Karytos

By Emma C. Conway

"The Greeks believe that if you lose your way along the Oregano Trail, then you are lost in life. I used to think that was a load of rubbish. But now, this feeling I have…this hollowness that fills every nerve-ending - am I lost now?" 

 

Seeking an escape from normality, Karrie Hannigan leaves Dublin in 1999 to spend a summer on the Greek island of Karytos, leaving behind Joe, who has just become her boyfriend. Yet Karrie is determined to find adventure in this far-flung place. Surrounded by new people, a job in a popular restaurant, and lots of cocktail-fuelled nights out to manoeuvre, it becomes hard to keep the relationship going. Add a male room-mate, Declan, and the old adage, can men and women be friends? Especially with little more than a sarong between them. A wild summer follows with entanglements, breakups, and the ache of lost love, leaving her uncertain about her path in life.

 

Fast forward four years and Karrie finds herself in a controlling marriage, on a path she never meant to take. She yearns to escape again. Greece beckons, promising freedom and a chance to change direction. Has she the courage to leave and go back to where she last felt found?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Emma C. Conway
• Release date: Jan 26, 2024
• ISBN: 9798224302826

Emma C. Conway

Writing since she was a child, Emma works in communications. All she has really ever wanted was to write books.  Emma has two children and lives in Ireland with her husband. She loves reading and writing women's fiction, and young adult fantasy. 

Book preview

Chapter One

1999 - Karytos

Declan was the first person I met on the Greek island of Karytos. Tired and sticky by the time I hit the dusty concrete of Karytos Port, after an eight hour ferry journey - Declan was a salve from home. A fellow Irishman in a potential Greek tragedy, as disembarking the ferry occurred at great, terrifying speed. Mopeds and transits zoomed past disorientated tourists. The ferry workers shouted at the port workers and they shouted back. Thick mooring ropes were flung back and forth, as everyone was rushed along. The smell of fresh fish mingled with petrol fumes and sweat.  I scurried off the ramp avoiding the white uniformed port police, intimidating with their side-arms. The ferry door was already rising back into place, preparing to continue to the next island with the next lot of tourists and deliveries for restaurants and businesses. I almost fell over a crate filled with lemons; a tangy, zest-filled summer scent in my wake.

I had arrived in the middle of May, very early in the summer but already late for seasonal workers. Everyone at home in Dublin had thought or hoped I would back out of coming here, but I was determined. I wanted a change of scenery and had been directed to the island of Karytos by my cousin. Her best friend, Angie, lived there, running a bar with her English husband Bill. This couple had arranged for someone called Declan to meet me at the ferry and take me to worker’s accommodation. They would also introduce me to the locals in the hope that I might get a job. My parents thought leaving a permanent job to go to a Greek island for a summer without any money, prospects of a job or a place to live was insane. However, I knew better. Having lost one of my best friends to leukemia while we were in college, I was determined to live my life to the full. At twenty-four, a summer of freedom in Greece seemed the perfect way to do it.

Once I got past the lemons, I found myself cornered by ‘Kamaki’. Their job is to mill around the tourists, toting placards advertising guest rooms and hotels along with lots of shouting, the preferred method of communication in Greece. I ducked several overly earnest brochure wavers and panicked slightly, unable to see my way through. I felt a tap on my shoulder.

Karen?

I turned and was met with a wide smile in a lightly freckled face framed by an eyebrow ring.

Declan?

A proper Celt, red hair and all. I’m the other kind of Celt, pale-skinned, hair dark, curly and I’ve always been ridiculously freckled. Declan though, could have been called carrot-top, except he looked cool, hair streaked with bits of blonde from the sun and tanned. Mmmm, good-looking. Diligently, I broke away and thought of Joe, the boyfriend I had left back home.

Hiya. It’s Karrie actually. I’d spent most of my school life making that correction, thanks to my mother and her literary preferences. I’m named after Carrie from the Little House books, except Mam wanted a name with a K. Stronger, she said. She has her own ideas, my mother. Me coming to Greece for a summer was certainly not one of them.

I’m Declan, come on then Karrie, I’m parked over here.

Grinning, he took my haversack from me and I rubbed feeling back into my shoulder appreciatively. We got into a dusty white transit van. There was still a stench of fish and I realised we were beside a fishmonger, dusty nets and fishing tackle hung from pristine white walls to advertise the wares. I thought the smell might be enough of a hint.

