Conrad & Eleanor (8 page)

T
here is a
string of work emails, many of them expressing sympathy or anxiety about Con. El's eyes glaze over, she has no idea how to reply to them. Why can't they just leave her alone? She needs to think about why Con might have left. It's no good just pretending it hasn't happened. But you do know, she tells herself. You do know why. It's because of Cara, isn't it?

This realisation is shocking. It is so close to her, so enmeshed in the fabric of her life, that it is painful to force herself to see it. To see it as Con sees it. She has never given it its due. She realises it must be working inside Con like a poison. It is almost certainly the reason he has gone. She has handled it terribly badly.

Sitting rigidly in her computer chair she retraces the memory from the start. There was a kind of obliviousness to it, it was part of that shiny protected disengaged life of hers. Glenn was a visit­ing research fellow from MIT. Cynical and funny, and always working late. While Con was giving the kids their tea and bathing them, El and Glenn were the last two out of the lab one night, and they went for a drink. Glenn was heading back to Chicago at Christmas, back to his girlfriend and his life. That's what made it possible. He complimented El on her chestnut brown eyes (an unthreatening compliment, since it made her think of conkers, hard shiny brown conkers pressed into a doughy face, so that she could laugh and throw that back at him and pretend they were not staring into each other's eyes). He told her she was the most intelligent woman he'd ever met, and she jibed at his sexism.

Glenn laughed. ‘OK. Since I can't say the right thing I might as well be hung for a ram as a lamb. You've got a fantastic arse. Come home with me.'

In her own triumphant laughter El identified an element of celebration of Con. She was Con's wife, whom another man was making a play for; it confirmed Con's status. She didn't go home with Glenn that night, and didn't think she would at all. She simply hoarded the compliment. Came within a hair's breadth of telling Con, as she lay luxuriously in the bath that Sunday morning and Con stood shaving at the sink ignoring her. ‘Guess who fancies me?' The teasing words were already formed in her brain when Paul ran in crying that Megan had swallowed a Lego man's head.

But after that it was impossible not to be conscious of when Glenn was working late; of his breathtakingly blond head bent to the microscope. Or of which jeans she wore to work. And the evening when they coincided at the lab door with their coats on was unavoidable, as was his, ‘D'you have to rush home?'

‘No, I've already missed tea.'

‘Well,' glancing at his watch, ‘I could make you an omelette.' Leading them into the glut of terrible egg jokes that haunted the IVF unit at that time; leading them giddy with excitement to his flat, where they did not get around to cooking food. Leading to her cycling home at breakneck speed from the 9.55pm train, swooping round corners and through traffic lights, more invulnerable and shiny than she had ever been.

She wasn't in love with Glenn. Not at all. She was simply joyous at being desired; revelling in the laughter, high on the excitement. She had to make a conscious effort not to tell Con about it. There was no anxiety, no danger, no subterfuge involved; in two months Glenn would return to the States. This was simply about having fun. And then she got pregnant.

She knew when it had happened, as soon as she missed her period. It was the only time she'd out and out lied to Con about where she was going. Saturday afternoon, she told him she had to check something at the lab, a couple of hours' work. She took the bike on the train and cycled straight round to Glenn's house, at the time they had agreed. She stopped at the kerb outside his house, heart flapping like a pigeon in her chest, waiting to calm her breathing, and looked up to see him opening the front door with such a grin on his face that laughter burst out of her.

They made love twice, and afterwards lay talking and stroking one another until she said she had to go, and Glenn – who'd used his last two condoms – entered her again, ‘Just to say goodbye.' And their lovemaking was achingly slow so that she came almost without moving, except for the powerful contractions of her orgasm, which wrung an answering climax from him.

‘God! I'm sorry! There can't be more than a drop —'

‘Fine, that's just a few thousand sperm then!'

