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  “You okay?” Adam asks, putting his hand on my arm. Reflexively, I shake him off and try to stop my jaw from chattering.

  “Of course,” I reply, removing a thick clump of wet hair from the recesses of my nasal passages. “Just look after your son.”

  He looks at me again and frowns. “Jess, I promise you. He will be fine.”

  Over the next hour and a half, we experience nature at its most raw, wild and raggedly beautiful. It is one of the worst experiences of my adult life.

  It’s not even that I am on the verge of hypothermia that bothers me. It’s that, contrary to everything Adam and Enzo have said, this pastime is obviously dangerous, and clearly unsuitable for a child. Or at least my child. Who is so oblivious to all these facts that he appears to be having a whale of a time.

  As we slide down waterfalls, into deep pools of water, I can think of nothing but broken bones, submerged lungs, gaping wounds and the lot of us getting stranded out here and with little more than a packet of roast chicken crisps between us.

  “Mum, this is AMAZING!” William declares.

  “Oh . . . good,” I whimper.

  As I’m vaguely hopeful that we’re nearing the end, Enzo turns and flashes me his teeth. “This is the bravery test. Just for you.” He winks. It takes a lot for me to dislike someone, but I think Enzo might have managed it.

  “Voici comment il faut faire. Si vous ne faites pas comme moi, vous vous ferez mal, donc écoutez moi bien.”

  “He says you have to do it exactly like him or you’ll get hurt,” Adam tells me.

  Enzo stands at the edge of the rock, a vast rush of water skimming his shins.

  Then he leaps.

  A heartbeat passes before I hear a crash in the water below. I peer over the edge to see Enzo finally appear and give us the thumbs-up before climbing onto the bank.

  “My son is not doing that,” I tell Adam.

  Adam assesses the rock edge and his jaw twitches. “Okay.”

  “I’m serious, Adam. That’s ridiculous. He’s ten years old.”

  “I agree,” he says. “I think you’re right on this—”

  The echoing splash that interrupts us sends adrenaline blistering through me. I look up and I realize that there is an empty space where William was standing. Adam and I race to the edge, and I peer down at the water, to the shadow underneath it, bubbles raging at the top where the force of my son has plummeted under.

  My legs go weak.

  I know there’s no point relying on these two to save him, so I race down the side of the bank, my feet sliding and tripping over themselves in the mud, until I find an opening. It’s then that I do the only thing maternal instinct will allow: scramble down on my backside, grasping handfuls of grass and mud and rocks to steady myself. I plunge into the water arse-first and cannot fully describe the blinding white rush that engulfs me for the five seconds I’m submerged and my mouth is bulging with ice-cold water. Except to say that I feel like a hamster being flushed down a toilet.

  I pedal my arms frantically until I grab something that seems to be William’s leg. I’m contemplating my next move, face scrunched up and ears full of sound, when I become aware that my son is actually alive and kicking. Kicking ME, to be precise.

  Against the tide of raging water and thrusting limbs, I pull myself up onto the bank, spluttering as I wipe my eyes and see him sitting on the side, shaking his head.

  “You could’ve waited until I was out, Mum,” he mutters. “It wasn’t even your turn.”

  * * *

  —

  Afterwards, we change in a tall pop-up tent, which is all you get in the way of facilities when you’re this far out in the countryside. Having spent the morning behaving like a miniature marine—capable, solid, someone who can negotiate anything nature throws at him—William is suddenly unable to get his sock off by himself.

  “It’s really wet though,” he complains. “It’s stuck. I can’t get it off.”

  I spend the next three minutes attempting to remove his footwear, my teeth chattering wildly, before sending him out to his father so I’ve got space to undress. This involves contorting into a variety of unlikely positions, with the tent billowing around me as I nearly dislocate my elbow when attempting to get my bra back on. By the time I emerge, the sun is pushing through the clouds and Enzo is piling equipment into his van. I hand over the wet suit.

  “Thank you,” I say, forcing out a smile.

  “Your son was good. Brave,” he tells me.

  I feel a strange sense of pride. “He was, wasn’t he?” He slams shut the door. “Where is he now?”

  He gestures to the other side of the road, to Adam and William sitting next to each other by the lake. With shards of light searing through the grey recesses of the sky, I walk towards them, slowing my steps as I approach.

  I can’t hear what they’re saying, but it’s making both of them laugh, loud, unselfconscious guffaws. Adam puts his arm around William and squeezes him into his side.

  I stop and quickly pull out my phone, stealing a picture of them.

  The relationship between my son and his father is far more fragile and complicated than the photo implies, even with an Instagram filter for added gloss. But it’s still a beautiful image. One I hope my mum will keep in her heart for as long as it’s still beating.

  Chapter 16

  The problem with Adam is this: he’s easy to fall in love with. If you don’t really know him, I mean, really know him, his terrible characteristics are obscured by the good ones: the fact that he’s clever and funny, charismatic and handsome. He has an ability to make you feel like you’re the center of his world—at least for a moment—which is how William feels this afternoon.