Declan drove out, handling the cumbersome vehicle with ease. The leather seat of the transit burned my bum through my now grubby denim skirt. I kept my arms by my sides, certain that I stank after about twenty hours of travelling. Declan waved and gesticulated to people amongst the placards and I realised that some of them were also Irish. I didn’t get a chance to take in much more as the transit took off up a dusty road at alarming speed along hairpin bends. Without a visible seatbelt, I clung onto the handle over the window. My new surroundings flashed by.

Climbing towards the village the seascape became dotted with white matchbox sized boats. Around us, the land was parched brown with a smattering of golden grass on rocky terrain. I noticed that all the houses were whitewashed and framed with blue shutters. We slowed down to allow a truck to fit by us on the narrow road and from the van window, I could see right inside someone’s home. Though it was shaded, I could make out a scrubbed wooden table with a large bowl of fruit. Outside the house, geraniums flared in the sunlight from window boxes. The small garden looked well-tended and I thought I could smell fresh herbs, maybe rosemary, wafting through the window of the transit. The front door, also painted blue, was open invitingly. Everything looked simple, but pretty. I breathed in the scents of summer and felt the weight of everyday life at home slide from my shoulders. Even leaving Joe felt less dreadful now.

We drove up a hill towards the house I was going to share with a group of strangers. Declan was taking me around a back way as the village was fully pedestrianised. I would get to see it properly later on.

How long are you here? I asked him.

Since the end of April. This is my third year.  I go home for the winter, work in construction and then come back for the summer. At least we get a bit of sun over here. He grinned at me. I’ve five sisters at home so this is my sanity. Plenty of space, that’s for sure. He gestured the sea view ahead of us as the transit turned another hairpin corner. The roads, I felt certain, were built for goats.  

Why not get your own place in Dublin if you need space? I asked.

And pay rent? Nah. I’ll wait till I can buy my own place. I’m going to study design, like building design, that kind of thing and head Down Under. Now that’s the place to buy a decent house. With a pool.

He negotiated the van into a tiny cobbled street. I’ll drop you and introduce you to the others, but I have to get the van back. Things to deliver.

As we hopped out, I noticed a crate of yellow melons, which he must have collected from the port.

Thanks for the lift, I said. Will I see you around? I didn’t mean to, but I was sure I sounded anxious. I felt stupid nervousness at the thought of meeting more new people.

Yeah, you’ll see me later. Come on, this is your new home. He opened a heavy, panelled door into a dark hallway. Declan pointed the way.

The bad news is that you’re sharing with five others. The good news is that everyone does have their own beds. He smiled cheekily at me, calling out, hello, anyone home?

Alright mate, you got the new girl?

A guy about my own age appeared from a doorway, which I later discovered was to the bathroom. His accent sounded Australian and he was dressed in knee length combat-style shorts. He wore a pair of faded blue flip-flops and was naked from the waist up. Dark hair drew my gaze to his midriff. I rapidly adjusted my eye-level as he introduced himself with a strong handshake and a friendly smile.

I’m Brandon. Welcome to the House of Fun.

I’m Karrie. It’s nice to meet you. I noticed no-one traded last names or ages, or nationalities. Take me as you find me. I felt a bit more relaxed. House of Fun?

Brandon grinned. He took my haversack from Declan and moved down the tiled corridor.  There was no shortage of chivalry around here.

I have to go. Will you do the honours, Brand? Declan was heading out the door.

Sure mate, what time you back in work at? Brandon asked.

Half ten, but I’ll be home to get ready first, he trailed off and then was gone.

Home? I enquired of Brandon hopefully. Does Declan live here?

Dec, yeah. Didn’t he tell you? What a wombat! Brandon led me towards an open door at the bottom of the hallway. You think he would have mentioned that you and him are room-mates.

Room-mates? I echoed. Room-mates...with a guy. Is that normal round here?

Brandon either didn’t hear me or ignored me. My initiation to Greece had begun.

Following Brandon into my new room, I didn’t realise it, but I was beginning a summer that I would later rate as a greater life experience than school, college, even marriage. I arrived in Greece full of determination to change the pattern of my life. I had been bored at home. I wasn‘t ready for buying a car or a house, or thinking about pensionable jobs.  I had no qualms about leaving work or friends. I wanted to see new places and not even the blossoming romance that developed just before I left could hold me back. I was crazy about Joe Carney, my long-time crush from work, but if I had given up my dreams of travelling we both feared I would resent him in the long run. So I came to Greece before it could turn sour. As I surveyed my new home I put our relationship momentarily out of my mind, certain that I had made the right move.

