'There,' she'd said, virtuous and pious, as he tried not to gag. Aware of that constant, static undercurrent of accusation in her voice, so faint that only the paranoid could hear it, as she added: 'There, Alex – that's what I'll be drinking four times a day, and all I'm asking you to do is give up coffee.'

Oh god, the theories. This was a new one she'd got off the Net, as she sat up surfing it in the middle of the night, some webpage claiming that caffeine was responsible for plunging fertility rates and low sperm motility.

'Come to bed,' he'd say to her gently, swaying bleary-eyed in the door. Willing her to turn around from the screen and face him.

'In a sec,' she'd answer without moving, eyes moving rapidly across text and blue light bathing her face. 'I'm just studying something.'

Now she lowers the canister with the same wary smile and unscrews the lid, pouring out what looks exactly like silty river water. If only it was a vodka martini, Alex thinks fleetingly. That's what he could use, something just to give him a bump, wake him up. He feels saliva flood his mouth, like pressing a trigger.

Mel takes a breath, holds her nose and drinks, then grimaces.

'Oh,' she gasps, her mouth twisting. 'That's revolting, it really is. I'm really going to have to buy some mints. Right now. They'll have mints down at reception, right?'

Alex feels in his pocket for change. 'I'll go,' he says quickly. 'Or how about a juice out of the bar fridge?'

'It's like I have to steel myself not to throw up every time I drink it.'

'How long did he say you had to take it for?'

She looks at him, her eyebrows raised. 'Till it works,' she says. And brings the canister down on the counter with a rap, like a gavel.

Alex's smile feels held in place with wires.

This is the big weekend. Four weeks into the Chinese herbs and they're at this resort because Mel has written on the desk diary 'Conditions are Perfect!' with a big fluorescent circle around the date, and booked them in for an optimal two-day stay. A green light. A window.

'It's nice, isn't it?' she says, gesturing around the room.

'Beautiful.'

'And we're right on the beach, just like they said.'

They both look out through the screen doors, down the sandy path. Alex can see the ocean out there, but can't hear it. There's a pile of striped canvas deckchairs, stacked under a tree. The resort must own the whole strip of beach.

'Alex?' she says. 'Are you feeling okay?'

He listens for waves again, but there's nothing. The sea through the trees lies flat and unreflective, like brushed metal.

'Are you kidding? I'm great,' he answers. 'Just a bit tired.'

'Not too tired, I hope,' she says, kissing him on the back of the neck, on his ear. He can smell the earthy bitterness of the herbs on her breath, an ancient smell. Mandrake, he thinks, the word falling into his head out of nowhere. He doesn't even know what mandrake is, but he'll think of anything rather than the feel of her narrow body against his back and buttocks, the hard twin bumps of her pelvic bones, her wrapping arms, the birdlike lightness of her. She'd go to bed now if she could. She'd convince him with this gentle insistent pressure, teeth on his earlobe, and yeah he knows plenty of his friends would name him the luckiest bastard in the world for that alone, but there's still this grim businesslike undercurrent, the upbeat jauntiness he can't get used to. How, he wonders, can she just turn this on and off like a tap, how can she set herself so assiduously, so zealously, to the task? He thinks of the tidy folder of webpages she's carefully printed and filed, the way she steels herself before downing that brew, the way, after sex, she lies with her legs tucked against her chest, silently counting, he knows. Optimising the post-coital angle, or some crap.

He reaches for her hands, holds them.

'Let's get down to the beach,' he says. 'Let those herbs do their work.'

He sees a muscle work in her face, a quick comical pout of disappointment. Mock disappointment, to go with the desire.

'A swim and a read,' he says gently, smoothing her hair. When his hand caresses her shoulder he feels not an ounce of excess flesh on her; feels instead a taut wing of cartilage which shifts a little beneath his fingers like something underwater, flexing itself against the tide. The beautiful scoop of her collarbone, so familiar under his thumb, fills him with unaccountable sorrow.

