Limestone and Clay (18 page)

Celia relaxes now he's no longer watching. She loves decorating, wallpapering particularly. It is such an easy transformation. This paper has a leafy nineteenth-century print and it takes concentration to match the strips. There is no pleasure in being watched. She fumbles when he stares at her like that, comments on what she's doing as if she needs encouragement or advice when she's been decorating perfectly well without his help for years. She needs to be alone to concentrate, and when she concentrates it goes well. She gets lost in the rhythm of it, measuring, cutting, pasting, matching, sticking, trimming. And it looks
so
good. This is the dining room, which has been white-walled and Scandinavian for five years. It is time for a change. The baby will be born into a house with thick curtains and wallpaper with flowers, birds and leaves and rugs full of pattern and colour so that it can lie on its tummy and trace the patterns with its fingers, just like Celia did as a child, weaving stories into the carpets with her imagination. It will be an intricate house full of pictures and patterns and mirrors, full of things to hook memory on.

She will take up knitting. She'll make many-coloured jumpers and jackets and leggings with spots and stars. She'll make hats with tassels and mittens with strings. Dan's study is going to be the baby's room. She has seen wallpaper with ducks and balloons, matching fabric for curtains, a frieze, a lampshade. She is impatient to begin. But she will wait until she's very pregnant. Until the baby is big and safe and squirming reassuringly inside her.

Unwillingly, she remembers Nadia's miscarriage. Nadia had felt the baby move before it died. They had all been at a dinner party and Celia had seen the look of astonished absorption on her face. She had watched Nadia take Simon's hand and pres it against her belly so that he could feel it too – but he could not detect such a faint flutter through Nadia's flesh. Celia had hated Nadia at that moment, the moment when Simon's hand had been against her, when his face had been intent with the effort of feeling the sensation. She had hated her for carrying Simon's child, for being the one to give Simon a child. Not that
she
wanted Simon. Oh no. But Nadia wasn't welcome to him, not then. Of course, he was bound to have other lovers – she slaps paste on the paper and spreads it to the edges with the sticky brush – but Nadia? Of course, she was sorry when Nadia lost the baby. Sorry for her and for Simon. Amazed at the bleakness on his face, as if the end of the world had really come. She was amazed that Simon could care so much, this Simon who'd refused to even contemplate a baby when he was
her
lover.

And now Celia has Si's child inside her. One day she will let him feel its movement. She wishes she had not told Nadia, that she could untell her somehow, unsay the words. Nadia will tell Simon, of course, and Simon will be angry. ‘You, me and Dan,' he'd said, ‘are the only ones who'll know. As far as the world's concerned, it'll be Dan's kid.' This he had said before insemination, before conception, before the confirmation of pregnancy. It had been his only condition. She hasn't spoken to him since the positive test. Not properly. He was brusque on the telephone – well, Nadia was probably there. She'd wanted to meet him but he'd refused. She only wanted to celebrate with him a little. Shouldn't they celebrate their success?

She matches the paper at the top. There's a wasted strip, Dan's fault for distracting her. She matches twining stems, joins leaf to stalk. Something has occurred to her that she should discuss with Simon. Shouldn't they tell the child who its real father is? Would it be better to lie? Oh, what possessed her to tell Nadia? She strokes a soft brush over the paper, eases out crumples and bubbles. Simon will be angry with her; Dan furious. Nadia will probably never speak to her again and so it will be harder to see Simon. It was a ridiculous, irrational, un-Celia-like thing to do. It was cruel to Nadia. It was reckless, like tinkering with an experiment, shoving an extra element into a test-tube and then regretting the fizzy coloured flare.

She climbs off the ladder and crouches to trim the bottom edge – only just long enough. Her back is beginning to ache. What if Dan is so angry that he leaves her? What then?

She can hear him singing in the shower, some inane pop song. So, he is not working, which means he'll be preoccupied all weekend when she wanted him to come shopping for carpets. He's showering and shaving so that he will be ready and waiting for her when she gets into bed. But she is tired. She doesn't want him inside her. It is so delicate in there, so early, so precarious, even in the first few weeks. He can stroke her if he likes, rub her back perhaps until she sleeps, but he is not welcome inside her in the place which has become newly sacred.