Greece is as wildly different from home as possible, Brandon told me. That would definitely fulfill my desire for new experiences.

The house is always full, he continued. There’s six of us including you so you don’t get much time on your own.

I was still in awe of the fact that I was sharing a room with a male, but having decided to be worldly about whatever came my way, I didn’t let on that the thought of it bothered me. My parents would never know about it of course, I could picture my mother having nightmares for the whole summer that I would be raped in my sleep. I felt safe enough even from just one meeting with Declan. It seemed impossible that anything bad could happen in such a warm, sunny, beautiful place.

In case of any opposition I might have towards the arrangements, Brandon told me that Declan had a stunning Aussie girlfriend, Hayley, who kept him perfectly fulfilled in many ways. I didn’t press for details. And apparently, Hayley was not one bit bothered that her boyfriend was sharing a room with another girl. The wonder of Greece. Crazy situations are utterly acceptable because of a hot climate, lack of money and desire to enjoy life. Brandon filled me in on some of the more obvious differences to home.

Oh the best kick is a trip to the bank, when it’s bloody open of course... You get bank clerks smoking cigarettes while counting out your cash. And the Bank Manager sits at this great big mahogany desk, open to all the world, not one bit of security or privacy. He’s there sipping whiskey at eleven in the morning, while going over...whatever - loan applications or something. Oh and everyone shouts at each other - regular method of conversation. He shook his dark head, but you could tell he was enamoured with it all.  

It seemed to be a mad world, as far from the reality of Dublin as I could get. I hung on every word of Brandon’s, determined to love it all.

As much as I did love it all, while thinking back, I assume I can be selective and just recall the parts that make me feel good. It is never that simple and while I can try to forget the moments that make me cringe or ache, they are still there teeming under the surface. It only takes a little crack for forbidden thoughts to barge through into the heart of a good memory. When I think of Greece, I think of Declan and how big a part of that life he became. However, Joe continues to muscle into my memories, where I don’t want him. Though it doesn’t hurt as much anymore, it can be like a splinter in your finger. You don’t notice it until you press against it and then you feel the sharp reminder that it was there all along just waiting for the opportunity to throb.

2003 – Dublin

The Greeks believe that if you lose your way along the Oregano Trail, then you are lost in life. I used to think that was a load of rubbish, especially when I found my way off that goat’s path of a trail eventually. But now, this feeling I have...this hollowness that fills every nerve-ending - am I lost now?

Maybe the Greeks are onto something, I sigh.

What’s that? My husband interrupts my daydream, coming into the bedroom with a glance at his watch.  

I put away an old photograph I’ve been looking at, tanned, smiling faces under the awning of a bar-restaurant. I tuck it inside a library book that my husband would never pick up. Patrick’s funny about borrowed things. I don’t know if it’s the array of hands a book has passed through, or just the fact that it doesn’t belong to us, when we can easily afford for me to buy any books I want. I go back to rooting through our large, double wardrobe.

It’s just dinner; wear anything. Patrick watches me get ready, his blue eyes reflecting the light as he leans back on the bed. He is ready, designer chinos and a blue and white striped shirt open at the collar.  

I can’t just wear anything. You’re all dressed up, I chide him, playfully. I pull a pair of jeans from the wardrobe and a black sequined top. I am not really in the mood to dress up tonight, tired after a demanding day at work, but I will make some effort.

Before I can pull on the jeans, Patrick is beside me, tugging a black chiffon dress from the rail. This is lovely on you. Hides a multitude. He pinches my side teasingly.

Multitude? I’m a size twelve. Not movie star thin, but hardly a pudding.

What’s wrong with the jeans? I enquire, trying to keep an edge from my voice.

Jeans, Karrie, to dinner? Come on, sure, I’m all dressed up. Patrick leaves the multitude dress in my hands to go downstairs and start the car. That’s my cue to hurry up. Smarting from his literal pinch I pull on the elected outfit, ensuring to match it with jewelry that my husband has bought for me and likes to see me wear. Glancing in the mirror on the way out, I see Patrick’s wife reflected back at me.

Chapter Two

The restaurant is quiet. I hate walking in to places which are so muted, like a wild-west saloon when the new cowboy rocks in. Patrick escorts me to our table, behind a paisley waist-coated waiter. I slide into my seat and lean back while the starched white napkin is draped across my lap. I suppress an urge to pick it up and blow my nose.