He can't focus, that's the problem. His thoughts track uselessly down disconnected paths, like a clueless dog floundering along looking for a scent in the undergrowth. Are you listening? Mel will say to him impatiently, and he'll tell her of course I am, groping for a foggy handhold in the conversation, trying to dredge up words to respond. When they'd gone to the gynaecologist he'd sat distracted when Mel asked the guy how he felt about alternative medicines. 'It's entirely up to you,' he'd said evenly. 'A lot of couples take that road, especially before IVF.'

'Does it seem to work?' Mel had said, and Alex had felt a stab of wincing pity at the hesitancy in her voice when she'd added: 'Sometimes? I mean, is it complementary?'

The gynaecologist had given a non-committal shrug, weighing his words with that professional neutrality they all perfected. 'Sometimes, yes, it seems to get results,' he said. 'It's hard to say. Everything takes time.'

And Alex had sat mute and useless, mesmerised by the gynaecologist's clean, tapered hands spreading in a placatory gesture, thinking: he knows the secret. He had to. He must have had those hands covered in blood and afterbirth, must have lifted newborns by the ankles, must have felt inside women's bodies – the incredible, labouring intimacy of those barriers broken! – and touched, with those fingers, the pulsing shift of unborn flesh, feeling it turn hotly under his palm. Yes, he was privy to all of that, he had to be, but he was keeping it to himself.

The hands were scrubbed now, bland and palely disinfected, but Alex couldn't drag his eyes from them even so. Was that gesture meant to say just calm down now or were those hands raised to dispassionately bar their way, sitting there shamed by failure?

He was invited to ask questions, but had found himself with nothing to add. All he could think of was how time had bracketed them now, he and Mel; ruled up their lives into dutiful individual cells like the days on the calendar that lived next to their bed beside the clock. It all sat there like monitoring apparatus: Mel's system of green and red markers, her thermometer, her ovulation chart. It was like she was going to stalk this thing, set a snare for it, bring it to ground.

They were the ones ensnared by it, though. Now it was as if each day was only there as something to be endured, marked off with a cross.

He'd see her brushing her hair in front of the mirror before bed, looking for the matches on the chest of drawers to light the candle, and feel it all tighten around him. He hated the scent of the candle, now. He'd close his eyes so he didn't have to see the determination in her face, or the open calendar on her bedside table, dates grimly circled in green like traffic lights, uninfringeable.

The first thing he saw in the morning. A window you looked through, but couldn't open. A fixed pane.

No wonder the resort costs 300 bucks a night; because here comes a waiter, right onto the beach, and Alex wants a cold beer so badly he has to work to keep the casualness in his voice as he orders.

'What did you order me a beer for?' says Mel as she comes out of the water, stooping to pick up her towel. 'You know I'm absolutely sworn off alcohol. That's the worst thing.'

'I didn't. The mineral water's for you. The extra beer's for me. In case he doesn't come back down to the beach again.'

He can feel her giving him a long, assessing look.

'Alex,' she says.

'There is absolutely nothing to be paranoid about,' he answers.

'Both of us should be avoiding alcohol,' she says. 'Both of us.'

He takes a sip of beer. Just a controlled, orderly sip. 'I think that's going a bit far,' he answers, and waits for the plaintive barb of annoyance in her voice.

'I know you do. I just ... well, don't you? Want to give it the absolute best chance?'

'Mel, you're doing everything right. You're so conscientious, you've checked out everything. But part of it's relaxing, isn't it? That's what those websites say, isn't it – that you've got to stop stressing?'

'Oh, yes,' she says emphatically, 'God, yes. I'm not stressing. Just this weekend is our ideal fertility window. And the herbs are helping. I'm sure they are.'

He leans back in his deckchair. 'Good,' he says. 'Perfect.'

'The water's beautiful,' she says. 'It doesn't look like it, I know, but it's really warm. You should have a swim.'

'I will. In a little while.' Another swallow. Next time she goes in, he'll catch the waiter's eye and ask him to take away the two empties and bring another one, be drinking it when she gets out; she'll never know the difference.

