Emily Harper clutched the test results in a whiteknuckled fist, the paper already damp from her own sweat. The corridor outside the womens health clinic was jammed tighter than a London tube at rush hour.
Emily Harper! shouted a nurse, her voice echoing off the stark plaster.
Emily rose, slipped into the consultation room. The doctor, a fullfigured woman with weary eyes, snatched the folder from Emilys hands and flicked through the pages with a practiced glance.
Have a seat, she said, eyeing the results with the same detached air she reserved for a soggy biscuit. Everything looks normal. You should get your husband checked.
Emilys stomach gave a sudden, inexplicable chill. Victor? But isnt he
Later, at home, her motherinlaw, Winifred Clarke, was hacking cabbage for a stew, her knife moving as though she were battling invisible foes.
Whats the news, dear? Winifred asked, never looking up from the chopping board.
Im fine, Emily muttered, shrugging off her coat.
And why then Winifred finally lifted her eyes, a flicker of concern flashing across her face. Victor needs a checkup.
The knife halted midair. Winifred straightened as if a spring had been released inside her.
What nonsense! My sons perfectly healthy. Its always the doctors who dont understand. In my day women gave birth without a single test.
Emily drifted into the living room, where a mismatched pair of socks lay on the sofaone navy, one charcoal. She absentmindedly gathered them and tossed them into the laundry basket. In three years of marriage those socks had become a tiny metaphor for their life: a collection of odd pieces that never quite matched.
Victor trudged home late, his shoulders sagging.
Whats with that funeral face? he grumbled, flopping into his armchair.
Victor, we need to talk, Emily said.
About what?
She slid the papers across the coffee table. He skimmed them, then flung the stack onto the side table.
And then?
You need to get examined.
For what reason? Victor leapt up, pacing the room. Im a healthy bloke! Look at me!
He did look the partbroad shoulders, a mop of dark hairbut health isnt always visible.
Please, Victor
Enough! he barked. If you dont want kids, just say so! Why all this theatre with the doctors?
The clatter of slippers drifted from the kitchen. Winifred lingered in the doorway, breathing so loudly it seemed shed forgotten how to inhale quietly.
I want children more than anything, Emily whispered.
Then why arent there any? Are you hiding something? Did you have… abortions? Winifred pressed, her voice a razor.
Emily recoiled as if struck.
How could you
How could I? Weve been married three years and theres nothing! And now the doctors tell me Im Victor cut himself off, fists clenched.
The front door slammed open. Winifred stormed in like a battering ram.
Victor, dont listen to her! Its all laziness. If youd work more and see the doctor less, wed be fine.
Emily glanced at Victor, who turned his back to the window.
Victor, you really think I
I dont know what to think, he muttered through clenched teeth. One thing I do know: a fit man doesnt go to the doctor.
Winifred nodded triumphantly. Exactly, son. Its not a mans job to be hopping round hospitals.
Emily felt something snap inside her, as taut as a guitar string.
Fine, she said, voice steady.
The next morning, the war began. Winifred began nitpicking everything: the salt wasnt shuffled correctly, the pot wasnt rinsed, dust lingered on the dresser. Emily clenched her teeth and kept silent.
Maybe you shouldnt stay at home at all? Winifred suggested, voice dripping with venom over dinner. Get a job instead of traipsing to doctors.
Victor chewed his meatloaf without looking up. I have a job, Emily retorted.
Three days a week isnt a job, its a hobby.
What does my work have to do with this?
And what about it! My son is healthy, yet you paint him sick! No kids? Thats on the woman, always has been!
Emily rose, legs wobbling.
Whats wrong with you? Eat and then bolt?
Im tired, she whispered.
Tired? From what? Working three days a weekwhats the load, pray tell?
Victor finally met her gaze, a flicker of pity there, but said nothing.
That night, Emily lay listening to Victors snore. Once a soothing reminder of a nearby human, now it grated like a faulty radiator. She realised shed never noticed how obstinate he could be.
At dawn, she stuffed a few essentialstwo dresses, some underwear, a makeup baginto an old sports backpack.
You going somewhere? Winifred asked, tea cup in hand, standing in the kitchen doorway.
To my mums.
For how long?
I dont know.
Victor emerged from the bathroom, eyes landing on the backpack.
Whats that, Em?
What you see.
You serious?
How could I not be? You wont see a doctor, Mum thinks Im to blame for everything. Why should I stick around?
He stepped closer, voice dropping.
Dont be daft. Where are you off to?
To Gran Mauds.
To that little croft? Its only a mile away!
In a tight spot, but Im not angry about it.
