An Almost Perfect Moon. Jamie Holland
girls in the office. That night, after work, they’d gone to the pub, drunk too much and ended up in bed together. Since then, they’d hardly spent a day apart. No one understood him better, or made him laugh more. He knew he had a tendency to complicate his life; she was the most patient and uncomplicated person he knew. He was certain she would be prepared to move to the country; maybe it was her Australian blood, but she loved the outdoors. When they’d first started going out, it was she as much as he who’d suggested they go off camping at weekends and backpacking for their summer holidays.
Flin had always thought he’d move to the country some day, but it had been something one did when one was older, much older, so that he’d carried on living and working in London without really pausing to consider whether the rural idyll was actually a possibility. But now that time had arrived, sudden and unexpected – prompted by the mere reading of a newspaper! – and, really, there was nothing to stop them. He’d been subconsciously using his fears and the potential risks of the Big Move as a reason for staying put; but by playing safe he would become increasingly ensnared by the London tentacles: he’d never be able to leave his job because, before he knew it, he’d be past his sell-by date for anything else. No one else would want him. A sobering thought. Clearly, he had to take the plunge now, break free from the rope that was pulling him ever more firmly towards a lifetime in the city. Be bold, make the move while they were still young, and the pastoral dream could be theirs. He felt excited – and nervous – but determined to see it through. At least, he hoped he’d still feed the same way in a week’s time.
Apart from trips to the loo, Lucie remained true to her word, and didn’t lift another finger that day. Harry and Ben had done most of the clearing up earlier, but once everyone had left, Ben finished the job and then brought his wife more tea.
‘How are you feeling, my love?’ he asked her, running his hands through her short, thick hair.
‘Fine. I think. Tired. You can carry on doing that though.’
‘All right, but my arm’s beginning to ache.’
‘A bit longer. I’m definitely highly emotional and need lots of care and attention.’
Ben sat down again on the sofa, resuming his earlier position with Lucie’s legs straddled across him. He was very happy with their house. Three bedrooms, reasonable-sized kitchen at the back and a bit of a garden, half grass, half paved. Lucie, who had an eye for style, had decorated it beautifully – everyone said so, including Harry, whose opinion as an artist, they valued. They’d filled it with some old pieces of furniture stolen from her mother, but newer stuff too – such as the large Indian table and dresser, and the kind of sofa that encouraged deep-seated comfort. There was an abundance of cushions. It was the home of a young couple whose tastes had merged and who were doing well in the world.
He glanced at Lucie. He felt so proud of her. She was such a marvel, so wonderfully pretty and funny. And brave to be bearing the pregnancy with such calmness. He worried for her though. She always said she wasn’t pushing herself too hard, but he never quite believed her. It was all very well Harry accusing him of being a control freak, but he just wanted to make sure nothing went wrong. He wanted his baby, his family and the family to come, to be perfect. Sometimes he worried something terrible would happen and Lucie might be torn from him. It didn’t bear thinking about, he loved her so much. And the thought of having to put up with what his father had had to: four boys to rear almost entirely on his own – well, it would be awful, terrible unbearable. His father, just past retirement age but still forced to work, had looked so old last time Ben had paid him a visit. He’d always looked older than he was, the strain of looking after his sons and working long hours having taken its toll at an early stage, but even so … It wasn’t surprising his father had never remarried: he’d never had the time to meet anyone else.
Lucie too had lost a parent, although her father had been killed when she was just two. It had been a bond between them from the outset. But her father died flying a helicopter and Lucie was able to grow up proud of the handsome, heroic figure in the photo frame. Ben kept no picture of his mother. After she’d left them, she was simply never mentioned again. Sometimes it was as though she’d never existed at all.
Ben had never understood her desertion. What had they done to deserve such an unnatural act? Aunts and family friends were no substitute. Ben was brought up hearing his father yell at his older brothers Stephen, Matthew and Andrew as they found themselves in one piece of trouble after another. Gradually, they wore him down: by the time Andrew had dropped out of school, his father had long since given up trying to control them.
Ben was different. From an early age he’d recognized that the way to escape this oppressive family life was to keep his nose to the ground and work hard. His brothers helped with this. All of them were big; nobody messed with the Armstrong boys, so their little brother evaded the normal bullying meted out to swots. It was the one thing for which he would always owe them. By the time they’d all left school he was big enough to look after himself. At fifteen he was six feet tall and shaving every day, and no one touched him. He was left to study as hard as he liked, and it soon paid off. The first of his brothers to get any O-levels, he stunned the rest of the family by managing ten straight As. From then on university was just a formality. None the less, the day he’d won a place at Cambridge to read economics had been the best of his life. His ticket to freedom.
‘I wonder if the little thing will have any hair to start off with,’ said Lucie, suddenly opening her eyes.
‘I don’t know. At least we know what colour it’ll be.’
‘Worried I’ve been with the postman?’
Ben laughed. ‘If it’s not very dark indeed, you’ll be in big trouble.’ He rubbed her tummy gently. This was what he’d been looking forward to ever since they’d married: a son or daughter, so he’d have his own proper family. Just six weeks to go. He couldn’t wait. This was what he worked so hard for. He wasn’t going to make the same mistakes his father had. He would always be able to provide for his family. Lucie would be effectively retiring in a few weeks’ time – he now earned enough for her to extend her maternity leave indefinitely if she so wished, and still put money aside for the future. Their child would always have a parent at home. Ben glanced around the room. Life was pretty good. Upstairs he’d carefully decorated the nursery – yellow, because he felt it was good for boys and girls, and he’d also lined the room with a frieze and a mobile of wooden parrots. It was the only yellow Lucie had allowed in the house – elsewhere, she’d firmly banned it as being ‘too early nineties’.
‘But I like yellow,’ Ben told her, ‘it’s cheerful.’
‘But, darling, everyone has yellow. It’s so faux.’ Ben bowed to her better judgement. After all, she knew much more about style and current trends than he did – as she should, the amount of magazines she subscribed to.
Later, as they lay in bed, Ben said to her, ‘So what d’you think is Harry’s problem with Julia?’
Lucie put down her magazine, paused and then turned to him. ‘Harry’s a romantic, darling. But I also think he’s terrified of committing to anyone other than his mythical perfect person. And I’m not sure she exists.’
‘Maybe.’
‘Perhaps he’s right, and Julia isn’t the one for him, but all I’m hearing is how wonderful she is. I don’t really understand his problem. And anyway, I thought all men liked big tits.’
‘Not at all. We don’t all adhere to men’s magazine ideology. And anyway, I love you and yours aren’t exactly huge, are they?’
‘Ben, I feel so flattered.’ She laughed. ‘But I do think Harry should give Julia a bit of a chance. He wants too much – no couple are going to be in perfect unison all the time, but he just won’t accept that.’
‘It’s his mum and dad,’ Ben told her. ‘Perhaps we’re at an advantage – we’ve got no standards to judge marriage by, but he’s got his brilliant parents, still happy together after thirty-five years. Harry says they even