“Phew. Huge relief. Thank God.” Ethan didn’t bother hiding the sarcasm in his voice.
“I thought the whole idea of her coming to the party was so we could get to know her.”
“So
she
could get to know
you
and run screaming for the hills before it was too late if she needed to,” he corrected his brother.
“Anyway. She’s nice. I was expecting some shoulder-pad-wearing corporate ball-breaker, but she was like you said. Smart, funny. Normal.”
“I’m sure she’d be very flattered to hear that description.”
“We should all do dinner one night. The four of us.”
Ethan smiled. Couldn’t help himself. His brother was about as subtle as a sledgehammer.
“We’re not dating, buddy. And you and Kay need to get a life.”
“Tell me you don’t think she’s hot. I dare you.”
Ethan was not having this conversation with his brother. It would only create false expectations that were never going to be fulfilled. Even if there had been that moment on the grass when he’d looked into Alex’s eyes and felt an almost overwhelming compulsion to press his lips against hers to see if she tasted as sweet and spicy as she looked. A moment of madness, obviously, and not something he was about to share with his brother.
He deliberately changed the subject, asking how Jamie was after the excitement of the day. After a short pause Derek took the cue and let the subject drop.
They talked for a few more minutes, then Kay roped Derek into service to help get the boys to bed and they ended the call.
Ethan turned up the sound on the television but found it hard to stay focused on the game.
He’d had a good day today. The kids had been great fun, as always, and as much as his brother’s old-lady nagging ticked him off sometimes, he’d enjoyed his brother’s company. And, yes, it had been nice to see Alex laughing with Kay or kneeling to talk to Tim or sitting watching the mayhem with a big smile on her face. It had been good to eat a sausage on a bun with her and to tease her about her well-concealed sweet tooth when he caught her going back for seconds on the trifle. He’d expected it to be a little awkward, had worried that maybe Derek’s ambivalence about what they were doing would show through, but Alex had fit right in.
Which boded well for the future. If the procedure was successful and Alex got pregnant, there would be no problems with her mixing with his family at birthdays and Christmases. If she wanted to do so, of course. There was no guarantee of any of that, given the nature of their agreement. But the option was there if she wanted it.
Before he could double-think it, he picked up the phone again and dialed her number.
“Hello?” She sounded sleepy.
“It’s me. I didn’t wake you, did I?” He checked the time on his DVD player. It was a little past eight. Surely she hadn’t gone to bed that early?
“I fell asleep on the couch.
Damn.
”
“What’s wrong?”
“My pen leaked on my T-shirt.”
He laughed, a picture filling his mind: Alex stretched out on the huge amber-colored velvet sofa in her living room, fast asleep with paperwork and pen resting on her chest.
She’d invited him upstairs for a coffee when he dropped her off and he’d been surprised by her apartment. He wasn’t sure what he’d been expecting but it certainly hadn’t been the slightly cluttered, very eclectic home he’d walked into, decorated with antiques and floral cushions and colorful throw rugs.
She’d been a little sheepish, explaining that she needed to have a bit of a clear out as he’d inspected her novelty teapot collection and the cluster of mounted animation cells on her wall.
“What color pen?” he asked, reaching out to flick the TV off.
“Red. What else?”
“A sign from the gods that you’re working too hard.”
“Yeah, well.” She sighed. “What’s up?”
“I was thinking that we need to draw up that co-parenting contract we talked about.”
“Yeah. I was thinking that, too.”
“How about I draft something, then we can pass it back and forth until we get it right?”
“Sounds good. Don’t forget to bill me for your time.”
“I’m expensive, so brace yourself.”
“I hope you’re worth it.”
“Oh, I’m worth it. Rumor has it I’m very good.” He was grinning, balancing his ankle on his drawn-up knee.
“Is that a fact? How very…modest of you.”
“Modesty is overrated.”
“Says the egotist.”
He laughed and knew she was smiling on the other end of the phone, proud of herself for puncturing his ego.
“Well. On that note. I’ll see you tomorrow,” he said.
“Retreating, Pretty Boy? That’s not like you.”
“No,” he said, very firmly.
“I beg your pardon?”
“You are not appropriating my family nickname.”
“Why not? I like it.”
“Because it drives me nuts.”
“Isn’t that the point of family nicknames?”
“I’m forty-two. Derek came up with that name twenty-five years ago. It’s time to move on.”
“Ah. So it’s the
boy
part you object to? You’d prefer Pretty Man? I can work with that.”
He could hear the delight in her voice as she teased him.
“Enjoying yourself?” he asked.
“Oh, yes.”
“Good night, Alex.”
“Good night, Pretty Man.”
He’d known she wouldn’t be able to resist getting a final shot in. Typical Alex.
He combined the formal handover of their signed agreement with a visit to the Ian Potter Gallery in the city. He’d noticed an ad for a current exhibition during the week and he led Alex into the gallery after they’d signed and dated their agreement in the adjacent coffee shop.
