Sitting down, she takes the note and looks at it. I watch for a reaction on her face. Her eyebrows rise just a little but she shakes her head.
‘I’ve no idea,’ she says. ‘But no, I didn’t get one. Ooh! Eliana Hughes, have you got a stalker?’
She laughs but I don’t. I force a smile but feel my chest tighten. She must notice my expression.
‘Eli, I’m kidding. I’m sure it’s nothing. Someone’s idea of a joke or something. Or mistaken identity. Sure, it’s bound to be that. Who would you have to mistrust? You and Martin have the most solid marriage I’ve ever seen. There’s no way he’d play away.’
Martin.
It didn’t even cross my mind it could be about Martin. Until now. I want to nod and say yes, we’re the most solid couple people know. Because we were … but lately … There’s a disconnect there that I can’t quite put my finger on.
The coffee I’ve been drinking tastes bitter. Of bile. Just like everything else tastes off that I’ve had to eat or drink over the last seven months. Just like everything in my life feels off.
We’d tried so hard to have this baby. Months of disappointment and finally tests. Then ‘There’s nothing we can find, just give it time,’ and more disappointment until, finally, two lines.
It should be the happiest time of our lives. Certainly the happiest time of my life; nurturing a new human life deep within me, bonding with this kicking, wriggling person made of love about to become our baby.
I expected to love every moment of pregnancy, but I realise now I’d been naïve. This kicking, wriggling person who seems to be made of right angles, jabs and pokes at my stomach muscles, which are permanently aching from the daily retching. It makes me feel sorry for myself. I feel angry that I’ve been robbed of a positive pregnancy experience that most women get. And I feel guilty that I resent this pregnancy not being what I wanted it to be. Sure, won’t the end result be the same? Isn’t that what’s important?
And Martin, try as he might, can’t understand how I feel. I suppose I’ve been taking that anger and frustration out on him a little.
I feel tears prick at my eyes. Swear at myself. I can’t cry again today.
‘Eli.’ Rachel’s voice cuts through my thoughts.
I look up at her, her eyes filled with concern. Her hand reaches across the table and takes mine.
‘Eli, you do know Martin would never, ever cheat on you. This isn’t about Martin. This is somebody’s idea of a stupid joke, or it’s about something else we’ve just not figured out yet. But we will.’
I nod, two fat tears rolling down my cheeks. My nose running, I sniff loudly, grab a tissue from the box on the table and roughly rub at my eyes.
‘You’re right,’ I say. ‘Of course you’re right.’
I look at the letter again. It doesn’t reveal anything new, so in a rage I crumple it up and throw it into the bin beside the fridge.
Rachel smiles. Tells me I’ve done the right thing and gives my hand a rub before her pager calls her back to a patient.
When she’s gone, I take it back out and thrust it deep into the bottom of my handbag.
By the time my shift is done, I’m exhausted and I’m pretty sure my ankles have doubled in size. I can’t wait to get home, kick off my shoes and feel the cool marble floors of our living space under my tired feet.
But my car’s in the garage and I have to wait for Martin to collect me. As usual, he’s late. Probably stuck on a work call he can’t get out of.
I’m standing with my coat on, looking out at the rain falling onto the hospice car park, when Rachel asks if I need a lift.
‘It’s not on your way home,’ I tell her. ‘I couldn’t ask you to do that.’
‘You didn’t. I offered,’ she says with a smile. ‘It’ll save that husband of yours coming out on a night like this and sure, it’s not that far out of my way. The kids are at their dad’s, so it’s not like I’m in a rush to get home anyway. You’ve had a long day,’ she says, and I want to hug her.
‘If you’re sure?’ I ask. ‘I’ll just check Martin hasn’t left.’
‘I’m sure,’ she smiles.
I dial my husband, who answers after two rings, apologises and says he’ll be with me shortly. I can hear from the background noises that he’s still at home.
‘Rachel’s going to drop me over. You’ve no need to come out,’ I tell him.
He sounds relieved. ‘That’s great,’ he says. ‘I can get on with some work while dinner’s cooking. It’s been a mad day, so busy. But look, I’ll talk to you about it when you get home.’
Work has been ‘mad’ for months now. Longer hours. More trips away. A big project that could bring a lot more work his way. When he wants to talk about it, it generally means he’ll tell me about another ‘vital’ trip away. It’s a good thing I’m not the suspicious type.
Or wasn’t.
I end the call and tell Rachel I’ll take her up on her offer.
‘Are you okay?’ she asks as she leads the way to her car. ‘You’re not still mulling over that silly note, are you?’
I force a smile. Shake my head. Lie and say I’m fine and that I’m just tired. Change the conversation to something less likely to make me feel tightness in my chest. We talk about who we’re rooting for in Strictly Come Dancing until we pull up outside my house.
I feel as if I should invite her in, but I’m too tired to play the gracious host.
‘We must get you round for dinner some time,’ I say to her. ‘Have a proper catch-up outside work, when we aren’t both so tired.’ I hope that makes up for the lack of invite tonight.
‘That’d be lovely,’ she says with genuine warmth.
I give her a quick hug then climb out of the car and walk to the front door of my dream home, nervous about what my husband will tell me.
When we first moved to this house just over eighteen months ago, after several years of enduring a three-hour commute between Belfast and Derry, I thought I was the luckiest woman alive. There were certain perks to marrying an architect, not that it really mattered to me what Martin did for a living. I’d fallen head over heels in love within weeks of meeting him.
Set on the banks of Enagh Lough, just outside Derry city, Martin had overseen the renovation of the old farmhouse himself. It had taken a year – and lots of blood, sweat and tears – but he’d made our home magnificent.
The rear of the house, which looked out over the lake and the surrounding woods, was mostly glazed. Large plate glass windows set in natural wood frames. Bifold doors onto wooden decking, leading to our own personal jetty – it was stunning in all seasons.
It had felt like our home from the moment we’d walked over the threshold of that ramshackle farmhouse; of course, it felt more so now. It was our bubble in a hectic world that moved at a breakneck speed.
It feels less of a bubble these days. Pregnancy has made me feel vulnerable in a way I never did before. Reliant, not so much on Martin as an individual but on Martin and I as a team. A couple.