Things I Want My Daughters to Know_ A Novel - Elizabeth Noble [95]
IF HANNAH WAS UNLIKELY TO CONFIDE IN JENNIFER, MARK thought, it was less to do with her marriage than with her personality. Of all Barbara’s girls, Jennifer was the one least like her. She was always a bit proper and stiff and remote. He’d never met Donald, but he imagined she must be like him. The wine, which she’d been rather knocking back tonight, had loosened her tongue and her whole persona. This wasn’t the usual conversation you had with Jennifer.
He’d actually enjoyed her tonight. And that was a bit unusual. Lisa was a riot, a mini me of her mother, funny and earthy and warm. Amanda he found interesting—endearing and sweet. He loved to listen to her describing the places she’d been, the things she’d seen. He loved her energy and her passion for life. Hannah—well, Hannah was his, wasn’t she, and he adored her accordingly. More than he could ever have imagined, before she came. More even than watching Barbara with her own children led him to believe was possible. But Jennifer? She could be…a bit difficult. Brittle, Barbara always said. Prickly. Especially in recent years, when he and Barbara had known things weren’t going well for her, even if she never shared with them which things they were. But not tonight. They chatted easily, about lots of things. She’d laughed more than she usually did. And now she appeared to be opening the door to a conversation he never thought he would be having with her.
Anyone could see that things with Stephen weren’t all they should be. The rot seemed to have been setting in for, well, a couple of years now. It had worried Barbara, he knew that much—she’d said so often enough. But he knew that even Barbara hadn’t known what was wrong. You didn’t ask Jennifer, she had once said; it was how she had always been. Proud and intent on emotional independence. You hoped that she would come to you, and you waited for her to come to you, to ask for advice. She said Jennifer would close like a clam if she ever raised the subject with her, and she wanted to leave the door at least a little ajar. She’d died waiting, and Jennifer had never, so far as he knew, said a word about what was wrong. But it seemed that she might be about to start now.
Mark risked a prompt. Partly because he was curious, and mainly because he knew it was what Barbara would have wanted him to do, although God knows what he would say if she asked him for an opinion. He wasn’t always wild about Stephen himself. It was nothing specific. He just had the feeling that if he met Stephen, independent of this family connection they had, in the pub, or somewhere, they would never be mates. Andy he’d have immediately liked anywhere, in any context. Stephen he’d always had to try to like.
“And is she right? About the procreation bit?”
When Jennifer first replied, he thought he’d blown it, which was either a shame, or a relief, only he wasn’t quite sure which, because, after all, he had helped her drink two bottles of wine.
“Oh God, Mark, not you, too! That was Stephen’s dad’s big fucking theme of Christmas. The state of play with my uterus.”
“Sorry—I really didn’t mean to pry.”
Her face softened. “I know. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t lump you in with him. You have no idea how insulting that is, actually. I know I’m touchy about it. It’s because I feel like everyone’s watching us and thinking about it and wondering why we aren’t getting on with it.”
“And…”
“And, why aren’t we getting on with it?”
“Only if you want to talk about it.”
“I don’t especially. It depresses the hell out of me. But I suppose I should. You don’t mind, do you?”
Tears were welling in her eyes.
He minded badly, he realized a little too late. They’d had a nice, light evening. She’d been good company, better than he’d thought she would be. The time had passed. He was a little drunk and a little sleepy. Now he wanted to go to bed and sleep off the red wine—just as soon as he’d heard Hannah close the front door behind her and creep upstairs.