'In fact, I'm feeling absolutely ripe,' she says, stretching luxuriously.

'You look it.' After a moment he reaches over and strokes her damp hip. Nothing.

'I've just got to think: baby, baby, baby.'

'Yep.'

One year is a reasonable time to keep trying, the gynaecologist had told them, before we go that further step and start to check for reasons. That night in bed she'd turned to him, lifting up her arms, and as he moved into her embrace she'd murmured in his ear: we'll show them. Eleven months ago. All that ebbing time.

She doesn't go back in, not soon enough for him. From the corner of his eye he sees the waiter approaching, and he holds up his empty with a careless wave, signalling one more. Quick, so that if she glanced at him in her peripheral vision she might just see him waving a fly out of his face. But she's not looking his way. She's gazing blankly out over the horizon, over all that expensive water view.

'It's low sperm count,' she says eventually. 'It's the new epidemic. People think it's a female problem, but nine times out of ten, they're wrong.'

Here we go, he thinks. Next month, each of those intervening cellblock days crossed off the calendar, if there's no double blue line on the pregnancy test, they will have to trek back to the gynaecologist to start the Assisted Conception program. Mel will buy two tests, because something in her just won't believe the evidence of the first one, and she'll come out of the bathroom after twenty terrible minutes, go straight to bed, then take the next day off work. When Alex gets home at the end of the day, his heart spiralling down like a lead sinker, she'll be back surfing the Net. He'll watch TV in the other room, where people who want out of their relationships whisper sorrowfully 'I can't do this anymore', as if that's all it takes.

'Your beer,' says the waiter, and Mel shoots him a look of pure reproach as he takes the bottle unhesitatingly and puts it to his lips, shaking, wanting the ashy taste out of his throat.

He's the one gazing pointedly out to sea now, pretending to be transfixed by the aluminium flatness of it, like foil in your mouth, on your fillings.

'Let's go back,' says Mel. 'Let's not just sit here.' She pauses. 'With you drinking.'

'In a sec,' he answers. After a minute she stands and walks back up the path, and Alex tips his head back and lets more beer slide down, chilled and reliable. He feels marginally looser now, less like he's going to fly apart. He stands up, puts on his shoes and picks up his dry towel. He can always swim later. Right now he needs to find the spot, here at this pricey resort, where he can sit on some cushioned cane chair under a fan, out of this salty metallic glare. And sure enough, there it is, up the stony path in the distance, tricked out like a tiki bar with Hawaiian umbrellas and a bright aqua pool.

'The Crusoe Lounge'. Excellent. The waiter who's already brought his beers to the beach is here doubling as barman, filling in time behind the bar doing whatever staff do when there's no one to serve. Alex remembers his room number and tells it to him, then lets himself scan the drinks list. He takes his time studying what's on offer, because truth is he's not looking forward to going back to that room any time soon, because even if she's furious with him, even if she's barely speaking to him, she will still need him to have sex with, because this weekend is their golden opportunity, their window. He will be required.

'So there's a South Pacific theme going on,' he says genially to the barman, feeling the possibility of respite.

'Yes, indeed,' says the barman, just as genial. 'Can I get you something else?'

'Why not?' he says. 'It's not as if I'm driving.' He reads through the list of drinks again, considering. 'Just another beer, I think. Not too early in the day for another beer, is it? Since I'm here?'

'Not at all.' They're paid to agree with you, Alex thinks. Trained to be amiable.

'I'm meant to be on the wagon, actually,' he says confidingly. He wants the guy to say one more can't hurt or hey, you're on holidays, but what he actually says is 'Why's that? Are you doing that February fast thing – quit alcohol, give up sugar?'

'Kind of,' says Alex.

'You should try the special, then. The kava.'

'The what?'

The barman indicates the blackboard menu behind him. 'Oh, it's a Pacific Islander speciality. We import it. I've mixed some up today ready for Hawaiian Happy Hour.'

'Is that right? What's the alcohol content?'