He watched her face as she walked into the gallery space, enjoying her pleasure and delight as she marveled at the latest efforts by Australia’s foremost mosaic artists.
“This is amazing. Do you know how much time it takes to get this gradation of color? And the way she’s cut the tiles. I wonder what she’s using because there’s a really nice bevel on the edges…” She hovered beside a large piece by well-known Melbourne artist Mirka Mora.
The following Tuesday she caught him going through the car section of the daily paper in his office, checking out what was available in the more family-friendly end of the market. Just out of curiosity. No solid plans yet. She didn’t say anything, but the next day he found a small brown parcel sitting in the middle of his desk blotter when he arrived at work. He opened it to reveal a miniature version of his Aston Martin, accompanied by a handwritten note in Alex’s neat print:
Alex had mapped her ovulation cycle by now and they had a firm date fixed for the first procedure—a Thursday, two weeks away.
He tried to put it out of his mind and concentrate on his current cases. Mostly he was successful—he’d become a master at burying himself in work after the divorce—but he knew Alex was becoming increasingly anxious as the date approached. They both had a lot riding on this. A lot of hope and expectation. He took her to a movie the Friday before the procedure to try to take her mind off it, and the following Tuesday he let her win the first game of their weekly match.
“I know what you’re doing, Pretty Man,” she said as she wiped sweat from her brow.
“Do you, slowpoke?”
“Don’t pander to me. I will not be pandered.”
“I don’t know if you can stop it. I mean, the pandering is pretty much in the hands of the panderer, unless I’m mistaken. The panderee—that’s you, by the way—has to grin and bear it.”
“Really?”
She’d proceeded to play her worst game of racquetball ever, so bad that it was almost impossible for him to play worse. But he gave it his best shot.
She was laughing so hard by the time they’d battled it out to see who could lose the last point that she had to sit down on the court and wipe her streaming eyes.
Then she got back to her feet and proceeded to hammer him in the third and final game. A blow to his point average, but worth it to see the smile on her face.
And then, too quickly, it seemed as though time folded in on itself and it was Wednesday night and he was psyching himself up for the following day. D-day—or B-day as he and Alex had jokingly been calling it. He was picking her up at ten so they could drive to the clinic together.
If things went well, they would be making a baby.
They
being him and Alex and a team of doctors and nurses.
He laid out his clothes for the next day, then tried to settle himself in front of the TV. Nothing appealed, and he paced restlessly for a few minutes before grabbing his car keys and heading out the door.
The supermarket in nearby St. Kilda was lit with brutal fluorescent lighting and filled with tinkling canned music. He cruised the aisles, throwing unsalted butter, brown sugar, eggs and vanilla extract into his shopping basket. He’d go home and make Alex some fudge to feed that sweet tooth of hers.
He was heading for the liquor section in search of crème de cacao when he rounded a corner and stopped in his tracks. A young couple stood at the other end of the aisle. She was heavily pregnant, her hair pulled into a ponytail, her baby bump covered by a floral top. He was standing in front of her, both hands pressed to her belly, her hands resting over his. They were staring into each other’s eyes as they concentrated on the movement of their unborn child. She was smiling and he had an expression made up of equal parts pride and awe.
It was a very private moment, a moment between lovers, and Ethan told himself to walk away. But he didn’t.
He watched as she laughed and looked at her belly and said something to her partner. He moved his hand higher up her belly and his eyebrows shot toward his hairline. Then he laughed, too, and leaned forward to kiss her.
They registered Ethan watching then and he jerked his gaze away, feeling every bit the voyeur he was.
“Sorry, mate, first baby,” the guy called after him cheerfully as Ethan turned way.
He lifted his hand to signal he hadn’t been offended.
Far from it.
He bought his groceries but when he got home he didn’t make fudge.
Instead he went out onto the balcony. It was cold and he’d dumped his coat when he walked in the door, but he stood at the railing and looked at the city anyway.
He watched the cars race up and down. He watched the bats flying to their usual haunt in the Botanical Gardens. He watched a tram pull to a stop and release a flood of passengers.
So many people—old, young, middle-aged, rich, poor, gay, straight. Who were they going home to tonight? Husbands? Wives? Boyfriends? Girlfriends? Brothers? Sisters? Housemates?
He turned his back on the view and crossed his arms over his chest, staring into his apartment. He could see his couches and his artwork. The profile of his big-screen TV. All the stuff he’d surrounded himself with since the divorce. All the distractions, the consolations he’d bought to make up for the things he’d resigned himself to missing out on.
He closed his eyes and saw that moment in the supermarket again—her big belly, his hands spread wide, hers pressed on top of his. The delight and hope and excitement in their faces. The love. They were about to embark on a huge adventure together.
Together.
No matter what contract Ethan and Alex negotiated, they would never be able to capture that dynamic. There would be no moments of shared joy and love for them.
That’s the way you want it. Remember?
His arms were covered with gooseflesh. He pushed away from the railing and entered the apartment. He was picking up Alex at seven the next morning.
He flicked off the living room light and went to bed.