Authors: Joanne Horniman
But that's far too romantic! Why shouldn't the conception happen while she coughs, or sneezes, or farts? This is a modern novel after all, and one after my own, curious, wayward heart.
She farts. âSorry!' she says automatically, though what's a small fart between friends, or lovers?
He puts his arms around her.
And just once, for one single moment, I am the third that lies in their embrace.
And now here I am in the red-room, having come full circle, my odyssey completed. I am home.
This morning when I woke, Becky was still sleeping. She had her arms thrown above her head. Hetty lay between us; she usually ends up in our bed. At moments like that I want time to stand still. I want to keep them both here with me, the way I once wanted to keep my mother, with my hands forever tangled in her hair.
But you can't capture anything. Everything changes. And as a way of preserving, even writing seems futile.
Sometimes I find myself wanting to extract from Becky Sharp that ultimate lovers' promise: that she will love me for ever and ever.
But I won't ask that, because
ever and ever
is impossible. I know that all any of us ever has is now.