‘It isn’t.’ Eve waited until he had taken a sip of his beer, wiped his hand across his mouth and then she said: ‘Orlando, I’m pregnant.’
His expression didn’t change.
Eve remembered his teasing on the phone. What was the deal? Couldn’t it wait? He wasn’t planning to be in town for a couple of weeks, couldn’t she hold off having him till then? She would have to; she went in on the joke, acted like it was nothing but every hour since the news had been agony. She had consulted her GP and conception was cited as the New Year. That meant she was coming up for nine weeks.
Eve hadn’t thought anything when she’d skipped her first period—she had never been one of those women who could count it by the day.
‘Well?’ she ventured.
His face was steady and she wondered if this had happened to him before. What was earth-moving to her was another pain in the ass for him. That stung.
‘How?’ Orlando asked.
‘I’ve got a pretty good idea.’
He nicked his chin, the shadow of a beard. ‘We’ve always used protection.’
‘It can still happen.’
Eve looked down to her lap. She hated that she had to cut the apologetic figure. It wasn’t Orlando making her feel that way, just the role the woman had to fill. This was happening to her. It was her body and therefore her problem.
The chair scraped back. Orlando stood. ‘How long?’
‘Nearly three months.’
‘And you just found out?’
‘I did a test in Italy. I called you straight away. I wanted you to know but I felt it was important to tell you face to face.’
‘Why didn’t you do it sooner?’
She chose not to react against the note of accusation in his voice. He was in shock, just as she had been. Just as she still was.
‘First month it was nothing unusual. Second month, it was. That’s when I did the test. The weeks add up. So do the days. Every minute that passes …’
‘What next?’ He turned to the window, put his hands in his pockets. His back was taut, the muscles beneath his shirt strained. She wished she could tell what he was thinking, but at the same time dreaded it. Supposing he wanted to keep this baby?
Eve wasn’t ready to become a parent. Analysing it, she didn’t expect she would ever feel ready. Her own experience had been enough to put her off for life. Her father had been a terrible, violent man. All her memories were riddled with his vile disease.
Who was to say that Eve wouldn’t mess it up as spectacularly as he had? That the damage she had been subjected to wouldn’t be transferred to her own child?
Who could promise, really promise, that that wouldn’t happen?
She dreamed of her baby. It had the eyes of her father and she hated it on sight.
‘Do you want me to come with you?’ Orlando asked, turning to her.
At first she didn’t understand. Then, when she did, relief hit—but it was tinged with an unexpected shiver of resentment. He had assumed, albeit correctly, that she was set on abortion. Was she that obvious? Could he read it in her face?
‘No.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘Quite sure.’
She was definite. She didn’t need Orlando tagging along, holding her hand and saying all the wrong things. It would be a cold contract, not dissimilar to their relationship, in and out in a day and she would deal with it by herself.
She couldn’t think of it as a person, just a thing inside her that wasn’t yet born.
What kind of life could she give it? She wasn’t fit to be a mother, and as for her situation with Orlando—they could never provide their child with anything stable.
‘I’m glad you feel the same,’ she said. It sounded hollow.
Orlando nodded. Out on the street, car horns blared. Normal life continued; it was only their bubble that had burst. Eve didn’t recognise the serious, dark-eyed man in front of her. Their relationship so far had been defined by sex and secrets, by the thrill of the chase and a no-strings respect that left both their consciences clean.
All that had been severed. Always a string would now bind them, the cord of this misfortune, and it would throttle anything they had.
The ending made her sadder than she expected.
‘Is it mine?’
His question came out of the blue. It hit her like a slap, cold and sharp.
‘Excuse me?’
‘Is it?’
‘How dare you. You arsehole.’
‘I had to ask.’
‘No, you didn’t. You didn’t have to at all.’
Orlando sat down, but she pushed her own seat away.
‘You have to admit,’ he said softly, ‘we don’t know each other. I’m checking.’
‘You’re insulting.’
‘So there’s been no one else?’ His voice was quiet. Different.
To her mortification Eve blinked back the hot stem of tears.
Don’t cry! She never cried. It was the sheer injustice of his accusation, this lead weight she had been carrying around, the fear she had faced all alone, no one to share it with until now—and now she had, he had treated her as little more than a slut.
‘Yes,’ she lied. She didn’t know why. She wanted him to be jealous, maybe, or simply to prove him right, to drive him away for good. ‘But it isn’t his.’
Orlando stayed quiet a while before he said: ‘Who?’
‘It doesn’t matter.’
‘It does to me.’
‘The timing’s yours. It’s definitely yours.’
But when she looked up she could see that she had lost him.
Fine—if that’s what you think, think it!
She wanted him to hurt. She was hurt, why should he get off free?
‘I need you to go,’ she said.
Orlando looked like he was about to say something, then he changed his mind.
‘You’ll let me know?’ he said, slipping on his coat and making for the door. His bearing was cool, professional, playing out the motions.
‘Yes.’
‘I guess that’s it, then.’
‘I guess.’
The door opened. ‘Goodbye, Eve.’
Eve didn’t say it back. She waited until she heard the door close, a soft, final hush, and his footsteps travel down the stairs. Only then did she let the tears fall.
Washington, D.C.
MITCH CORRIGAN: WHO IS THE MAN BEHIND THE MASK?
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