The day of their first viewing of this little semi, Denise spent most of her time outside, at the back of the house where a eucalyptus tree worried the shed and tall conifers spilled over the fence, gangly and unruly like teenagers confined. She studied the tangled garden hard, picked over every blade of grass and evaluated the position of the sun through each hour of the day. She said there was weeks of work to be done to keep the foliage in check amongst the borders. She even suggested to Martin that the patio should be re-laid and the fence replaced. But Martin wasn't put off.
'It won't be a problem, Denise.' he said. 'You know how I like to be busy.'
She craned a smile out over the garden, to his meet his eyes, slippery. Yes, she knew how Martin liked to keep busy.
There wasn't much to find fault with inside the house either, though Denise tried. She mentioned to Martin that it was a bit small.
'It's'¦cramped, don't you think?' she said. 'A bit'¦boxy.'
The bedroom could only fit a bed and a wardrobe in it. The bathroom, she told him, you couldn't turn around in without banging your elbow on a tap or a towel rail. But Martin pointed out that it was all the space they needed, it was compact, he said. 'Cosy.' And he lifted his chin in that annoying way he had of signalling an end to the conversation.
They were moving house for economical reasons, downsizing and pocketing the cash. That's what they told everyone. There was a place in Denise's heart that whispered to her about the lie they told these people. Their friends. Their family. There was an immovable lump in Denise's throat when she saw the surprised looks on their faces and the way they said, 'But your house is so lovely, I'm surprised you can bear to leave it.'
She could taste the words like lime when she told her nearest and dearest these semi truths. 'We are downsizing.' she insisted. 'And the cash really will come in handy.' But the things she said still sat on her tongue, withered like wrapped lettuce, and died there.
If they knew the truth, Denise thought, they'd wonder how she could have stayed in her old house so long.

The boxes stacked around Denise are a constant reminder of how temporary she feels. Not so much in this house, but in her own skin. She should unpack, but still she doesn't.
They've moved in despite Denise's reservations. As usual, again, she thought, they did what Martin wanted to do.
She stands at the kitchen window and looks out onto the back garden. The thing that really put her off this house is staring her in the face. There's no way she can escape it.
'You've got to put it behind you, Denise.' Martin says. 'Move forward.' But it's easy for him, it's not his body.
He tells Denise she needs to forget that the spare room in their old house stayed cold, remained a guest room, a junk room, and look forward to shaping this house. After all, there isn't even a spare room here that could grow cold.
'A new start.' he says. But Denise can't shake the loneliness of it.
When the couple who bought their old house were looking round, the secret began to creep from Denise's mouth like a spider from a hole, one leg at a time. 'We bought this house as a family house,' she said, 'but the family hasn't come along.'
She couldn't help it. She could feel Martin's glare on her cheek. But the woman inspecting their old house, who was already imagining her own furniture filling every corner, looked at Denise with sympathy. Perhaps because she was a woman and another woman can always understand. Of course, she assumed it was a problem inside Denise's body. Or Martin's. She looked at the two of them and made the usual mistake. She thought they couldn't have children.
From the kitchen window Denise can see the bottom step that leads up to the patio outside. When she first saw this she felt as if her chest was dissolving under her skin. In the concrete, just below the step, there is the imprint of a child's hand. Sunk in stone. Probably about two years old at the time, the child of the previous owner of this house had been cajoled into pressing their palm into the wet concrete and watching the little handprint set solid. It was cute. Denise could see the appeal of doing things like that. But the parents of the handprint child obviously hadn't thought beyond this house. They couldn't exactly take it with them, could they? Couldn't dig out the slab of concrete and fit it into their new, dug-over, pebbled and potted, landscaped garden. So now Denise has to look at it. When she's doing the dishes. When she's cleaning the windows. Even when she's loading the washing machine she can catch a peek at the tiny fingers splayed in the concrete like a bird's foot, and think about what she's lost.
It was years ago now. When they were still only kids themselves. Denise knew the timing was bad. She knew they were both too young, but people cope.
'It's not the end of the world.' she told Martin. 'It's just a bit sooner than we'd planned.'
But Martin is a very precise sort of man. He likes things in the right places. CD's kept in alphabetical order, clothes in the wardrobe neatly lined up according to size. Bills paid and filed away. Everything in its place, even people. And he visibly squirmed at the thought of something as basic as a life being out of sync.
This unplanned for, intrusive, interrupting foetus had begun to form and grow inside Denise.
'Not yet.' Martin said. 'We're not ready yet.'
So it was Martin who decided. Booked the appointment. Made it all seem normal and functional and tidy. 'Get rid of it.' he said. 'We don't have to have it. It's not the right time for us. It will ruin everything.'
So they did. And it has still ruined everything.
But that was twenty years ago this month. Martin has told Denise since then that he doesn't actually want children. 'Ever' he said, as if there was the slight curl of a chance that having a baby would be possible anymore. Of course there isn't. Denise knows that. It was obvious this time last year when a tiny, insistent race was won inside her for the second time and the hormones began to jump.
'I think I'm pregnant.' she said to Martin. And his face darkened and he said, 'What, again?' as if she did this sort of thing on a daily basis. He told her there was no way they could have it, and when Denise argued that there was no reason why they shouldn't, he grew angry. It isn't like Martin to get angry. He's usually so in control.
He pushed her down the cellar steps and watched as the baby slipped away from her. Denise lay there and thought about the dirt in the corners of the room. The cold, damp walls. The spiders. Mice, maybe even rats. It was bleak, dirty. Denise was surprised Martin even allowed a room like that to exist in their house. It should have made the experience worse, she thought. But actually, the feeling was no different to the first time a baby had escaped her. It was after that the change came. And Denise couldn't even look at the cellar door never mind go down there. Martin said it was time they moved anyway. 'No use me and you rattling round in this big house.' he said. 'We don't need the space.'
Martin hasn't even noticed the little handprint in the concrete below the garden at the back of this house, but for Denise it's a bit like a grave.
She leans on the sink in her new little semi and she thinks about what might have been. The little handprint in the concrete outside is the stretch marks she hasn't got. The stitches. The crying. The feeding. The changing. It's everything she will never have.
Denise still hasn't unpacked the boxes, maybe because she doesn't feel like she's staying. She meant what she said when she told Martin this house wasn't big enough. She can't breathe in here. It's suffocating her. He ignored her as usual, but from the moment she looked around this house she knew she could never live here. It's taken Denise a few days to understand that it isn't just this house she can't stand to live with. It's the person in it too.

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