She wondered afterwards if it was because their daily labours were about adding sperm to egg and monitoring progress that they felt such sublime confidence in their own ability to control what would happen. The episode left her amused, cherished, all-powerful. Until she knew she was pregnant. It could have been Con – their contraception certainly wasn't foolproof – but her instincts knew it wasn't. And once she was pregnant there was nothing that could be done about it without Con knowing. She finished with Glenn, which was sad but not traumatic. He would be leaving in a few days anyway, and she told no one she was pregnant till he'd gone. There must be no danger of Glenn ever knowing, and the only way to absolutely keep him from the knowledge was to quarantine it until after his departure. But then, how to tell Con? Creating the right space and time to tell him became vastly important; she didn't need to think about what she would say, didn't need to plan that – just needed to ensure that the setting of the conversation was right. Not at home; there was never enough time or privacy, and she needed to control it, to manage whichever way the conversation went, without the random intrusions of Paul, Megan, or Hélène the au pair. She did not even think she would lie; she didn't have to lie – in the right place and mood they would both find out what she would tell him.

Con didn't much like leaving the kids in the evening, despite the au pair. El had learned that he made excuses, like tiredness, to take them home early; it was often difficult to feel his attention was fully focused on the play or whatever it was they had gone out to do. It would be better, she reasoned, to steal time from work rather than from the kids. That would disarm him.

Four days after Glenn's mid-December departure there was a sharp frost. As El cycled to the station through the dark blue morning she willed the day to be clear, and when she looked out, mid-morning, it was. She went straight to phone him at work. ‘Con? It's such a beautiful day. Shall we play hookey? Meet for lunch and a walk, and go home early?' It was carefully calculated.

They agreed he would pick her up from work and they'd go for lunch in Greenfield, so they could collect her bike from the station. As they drove through the bright sunlight she tried to gauge his mood. He was quiet, rather absorbed in himself, not as exultant in escaping work as she had hoped. ‘Such a beautiful day. It makes me want to plan holidays. Shall we go away at Easter next year instead of the summer?' She spoke at random. But the baby would be due in July; as soon as she had said this El realised how strange it would seem, when he looked back on it, that she should have suggested this departure from routine without telling him why. And then realised forcibly how strange it would seem, altogether, that she had been hugging the information to herself. Having children made him happy. In the normal run of things she would have told him as soon as she guessed she might be pregnant. This big deal, this afternoon off work, built it up – made it suspicious. Then she realised she was going to tell him the truth. Admit what had happened, tell him she was sorry. She could have an abortion, or not. It would be up to him.

She had not considered saying this, before, and thinking it now as they drove in silence made her nervous. Con would not see infidelity in the same light as she did. He would be upset. He spoke suddenly into silence. ‘I want us to get rid of the au pair.'

‘Hélène? Why? I thought you liked her.' An argument about the au pair was the last thing they needed.

‘She's pleasant enough. But she's…'

‘What? Not good with the kids?'

‘No, she's OK. But – well, I think we should get someone else.'

El readjusted. So he wasn't reviving the argument against au pairs. He was simply wanting rid of Hélène. ‘OK. If you like. What's wrong with her?'

There was a silence as Con slowed for traffic lights, waited, moved off again, seemingly deep in thought. ‘Well, to tell the truth, she makes me uncomfortable. I don't want you to say anything to her —'

‘Then I won't. But tell me.'

‘Oh, you know. Flirting. Flitting about half dressed. She's – you know…'

El realised. It would be better probably if she laughed, but she couldn't quite trust herself to make the right noise. The timing of this felt terribly unfair. ‘I see.'

‘Nothing's happened.' He glanced at her quickly. El finally located her laugh, and a suitably light tone.

‘That's very restrained of you. She's beautiful!'

‘It makes me uncomfortable,' he repeated, as if she hadn't spoken. ‘I want you to ask her to leave.'

‘What can I say to her?'

‘Say we've decided to do without an au pair for a bit. Anything, it doesn't matter. We can give her a good reference.'

‘OK.' She should have said more, but her mouth was dry. It would be best to laugh it off, to tease him about how fatally attractive he was. But how could she say to him… how could she now…? Con virtuously resists advances of beautiful ­nineteen-year-old French woman while El falls into bed and gets pregnant by American lover. If only they matched one another in crime, how much easier it would be; tears and forgive­ness all round, and on to the next chapter.

‘El? You're not upset, are you? I wanted to tell you the truth —' Con negotiates into the pub car park.

