Things I Want My Daughters to Know_ A Novel - Elizabeth Noble [131]
She didn’t know he’d figured that out. She didn’t know he’d been thinking in shades like that. He had seemed so black and white, so cruelly simplistic. That’s why she hadn’t attempted this conversation before. She’d expected an ultimatum, threats. She hadn’t expected that he would have thought this through, and be able to see what was going on in her head. She didn’t know he still knew her that well.
He was still speaking. “I don’t know what’s gone wrong, Jen. When we’re…like that…like we were just now, it seems like the unlikeliest thing in the world that we’re falling apart. Then, other times, I feel like we have no chance.”
“When do you feel that?” She didn’t know he did.
“I don’t know. Times like when your mum died last year. You shut me out. You made me feel like I’m not important, like I couldn’t help, and you didn’t want my help, anyway.”
“I didn’t mean to do that.”
“But you did. You did make me feel like that. You’re always so strong.”
“I’m not strong at all.”
“You are. You don’t see what I see.”
“I’m sorry, Stephen. I’m sorry.”
“Don’t say you’re sorry.”
“What do you want me to say?”
“I want you to say that we are worth saving.” She thought of Wendy and her words of earlier. “That’s the only thing that matters now.”
The snow was falling thickly now—through the gap in the thin cotton curtains she could see it on the window ledge—almost an inch thick now. Jennifer watched it for a moment, swirling and dancing outside.
This was it. This was crunch time. Whatever she said now, however she answered his question, it had to be true. She had to mean it.
Her mind swam with a dozen images. Wendy, on the piste; Mum’s journals, and her letter; Kathleen, laughing about Brian in the garden; their wedding day; just now, in the mirror; his face, running with tears…
She turned back to look at him and felt her own tears starting now. She was suddenly very tired. She was tired of this, of being unhappy. Of making herself unhappy. She didn’t even understand it. She’d maybe never be able to explain it to him, or to anyone else. Or to herself.
“I want us to stay together, Stephen. That’s what I want. I want us to stay together and be happy and be good to each other….”
And that was the truth.
“Do you think we can?”
He stroked her shoulder. “I think, if we want to, we can do anything.”
They woke up late the next morning, and only then when someone banged on their door, giving Stephen a five-minute warning for the shuttle bus.
“You lot go. I’ll see you later,” Stephen answered sleepily, one arm clamped around her waist under the duvet. “I’m skiing with Jen today.”
She groaned. But she was delighted.
The rest of the week was like a honeymoon. It seemed so straightforward. They’d both committed to this new start, during the conversation, and it seemed so easy now. To enjoy each other. To be together. Jennifer knew this was a holiday. That they had to carry all this on when they got back home. That it wouldn’t really count until they did. But it was such a relief. They skied. They had long lunches, holding hands under the table. They took longer siestas, making love quietly in the chalet, while the young parents swapped envious glances. They both slept like babes, mountain air, physical exertion, and a profound sense of newness acting like a sleeping pill for them both. It was the best time she could remember them having together.
Mark
Amanda had called collect long distance, far too early. She and Ed were about to get on a flight, she said. Next stop Peru. She didn’t know what the Internet café situation would be like, or how often they’d be able to charge their mobile phones or get to a call box. They were going to do some trek thing. She wanted to let him know—let all of them know—that they were fine. Well. Solvent. Safe. Happy. And at the end she’d told him she loved him. She hadn’t said that for a long, long time. He’d lain in bed, after she rang off, and imagined her—where she was, what she was doing. He wished he’d had the chance to meet Ed, but he instinctively trusted