'That's the thing,' says the guy. 'It's not even alcohol. It's a narcotic.'

Alex sits back in his stool. 'Perfect.'

The barman ducks beneath the counter and stirs something with a ladle. When he sets a drink on the bar – poured into a replica coconut shell cup like something out of Gilligan's Island – Alex grins and takes a sniff.

'You might actually need a beer chaser,' says the barman. 'It's ... a bit of an acquired taste. But it's got its die-hard fans, alright. It gets manufactured as a tablet, too. As medicinal herbal medicine.'

'So, what ... I sip it?'

'No, you knock it back in one.'

Alex sniffs the cup again, dubious. 'I've never even heard of the stuff.'

'Well, give it a try,' says the guy easily, replacing the ladle. 'I mean – since you're here.'

'Cheers, then,' says Alex, swigging it down. It's distinctly unpleasant. Kind of like cucumber juice, with a harsh bitterness which reminds him instantly of the Chinese herb brew. The plastic coconut shell hits the bar counter with a hollow weak little thump.

'Well,' says Alex, suppressing a small shudder. 'It was cold and wet, I'll give it that.'

The barman pushes a bowl of peanuts towards him. 'We mix ours up from a powder,' he says, 'but people tell me, in the South Pacific, they grind it fresh and it's way more powerful.'

'So drinking this is more a ceremonial thing?' Even if he had a peanut allergy, Alex thinks fleetingly, he'd still be reaching for this bowlful right now, just to get the taste out of his mouth.

'That's right. It's like a cultural ritual, especially for men. The boss here drinks a couple of shells every evening. Says it makes him relax and sleep better.'

'No kidding? Well, hell, line me up another quick one, then.' He doesn't know what makes him say this – the thought of relaxing and sleeping, maybe, or the desire to spin out the conversation. He nerves himself for the second round to hit the back of his throat, but it's not as bad this time. Dirt and roots, definitely botanical. He eats a couple more peanuts as the barman heads off to stack something into the fridge and settles back to look out to sea, wondering if he feels sedated. Hmmm. Lips tingling, maybe, not much more. Possibly his tongue feeling a little thick. Nothing worth writing home about. She'll be soaking in the spa bath now, steadfastly and determinedly relaxing. Or else updating her bloody status on Facebook. Absolutely ripe. My God.

Alex slowly finishes the bowl of peanuts, one by one. Every one of them tastes perfectly salty and delicious.

'Not feeling a thing,' he says eventually, resettling himself on the stool. 'You'd better get me a beer after all. Or a very strong vodka cruiser, or whatever. Because I've got a feeling that stuff is just dirty water.'

The barman gives him a quick look. He's been and gone a few times, and now he's back – he's got a small pile of foliage and a bunch of little glass vases lined up on the bar, and is poking artificial hibiscus flowers into each vase with a little spray of leaves.

'I can show you the packet of powder, if you like,' he replies. 'It's some kind of pepper root. Tonight we're having a kava ceremony to welcome new guests.'

'Right,' said Alex. His eyes swivel to the Hawaiian Happy Hour menu again: Come along: you're guaranteed to get lei'd! it says. Alex squints at the text, conscious of how hot and heavy the air feels on his skin. Should have had a swim. Well, he could walk down now. Except can't work up the enthusiasm.

'She's hoping it's me,' he hears himself saying, apropos of nothing. 'But it's not me. That'll be a bitter pill to swallow, when she finds out.'

What? He blinks and tries again. 'See, once we do the Assisted Conception program, it will ...' – he gestures slackly, coming up short – 'come to light.'

He stops, seeing his wife's white ambushed face, armed with her counterfeit theories and bags of magic herbs, clutching her folder of webpages. How infinitely preferable, he thinks, to leave the breaking of bad news to the scrubbed secretive gynaecologist. He'll have all the right words.

'See, you have to fill out these questionnaires, I'm pretty sure,' he says, leaning forward on the stool now, 'where they ask about previous pregnancies or conceptions, but I think it's just simpler if I just tick 'no', don't you? Clean slate. I mean, what difference would it make now, what box I tick?'

