Page 98 of Love and Loathing

“So long as it’s organic.”

“Of course.”

They let their daft conversation lapse into amused silence. Then, in a very small voice, Evie said: “I should probably go and do it, shouldn’t I?”

She felt Aubrey nod, then she drew back and picked up the bag. He made a move to follow her.

“No. You are not coming in with me.”

“But—”

“You’re not watching me pee.”

“It doesn’t happen to be a particular kink of mine, but…”

“No, Aubrey. Some things are sacred.”

“Then promise me you’ll come straight out. We’ll wait together.”

She nodded and walked to the bathroom.

Aubrey waited. And it was hell. Each second was a torturous hour. Each second was long enough to build a paradise in his mind of Evie’s stomach swelling and a baby in his arms and Evie walking hand in hand with a toddler, long grasses brushing bare calves, and pudgy little fingers gripping crayons, and a kid with black hair and blue eyes laughing, or a kid with brown hair and brown eyes running, sand on bare toes, and oh God—each second was also long enough to tear it all back down.

It was OK. Anything that happened was OK. Evie was here. Evie was his—yes, that primal thing again. But if she wasn’t pregnant, then he wanted to make her pregnant, one day. And he wanted to have her, all of the days. Every day left to them on earth, because, God knew, he’d wasted enough of them, had hardly realised he was wasting them, because he hadn’t known, hadn’t ever known, what it was really like to love and be loved in return.

It was a fever. Right now, he burned with it. And one day, gradually, it would settle like dust falling to earth, coating everything, getting everywhere, the world indistinguishable from the feeling. A home to live in. That’s what a good relationship was. His father had it with Priya. His brother Charlie had it with his husband. He saw Roscoe building it with Poppy—every day another brick, bricks made of soft clay, moulded perfectly to shape them.

A home that grew… A home with space for more… Little footprints in the clay…

The bathroom door clicked open. Evie walked out, and together they watched the lines grow.

Epilogue

Evie watched the littlegirl dash down the garden path, pink plastic sandals slapping on the dry and dusty earth. The paths were fine in the summer, but in the winter they turned to mud. They needed to lay something proper—concrete slabs. Or bricks would be nice. A herringbone pattern, like the walled garden at Redbridge. Why not bring a little bit of that country estate vibe into urban North London?

A big fat bee bumbled noisily across the path, disappearing into the bright orange nasturtiums that tumbled over the woven wicker path edging. She watched it amble from flower to flower, then ambled herself further up the path to the little apple and pear trees in the middle of the garden.

There was a small boy, a toddler, on his knees there, dirty to the elbow. A bag of compost and a row of pots on the short sun-yellowed grass. The boy scooped some compost from the bag with a small red plastic spade and spilt almost all of it before getting a few crumbs into a plant pot.

“Excellent,” said the man kneeling next to him. “Another thousand of those and we should be ready to go.”

The boy looked up at him and held out the spade, putting a grubby hand on a once-immaculate trouser leg as he levered himself up to a wobbly stand. “Orby do it,” said the boy, and toddled off, perhaps in search of his parents who were standing nearby, or perhaps in search of a less onerous task. Like poking snails.

Evie laughed, coming over.

“The youth of today,” Aubrey said, shaking his head and getting to his feet. “No work ethic.” He tossed the spade down and brushed the dirt from his knees, then gave Evie a careful once over. “How are you holding up? It’s so hot.”

“I’m OK.”

“You should be in the shade.”

“In another ten years or so, it’ll be lovely and shady here,” she said, toying with a leaf on the baby apple tree. “A miniature orchard.”

“Mm,” said Aubrey, unswayed, and took her by the shoulder, guiding her in the direction of the wooden summerhouse in the corner. It had replaced the old Bluedeen builder’s portacabin and was where the volunteers served tea and squash on family open days, like today.

“But you’re nine months pregnantright now. I don’t think we can wait ten years.”

“It feels like it’s been ten years already. I’ve been pregnantforever.”

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