Chocolate Cake for Breakfast (23 page)

I lay there, turning the little pendant between my fingers, wondering if he wanted out and was hoping I’d get the message without him actually having to say it in so many words. Let’s face it: you do have grounds for concern when your boyfriend prefers
Everybody Hates Chris
to you. The idea of a life without Mark, or a life where I saw him only for child handovers, hurt so much that I didn’t see how I was going to bear it, and tears trickled across my cheeks to pool in my ears.

I was being foolish and melodramatic, of course; people bear all sorts of unbearable things. But sometimes it’s easier to tell yourself you’re not going to get through a thing than it is to contemplate the pain and effort that the getting-through will take.

It was a very long hour later when Mark came quietly upstairs, undressed and got into bed.

Just leave him alone
, I told myself miserably.
He’s hoping
you’re asleep
. But I reached out a tentative hand for his, on the slim off-chance that I might be wrong.

His fingers closed around mine. ‘Feeling a bit better?’

‘Yes,’ I said.

‘That’s good.’

I wriggled across the mattress and propped myself up on one elbow to kiss him.

‘Sure you’re not going to spew?’ he asked, running a hand over my hair.

‘Pretty sure,’ I said.

‘I’m not sure pretty sure is sure enough.’ But I could hear that he was smiling, and he pulled me down on top of him. ‘Oh, what the hell. I like living dangerously.’

21

‘
WHERE
’
S DHAKA
?’
I ASKED THE NEXT MORNING, TURNING
over the world news section of the paper to see a photo of a small shirtless coffee-coloured boy kicking a soccer ball along a muddy street. ‘India?’

‘Capital of Bangladesh,’ Mark said, stretching his arms above his head and wincing as his sore shoulder caught.

‘That’s not bad for someone who failed sixth form twice.’

‘What do you feel like doing today?’

I looked out through the kitchen window at the clean bright sky above the neighbour’s roof. ‘Beach?’

‘Okay,’ he said. ‘East coast or west?’

We went west, over the Waitakere Ranges to Piha. It was a winding and very scenic drive, although I would have enjoyed it more without the stop halfway down to throw up into the long grass at the roadside. Car sickness and morning sickness are not a happy combination.

We walked to the far end of the beach and sat down in the warm black sand. The sea was a deep purplish-blue in the sunlight and the breakers a lovely clear green, edged with crisp white foam. A pair of gannets were fishing, gliding effortlessly above the waves and then folding their wings to plummet head first into the sea. I’ve always thought gannets are most superior birds, clean and white and beautifully streamlined, as if they were designed by a Danish furniture maker.

‘You’re on call for Christmas, aren’t you?’ asked Mark, breaking into my musings on gannet design.

‘Yep,’ I said. ‘Lunch at Uncle Simon and Aunty Laura’s, as long as nobody runs over their dog. What are you doing?’

‘No plans,’ he said, leaning back on his elbows and yawning.

‘You’re welcome to come and hang out with me. But I won’t be offended if you don’t want to.’

‘Okay.’

I drew circles in the sand with a stem of marram grass. ‘Okay you’ll come, or okay you won’t?’

‘I’ll come.’

‘Are you sure? My whole family will know I’m pregnant by then.’

‘It’s not 1950,’ he pointed out. ‘Your relatives probably aren’t going to horsewhip me for knocking you up.’

‘No, they’ll just all look at us sideways and wonder when it’s going to go pear-shaped.’

‘Who cares?’

I looked at him curiously. ‘Do you honestly not worry about what people think?’

Mark pushed his sunglasses thoughtfully up his nose. ‘Well, I can’t help what people think, so what’s the point of stressing about it?’

‘Wow,’ I said in only half-pretend awe. ‘You are so cool.’

On the way home we went to the supermarket, where Mark spent five minutes in earnest conversation with a small boy who played rugby for Edendale Primary and planned to be an All Black when he grew up.

Mark unloaded me and the groceries at the front door and went to park the car, and I was just carrying in the last two bags when Alan and Saskia came strolling hand in hand down the driveway.

‘Hi,’ I said nervously. Mark’s reasoning on the futility of worrying about what people thought was excellent, but still I was damned if I could help it.

‘Hi,’ said Saskia. ‘We need coffee. We’re completely shattered.’ She was wearing a pale green linen sundress and silver sandals, with her cropped blonde hair artfully tousled, and she was the least shattered-looking person I had ever seen. She looked like Tinker Bell, dainty and flawless.

‘What shattered you?’ I asked.

‘Door handles,’ said Alan bitterly. ‘You just wouldn’t think it could be that hard, would you? You’d think you’d wander into the nearest shop and pick something that looked about right, and that would be that.’

‘But no?’

‘Don’t even ask.’

‘It’s important to get the details right,’ said Saskia.

‘It’s not,’ Alan said. ‘Once the bloody things are on the doors you’ll never notice them again.’

‘
I
will. Be quiet. Hey, Tip.’

‘Hey,’ said Mark, appearing around the corner of the building. ‘Aren’t you supposed to be in Queenstown?’

‘Next weekend,’ Saskia said.

‘How did
you
get out of it?’ Alan demanded.

‘Wasn’t invited,’ Mark said, sounding distinctly smug.

‘Why not?’

‘Because he used to sleep with the bride, you cretin,’ said Saskia. ‘About five years ago, Helen; don’t worry.’

