‘I did not kiss Jennifer O’Brien.’
‘She kissed you.’ I’m smiling. I’m really over it by this point. We were fourteen years old at the time.
‘She didn’t even kiss me. She leaned in and brushed my lips, and the reason we brushed is because I moved my head away. Let it go,’ he besieges me, mockingly.
‘Hmm. Anyway. Let me continue.’
‘Please do.’
‘We’ve been married for two years.’
‘You said that.’
I ignore him, continuing: ‘And we’ve been together twelve years. Give or take.’
‘Give. Always give.’
‘And we said as soon as we left the rat-infested apartment—’
‘One mouse. One time.’
‘And bought our first house, we would discuss when to have a baby. We have now bought a house, which we won’t own for another one hundred years, but isn’t it time for the discussion?’
‘And no better time than right when Man United have just kicked off against Arsenal. No better time at all.’
I laugh. ‘You have a stable job—’
‘Oh, you’re still talking.’
‘And when I’m working, my jobs are stable.’
‘Between the instability,’ he agrees.
‘Yes. But I currently have a job that I dislike intensely and won’t miss while on maternity leave.’
‘I don’t think you get maternity leave in temp jobs. You’re covering for somebody else’s leave.’ He looks at me, his eyes laughing at me.
‘OK, so maybe I don’t get maternity leave, but I do get leave,’ I reason. ‘So all I have to do is get pregnant and leave …’
He laughs.
‘And you are beautiful, I love you, and you have powerful super semen that should not be kept away from the world, hidden away down there, in a dark place, all alone.’ I make a sad face.
He chuckles harder.
‘They’re ready to create a super species. I sense it.’
‘She’s still talking.’
‘And. I love you. And you’ll be an amazing daddy.’
He looks at me, serious now. ‘Are you finished?’
I think some more. ‘And I love you.’
He smiles. ‘I want to have a baby with you.’
I start to squeal and he kills it.
‘But what about Gepetto?’
‘No!’ I move away from him and throw my head back, frustrated, and stare at the ceiling. ‘Do not bring up Gepetto again.’
‘Gepetto was a great beloved member of our family and you … frankly, Holly, you killed him. You took him away from us.’
‘Gerry, can we have an adult conversation for once?’
‘This is an adult conversation.’
‘Gepetto was a plant.’
‘Gepetto was a living, breathing life form that needed air, light and water, like us. He also happened to be a very expensive bonsai, exactly the same age as our relationship. Ten years old. Do you know how difficult it was to find that bonsai? I had to drive to Derry to get him.’
I groan and pull myself up out of the bean bag. I carry the plates to the kitchen, half-irritated, half-amused by the conversation. Gerry follows me; eager to ensure he hasn’t really annoyed me but unable to stop when he’s in this zone, prodding, poking away like a stick at the fire.
‘I think you’re more annoyed that you had to drive to Derry to a dodgy bonsai dealer than you are at me for killing it.’ I scrape the food from the plates into the bin. I put the plates in the sink. We don’t have a dishwasher yet, the basis of most of our arguments.
‘Ah! So you admit to murdering him.’
I raise my hands in surrender. ‘Sure, I killed him. And I’d do it again if I had half the chance.’
Gerry laughs.
I swivel around for the full reveal. ‘I was jealous of the attention you were giving Gepetto, how the two of you left me out. So when you went away for two weeks, I planned it. I left him by the window, the place that gets the most sun and … I didn’t give him water.’ I fold my arms and watch Gerry double over laughing. ‘OK, seriously, if this conversation about Gepetto is a distraction because you’re not ready for a baby, that’s fine with me. I can wait. I was only bringing it up for discussion.’
He wipes his eyes and the smile off his face. ‘I want to have a baby with you. There is no doubt in my mind.’
‘I’m ready.’
‘You change your mind a lot.’
‘About what dress to wear, and whether I should get tinned chopped tomatoes or whole peeled plum. About work. About wall-paint colours and tiles for the bathroom floor. Not about babies.’
‘You sent the dog back after one week.’
‘He ate my favourite shoes.’
‘You change your job every three months.’
‘It’s called temping. It requires that I must. If I stay longer they’ll have me forcibly removed.’
He leaves a silence. The corners of his mouth twitch.
‘I won’t change my mind on this,’ I say, getting agitated, finally, with this conversation, with having to prove myself – me a grown adult – to my own husband. ‘In fact, I already waited three months to have this conversation.’ Because he’s right, I do always change my mind. Apart from a commitment to Gerry, pretty much any other decision that involves long-term change scares me. Signing the mortgage on this house was terrifying.
He reaches out to stop me from leaving, and pulls me back to him. I know he’s not deliberately trying to wind me up. I know he’s trying to ensure I’m serious, in the only way he feels won’t cause an argument. We kiss tenderly and I feel this is the time for decision, a life-changing moment in our lives.
‘But,’ he says mid-kiss.
I groan.
‘I still can’t help but feel we need to prove it.’
‘I need to prove shit to you. I want a baby.’
He laughs. ‘First,’ he holds his finger dramatically and I roll my eyes and try to move away from where he’s pinned me against the counter. ‘For Gepetto and for the future of our super child, you will do one thing. You must prove you can grow and keep a plant alive. Then and only then can we make a baby.’
‘Gerry,’ I laugh, ‘I think that’s what they tell people who are leaving rehab who want to start new relationships.’
‘Yes, unstable people like you. It’s good advice. In the name of Gepetto.’
‘Why are you always so dramatic?’
‘Why are you … not?’ His lips twitch.
‘OK,’ I say, getting into the game. ‘I want a baby, so I’ll see your ridiculous dare and I’ll raise you. We both have to plant and grow our own seeds to prove we can both care for a baby. I will surprise you.’
‘Can’t wait,’ he grins. ‘Game. On.’
‘Mum,’ I whisper, down the phone.
‘Holly? Are you OK? Have you lost your voice? Do you want to me send over some chicken noodle soup?’
‘No, my throat is fine,’ I reply, then rethink it. ‘But I’d still love the soup. I’m calling because Gerry and I are doing this thing. Kind of like a competition.’