Page 59 of Broken Country

It takes a moment for her words to sink in. When they do, I suck my breath in too sharply, wounded instantly though I have no right to be.

Nina reaches out to take my hand.

Another child at Blakely Farm, not ours but theirs. It is the thing we both hoped for, above everything else. Neither of us have felt ready, after Bobby, to try again. Butsometimes I long and crave for a baby, one I could borrow, a sweet, uncomplicated newborn who belongs to the people I love most in the world.

“I’m so happy for you,” I say, half laughing. “I know it doesn’t look like it. But it’s the thing Frank and I have been hoping for.”

“Really?”

“Absolutely.”

We embrace and I think of all the other men and women who must have sat beside this ancient hearth, sharing their good news. The centuries pass but the hope and optimism that accompanies each new family at its beginning is the same. What else is there in life, really, of such significance? This momentary pause in which everything changes.

“When did you decide?”

“We’ve been talking about it for a while. We’re both ready. Well—” Nina breaks off to laugh. “Jimmy is as ready as he’s ever going to be. I’m hoping a baby might help him get his act together, you know?”

“It will. Don’t forget how amazing he was the day Bobby was born. That man has hidden depths. I can hardly wait. I’m going to be the world’s best auntie. Oh, my God, Frank an uncle. Imagine what he’ll be like.”

My face must fall when I think of Frank.

“Beth?” Nina asks, quietly. She waits until I’m looking at her. “Is something wrong?”

If only I could tell her. I’ve done something so bad, so wrong, and I can never undo it. And the problem is, I’m not sure I even want to. How is it that infidelity, a line you think you will never cross, becomes almost commonplace after a while? Tomorrow, when I have finished all my chores at home and on the farm, I will sneak off to Meadowlands to see my lover. We’ll go straight to bed and for those precious hours I won’t allow myself to think of Frank. It takes acertain mindset to exist within two parallel spheres. I never imagined myself as the kind of woman who would have it. But it turns out I am.

“No. Nothing’s wrong.”

“Good,” Nina says, leaning forward to kiss my cheek. “Because it’s still my wedding week and I want to keep celebrating. Here’s my honeymoon, Beth. You and me and, with any luck, the return of our drunken husbands sooner or later, to keep the party going. Right now, that’s all that matters.”

Wednesday

The front door at Meadowlands is always unlocked and I decide to creep in and surprise Gabriel. He will be at his desk, snatching a few minutes of writing time before I arrive. In my head I’m thinking I will discard a trail of clothes in the hall and be fully naked by the time I reach his study. I feel deranged, no other word to describe it, possessed by eroticism, by this fierce, rapid rekindling of love.

From the hall, I hear voices; Gabriel is talking to someone. A woman. My mind reels in shock. What if it’s someone I know? Someone who might mention to Frank they happened to run into me at Meadowlands during the day, no Leo in tow. I’ve thought about this scenario, we both have, deciding if anyone asked, we’d say I was doing some cooking for Gabriel. What am I doing coming here day after day with no thought to the consequences? It is as if I’m in free fall, waiting to crash-land, or to be caught.

I retrace my steps, hoping I can get in the car and drive away before anyone sees me, when Gabriel comes into the hall.

“Hey,” he says, in a voice that denotes the presence of a stranger. “Please don’t go. I won’t be long. I’d forgotten a journalist fromThe Timeswas coming today.”

“I can come back.”

“No, don’t. Come through, we’re almost done. I’ve made coffee.”

A young woman is sitting at the kitchen table, a spiral notebook open in front of her. She smiles when I walk in.

“Beth, this is Flora Hughes, she’s writing a feature for the color supplement. Beth is an old friend of mine.”

I feel a confusing stab of envy looking at Flora, a fledgling journalist with her whole career ahead and already writing for a national newspaper. She is wearing a navy minidress with white, knee-length platform boots, her hair cut into a fashionable low fringe that hovers just above her eyes. She seems intimidatingly “London.”

Gabriel passes me a mug of coffee, smiling fractionally when his fingers touch mine.Not long, his look says.

“You’ve got a few more questions?” he says to Flora. And to me: “Flora tells me she’s writing a piece about a new wave of young authors tearing up British publishing, alongside her interview with me, the has-been. I’m officially the old guard at thirty-one.”

Gabriel laughs. Flora doesn’t.

“That’s not what I meant at all,” she says. “Please don’t think—”

“Flora. I’m joking.”

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