Winifred snorted. Right, let her go. Shell learn how nice it is to live with an old woman, see how good things were back then.
Victor shot a angry glance at his mother but said nothing.
Emily hoisted the backpack and headed for the front door.
Emily! Victor called.
She turned, his damp hair plastered to his forehead, looking bewildered.
When will you be back?
When you finally see a doctor.
The door slammed shut behind her.
Gran Maud gasped when she saw her granddaughter appear with a backpack.
Emily! What on earth?
Had a row with Victor. Can I stay here?
Of course, love. Its a snug place, but youll manage.
The flat was tinyone bed, a table, two chairs, a dated TVbut spotless and scented with vanilla, as Gran Maud loved baking.
Tell me what happened, the old lady said, setting a kettle on the stove.
Emily spilled everything. Gran Maud listened, nodding her silvered head.
Oh dear Men are such stubborn things. Admitting somethings wrong feels like a death sentence to them.
You think Ill wait forever for him to finally see a doctor?
No, you did the right thing leaving. Let him mull it over.
The first few days settled into a quiet routine. Emily set up a foldout couch in the corner, helped Gran Maud with chores, and ignored Victors calls. Later, Gran Maud complained of chest pains; an ambulance whisked her away.
Dont worry, love, Maud whispered as they lifted her onto a stretcher. Im old, all sorts of things happen.
In the hospital, Gran Maud improved. Emily visited daily, bringing homecooked meals and the latest gossip.
Hows the husband? Gran Maud asked one afternoon.
Not great. Hes shouted at me a couple of times, then hung up.
And you answered?
First time, yes. Second, no. Whats the point of hearing the same rant?
Maybe hell finally see a doctor?
Unlikely.
The ward was bustling. Emily headed for the exit and nearly collided with a young man in a white coat, blond hair, kind eyes.
Sorry, she said.
No trouble. Who are you looking for?
My gran, in Ward7.
Oh, MrsEuphemia Kettle? Lovely lady. Im DrDenis Ives, cardiologist.
Emily.
Pleasure, Emily. Dont worry, shell be finejust age, you know.
He spoke about Gran Mauds condition, his hands longfingertipped, nails neat. Emily found herself watching his steady movements.
Thank you for the care, she said.
He lingered, returning the next day, then the next. Emily started arriving early, hoping to catch a glimpse.
Emily, the doctor wants to know if youll be in today, Gran Maud told her one evening with a sly grin.
The doctors curious?
Yes! He asks, Hows your granddaughter doing? Good chap, by the way. And single.
Emily flushed. Gran, what are you on about?
Im teasing. Youre practically a free bird now. That Victor of yours
Im married.
Pfft!
A week later, DrIves was transferred to another ward. On his last day, he stopped by Emily in the corridor.
Ill miss you, he said simply.
And I you, she admitted.
He handed her a card.
If you ever need anything or just a chat.
Emily took it, their fingers brushing.
Thanks.
And also youre stunning, though a touch melancholy. I hope that changes.
Gran Maud was discharged, grew stronger at home, but Emily still fretted about leaving her alone.
Victors calls became sporadic; sometimes she answered, sometimes she didnt. The last call ended with him shouting that she was acting like a petulant teenager. She hung up and never lifted the receiver again.
A month later, an unfamiliar woman rang.
Emily? This is Deniss mother. He gave me your number
Is something wrong?
Oh, nojust that his birthday is tomorrow and hed love to see you. Could you come?
Emily hesitated, but Gran Maud, having overheard, waved her over.
Go on, love! Whens the last time you had fun?
The birthday went splendidly. Denis was attentive without being overbearing, introduced Emily to his friends, and when they said goodbye, he whispered, Id like to see you again. May I?
Sure, she murmured.
They began seeing each other cautiously, gently. Denis never pried, never demanded explanations. Sometimes Emily even spent the night at his flat.
Then, unexpectedly, Emily discovered she was pregnant.
Will you marry me? Denis asked when she told him.
Yes, she laughed, delighted.
A year later, Emily was pushing a stroller down the park lane. Denis walked beside her, cracking jokes, while their son, Milo, snoozed happily.
Ahead, Victor and Winifred Clarke strolled together. Spotting Emily, they stopped dead in their tracks, as if the world had frozen.
Emily kept her pace, head held high. In Victors eyes she read the whole catalogue of pain, regret, and understanding.
Winifred tugged Victors sleeve.
Lets go, Victor, she whispered.
But he stood still, staring at the stroller, at the smiling couple, at the life hed let slip by. He finally knew his mistakeonly too late.