‘So what?’ asked Alan. ‘Half of Auckland used to sleep with the bride. A fair few probably still do.’

‘Pay no attention to him,’ Saskia told me. ‘He’s just sulking about having to go to Queenstown when he could be at home choosing doorknobs. Tip, my new office shelving arrived on Thursday.’

‘That’s nice,’ said Mark.

‘I’d love to have it up by Christmas,’ she said hopefully.

‘Reckon you can hold out till Monday?’

‘You’re wonderful,’ she said. ‘I’ll be at work, but Alan will help you. Right. Coffee.’ And she led the way purposefully inside.

A quick hunt through the cupboards revealed a complete absence of plunger coffee. ‘Instant?’ I offered.

Saskia shuddered eloquently.

‘Just add sugar,’ Mark said. ‘It’s still got caffeine in it; it’ll do the same job.’

‘It won’t,’ she said. ‘I’ll go and get some proper stuff from the cafe round the corner. Come and keep me company, Helen.’

Obediently, I followed her downstairs. I admired Saskia immensely; in fact, I suspected that my
Cosmopolitan
article about power tools and chocolate cakes and stripteases had been penned with her in mind. And her rugby knowledge was encyclopaedic. Back in September I’d gone with her to watch the boys play, and when the whistle blew she had made impressive comments like, ‘Hah! Serves him right. Tiny’s bind’s been crap all season.’ I usually couldn’t even tell which side had been penalised until the ref’s arm went up, let alone being able to critique the way the tighthead prop was holding on to his opponent in the scrum.

‘It feels like ages since we saw you,’ she said. ‘Have you been doing anything exciting?’

So Mark hadn’t told them about the baby. And he hadn’t told his parents either, which suggested that perhaps he cared more about what people thought than he claimed to. I realised suddenly that she was waiting for an answer to her question, and said, ‘No. Non-cycling cows, mostly.’

We let ourselves out into the bright sunlight and started up the driveway. ‘What’s a non-cycling cow when it’s at home?’ she asked.

‘One that doesn’t come back on heat after calving in time for mating,’ I said. ‘Usually it’s because they’re too thin.’

‘What do you do with them?’

‘Treat them with hormones to get them started.’

‘What, cow IVF?’

I smiled, never having thought about it quite like that. ‘Well, yeah, sort of. It’s not the most exciting time of year; it’s pretty repetitive work.’ It was also pretty depressing work on those occasional farms where we treated a third of the herd every year because the people in charge felt that actually giving the cows enough to eat would be a criminal extravagance.

‘Well, there you go,’ said Saskia. ‘Who knew? Oh, did Tip tell you we’re going out on the boat over New Year’s? It would be great if you guys could come.’

‘He did,’ I said. ‘It’s so kind of you, but I’m a lousy sailor.’

‘Have you tried Sea Legs? Tiny white pills – you get them at the chemist’s. They’re magic.’

‘Um –’ I said, and stopped.

‘We’re going to Great Barrier Island. Have you been there?’

I shook my head.

‘It’s really beautiful,’ she said. ‘A sort of unspoilt paradise. The water’s incredibly clear, and the fishing’s amazing. Not that fishing’s really my cup of Ribena, but Alan loves it. Please come.’

‘It sounds wonderful,’ I said unhappily to my feet. ‘But I – I’m pregnant, so I can’t take anything, and I’ve got the most appalling morning sickness . . .’

Saskia said nothing at all, and with some effort I lifted my eyes from my toes to look at her. I was expecting her to look shocked, and quite possibly taken aback, but I was unprepared for stricken.

‘It’s all my fault,’ I said, tumbling mouth first into the void of horrified silence that had just opened in the conversation. ‘I messed up the pill. I’m honestly not expecting Mark to settle down and play happy families when we’ve only been going out for about half an hour . . .’ She was still looking at me as if I had just announced that whale was my favourite meat, and I trailed off again, wishing fervently that for once – just for
once
– I had kept my big, stupid mouth shut.

‘Congratulations,’ said Saskia hoarsely. ‘No, I mean condolences, or something . . . oh, shit, Helen, I’m sorry. Are you okay?’

‘Not – not very.’

‘No, I guess not.’ She opened her bag and rummaged through it for a lip gloss she didn’t want, in a vain attempt to lessen the awkwardness of the moment.

‘I’m sorry,’ I said wretchedly. ‘Mark should have told you, not me.’

‘No,’ she said, dropping the lip gloss back into her purse. ‘No, that’s – look, I’m so sorry. It’s just that our third round of IVF didn’t work, and I’m still –’ She choked and stopped.

‘Oh, Sask,’ I whispered, appalled.

She lifted her head and blinked hard. ‘We can’t stand here bawling in the middle of Mount Eden,’ she said. ‘Let’s go and bawl somewhere else.’

When we returned three-quarters of an hour later, minus the coffee and with suspiciously pink-rimmed eyes, Alan and Mark were drinking beer on the balcony with their feet on the railing and their chairs tipped back on two legs against the wall. Neither of them remarked on either the lack of coffee or the time we’d been gone, but I saw Alan watching his wife, and his expression made my throat close up.

Alan and Saskia only stayed another ten minutes, and as the front door closed behind them Mark moved his sore shoulder experimentally and said, ‘Told her, huh?’