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She stops, waits, then flushes the toilet. I pass her some paper to wipe her mouth, then run her a glass of water from the tap. She takes it and has a mouthful, swirls and spits, then turns and sits on the floor, her back to the wall.
I sit beside her and wipe her face with the cloth. She watches me, her eyes wide.
“Okay?” I ask.
She nods. “I’m so sorry. It’s hardly the most romantic way to kick off our relationship.”
I give her a big smile.
“What?” she asks, her lips curving up.
“You said relationship.”
She gives a short laugh.
“I’m so sorry you have to go through this,” I tell her.
She moistens her lips. “I need a drink.”
“Of course. What would you like?”
“I don’t suppose you have any Sprite?”
“Sure. Come on.” I get up and pull her to her feet, then lead her out into the living room. “Go and sit outside in the fresh air,” I tell her, “and I’ll bring you a Sprite out.”
She hesitates, so I say, “Go on.” She nods and goes out onto the deck, and sits on the rattan outdoor daybed that I love so much, putting her feet up and closing her eyes.
I take a can out of the fridge and pour it into a glass with some ice. Then, quickly, I Google ‘snacks for morning sickness.’ It recommends toast, crackers, and protein-rich foods. I look through the cupboards and find some crackers, spread a couple with peanut butter, because I know she likes it, and take the plate with the glass outside.
“This is nice,” she says, brushing the daybed. It’s large and circular with a hood and cushions.
“I know. I love it. I read out here in the evenings.” I put the glass and plate beside her on the table. “I’ve just read that small, regular meals might help morning sickness, so I thought you might like something like this. No worries if you don’t.”
She looks at the plate, then back at me. “You just read about it for me?”
I climb onto the daybed beside her and lean back on the pillows. “I did.”
She looks back at the plate. Then she picks up a cracker, sniffs it cautiously, and takes a bite. “Mm,” she says. “That’s okay.”
I smile, leaning an elbow on the back and my head on a hand.
She eats quietly for a while, looking out to sea, thinking, while I watch her taking small bites of the cracker and picking up crumbs from her lips. When she’s done, she has a few sips of the Sprite, then finally looks back at me. “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.”
She turns a little to face me, curling up. She nibbles her bottom lip. “Henry, look. This is such a crazy situation. It’s kind of you to say that you’d like to bring the baby up with me, but it’s a huge ask of you. I don’t expect you to jump straight in like that. If you want to date for a while, get to know one another first, and make sure we’re, you know, suitable, I’ll understand.”
“Well, I’ve known you for six years, so I’ve been in love with you for about… ah… two thousand, one hundred and ninety days. I think that’s enough to get to know someone, don’t you?”
She gives me a wry look. “You know what I mean.”
I give a patient sigh. “Juliette, I’ve worked beside you for years. I’ve seen you happy, sad, tired, irritable, lonely, unhappy, every emotion I can think of. I know that your favorite foods are peanut butter and sushi and curry as long as it’s not too spicy, and your favorite chocolate bar is a Twix. That you love champagne and hate Tequila. I know that you love netball and you became a physio because you broke your ankle when you were fourteen, which put paid to your plans to play it professionally.”
I reach out and take her hand in mine. “I know you get grumpy when you haven’t had enough sleep, and that you’re at your most passionate when you’re talking about making children better. You’re sweet and fiery and determined and a little bit outspoken, and I love that. I think I know eighty-five percent of you, and I desperately want to get to know the other fifteen.”
“That’s wonderful,” she says, “but what if that turns out to be the fifteen percent you don’t like about me? Wouldn’t you rather live apart for a while until you’re sure?”
“It’d be pretty odd for two married people to live apart.”
