Page 44 of Tears of Gold

“Faith, is everything okay?”

“Sure.” I manage to snap my way into action and shake it off. There is no reason for me to worry… right…? But then, Eli and I can be very spontaneous in the moment. I’m pretty good at knowing my cycle and know when not to take risks, yet on Friday we screwed on the sofa just in the lounge and it didn’t even cross my mind.

Oh my god.

“Faith? Did you hear me? I said I’d go and get a toaster today? Did you have a brand in mind?”

“What? Toaster? Uh, just whatever. Cheapest, I’m not bothered.”

I turn and start to walk back out of the room. The fog I was already in descends until it’s as though it’s shrouding me.

After a quick shower, I get dressed and grab my stuff for class. It’s weird just having it all set out on the dining room table instead of in a studio. I’ve never not had a work space before, but just like when Eli mentioned it at the weekend, I can’t even think about it.

Can’t think about anything.

Blank.

On the tube, I pull out my phone and try not to breathe in the body odour of the guy next to me. Flicking the calendar, I scroll through the dates. I can’t remember anything. Why haven’t I got one of those apps Abi is always looking at in desperation, trying to work out when she’s ovulating so she can steer clear of Adam like he has the plague?

Abi… I want to call her. She’ll tell me everything is okay.

Who am I kidding? She’d tell me not to be a dick and start using condoms.

Oh, God.

She’d tell me to buy a test.

I want to ring Eli, but he’ll be in court by now. He should know. He should have this awful panic running through him like a tidal wave.

Oh, God.

In September I came back. It took him a couple of weeks to win me back… we then lived at his house… I can definitely remember having a period once we were back together, because it was mighty inconvenient. But that was September. It’s now the end of October. Peter has been gone for weeks.

It’s utterly stupid but as the tube carriage rocks back and forth, jostling me against the guy in need of deodorant, I put my hand on my stomach. It’s still flat, still smooth, and beneath my jumper are my ink and secrets.

No. This isn’t happening. I’m not the right woman for this to happen to. It's women like Abi, natural caregivers, people who have love at their centre, who shine bright with it. Not me. I don’t know anything about parenthood, apart from what my dad taught me about fucking it up, and what my mother taught me about running away.

When the tube gets to my stop, I get up and ignore the swish of nausea that rises from my tummy. Faith, calm down. It’s just nerves. Just anxiety.

But as I get out of the tube station and walk up the stairs into the cold air, I know it’s not. I’ve been feeling like this for weeks. Since Peter’s funeral. Since Eli got hurt by Aiden and we were all black and blue.

Somehow, I get through class, I wave and nod at the dean who tells me how excited he is by the developments with the show and then I go to Boots the pharmacy and buy a test.

Then when I’m home I sit on the bed with my legs folded and wait for Eli to come home.

He needs to come home. I can’t do this by myself.

“Oh, honey, I’m home.” The thud of his bag being dropped by the front door echoes up the stairs, but I can’t move. Can’t react. Can’t even smile that he’s home and I can touch him, hold him, love him.

I can’t do anything because in front of me is a blue box that’s absorbing all my mental capacities.

His feet land on the stairs and with every tread tears well in my eyes, pools of salty confusion and regret.

“And there I was hoping you were going to be on the sofa.” He swings into the room, tie just how I like it, shirt sleeves rolled up.

“That’s Fridays only,” I say but it sounds mechanical and forced.

“Faith, what on earth? Why are you crying? Did the police call?” I can’t hold it in any longer and tears slip one by one down my face. He steps closer, wrapping me in his embrace and I taste salt and inhale the scent of him. Pushing me back a little his thumbs slide across my cheeks catching my wayward tears. “Talk, please, you’re killing me.” The blues are intense and demanding. I wiggle from his embrace and grab the blue box, lifting it between us so he can see.