, that what he meant was that he couldn’t believe his luck. That after all we had gone through, to be given a second chance, the gift of this new little life – it seemed too much to grasp.
I felt an answering jump of excitement inside.
‘You’re not angry, are you, Harry?’
‘Angry? No! Of course not. Why would I be? I’m a little surprised, that’s all, but not angry. Not in the least.’
‘You’re sure?’
‘Robin, it’s great news. I’m thrilled. I swear.’
He said it and smiled and reached for my hand, and we sat like that for a moment, and I believed he was pleased. I really did.
‘So how are you feeling? Any nausea? Any sickness?’
‘No, nothing at all. I feel absolutely fine – great, in fact.’
‘Lucky you,’ he said, referring to his hangover.
For a while we talked about the pregnancy, picking up our conversation from last night. We discussed what hospital should we go to, what kind of care we wanted, when should I tell them at work, what would we do once the baby was born.
‘We’ll have to do something about this place,’ he said, casting his eyes about the room, as if noticing for the first time the snaking cables, the holes in the walls, the whole shambolic array of projects started and stalled.
‘Jesus, where to begin,’ he added.
‘If we can just work out the more pressing things that need to happen, and focus on them.’
‘Right. Well, you’d better make a list.’
‘Me?’
‘You are the architect, sweetheart,’ he remarked, not unkindly, and yet I felt a slight sting in his words.
My decision to study architecture after returning from Tangier had not rested easily with Harry. I had tried to explainto him my need for something stable, something dependable in my life, in my career, and while on one level he seemed to understand, I’d always felt that a part of him resented me for my change of heart. It was as if he perceived some kind of accusation in my decision to abandon my art for the safety of a profession, while he continued with his. The truth was, I had needed, more than anything, to put Tangier behind me. To create a life utterly different from what we’d had there. I needed to forget. And while I had set about constructing my new existence, Harry had clung to what he had of the past. In his cold studio in Spencer’s basement, he’d persisted with his paintings of Tangier as if the world around him did not exist. It seemed, sometimes, as if he had never really left Morocco at all.
But that was not worth bringing up, particularly that morning, when he seemed focused on our future. So we talked about insulation and heating, about bathrooms and plumbing, about getting our bedroom in order so that we might make room for a cot.
‘A cot,’ he said as he finished his tea, giving his head a baffled shake. ‘That’s something I didn’t think I’d ever have to
He leaned forwards, putting his mug on the floor by his feet, then straightened up, taking his cigarettes from his pocket.
‘Harry,’ I said, watching him put one to his mouth, a wry smile starting on my lips. ‘Haven’t you forgotten something?’
He looked up, puzzled. And then he saw my amusement, and the confusion cleared from his face.
‘Christ. The baby! I’d forgotten.’
He shook his head and laughed, returning the cigarette to its pack, and then sat there, a little stunned, as if processing anew the information, and all the while I looked on, willing him to be pleased, willing him to show some indication that he could be happy about this.
And then he ran a hand through his hair and said, ‘A baby. I still don’t believe it,’ and the smile broke out on his face – a grin that sliced through the hangover and the tiredness and the tension – and this time the words seemed to have adifferent meaning. It seemed, in fact, that what he meant was that he couldn’t believe his luck. That after all we had gone through, to be given a second chance, the gift of this new little life – it seemed too much to grasp.
I felt an answering jump of excitement inside.
‘You’re not angry, are you, Harry?’
‘Angry? No! Of course not. Why would I be? I’m a little surprised, that’s all, but not angry. Not in the least.’
‘You’re sure?’
‘Robin, it’s great news. I’m thrilled. I swear.’
He said it and smiled and reached for my hand, and we sat like that for a moment, and I believed he was pleased. I really did.
‘So how are you feeling? Any nausea? Any sickness?’
‘No, nothing at all. I feel absolutely fine – great, in fact.’
‘Lucky you,’ he said, referring to his hangover.
For a while we talked about the pregnancy, picking up our conversation from last night. We discussed what hospital should we go to, what kind of care we wanted, when should I tell them at work, what would we do once the baby was born.
‘We’ll have to do something about this place,’ he said, casting his eyes about the room, as if noticing for the first time the snaking cables, the holes in the walls, the whole shambolic array of projects started and stalled.
‘Jesus, where to begin,’ he added.
‘If we can just work out the more pressing things that need to happen, and focus on them.’
‘Right. Well, you’d better make a list.’
‘Me?’
‘You are the architect, sweetheart,’ he remarked, not unkindly, and yet I felt a slight sting in his words.
My decision to study architecture after returning from Tangier had not rested easily with Harry. I had tried to explainto him my need for something stable, something dependable in my life, in my career, and while on one level he seemed to understand, I’d always felt that a part of him resented me for my change of heart. It was as if he perceived some kind of accusation in my decision to abandon my art for the safety of a profession, while he continued with his. The truth was, I had needed, more than anything, to put Tangier behind me. To create a life utterly different from what we’d had there. I needed to forget. And while I had set about constructing my new existence, Harry had clung to what he had of the past. In his cold studio in Spencer’s basement, he’d persisted with his paintings of Tangier as if the world around him did not exist. It seemed, sometimes, as if he had never really left Morocco at all.
But that was not worth bringing up, particularly that morning, when he seemed focused on our future. So we talked about insulation and heating, about bathrooms and plumbing, about getting our bedroom in order so that we might make room for a cot.
‘A cot,’ he said as he finished his tea, giving his head a baffled shake. ‘That’s something I didn’t think I’d ever have to
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