The barman evens up the artificial flowers. 'None,' he agrees pleasantly.

One hibiscus bloom in each vase, one vase per table. It seems a pretty sterile, token sort of celebration, if that's what it is.

'What do you call it,' Alex says after a while, 'the thing you're having?'

'Sorry?' says the barman.

God, the effort of summoning an explanation for what he means! It's like struggling out of sluggish sleep, the same weird, disoriented annoyance. He runs a hand through his hair.

'This Hawaiian party, happy hour thing. Tonight.'

'Oh. A luau,' answers the barman. Alex nods sagely, like it's a word that's been evading him for a long time. And what about you, what's your story, he feels like saying, ironing a Hawaiian shirt to go to work at 11 am in the morning in a place like this? But the sentence feels beyond him; way too demanding, faintly belligerent.

'This was at uni,' is what he hears himself say instead, 'so I was dumb as a box of rocks, all that, twenty-three years old and a complete arsehole. But I'm not excusing myself.'

He can't believe what's coming out of his own mouth.

But the barman is nodding. He gets it. Alex releases a breath and lets it keep trickling from him like smoke, a long lethargic exhalation. It's good to have the guy turn his back to him now and start stacking glasses on a shelf. Alex waits resignedly, almost mournfully, to hear what he might say next.

'Found out at a party later she'd terminated it anyway, and gone overseas, and good luck to her.'

'Uh-huh.'

Stupefied, Alex looks down at his legs. Got to send a message to them, very soon, to stand up and walk him back down to his room. He marshals the enormous concentration required to make everything work together to do it. He puts his hands flat on the bar and slides from the stool, planting his feet firmly on the wooden floor. He's fine.

'Just put that on the tab,' he says at last, ponderously.

'No problem,' says the barman lightly without looking up. 'Take care. And don't worry - it affects different people in different ways. It evens out into a mild buzz.'

'Right.'

'Like a joint.'

'Okay.'

Just keep agreeing, and work out later what the hell he's on about. Guy looks to be about twenty-three himself, so what would he know about things evening out?

Things to do now. Alex picks up his towel and weaves his way through the tables out of the bar. At the beach corner, out of the barman's sightline, he pauses and leans against one of the rustic upright posts. He's puzzled. He knows he's stopped for something but he can't think what it is until he leans forward suddenly and throws up a thin stream of beer and kava onto the sand.

He remembers the girl at uni – Sarah – when she'd told him, her seeing, before he could hide it, his fumbling, stuttering dismay. The crass selfishness clear as day there on his stupid face. No doubt she'd predicted, too, the bolt of traitorous relief he felt when he found out about the abortion after they broke up. She'd had his measure, clearly. Could see in him instantly the thing it was taking Mel a suspiciously long time to notice. This caving, contemptible weakness.

Mel. Gaunt in the blue of the computer screen, swigging down her mandrake mix, printing out and fastening those pages with paperclips like they were official and real. Her lips moving soundlessly as she reads. And it's all still waiting for them anyway, he thinks with a wave of rolling, submerged despair – whatever box he ticks, it will still be the same antiseptic white rooms, rounds of injections, taking out more loans trying to make something take root. He sees it all murkily, as if through a porthole. The same glazed, seasick certainty.

Well, he needs a minute. He doesn't want to stumble back to their room and have to meet her eye just yet. He's not up to keeping his end of the script until he gets a few more breaths of fresh air into him.

He just wants to stand here a little longer, holding this post; head blotted empty as cloud, feeling the dim, wilful suspension of time – the luxury of it, its perfectly oiled spin – before he goes and finds her. She'll be waiting. This is their window, and conditions are perfect.

There will be no need to talk, which is just as well. When he lowers his numbed mouth to hers, he will taste, faintly, the terrible, bitter-root medicine on her breath, and wonder if she can taste his.

 

'Window' was commended in the 2016 Jolley Prize.