‘Of course not.' There is nothing to do but plunge on, and rediscover control where she can. They need to have this conversation in the car, not in the pub. ‘Anyway, I've got something more important to tell you. I'm pregnant.' She feels him turn in his seat to stare at her, and has to force herself to meet his gaze.

‘You're sure?'

‘Absolutely.'

His astonished face suddenly cracks, and he is leaning in to her, arms encircling her. ‘Oh El! El!'

His body is shaking, and she realises he is crying. ‘Con – it's OK, it's OK —'

‘I'm so glad.' His breath is hot in her ear. ‘I'm so, so glad. You don't know how glad I am.' He draws back far enough to look at her, his face alight and happy. She knows she must press on, not let this joyfulness distract her.

‘But we weren't planning to have another —'

‘It doesn't matter, it doesn't matter. It's like Paul, it's meant to be. It's exactly what should happen now. I don't know how I didn't guess. Have you tested?'

‘Yes.' She needs to tell him why she didn't mention it before. ‘But there's something I must tell —'

‘You're wonderful! You're perfect! Come on – we'll have champagne.' He is out of the car before she can reply, bending to lock his door. She gets out slowly, and he is looking across the car roof at her, still grinning from ear to ear. ‘When you rang this morning – I should have guessed! What an idiot!' He takes her hand as they approach the pub and doesn't drop it even when they reach the bar. He asks for champagne and they have to wait while some is found in the cellar and apologies are made about its not having been in the fridge.

‘Celebrating?' asks the barman and Con nods. El is afraid he will tell the man, but he just smiles at her and squeezes her hand.

When all the business of opening it and pouring and toasting and sitting at a table is out of the way, El tries again. ‘We need to slow down a bit, Con. There's a reason I didn't tell you before —'

He reaches over and puts his finger against her lip. ‘Remember when you wanted to get rid of Paul?'

‘It wasn't Paul then, it was a five-week embryo, no bigger than a pin head.'

‘Yes. And what a mistake it would have been. Left to ourselves we'll never decide to have another – how can we? You're too busy, I'm too busy, life's too short. And so, like a blessing, it just happens. If you even for a moment imagine us talking about not having it – forget it. It would be the worst and stupidest thing we could ever do.'

‘But —'

‘No buts. Drink.'

She sips, bites the inside of her cheek, starts again. ‘I have —'

But Con is speaking at the same time. ‘It's a new beginning. Let's start again, El. Look how we've drifted – I didn't even notice you'd missed a period —' His voice catches and El glances quickly at the barman, afraid Con may be about to cry again. But he gathers himself. ‘No wonder you couldn't tell me before. Why should you tell a man who isn't even aware —'

‘Con. Stop it. I didn't tell you because… because I didn't believe it myself.' Is she? Is she going to tell him now he's said they must have it, is she going to break his heart? ‘I thought my period was just late because I was tired. It didn't dawn on me for ages, I felt stupid when I realised —' El is out of breath. Is she going to lie to him after all? She is astonished at herself. But what can be gained by telling him about Glenn, when it's gone and over and done with? When he will read far more into it than there ever was? What can be gained by souring his joy over this baby which may, for all she knows, even be his? (But she knows it's not.) Wouldn't honesty be self-indulgent?

The turnaround is giddying. But it is clear now: she must lie. Better for Con, better for the baby, better for Paul and Megan, better for Glenn. Better for everyone, to lie. To let life be as Con would like it to be. As Con deserves.

And the lie had taken, and beautiful blonde Cara was born, and Con loved her more than any of the other three. He was her father, a wonderful father, and she was his daughter. And El had hugged her past to herself and imagined herself safe from discovery. As indeed she was for nineteen years. This house was wonderful then – they had bought it the year before, with money El inherited from her grandfather. A big old weaver's house, right on the road, with the back rooms facing south, and sunshine pouring in. A previous owner had installed rather inappropriate French windows, but when they stood open on a summer's day, letting onto the stone-flagged garden area which was bounded by a wide lawn, ending in an overgrown vegetable garden, it was idyllic. Con planted roses and honeysuckle and buddleia, and the children wore little pathways in the flower beds to their favourite hidey-holes behind the bushes. It seems it was always summer, when they were little.