by Alison James
Macca starts hammering on the door to be let in, but fortunately Lizzie is becoming sleepy, slumping back onto the cushions. Paula fetches the stained duvet from the bedroom and drapes it over her sister, removing her shoes and positioning a cushion behind her head. She can’t leave now, not while Macca’s still hanging around outside. Lizzie might end up letting him in, and if he’s got more alcohol on him she might drink even more. She might drink too much. Like all relatives of alcoholics, Paula is only too aware of the risk of alcohol poisoning, and that every binge can potentially be lethal.
There’s no working phone in the flat – Lizzie was too disorganised and too broke to pay the bills, so BT long since cut off service – but Paula knows that there’s a payphone on the ground floor of the building. She waits until Macca’s footsteps have retreated, then goes downstairs and phones her home number. Her mother’s not back from work yet, so she leaves a message on the answering machine.
‘Mum, I’m staying over at Carly’s tonight… we’re going to watch the DVD of Ocean’s Eleven… I’ll go straight to school in the morning, so I’ll see you tomorrow. Okay, bye.’
She added in the detail about the DVD because her friend Carly had been talking about the film at school and she thinks it will make her tale more plausible. She doesn’t have her uniform or her school books with her, but she can skip first period and go home to fetch them after her mother’s left the flat.
When she gets back upstairs, Lizzie is in an alcoholic stupor and the cat is scratching to go out. Paula lets it out of the fire escape door and sets about cleaning the kitchen and then clearing out a drawer at the bottom of the wardrobe and arranging the baby clothes and bedding neatly inside it. The baby still needs something to sleep in, but she should have time to save enough for a cheap Moses basket before it arrives. She’s seen some pretty ones in the market.
Around 10 p.m., Macca starts hammering on the door again. Paula sits hunched in the armchair watching Big Brother with the TV sound on low, waiting for him to leave. Eventually there are raised voices as one of the neighbours complains about the noise, then all goes quiet. Paula eventually takes herself off into the bedroom and falls into an uneasy doze.
At school the next day, all she can think about is Lizzie’s baby. She’s promised not to tell anyone about it, but someone needs to know; she realises that now. Maybe not the authorities, but someone. The child is at risk, that much is clear. Would her mother want to help? She doesn’t want anything to do with Lizzie, but her own grandchild would be different, surely? Her brother Steve might listen, but he’s too far away to be able to do anything. She remembers her father being a little less harsh to Lizzie in the days when her parents were still married, so she phones him after school, before Wendy gets back.
Colin Armitage doesn’t like being interrupted at work, and his tone is brisk.
‘Something wrong, love?’
‘Dad, I wanted to talk to you about Lizzie.’
‘Paulie, we’ve been through this before. As long as she’s drinking, I don’t want anything to do with her, okay?’
‘But, Dad, she’s—’
‘I’m sorry, love, but you know what was decided after she stole your mum’s ring.’
When it happened, it was her father who had been less upset about the ring, more inclined to forgive. But since the divorce and the start of his life with Estelle, he seemed to find it easier to distance himself from his elder daughter. She represented an earlier, messier time he wanted to forget.
‘But, Dad, this is really important. Can’t I at least come over at the weekend and talk to you?’
‘Estelle and I are having a weekend away, on the Norfolk Broads.’
‘Something’s happened. She’s—’ Paula stops herself abruptly. She’s suddenly hearing Lizzie’s fearful voice, begging her not to tell anyone. And Colin’s reaction would almost certainly be to arrange for the baby to be taken away from Lizzie.
Her father is still talking. ‘Anyway, as far as I’m concerned, Lizzie is nothing to do with me any more, so I really don’t want to hear about her latest disaster. Your sister’s no longer part of this family.’
23
Marian
Since her permanent mission is to lose weight, Marian shouldn’t really be eating a third chocolate chip cookie.
The packet is open on her desk and she has been dipping into it mindlessly as she attempts to draft a Section 47 investigation report. When she realises what she’s doing, she tosses the remains of the third cookie into the bin in disgust. The departmental office is quieter than usual, with most of the caseworkers on house calls or attending a child protection case conference. Marian stares intently at the screen, but her attention is wandering, her mind elsewhere.
Brushing the biscuit crumbs from her keyboard, she pulls up Internet Explorer and types in the web address for Tom’s firm: Cavendish Partners. She clicks on the link to ‘Our People’ and scrolls down the list until she finds what she’s looking for.
Vanessa Rowley.
