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Wide awake now, I swing my legs out of bed, looking down at my changing body. I’m still not at the stage where strangers make unprompted remarks—according to a chart I found at work, my baby is now roughly the size of an avocado—but, naked, you couldn’t miss that I’m pregnant. My breasts sag low and full, and my belly has taken on a comfortable roundness.
I walk toward the bathroom, amused to see I’m waddling slightly even though I surely don’t need to yet—the muscle memory of motherhood, settling around my body like a familiar coat. Something goes wrong with the shower—the warm water suddenly turns icy—but it’s invigorating. Idly, I wonder if the house is having trouble recognizing me now I have another person inside me. I don’t think technology works like that, but I really don’t know much about it.
I’m toweling myself dry when I feel a twinge of nausea. I sit down on the toilet seat, trying to breathe it away, but then it comes back, twice as bad. There’s no time to do anything but plunge forward and aim my mouth in the direction of the shower. I turn on the taps to wash the vomit away.
The glass around the shower is flecked with water marks now, so I get down on my knees to polish it. I’m crouching down to clean the notch that runs along the base of the wall, my face almost at floor level, when I see something glint in there, catching the light. It’s too far back for my fingers to reach, so I find a cotton bud and carefully prize it out.
At first I think I’ve just found a piece of grit, or perhaps a ball bearing. Then I see the tiny hole running through it. It’s a pearl; quite small, an unusual pale-cream color. It must have come off my necklace.
I go to the bedroom and find the necklace in its case. The loose pearl looks the same as all the others, certainly. But the necklace isn’t broken.
I can’t see how the pearl escaped if the string isn’t broken. It’s impossible, like a logic puzzle, a riddle.
There’s a jeweler’s opposite Still Hope’s offices. I decide to take it there and ask.
THEN: EMMA
I email the Monkford Partnership to complain about the problems with the house. There’s no reply. I try phoning Mark the agent but he tells me anything technical should be referred direct to the Monkford Partnership. I end up shouting at him over the phone, which I suspect only makes things worse. I even text Edward. Of course, he doesn’t respond.
In addition to everything else, I’m convinced the lighting has been changed. When we moved in Mark said the house automatically added extra light to counter winter depression. If so, can it do the reverse? Not only am I not sleeping properly, I’m waking with dry, itchy eyes, exhausted.
Simon phones and repeats his offer to come around. It would be so easy to say yes. I tell him I’ll think about it. I can hear the elation in his voice, though he tries to hide it. Nice, safe, reliable Simon. My harbor in a storm.
And then Edward Monkford texts me back.
NOW: JANE
“It’s exceptional,” the jeweler says, rolling the pearl between finger and thumb as he examines it through an eyepiece. “If it’s what I think it is, it’s very rare indeed.”
I produce the necklace in its clam case. “Could it have come from this?”
He takes the case and nods approvingly at the Japanese characters. “Kokichi Mikimoto. You don’t see these very often.” Lifting out the necklace, he holds it up to the light, comparing it with the loose one. “Yes, it’s a definite match. As I thought, they’re keshi pearls.”
“?‘Keshi pearls’? What does that mean?”
“Saltwater keshi are the rarest pearls of all, particularly when they’re almost round, like these. They come from oysters that had more than one pearl—twins, in other words. Because they have no nucleus they acquire this unusual, glowing luster. And as I said, extremely rare. At some point, I imagine, the necklace snapped and the pearls came off. The owner had it restrung, but he or she missed one.”
“I see.” At least, I understand what the man’s saying. But the implication—that Edward gave me a necklace he’d previously given to someone else—is going to take rather more digesting.
As I leave the shop, I reach for my cellphone.
“Simon,” I say when he answers. “Do you happen to know if Edward Monkford gave Emma a necklace? And if so, whether it ever got broken?”
THEN: EMMA
I need to see you. Edward.
I consider my reply before answering. Are you still angry with me, Daddy?
The response is swift. No more than you deserve.
Good. Does this mean you want me back?
We’ll see after tonight.
Then I’d better be on my best behavior. Already I’m weak at the knees.
7 p.m. Wear the pearls. Not much else.
Of course.
Two hours to get ready, to anticipate, to endure. I take my clothes off and get to work.
NOW: JANE