  But I worry about him getting hurt and let down, being sucked in by Adam at his most wonderful, before his young soul is wounded by Adam at his most neglectful, and selfish. I’ve known that version of Adam firsthand, even if I can’t claim to have seen the demise of our relationship coming until it was too late.

  The first real hurdle we faced was when the job Adam had initially tolerated became something he actively despised.

  I knew he’d reached this point because I’d hear his key in the door as he returned from work and ask, “How was your day?” with tension clutching my throat. Because I knew that his day would have involved stress, petty office politics and a vacuum of fulfillment. The effect of which would leave a bitter aftertaste on most of our evenings.

  “How can I put this?” he said, emerging into the living room one night and slumping onto the sofa, where I sat with my laptop, television on low in the background. “The highlight of my day was winning bullshit bingo three times in one meeting.”

  I put the laptop on the cushion next to me and slid my arms round his neck, briefly pressing my lips against his five-o’clock shadow. “Sorry it’s so shitty at the moment.”

  “I don’t mean to moan. I just hate the place.”

  I don’t know if the issue was simply that Adam was trapped in a bad relationship with a soulless company and a “career” that was as mundane as they got. Or that some people just aren’t built to be constrained by corporate life. My boyfriend, a dreamer and an adventurer at heart, was one of them.

  “It won’t be long before my course is over, then we can do all the things we’ve talked about,” I said. “I want you to know how grateful I am though, Adam.”

  “For what?”

  “The fact that you’re having to subsidize me while I finish studying. That I’m the reason we’re eating baked beans every night. That all I can contribute to this flat is the pennies from my student loan.”

  “Yeah, when you put it like that, you’re not much of a catch, are you?” He smiled.

  “Ho ho.”

  “I don’t mind any of that, Jess. It’s not going to last forever. Shall we have another look at that Jo
bs Abroad website tonight?”

  “You know how to live it up, don’t you?”

  He leaned in and sank into a brief, tender kiss before pulling away. “Oh, by the way, do you mind if I go out with Georgina on Thursday? She’s in town for the night.”

  Adam had dated Georgina for a few months when he was only seventeen. They’d split amicably when he’d left home for university, but had stayed in touch, as good friends.

  “Of course not.”

  “Why don’t you come with us?”

  “I’ve got too much work, Adam. And I’m broke.”

  “I’ll pay. Oh, come on, I’d prefer it if you were there too.”

  “Adam, I can’t. Just go by yourself,” I insisted. “Have a great night, and give her my love.”

  I felt none of the unease many girlfriends would with the idea of them going out for drinks; Georgina might technically have been an old flame, but I knew there was nothing between them these days. Besides, the first time I’d met her, I remember thinking she wasn’t as gorgeous as I’d imagined, despite the long legs and voluptuous cleavage. Her face was striking, rather than pretty, with thick lips that she slicked with bright pink lipstick and porcelain skin, framed by a curtain of black hair.

  She was witty and spoke like a freight train: too fast and loud, like she was permanently racing to get to the end of her sentence. I liked her. At least I did until I realized she’d spent the night with Adam when he was meant to be with me for the birth of our baby. But I’m getting ahead of myself.

  The point is, they’d always been close, and I was completely okay with that. And I promised myself that one day I’d make up for all the sacrifices he’d made for me and we’d do the traveling he longed for.

  Then something happened that wasn’t part of the plan.

  I got pregnant.

  * * *

  —

  It’s difficult to know how you’ll feel about an unplanned pregnancy until it happens. And my reaction was the polar opposite of Adam’s. It wasn’t simply that he wasn’t ready, that he had a life to live, the world to travel and a head full of ideas.

  It was that he’d never be ready.

  That was obvious not just from his horrified expression when I showed him the pregnancy test, confirming the news that the nausea I’d had for the previous few days could not be attributed to a dodgy chicken Madras, but from the fact that, a full week afterwards, when he’d had plenty of time to let the idea sink in, he was no less horrified.

  “Look, I know this isn’t what either of us would’ve planned, but we can make this work,” I argued, hearing my voice rise several octaves as he sat rooted to the sofa, staring at an episode of Fawlty Towers that he hadn’t laughed at once.

  I was scared and didn’t have a clue what I was doing.

  I knew the timing was all wrong and that there were a million reasons why we were supposed to think this was a disaster.

  But, as the days had passed, there was also a lightness in my veins, a bloom on my cheeks, a fluttering in my pulse every time I thought about the idea that I was going to be a mother. I didn’t just feel physically different; something had changed inside me already, and even if I’d wanted to, I couldn’t stop my heart from lifting in my chest every time I thought about it.

  Adam did not share these sentiments.

  “I understand why you didn’t want this to happen. But it has,” I continued, desperate for him to say something. “We can’t make it un-happen.”

  He slowly lifted up his head, his eyes flat. “Well . . . we could.”

  A bolt of adrenaline shot through me as I decoded what he was saying. “You mean have an abortion?”

  “Jess . . . at this stage, it’s just a pill. Then this whole problem would be solved. That’s all it would take, one visit to a clinic and—”

  “And the line on the pregnancy test would disappear and we could go back to how things were,” I finished for him.