Vanessa joined us from Lidgate Morris Architects in December 2002. She graduated from Newcastle University in 1988 and worked as a trainee at Razzini Associati in Milan before joining Lidgate Morris in 1994. In her spare time, Vanessa is a keen skier and enjoys tennis and wine tasting.
Enjoys wine tasting, thinks Marian scornfully. Who says that on their company profile? Is it code for being a bit of a lush? She looks at the profile photo. Vanessa has dirty-blonde hair, a square brow above a broad nose and large, wide-spaced grey eyes. Her lips are full, with an upward tilt at the corners. None of her features are perfect, but the appeal of her face is greater than the sum of its parts. In other words, she’s very attractive. From the dates on her bio, Marian estimates her to be around thirty-five.
Yes, she can see why Tom might be drawn to her. She’s not stupid. But ultimately what has Vanessa got to offer him? What Tom wants is a family and she – Tom’s wife – is about to make that a reality. A fling with a flighty single girl-about-town can’t possibly have the same appeal, not once they have a baby. This Vanessa is no threat. Or at least she won’t be once Marian is pregnant.
There’s a party at Cavendish Partners that evening to celebrate the construction team breaking ground on one of the firm’s high-rise hotels in the Gulf. The unavoidable case conference Marian has to attend will prevent her from getting home to change before the party, so she’ll have no choice but to wear the shapeless denim skirt and floral blouse she left the house in that morning.
Once the meeting is finished, she digs out a pair of high-heeled pumps she keeps under her desk for occasions like this, and rummages in the back of a drawer for a chunky gold necklace. Day-to-evening, isn’t that what the fashion magazines call this sort of makeover? She regards herself in the mirror of the dingy ladies’ loo and realises that the transformation hasn’t really worked. The heels only serve to accentuate the frumpiness of the skirt and the gold jewellery is lost against the busy pattern of the blouse. She considers heading to the nearest parade of shops to buy something new, but it’s already six o’clock and she has told Tom she’ll be there soon after six. Sighing, she freshens her make-up, adding more lipstick and mascara than she would normally wear, and sets off to Regent’s Park.
‘Anyone here I might know?’
Marian scans the event space behind Tom’s shoulder. It’s already crowded, and there is a loud hum of laughter and conversation. Black-clad waitresses glide through knots of people, expertly filling glasses from champagne bottles wrapped in white linen napkins. As Marian takes a sip of the icy, sparkling liquid, she catches sight of a long, dirty-blonde ponytail swishing against a slender, elegant neck, and the zipper of a teal-coloured bodycon dress.
Tom places a hand in the small of Marian’s back and steers her firmly in the opposite direction. ‘Gareth and Farzeen should be here somewhere: I invited them and they said they planned on coming.’ A tall, portly man in a loud tie stumbles into their path, clearly the wrong side of a larg
e quantity of champagne. ‘Ah, Malcolm!’ says Tom, loudly. ‘Darling, you remember Malcolm, don’t you?’
Marian – who is quite sure she’s never laid eyes on the man before – nods.
‘Malcolm, this is my wife, Marian. Malcolm works in our Glasgow office.’
‘Your wife?’ slurs Malcolm, taking in her messy hair and poor attempt at evening wear. He was clearly expecting someone altogether more glamorous. Most of the women are in work wear, but it’s the streamlined variety: fitted, figure-hugging dresses and smart suits.
Malcolm clearly doesn’t want to talk to Marian any more than she wants to talk to him. He’s slurring badly anyway, so as conversations go it’s a non-event. Marian makes some excuse about needing a glass of water and slips away. Tom has disappeared, absorbed into the crowd. Searching for any familiar face, Marian’s eyes alight on a waitress with a tray of canapés. Suddenly aware that she has barely eaten since lunchtime, she lurches at one of the mini burgers, only to have it drip garlic mayonnaise onto the front of her skirt. She escapes to the Ladies, which is a lot more salubrious than those at Haringey Social Services.
After dabbing her skirt, it now sports a dark water mark on the front of her groin as though she’s wet herself. She edges out of the bathroom with her bag clutched in front of her.
And then she sees her.
Vanessa Rowley is standing a few feet away, talking to Tom. Marian knows straight away that it’s her, and that she had correctly picked her out from her rear view. The teal dress is made from heavy jersey and fits like a glove over a body that’s slim but curvy. The provocative high ponytail is flicked over her shoulder, revealing large silver drop earrings as she tilts her head closer to hear what Tom is saying.
