On a Beautiful Day Page 8

  Laura had always been not scathing exactly, but faintly dismissive of the concept. Wasn’t it a bit cheesy, a bit naff to schedule a date with your other half into the diary like that? Besides, when there was just the two of you, and no kids or pets to factor into the equation, every night of the week could be ‘date night’ if you felt so inclined. Saying that, though, she was taken aback to realize that she and Matt hadn’t actually been out together as a couple for quite some time. Weeks, possibly. She couldn’t remember when they’d last booked a table for two in a restaurant, or met for a cinema trip or spontaneously arranged to go to the pub together after work. And so, seeing as it was Friday, she decided to take the initiative for once. Not least because she had a proposition to put to him.

  Talk to Matt, Jo had urged the other night, when Laura’s feelings came spilling out of her unexpectedly in a big messy rush. Tell him how you feel.

  Jo was always right about these things. As the elder sister, she’d acted as protector-in-chief for Laura’s entire life. Bully at school? Jo was on it, squaring her shoulders and threatening retribution. Mum being flaky? Jo had thrown on a pinny and assumed responsibility for the cooking and shopping, commandeering the laundry basket too, to ensure they had enough clean school blouses and tights for the week. Disastrous A-levels? Jo was there with news of a temping job where her friend worked, just to tide things over until Laura made up her mind about what to do next. Basically, when her sister issued an order, Laura took notice. Talk to Matt, Jo had decreed, and Laura had nodded. Yes. She would.

  Fancy dinner after work tonight? she texted him that lunchtime. We could go on a date! Lois from the office has vouchers for Dough Pizza Kitchen . . . x

  Nice one, he replied a short while later. Meet in The Lamb around six?

  Great. See you then xx, she typed, a funny little shiver down her back. Lure him in with a pint and his favourite pizza – what better way was there to launch a high-stakes conversation with her husband?

  Matt, I’ve been thinking, she imagined herself saying, leaning over to take his hand. We’re not getting any younger, are we?

  She swallowed, already apprehensive. Before then, though, she needed to be prepared, to have done her research and be word-perfect. Casting a wary glance over her shoulder – the perils of working in an open-plan office, when your colleagues were all such nosy parkers – she called up Google and typed in Fertility clinic Manchester. Just so that she knew there even was one, before she took a deep breath and made any suggestions.

  There wasn’t just one clinic, though, judging by the list of results that flashed up in the next second – there appeared to be at least ten based in the area. Clinical excellence. No waiting lists! Highest-quality IVF treatment. Tailored treatment. Success rates . . . The phrases leapt out at her temptingly, bedazzling her for a moment so that she didn’t know where to begin. She could almost feel her womb ache with yearning.

  Clicking randomly on one of the sites, she began devouring its promises. There were bright pictures of cute chubby babies on one page, a shot of reassuring-looking medical staff with non-scary body language on another, and – best of all – a photo of a rapturously smiling couple holding hands over a Moses basket. Be Our Next Success Story, she read, a lump in her throat. Yes, please. She wanted very badly to be that couple in the photo, to have what they had, to be a success story for the clinic. Maybe she and Matt might even appear in a future version of the company website, beaming over their own perfect, beautiful child. Look what we made!

  They hadn’t discussed IVF before, or undergoing any tests. As a sales manager for a medium-sized insurance firm, Matt could talk for Britain about claims and premiums; as a lifelong United fan, he could bore on for hours with his mates about managerial tactics or the pros and cons of the 4-4-2 formation; but ask him to go into detail about his baby-making skills and he would fall uncharacteristically silent. Nobody else’s business, he would rail to Laura in private, if they’d suffered an intrusive line of questioning from an insensitive aunt, say, at a family gathering (christenings were the worst, everyone falling over themselves to ask, And when will it be your turn then?).

