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In bare feet, Claire padded across the carpet and turned the brass latch of the window, then unlocked the shutter and pushed it out a few inches. The air was fresh, just cool enough to raise goosebumps on her legs and chase her back under the covers. Ronan, in his new boxers and a white T-shirt, was measuring coffee into a filter.
‘You’ve no book,’ he said, throwing her an apple.
‘No. And I didn’t even bring my phone.’
‘What?’
‘I was wondering when you’d notice,’ she said. ‘I thought it would be a good idea to, you know, live in the moment.’
‘You mean you left it on the charger?’
‘Eh .?.?. Yeah.’
Ronan liked the constant access enabled by his mobile and couldn’t understand why Claire didn’t. She had thought he might give her an earful for forgetting her phone; it would cause hassle if they wanted to split up, if she decided to go shopping.
He surprised her by laughing. If anything, she thought, he seemed relieved.
‘You’re stuck with me and my sparkling wit, so.’ He switched on the coffee machine, then kneeled on the bed and leaned over her.
‘It’s alright.’ She reached back to the slim shelf above the bed and held aloft her old Michelin guide to Paris. ‘I have this, if I’m desperate.’
He tutted, whipped the guidebook from her hand and kissed her. She wondered how his lips were so warm when hers were cold. Leaning on one hand, he used the other to move her body under his. She could feel the heat of his palm moving down her back, his fingers making small circles all the way to the base of her spine. She lifted her hand to the back of his head, ran her fingers through his hair, kissed him back.
This – this and no more – was all she wanted, or maybe, if she couldnotthink, if she could stay in the moment, she could go on. She put her other hand on his hip, realised he was deliberately holding the length of his body a hair’s breadth from touching hers. It was always, always, up to her. He didn’t realise, she thought, that sometimes that made it harder. He made it clear what he wanted, but the weight, the responsibility, of the choice lay with her.
‘Ronan.’ Her voice came out lower than she expected. She cleared her throat. ‘I’m not on the pill.’
She had his attention now, she knew. He was looking straight at her face, but she evaded his gaze, spoke into his neck. ‘I got the prescription, but I haven’t started it. I couldn’t decide.’
‘Hey.’ He put his hand to the side of her face, rubbed her cheek with his thumb. ‘There’s no rush on deciding. You can just kick that one into touch for now.’
She smiled at him. ‘You know I don’t understand rugby analogies.’
‘It means you don’t always have to go for the try line.’
‘Is that not the whole point of the game?’
‘You just have to keep moving forwards.’
She took a deep, shuddering breath. ‘I know what I want.’ She wanted another baby – a rainbow baby, they called it in the chatrooms and forums for women like her. ‘It’s just—’
‘I know.’
‘I’m scared.’
‘I know. But listen, Claire, you’re getting scared before you need to, you know. You think being scared will keep the bad things away, that they happen only when you’re not watching out for them. That’s just not true. Being scared all the time isn’t protecting you from pain. Being scared all the time is blinding you to all the normal, everyday fun of living. Push it out – the fear – keep pushing it out. You might never need it.’
Ronan didn’t often make speeches. Claire heard all the words. She knew he was right, but pushing out the fear was easier said than done. She pulled in an unsteady breath, and let the words fall out with the exhalation.
‘I couldn’t take—’
Ronan kissed her forehead. ‘I know.’
The smell of coffee wafted around them, bringing them both back to an apartment in Paris.
‘Tell you what,’ he said, ‘did they not invent condoms here?’
She breathed again, more easily this time. ‘French letters, is it?’