  His eyes burned with defiance. “Is that such a terrible thing to want?”

  I walked out of the room, but he leapt up and followed me. “Don’t make me feel like some bastard here, Jess, just for having the discussion.”

  I spun around. “But we’re not just having the discussion, are we? You’ve made your mind up, and you want me to get rid of a baby that’s growing inside me right now.”

  “This does affect me too, you know, Jess.” Indignation billowed up in my stomach, but I didn’t answer. “Anyway, I thought you were pro-choice,” he muttered.

  “Choice is the operative word, Adam. And my choice couldn’t feel clearer. I wouldn’t have gone out of my way to conceive, but the fact is, I have. And . . . I’m keeping this baby.” I was shouting at this point, because I knew if I stopped I’d burst into tears.

  “Right. End of story then,” he snapped, before announcing he was going for a walk to clear his head, something that apparently took three hours.

  What followed was not an ideal start to our countdown to parenthood. We bickered and fought for weeks. I’d never experienced anything like it—with him or anyone else. Every night there was a conflagration of varying degrees; every night my feelings for the man I’d been crazy about were being chipped away. His response felt so unreasonable, so petulant.

  Yes, I know William wasn’t William back then—Adam could not think of him as anything other than a blue line on a stick and the unraveling of all his ambitions. But to me, my baby was a beating heartbeat inside me. I loved him, and the idea of him, from the first moment I knew he existed. So, no, sorry, I wasn’t going to have an abortion. Not for Adam, not for anyone. I could not have been gladder that the baby, the womb, the decision, were all ultimately mine by sheer fluke of biology.

  After four weeks, he said he accepted it. I suppose he had to. He was trapped. And it became very clear that men like Adam do not like to feel trapped.

  In the months that followed, he blamed me for everything. He didn’t need to say it; you could see it in his eyes. Besides, when a couple is careless with contraception, it always seems to be the woman’s fault. I’d been the one who refused to go on the Pill because it made me nauseated. I’d been the one who made us rely on condoms. Condoms we ran out of one drunken night so took our chances instead.

  I could see him falling out of love with me before my eyes. It was obvious from how distracted he was, and uncharacteristically short-tempered. He no longer raced home and made kissing me his first priority.

  Instead, he was getting closer to a woman who’d become his confidante.

  “Who are you texting?” I asked one evening as I lay on the sofa watching a Sopranos box set with my swollen ankles propped up on the arm.

  “Does it matter?”

  “I was only interested,” I muttered, then added: “Say hi from me.”

  He looked up. “What?”

  “I said, say hi. To Georgina.”

  He ignored me and returned to his phone, to read another text. Whatever it said, it was enough to elicit his first smile of the whole evening.

  She was increasingly in the area for work, and he’d go off to meet her for drinks. I was reluctantly invited, but usually declined. I couldn’t bear sitting there with my swelling belly, sipping sparkling water and listening to them crying with laughter as they reminisced about something “you had to be there” to appreciate.

  The only person to whom I articulated my fears was Becky. I couldn’t tell my mum. She adored Adam, and I knew if I said anything, it’d ruin the excitement about becoming a grandmother for the first time.

  Becky didn’t think I should worry. “He’s smitten with you. He just needs time to adjust to the pregnancy. Plus, the silk knickers phase might be on hold, but that doesn’t mean he wants to sleep with his ex-girlfriend.”

  How wrong she turned out to be.

  Chapter 17

  I’ve packed a pair of
white cutoffs on every holiday for the last eight years and never once had the guts to actually wear them.

  But as I change before picking up Natasha from the airport late on Sunday afternoon, the sun has made a spectacular comeback, lighting up the hills and meadows as if to welcome her. And the cutoffs suddenly don’t seem like a bad idea.

  I’ve never been a shorts person. Even when I was twenty, I considered my legs not long enough, not firm enough, not Gisele Bündchen’s enough. But, having been told by the GP to exercise as well as take my antidepressants, I’ve been sneaking away for a half hour Grit class on my lunch hour.

  Part of me liked how punishing the class was, so tough that by rights, I should have glutes like steel. So when I saw the white shorts I thought, sod it. I was feeling quite good about myself, all things considered—until Adam appeared at our door, took one look at me and exclaimed: “Nice shorts.”

  I grimaced. “Oh . . . be quiet.”

  “Sorry. But you used to go for a length that was a bit more Victorian. Not that I’d want to discourage you.”

  I attempted to hide the heat in my cheeks and muttered: “Consider me discouraged.”

  Unfortunately, I didn’t have time to change. So, now I’m standing at the airport, attracting glances and wishing I’d burned the shorts and worn a kaftan instead.

  Natasha emerges from arrivals looking like Grace Kelly entering LAX—all dark glasses, big handbag and perfect hair. She waves and glides over before giving me a hug so hard it must have shifted a few vital organs.

  “Oh my God, it’s so good to see you.” She grins, then steps back and looks me up and down. “Wow.”

  “What?” I ask.

  “Nice shorts,” she says, then qualifies: “Nice legs.”

  “Thanks,” I reply, feeling a lot better hearing this from her. “How was the flight?”