  It would take a serious amount of persuasion and cajolement, in other words, maybe even some begging on bended knees, to coax her husband through the doors of a clinic to discuss their situation, let alone undergo the embarrassment of tests. And following the miscarriages, the two of them had stopped talking about parenthood, full stop, both feeling defeated and despondent. She’d thrown herself into Pilates classes and doing up the living room, he’d busied himself joining a local five-a-side football team. Sex had returned, eventually, to being love-making rather than baby-making, but maybe the time had come to step things up a gear again. Try a different tack. Because – hello! – just look at the babies on the website. Witness the adorable tiny fingers and toes, the soft rounded tummies. She zoomed in on one particular toothless cherub and sighed. Surely she could convince her husband that a gorgeous babe-in-arms – their gorgeous babe-in-arms! – would be worth a few quick tests and procedures?

  ‘Oh, I see, teacher’s pet: swotting up, are we?’ came a teasing voice just then, and Laura’s breath seized in her throat, fingers fumbling to close the site, as real life came crashing back in, in the form of Jim, one of the designers. Young, cocky and good-looking, he was something of a heartbreaker along Canal Street, by all accounts, and the prime source of most office gossip stories. ‘Won’t our Deborah be pleased with you then, eh, kid?’

  He meant the new maternity range, Laura realized after an agonizing few seconds of confusion, and relief promptly cascaded through her. Oh, thank goodness. He thought she was researching cute babies for an ad campaign, even though there wasn’t even a single product out of development yet. She flashed him a smile, despite her nervous panic at almost being caught out by the office loudmouth. ‘You know me, Jim, one step ahead as usual,’ she replied with a little laugh. She’d always been a terrible poker player; never able to disguise the emotions that flickered across her face. ‘Try to keep up.’

  The Lamb had been gentrified since Laura was last there for a drink. Formerly a scruffy old boozer with sticky carpets and a broken jukebox that favoured Meat Loaf’s Greatest Hits, like it or not, it had now been tarted up practically beyond recognition and was all moody charcoal walls and dim lighting, big, cracked brown leather sofas and artistic black-and-white prints. As she waited at the bar that evening, she could hear the soulful tones of Adele from the speakers, so presumably Meat Loaf had been banished too, into a skip along with the old carpets.

  Matt was already at the bar, shirt-sleeves rolled up and his tie loosened. He’d be forty next year, but there was still something of the inky schoolboy about him, with his gangly physique and that cowlick of brown hair, which he had to smooth down every morning with gel. By the end of the day it was always rebelliously springing up again, too wayward to be tamed for long.

  They kissed hello, ordered a drink each (red wine for her, Boddingtons for him) and found a quiet corner, easing into one of the creaking leather sofas together. ‘So, how was your day?’ she asked, thinking how nice this was, how cosy. Maybe Gayle had a point after all.

  ‘Well,’ he began, and there was something about his voice that made her turn in surprise. He never usually replied with anything other than a perfunctory ‘Fine’. ‘Actually, it was kind of interesting.’

  He seemed pleased with himself, Laura noticed, intrigued. Had he pulled off some mega-deal or other? Received an unexpected bonus? ‘What?’ she asked, nudging his knee with hers. ‘What’s happened?’

  ‘There’s a job that’s come up, it sounds really good,’ he replied. ‘Better pay, more senior. I could do it, Laura.’

  ‘Oh, wow! Cool,’ she said, taken aback. Matt had worked for the same company since they’d met, his position every bit as steady and reliable as his personality. He’d always been a contented sort of soul, never bothered about pushing ahead and seeking glory, just clocking in and out eve
ry day, doing his job, getting paid – end of story. It was one of the things she loved about him, that unchanging solidity. And yet here he was now, looking excited about some new career prospect. She hadn’t seen that one coming. ‘Tell me more,’ she said.

  ‘Well, it was Elaine, really, who got me thinking,’ he began. His eyes were actually sparkling, Laura realized. ‘She was like: Matt, you could do your job standing on your head. You’re too good to stay in this position forever, you do know that, don’t you?’

  ‘Elaine?’ Laura echoed. She’d been dragged along to the company Christmas do enough times to have met a number of his colleagues by now, but had no memory of an Elaine.

  ‘Yeah, the new department head. Only been here since February,’ he replied. ‘Wants to shake things up a bit, she said.’

  ‘Right,’ said Laura, feeling wary all of a sudden. Matt was normally averse to being shaken up about anything, after all. A picture was forming of this new boss as matronly and interfering, one of those people who thought they knew best for everyone and couldn’t help poking their noses in, for the sake of it.