Menus are handed to us. Leather bound tomes. A pang of hunger intensifies until I feel my insides are going to scream. A wine list is handed to my husband, who peruses it with interest. Even though he will only drink one glass, he doesn’t offer me a glance. A Merlot is ordered before I have a chance to object.

You know Rioja is one of my favourite wines; it really reminds me of Spain.

Ah, I think Merlot is more solid. You’re more certain of getting quality.

I shrug into my seat. I don’t know where he gets his wine expertise, but he always manages to sound authoritative.

I think I’ll order the chicken, Patrick muses, with an appreciative sigh. He typically orders chicken when we’re out.

Hmm, I wonder how they cook the steak, I murmur, feeling uninspired by the meat and two veg standard. I wish we could have gone somewhere with a bistro or Mediterranean feel. Greek even.

There I go again, thinking of Greece. Deep blue sky, sun drenching a balcony, white-washed houses peppering the background of the photograph I had earlier poured over. I found the photo amongst a pile of old letters and that started me off on a melancholy trip down memory lane. Has it really only been four years? It seems like a lifetime away. So happy and carefree, now I’m married and...

I try to focus on the menu in my hand, but my head is swimming with images of food that I long for. I can taste ruby red tomatoes and crumbly white cheese doused in the most flavoursome virgin olive oil.  

Focus Karrie. There’s only a Caesar salad here, something I have never taken to. Crab claws - I spy with surprise. Umm fish would be lovely, especially as a starter. I picture serving trays abundant with calamari and octopus, lightly fried and garnished with oregano or rosemary. Fresh and smelling of the sea. I’ll get the crab claws. But the crab claws only come on the set menu. Four courses. Not Patrick’s thing. He hates to be tied to a set menu, too much food, he’ll say. Resigned, I settle for the seafood medley.

"Can I have the steak please, rare." I hate it overcooked.

The paisley clad waiter takes it down with a flourish.

I’ll have the pâté to start and then the chicken. Lovely, thank you. No surprises from Patrick.  

As the waiter takes back our menus, I suggest again that we order Rioja, but with typical unchartered speed, the original wine order arrives and after Patrick approves it and makes some banal joke about tasting, is poured for us. It lounges in my glass, blackcurrant in colour, pungent. I immediately wish I hadn’t pussyfooted around Patrick’s choice. I wrinkle my nose as I taste it. Patrick smacks his lips together. I wince inwardly.

So next time we come out, maybe we’ll get champagne – forget wine, Patrick says cheerily, misreading as usual my discord.  

Why champagne?

Well maybe we’ll be celebrating, something really important.

Patrick, you’ve just got a promotion – that’s important; maybe we should get champagne now? I suggest hopefully.

"No something really important - Karrie – you getting pregnant."

My skin tingles, but not in a good way. My stomach swoops and I hold myself still afraid that nausea will set in. This has been my normal physical reaction of late whenever Patrick starts on this topic.

Patrick, give it time. I don’t think we should be in a rush.

Oh Karrie, sure you’re off the pill, you could be pregnant now for all we know. As if the thought occurs to him, his hand hovers over the glass of wine, perhaps I shouldn’t be let drink it. I slide my hand along the table and take the stem, arming myself. I need a drink now, even Merlot.

I’m still getting used to the idea of us having a baby.

What do you mean, Karrie, you want kids. You’ve always said that. Patrick makes a statement, that’s the end of it for him. I want children. I’ve said that, therefore, now that he’s ready, we’re having them. Now, please.  

I glug back some wine, ignoring the blackcurrant aftertaste which I don’t like. I would rather vanilla tones and velvety smoothness. However, its alcohol and a metaphoric anti-dote to talk of pregnancy. I think of the pill packet I stopped taking halfway through the month, under pressure. Patrick holding it over the toilet, laughing, but serious. I know he didn’t dunk them, but I can’t remember where they ended up. Trying to keep the peace, I had given into his wink-wink nudge-nudge and we had ended up in bed. Me praying that the pill would continue to defy nature. That was a week ago.

What am I doing?

Just as my stomach starts eating itself from the inside out, our starters arrive.

Marvellous, thank you, Patrick says to the waiter, as though it was he who had fabricated the pâté and fashioned the dish to my husband’s taste.

I look down at my seafood medley. It’s the opposite of appetising to me. Seriously. Cold salmon and mayonnaise. That’s all it is, with a few prawns under a pink sauce. Not much of a medley.

Oh, but it’s not the food, it’s not the food at all. I watch Patrick tuck into his starter and taste bile, followed by an engorging guilt as I realise I’m beginning to loathe my husband.

