piece of furniture they’d bought, and as they left the shop he’d squeezed her hand and whispered, ‘This is it, Harmony. Our start. It all begins here.’
The sofa was delivered two weeks later, and sat in the middle of their living room in their first flat in Vauxhall in front of an upturned packing box that for five months they used as a coffee table. They sat on it all evening, drinking wine and eating Chinese. Later they made love on it, their wine glasses and empty takeaway cartons discarded on the floor beside them, the ancient television, as deep as it was wide, flickering silently in the corner of the darkened room.
Harmony worked for the next few hours. When the words began to swim, her eyes heavy with tiredness, she put the papers down and stood up. She gasped a little at the stiff pain in her lower back and cursed herself for not working at her desk. She saw her mother wagging a finger at her, telling her off for working slouched on the sofa or propped up in bed: Sofas for sitting, beds for sleeping, desks for working.
Will appeared at the living room door. ‘I’m going to go to bed,’
he said.
‘Yes,’ she said. ‘I’m shattered. I’ll get a drink and then follow you.’
Harmony filled a glass of water and as she drank it she checked Will had locked the back door. She peered through the glazed panel in the door at the garden which was bathed in the last of the fading light. They should have done some work in the garden this weekend; they’d neglected it and it was looking untidy. The garden was the reason they’d stayed in the flat, which was too small for them really, with just the one bedroom, the box room she used as a study, and a living room they squeezed a dining table into. The garden was beautiful, though, large by London standards, about forty feet by thirty, with a magical feel. It had grey stone walls that were covered in dark unruly ivy and an area of aged paving, some of the slabs cracked with moss growing between. There were two overgrown flower beds that ran along each of the walls, and at the end of the garden was a stone bench with carved legs, gradually being suffocated by weeds. It was a hidden gem in the slice of urban grey between Baron’s Court and West Kensington tube stations. When Harmony found out she was pregnant she knew they would have to move. She’d had to persuade Will, which had been hard, but she explained that they needed somewhere more suitable for a family, somewhere with a proper bedroom for the baby and a utility room, maybe a playroom too. Her resolve to sell it had weakened when she showed the valuing estate agent the garden.
‘Oh, this is very special,’ he’d said, purring with excitement.
‘Yes. Lots of potential here. It’ll fly off our books.’
But when the baby died there was no reason to move, no need to justify the expense – the conveyancing fees alone were enough to make their eyes water – but rather than feel relieved that she could stay in her home, she found herself trapped, resentful of the flat that was now inextricably linked to her miscarriage, symbolic of her childless life.
Will was reading in bed. She went to shut the curtains.
‘Can you leave them open?’ he asked, closing his book and laying it on the bedside table. She hesitated, her hand resting on the edge of the curtain. She didn’t like sleeping with them open; she felt exposed, worried about people being able to see in.
She let her hand drop from the curtain and climbed into bed beside him. He reached out and turned his bedside light off.
She curled up close to him, resting her head on his shoulder.
‘Are you sure you’re okay?’ she asked him. ‘Everybody around the table today could tell there was something wrong, you know. Did you and Luke fall out at school? Was he the reason you didn’t enjoy it there?’
‘No, we didn’t fall out, we were great friends. I met him towards the end of the first term when we were thirteen. He left though, was
The sofa was delivered two weeks later, and sat in the middle of their living room in their first flat in Vauxhall in front of an upturned packing box that for five months they used as a coffee table. They sat on it all evening, drinking wine and eating Chinese. Later they made love on it, their wine glasses and empty takeaway cartons discarded on the floor beside them, the ancient television, as deep as it was wide, flickering silently in the corner of the darkened room.
Harmony worked for the next few hours. When the words began to swim, her eyes heavy with tiredness, she put the papers down and stood up. She gasped a little at the stiff pain in her lower back and cursed herself for not working at her desk. She saw her mother wagging a finger at her, telling her off for working slouched on the sofa or propped up in bed: Sofas for sitting, beds for sleeping, desks for working.
Will appeared at the living room door. ‘I’m going to go to bed,’
he said.
‘Yes,’ she said. ‘I’m shattered. I’ll get a drink and then follow you.’
Harmony filled a glass of water and as she drank it she checked Will had locked the back door. She peered through the glazed panel in the door at the garden which was bathed in the last of the fading light. They should have done some work in the garden this weekend; they’d neglected it and it was looking untidy. The garden was the reason they’d stayed in the flat, which was too small for them really, with just the one bedroom, the box room she used as a study, and a living room they squeezed a dining table into. The garden was beautiful, though, large by London standards, about forty feet by thirty, with a magical feel. It had grey stone walls that were covered in dark unruly ivy and an area of aged paving, some of the slabs cracked with moss growing between. There were two overgrown flower beds that ran along each of the walls, and at the end of the garden was a stone bench with carved legs, gradually being suffocated by weeds. It was a hidden gem in the slice of urban grey between Baron’s Court and West Kensington tube stations. When Harmony found out she was pregnant she knew they would have to move. She’d had to persuade Will, which had been hard, but she explained that they needed somewhere more suitable for a family, somewhere with a proper bedroom for the baby and a utility room, maybe a playroom too. Her resolve to sell it had weakened when she showed the valuing estate agent the garden.
‘Oh, this is very special,’ he’d said, purring with excitement.
‘Yes. Lots of potential here. It’ll fly off our books.’
But when the baby died there was no reason to move, no need to justify the expense – the conveyancing fees alone were enough to make their eyes water – but rather than feel relieved that she could stay in her home, she found herself trapped, resentful of the flat that was now inextricably linked to her miscarriage, symbolic of her childless life.
Will was reading in bed. She went to shut the curtains.
‘Can you leave them open?’ he asked, closing his book and laying it on the bedside table. She hesitated, her hand resting on the edge of the curtain. She didn’t like sleeping with them open; she felt exposed, worried about people being able to see in.
She let her hand drop from the curtain and climbed into bed beside him. He reached out and turned his bedside light off.
She curled up close to him, resting her head on his shoulder.
‘Are you sure you’re okay?’ she asked him. ‘Everybody around the table today could tell there was something wrong, you know. Did you and Luke fall out at school? Was he the reason you didn’t enjoy it there?’
‘No, we didn’t fall out, we were great friends. I met him towards the end of the first term when we were thirteen. He left though, was
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