  ‘So she’s been going through our records: targets and yearly averages, that sort of thing. And she wants us – me and a couple of others – to be brand ambassadors for the firm.’ His eyes met hers, but she couldn’t tell if he was amused by the naff phrase or chuffed.

  ‘Brand ambassadors!’ spluttered Laura. ‘Will I have to start calling you that? I feel like I’m in a Ferrero Rocher advert. “Good evening, Ambassador.” “Hello, have you met my husband, the ambassador?”’ She elbowed him teasingly. ‘I hope they’re going to give you some military stripes to wear on your suit jacket. A special badge.’

  ‘Well, it’s not definite or anything,’ he said, with just a hint of defensiveness that made her think she’d overstepped the mark. ‘We’ve got to apply for the jobs, and go for interviews – it’s not in the bag.’

  ‘Right.’ Her laughter subsided. ‘Exciting, though. Could be good.’

  ‘Yeah.’ He hesitated, and then she realized there was something else. He swirled the beer around in his pint glass before adding, ‘Because they’re opening a new branch up in Newcastle, see, so . . .’

  Clunk. The penny dropped. ‘And that’s where the job is? In Newcastle?’

  ‘Um – well, yeah,’ he replied, not meeting her eye. ‘I’m just thinking about it,’ he rushed on, as she let out a startled squawk. ‘It’s not definite, like I said. It’s only an idea. But . . .’ He reached out and took her hand. ‘It might be an adventure, you know. It might do us good, moving away, making a change.’

  ‘Shaking things up a bit,’ she said faintly, but he didn’t seem to notice she was mimicking his boss and not being serious.

  ‘Exactly!’ He beamed. ‘I mean, it’s early days, nothing confirmed, but . . . I feel positive about it. I think it could be . . . exciting.’

  Exciting? From the man who liked routine and order, whose week ran like clockwork with everything just the same – work, football, pub? Laura could hardly believe what she was hearing. This was Matt, who’d had a pension since he was twenty-two, who actually wrote an email of complaint when Marmite brought out squeezy bottles because ‘it was wrong’. ‘God,’ she said, swallowing hard. Well, that had taken her by surprise all right. Was this some kind of midlife crisis, maybe, now that he was almost forty? More to the point, how was she supposed to launch into her proposition of fertility clinics and gummy-smiling babies after that?

  ‘So, let me get this straight,’ she said, trying to recover herself. ‘If you got this job in Newcastle . . . you’d want to move? It’s – what, three hours’ drive from here? You couldn’t do it as a commute.’

  ‘Well, no,’ he conceded after a moment. ‘I mean . . . I figured we’d talk about that, once I knew a bit more about the job.’

  Her mind was spinning. It was like having a different person sitting next to her. She’d woken up this morning with her ordinary, amiable husband, who was looking forward to the long bank-holiday weekend, with the Britain’s Got Talent final, a Sunday roast and an extra lie-in in the offing, and somehow between then and now he’d transformed into this go-getter who wanted to leave everything behind, to become a so-called ‘ambassador’ in sodding Newcastle. Talk about Invasion of the Body Snatchers. ‘You’d really want us to go?’ she pressed him, incredulous. ‘Leave everyone we know – our families and friends? I’d have to quit my job,’ she realized aloud, trying to get her head round this whole sea-change. It was crazy. He wasn’t serious, surely? Then the killer question occurred to her. ‘You’d want to move away from United?’

  There, gauntlet thrown down. Forget their little semi, forget his parents down the road; it would be the prospect of moving 150 miles from his precious Old Trafford that would surely signal the death-knell of this whole startling Newcastle business.

  ‘Well . . .’ he said, grimacing slightly. Ouch, yes. United. Witness the abject torment in his eyes. ‘Look, I don’t know. Not really. But Elaine reckons our own management team aren’t going anywhere. She thinks a promotion in the regions is the best way to advance my career.’ He shrugged. ‘I could give it a few years there, and come back. That’s what people did in her last company.’

  ‘This Elaine of yours seems to have it all worked out,’ Laura commented, feeling her voice tighten at the woman’s name. Who even was this Elaine, anyway, to take such an interest in Matt’s so-called career advancement, putting wild ideas in his head? When now, of all times, Laura wanted him to simply walk hand in hand to the nearest clinic with her, so that they could have their own beautiful baby!