She has never felt so weary, as if all her limbs have doubled in weight. She cuts the last piece of paper, an awkward piece which has to fit round a light switch and over the top of the door. And when she's done that, she'll finish, soak in an orchid-scented bath, perhaps watch the beginning of the late film in bed – she'll never last till the end. What is it that Dan wants to tell her? It is her birthday soon – perhaps he's planning something for that, a weekend in the country in a cosy hotel would be nice, roast beef and languid sunny walks – nothing strenuous. How lovely it is to have a reason to feel spoilt. Thank God she didn't go caving tonight – well, there was no chance because of the weather – but if it hadn't rained … She shudders at the thought. How quickly her desire for that has diminished. It is the last thing in the world she feels like now.

It's an awkward door, not perfectly square at the top, so she must pay attention. It's expensive wallpaper. A mistake above the door might not show, but Celia would know. And Celia likes to get things straight.

That's why she told, to make it straight. Even. Nadia had to know, otherwise it wasn't symmetrical. And after all, she was only being honest. More honest than the rest of them. Why should she feel guilty? And why should Nadia mind so much when Dan didn't? But Dan might mind her telling Nadia when she promised not to, and without even discussing it with him first. Dan is a great one for discussions. Well, so am I usually, she admits, biting her lip, coaxing the paper to stick to the uneven plaster above the doorframe. What if Dan leaves? A single parent, she thinks, and the idea is not entirely unappealing. And after all, there's Simon. If Dan left he would give her some support, surely. Once he saw the baby, his baby, and held it in his arms … then who knows what might happen?

She frowns, remembering the perfunctoriness of Simon's love-making. She had been surprised. He was clearly aroused by her – but it was over so quickly. He touched her just enough to make her moist, and then entered her and very quickly finished. He hadn't touched her breasts or even kissed her on the lips. She had felt let down. What did I expect? she asks herself. Roses? A golden ring? He had done what she had asked him to do: a favour, a service, something mechanical that she couldn't manage herself. Like a bloody plumber. Except that she had never paid him. She had been left feeling unsatisfied, stirred and bothered by the special smell of him that she had forgotten, the smooth muscles of his back and the abrupt manner of his departure. He had rested for a moment on top of her and then left, saying nothing, only brushing her hair with his lips. And then Dan had returned and taken his turn, pounding so hard that it hurt, as if trying to drive the memory of Simon out of her, mixing his useless semen with Simon's, shouting so loudly when he came that it hurt her eardrum. She had been irritated by him. She was tired. He made her sore. She felt dirty, brimming with the cocktail of their juices, confused by her contrary emotions.

She eases the diagonal slits in the paper over the light switch, trims away the excess paper. She flicks the light off. There is still lightness in the sky, a rim of it round the rooftops. The waning moon is visible. The clouds have lifted then, at last. Perhaps tomorrow it will really be spring.

Celia watches the bubbles cluster round the plughole as the last of the bathwater gurgles away. She cannot see herself in the steamy mirror, but she stands before it anyway, and runs her hands over her slim body, her perfectly flat tummy. She doesn't really believe that there is anything in there. There is nothing to show, and hardly a symptom, except for this tiredness and a ravenous, insatiable hunger. She dries herself and puts on her dressing gown, planning a thick sandwich with cheese, ham, pickle and tomato.

Dan watches her kneeling on the floor in front of the wardrobe mirror, drying her hair and eating the sandwich. The hair dryer whines like a mosquito.

‘Hurry,' he says.

Celia looks at him in the mirror, a diminished figure above her left shoulder, propped up on pillows. There are computer spreadsheets scattered all over the bed and he has a pen behind his ear. He looks ridiculous, bare-chested, bespectacled, with the pen.

‘What is it then?' she asks. Her hair is almost dry. She brushes it back from her face and climbs into bed with the remains of her sandwich. She takes off her dressing gown and her clean silky hair tickles her shoulders.

‘I want to celebrate,' Dan says.

‘Well yes, so do I.'

‘No, you don't understand. I've got something to tell you.'

Celia crams the last lump of sandwich in her mouth. She looks at him quizzically as she chews.

‘I had a test done today.'

‘Test?' She swallows and puts the plate down beside the bed.

‘Celia,' he says. ‘You're not going to believe this, but …'

‘Go on.'