Patrick and I met at a work do. I wasn’t looking for him. I was looking for someone alright, but not Patrick. But the person I had hoped would turn up, didn’t, and instead of reuniting with someone I thought was the love of my life, I ended up with Patrick.

Alcohol had a lot to do with that. He was pretty drunk that night, though he often turns that story round now. Still he remembered he had met me and rang me the very next day. He was a charmer and never one to let the dust settle.

It continued in that vein. Seeing each other casually (or at least casual for me because I didn’t really want a relationship), into full-blown boyfriend-girlfriend. I told my best friend Jenny I thought he was too nice. Too dedicated. She thought I was crazy. Maybe I was.

I tried not to get caught up, pulled in. It wasn’t who I wanted. I kept thinking of what could have been. If I’d never met Patrick, if the person I really wanted had turned up that night.

Yet we were engaged less than a year after we met. I was swept along; a breath-taking helicopter ride over Dublin, the enthusiasm of the ground staff taking flight with us as they knew what was coming. I knew too, but I still didn’t stop it.

How to say no? A beautiful ring, three stones: past, present and future. I felt my future fade away from me at the moment it was slipped upon my finger. It was like my mother’s ring, beautiful. Would I have chosen it? No. But then I wasn’t making any choices. I was just going along with what was happening, unable to put the brakes on.

It just got too late to back out. Like picking at this seafood medley, taking the bits that are decent enough to eat and leaving the rest. Why did I touch it at all? I could have sent it back intact. And got something else. Someone else... 

But now - pregnancy, children, we would be a family. Whatever about me coping with a marriage and a relationship that requires a lot of effort and attention, how would I add children to this mix? Like throwing onions into a traditional Greek dessert of Yogurt and Honey. It would ruin what is already a very sickly, sweet mess.

And I would be tied to Patrick forever. Stuck with his unrelenting need for perfection, his hounding nature, his charm that can turn like the weather. I don’t want to bring children into a relationship that has me buried inside my own head, never truly showing myself for fear it wouldn’t match the expectations of my husband. It would be the end of me, of Karrie. I can’t do it.

But how the hell do I get out of it now?

If Patrick had an affair I could leave him.

But with who? Someone from his office? A neighbour? An ex-girlfriend?

God what am I thinking? This is my husband, whom I’ve sworn to love till death do us part. I married this man.

But if I can’t leave him, can I get him to leave me?

How’s your starter? Patrick asks, startling me out of my reverie. I look down at the offending medley and shrug. Not nice? Why didn’t you send it back?

Indeed.

Is your pâté okay? I enquire. He would never offer me a taste. Thinks it’s vulgar. Whenever I ate out before I met Patrick, everything was shared. Particularly when I was living in Greece, when it was new things you had never had.

Good. He takes a sip of wine and waits for me to review my dish. I’ve barely touched it. He frowns at me. He hates waste. My hand goes to my fork, I should finish it or there’ll be words later.

And then I pause. You don’t like it, Karrie, so don’t eat it.

Is it that simple?

Karrie, do you want to give it back or are you just being picky? he asks.

I don’t want it Patrick. I’ve never wanted it. I would have liked crab claws.

Patrick stares at me. He’s not sure what I’m talking about, but he certainly doesn’t realise it’s him.

The waiter appears. He puts out his hand to take the plate, then draws back questioningly.

Is it okay? he asks in accented English. I had thought he looked Polish, but there’s a hint of French. Is zit okaye?

It was fine. Just not what I thought, I reply politely.  I’m still not sure what I’m talking about. Food or marriage?  

Once the paisley waistcoat whips away, Patrick leans over and takes my hand. I try not to grimace. I wonder am I hormonal. He’s really bugging me tonight, normally I wouldn’t actually dare get this irritated by him. It’s an odd feeling; empowering.

Karrie, I have a surprise for you, Patrick says, looking highly pleased with himself. I’ve booked a weekend away for us, to a spa hotel.

My irritation is replaced by a surge of gratitude, relief. I have wanted to go to a spa hotel for a long time, but Patrick has always griped about cost and necessity. Why would I need massages when he would be happy to bestow them on me? Smother me with oil and affection.

Oh wow, where are we going - when? I respond, charmed by his enthusiasm.

Well, that’s the catch. The only date I could get is Paddy’s weekend. He grins at me, brazenly.

That’s Jenny’s hen weekend. You know that. I’ll be in Athlone.