  ‘It’s just a thought,’ he said, his eyes reproachful, and then she felt bad for giving him the third degree. Chances were he’d change his mind when next season’s fixture list came out anyway. ‘Seemed like a good opportunity, that was all. The chance for a new start. Worth thinking about.’

  She saw her chance. Do it, Laura. ‘I was kind of wanting to talk about a new start for us as well, actually,’ she said slowly, picking her words. She took a slug of wine for Dutch courage; here goes. ‘Because . . . Well, it was the crash, really. Seeing the crash the other weekend, it made me think about life and death – and what’s important.’

  Now it was his turn to look surprised. ‘Right,’ he said uncertainly. Then his face changed. ‘Don’t tell me: this is all about getting a new car. Because—’

  ‘No,’ she cut in. ‘It’s not about a new car.’ She took another gulp of wine. ‘It’s like you were saying – sometimes you need to try something different in order to get what you want,’ she went on. ‘And it made me realize what I really want . . . which is a baby.’

  He seemed to deflate there and then, sinking back into the sofa as if undergoing a slow puncture. Undeterred, she continued, quickly before he could stop her. ‘We’ve tried and tried and it hasn’t worked out for us,’ she said, battling to keep her voice steady. ‘It’s been disappointing and upsetting. But I don’t think we should give up.’

  Oh God, his body language was definitely not good right now, she noticed. Had he actually shrunk away from her in the last minute?

  ‘I’ve been doing some research,’ she went on valiantly, ‘and there are loads of clinics that can help. I bet there would be some in Newcastle as well,’ she threw in for good measure. You humour me, the subtext was, and I’ll humour you. He could go off to his swanky new job while she went to pregnancy yoga and pushed a pram around unfamiliar streets. It wouldn’t be so bad, would it? Her hands now all thumbs with sudden eagerness, she pulled a printout from her bag, details from one of the websites, having sneakily copied and pasted them while the rest of her colleagues were in a meeting. ‘Here. This one, for example, has no waiting list, apparently, and I’m pretty sure we could afford it. I haven’t made an appointment yet, but maybe next week we could . . .’

  He didn’t seem to be listening any more. In fact, he was frowning in a baffled sort of way. She’d lost him, Laura thought with a pang. She�
�d blown it, gone in too fast, too soon. At long last he spoke. ‘But I thought . . .’ he began, staring down at the printout. Then he raised his eyes, looking awkward. ‘I thought we’d stopped all that.’

  His words were like hammer blows to her head. What?

  ‘You thought we’d . . . stopped?’ she repeated.

  ‘Yeah. I thought we’d—’ He stalled, his gaze sliding sideways, avoiding her face. ‘I thought we’d given up,’ he finished gruffly. ‘Accepted that it wasn’t gonna happen.’

  ‘But . . .’ The revelation took her breath away. Her fingernails dug into her palms under the table and she didn’t know whether she was closer to screaming, crying or laughing hysterically in shocked disbelief. This was worse than the Newcastle conversation. This was devastating. ‘You – you want to . . . give up?’

  ‘Well.’ He shifted on the sofa. ‘I thought we already had. Hadn’t we?’

  Tears stung her eyes. ‘No!’ Give up, on her dream? On her dearest wish? Her throat tightened. ‘I hadn’t given up.’

  ‘Oh.’ He stared at his glass, his face rigid. An excruciating moment of silence passed. ‘The thing is . . .’

  A tear plopped onto her lap. No, she thought. Don’t say it. Don’t tell me. I don’t want to hear. ‘Wait,’ she pleaded, but he was talking over her.

  ‘It’s too much, Laura,’ he said sadly, and for a foolish moment she thought he meant financially.

  ‘We can afford it!’ she cried, clutching desperately at a solution. ‘I can take out a loan, I’ll get another job—’

  ‘No,’ he said unhappily. ‘It’s not the money. I mean, it’s too much to go through again, too painful.’ He sighed. ‘After last time, with you in the hospital, losing another baby . . . I couldn’t bear it again, Laur. It nearly broke us. It was awful. I just . . . don’t want to any more.’