‘This is going to sound daft … but I had a sperm test today.'

‘Sperm test? But why?'

‘I don't know … I just felt, feel in my bones, that this is
my
kid. I know it's not logical, but …'

‘
And
?'

‘And there is sperm – not a full complement, but some.'

Celia licks her finger and picks up some breadcrumbs from the quilt cover. Her mouth has gone dry. She feels nauseous now, cold too.

‘How?'

‘Spontaneous regeneration of the vas deferens.'

‘After all this
time
? I know vasectomies fail sometimes, but …'

‘It does happen,' Dan says. ‘Well of course it does. It
has
.' He beams at her. He looks heartbreakingly proud. Under the quilt he finds her hand and squeezes it. ‘You're chilly. Come here.' He pulls her closer and puts his arm round her shoulder. She lets her head rest on his chest and feels the fast beat of his heart, watches her light hair tumble on the olive skin of his belly. ‘Very rare,' he says. ‘A bloody miracle.'

‘Yes,' says Celia. ‘So …'

‘So this baby,' he continues, his hand resting flat on her belly, ‘could very well be mine. Ours. So …' With a flourish he produces from beside the bed a bottle of champagne.

Celia makes herself smile. Dan pops the cork and she watches the little spray of gas, a tiny champagne-scented ghost, rise from the bottle before the froth overflows down Dan's arm and onto the quilt.

‘Mind,' she says. He catches the froth in a glass. ‘Just a little, Dan. I'm more in the mood for cocoa.'

‘Spoilsport,' he says. ‘Don't you think it's worth a celebration?'

‘Of course.' Celia accepts the glass and his kiss.

‘To us and our kid,' Dan says, and clinks his glass against hers.

Celia sips. There is quiet. They are both reflected in the mirror now, side by side, his dark hair and her fair against the wicker headboard. A loving couple engaged in celebration, champagne in bed – they look like an advertisement for something, Celia thinks, but what? Insurance? Cornflakes? The NHS?

‘Dan,' Celia watches her small image say. ‘I want to say two things. I don't want to burst your bubble, but …'

‘I
know
, it's OK.'

‘No, let me just say this and then I'll shut up.' Dan shrugs. ‘First, of course, it's wonderful about your … your … well your sperm. Welcome back. And it is, does seem, miraculous. But that doesn't necessarily mean that this child
is
yours. It could still be Simon's.'

‘But I fucked you hundreds of times last month – Simon only once. So the chances …'

‘I don't want to get into that. The point is that it doesn't matter. It's our child anyway. It made no difference to you before, that's what you said, otherwise we'd never have done it like this. It makes no difference to me.'

‘Wouldn't you rather it was mine?'

‘Well yes,' Celia says, her heart sinking uneasily. ‘But it doesn't, shouldn't matter.'

‘No,' Dan says. ‘But this makes it seem more like mine. I want you to tell Simon that it might be mine, tell him that you think it probably is – and nobody else will ever know about the … business … with Simon.'

They are quiet for a moment. ‘Simon will feel a fool,' she says. ‘Feel used.'

‘Ha!' Dan swigs his champagne and refills his glass. ‘In fact once the baby's born you could tell Simon we did a blood test and that it
is
mine.'

‘Even if it isn't?'

‘Why not?'

‘Don't know,' Celia says. Her lips are dry. ‘Sorry,' I can't drink this.' She hands her glass to Dan and lies down.

‘I thought you'd be pleased,' Dan says.

‘Oh I am, Dan, really I am, just … well, confused.' Her voice sounds unconvincing even to herself, smudged by the pillow and her tiredness.

Dan snuggles down beside her and begins to caress her. His fingers play between her legs, stroking and opening, but she is dry. She squeezes her thighs together. ‘Sorry,' she says. ‘I'm utterly knackered.'

Dan grunts crossly and flops against her. He fits himself round the curve of her back, keeping one hand tucked obstinately between her legs, as if bagging it for later, she thinks, wondering if it is just hormones that are making her feel so irritated. Full of champagne, he falls quickly asleep, his breath hot on her neck. She doesn't want to be touched,
clutched
like this. She wants to lie flat. She stiffens herself into an uncuddlable shape until his sleeping self gets the message, sighs and turns over.