"No, no, I’ve got you out of it. I know how much you’ve wanted us to do this."

I stare at my husband. Is he barkers? Is he raving? Does he actually believe that I would drop my lifelong best friend’s one and only hen’s, to go away for a weekend that up to now, he’s had no interest in?  Still I try to retain a feeling of tenderness towards him, since he has tried to arrange something that I would like.

I’m sure we can put it off for a few weeks.

Patrick pauses, takes some wine, regroups.

"Karrie, you’ve persisted with this spa thing for how long now? I book the weekend and now you aren’t available. I did what I thought you really wanted."

Patrick there’s fifty-two weeks in the year, but that’s the weekend you book? The one weekend I will be away with my friends?

Don’t be ridiculous, there’s no agenda here. You can go away with your friends anytime.

Great. Well, I’m going on the hen’s.

Don’t be silly Karrie. It’s all sorted. His voice begins to rise slightly, he is struggling to preserve his... enthusiasm. This is a lovely surprise for you. You should be pleased.

Don’t tell me to be pleased, I blurt. I’m sick of you telling me how to feel.

Excuse me? Patrick’s voice is low, cold.

Before I have a chance to decide or to be pushed in the direction he wants, our main meals arrive.

Ze chicken?

Yes, thank you.

And ze steak Madame, the waiter gushes.

I stare down at my meal. The last thing I want at this moment is food.  

Patrick begins eating his chicken, deciding not to be sidetracked by my lack of co-operation. As far as he’s concerned, job done, we’re going on his spa weekend.

I slice neatly into my steak, thinking, thinking - what now? What will I say now? I’m not giving up this time. Oh for God’s sake, I say out loud.

What’s the matter?

My steak, I asked for it rare. It’s at least medium, I reply. He doesn’t understand my predication for meat that is bloody and tender; he’s a well-done man.

I look round for our waiter. But I don’t see him, all I see is trappings. A life I have allowed to grow around me, while I have buried myself in the belief that someday it will feel better than this. How? When kids come, as Patrick wants? Will the wonder of a child, a tiny, helpless infant, seam us together into one perfectly well matched garment? Unlikely.

Patrick, I don’t want this, I tell him.

What are you talking about, Karrie? You ordered it.

No not the steak. I don’t want us to go away that weekend. I want to go on the hen weekend. I have to go.

You don’t have to be there, Karrie, don’t be ridiculous. I’ve already sorted that.

My ears prick up, he has said this already. What do you mean, exactly?

I explained to Jenny’s sister that you can’t go because of getting pregnant. He says it very carefully, just like I imagine he has done to Cathy, my fellow bridesmaid.

I’m sorry? I reply hoarsely, you told Cathy I’m pregnant?

I didn’t say that you are pregnant, I said that because of getting pregnant it would be best if you weren’t included in the numbers and that you would explain it to Jenny yourself, when you get a chance.

Oh Jesus.

Karrie, he tries to take my hand again, but I snap it back, hiding shaking fingers under the tablecloth. By then we will be pregnant, so there’s no point in getting your hopes up about going on the hen weekend. You’ll be tired, you won’t be able to drink, the best thing in the world for you is what we have planned.

Oh, so it’s all about what’s best for me? That’s the way Patrick has won everything so far in our marriage. Pointing out how this is for my own good, for my best interest, for the good of my health, happiness, future.

I don’t want to get pregnant, I state, coldly. I’m going back on the pill.  

Karrie, you can’t, sure what if you were pregnant already, you would be endangering the baby.

That’s crazy. I’m not pregnant. There’s no way it would happen that quick. Mental note to buy a pregnancy test.

It could, it does. You’re being ridiculous. What’s the matter with you, have you had that shit a day? He looks at me bemused. He’s not taking me one bit seriously.  

What if I don’t want kids right now? I ask softly. What if I think it would be disastrous?

He has almost finished his chicken. I’ve barely taken a bite of my steak.

I’m serious. But he hasn’t even looked at me, too busy chasing a piece of spinach around his plate. If I gave him spinach at home, he would gripe at me about wilted vegetables. He doesn’t like my ‘experimental’ cooking.

Patrick!

My husband’s head snaps up, shocked at my raising my voice. The timbre of conversations throughout the room suspends, waiting.

Sorry, I say without thinking. So used to trying to cover up. Slapping myself inwardly.

Pull yourself together Karen, eat the bloody steak. I’ll get the bill.

Bloody steak, I wish. I stare at it, as if it might un-cook slightly.