It’s as if some sixth sense makes Tom look up. He catches sight of Marian standing there, and his expression tells her that he’s embarrassed by her baggy, stained skirt and her glaringly incongruous footwear. He breaks away from Vanessa and comes towards her.
‘Ready to go home?’ he asks, although Marian has barely been there twenty minutes.
She nods her assent, and forces a smile, but she saw it. She saw Tom’s subtle, caressing touch to Vanessa’s bare arm as he left her.
When Marian gets back from work the next day, there is a thick envelope from the fertility clinic waiting for her.
She sets her bag down on the kitchen table and sits down to read it. There’s a computer-generated report with a list of values for blood and hormone levels, and the doctor has sent a copy of his summary letter to their GP, interpreting the results.
I’m pleased to report that Mrs Glynn’s AMH level (indicating ovarian reserve) and FSH level (follicle stimulating hormone) are above average for a woman of her age. Unfortunately, however, the tests on Mr Glynn show azoospermia, which as you know means that there is virtually no sperm in his ejaculate. This occurs in 2% of the male population, and is the reason why conception has not occurred after a prolonged period of unprotected intercourse.
I realise this will be very disappointing news, but there is a very good chance that Mrs Glynn would be able to conceive following a course of AID (artificial insemination by donor). From the blood results and ovarian scans, I would estimate a 45% probability of achieving a pregnancy after three treatments of this kind.
I will be suggesting we move forward with an appointment to discuss this further.
After reading the letter through several times, Marian leaves it open on the table. When Tom returns from work, she points to it silently, unable to bring herself to tell her husband something that she knows will devastate him. She pours herself another glass of wine and takes out a glass from the cupboard for him, filling it without uttering a word or even making eye contact. He takes it from her and gulps down half the glass.
‘Jesus Christ,’ he says, in little more than a whisper, blindly sitting down at the kitchen table. His face has grown pale. ‘Is this right? It says here that I’m firing bloody blanks!’
Setting down the wine glass, he covers his face with both hands and rocks slightly to and fro. When he takes his hands away, Marian is surprised to see that there are tears in his eyes. She knew he would mind, but expected him to try and hide it. To shrug it off. Shrugging things off has been Tom’s way of late.
‘I really, really wish we’d found out sooner,’ she says quietly, pressing a hand on his shoulder.
Tom pulls himself to his feet and wraps his arm round her. ‘I’m so sorry,’ he says into her shoulder, with so much regret that Marian wonders for a moment exactly what he’s apologising for.
‘It’s not your fault,’ she says, patting him awkwardly. ‘And anyway… you read what Dr Dempsey said about AI? He says there’s a very good chance of it working.’
Tom releases her and sits down again, taking another mouthful of wine and rereading the letter. ‘But that would be with donor sperm?’ He looks up at her.
‘Yes, but—’
He tosses the letter aside as though their predicament is the fault of the doctor. ‘That means the baby would be related to you, but not to me.’
Marian sits down opposite him and takes a deep breath. ‘Tom…’ She struggles for the most tactful way to make her point. ‘If you have no viable sperm, then any solution we go with is going to mean a child that’s not biologically yours. But at least the baby will be mine. So half ours. Surely that counts for something?’
Tom ignores this last question. ‘I’m sure I’ve read somewhere that they can harvest just a handful of sperm from infertile men and inject them into the egg.’
‘We can certainly ask Dr Dempsey about it.’ Privately, Marian thinks that the doctor would have mentioned this if it were an option. ‘I’ll phone them first thing and make an appointment for a consultation.’
As Marian had anticipated, Dr Dempsey is hesitant about recommending intracytoplasmic sperm injection – he tells her this is referred to as ICSI – for the Glynns, stressing that although all it needed for it to be successful was a single spermatozoon, this needed to be of good quality, and lab tests suggested that the few Tom produced weren’t.
He sends them away to discuss the situation for twenty-four hours, but after a long circuitous argument, Tom still insists that he wants to try ICSI rather than donor insemination.
‘Are you absolutely sure?’ Dempsey probes. ‘It’s a lot for your wife to go through. Painful daily injections, feeling unwell and out of sorts…?’
‘Yes, I’m absolutely sure.’ Tom’s voice is firm, but he avoids eye contact. ‘Marian wants it too, and I’ll be there to help and support her.’
Dr Dempsey holds up his hands. ‘Fine. I feel obliged to spell out that this is no walk in the park. Of course it’s par for the course with in vitro procedures, but with normal IVF at least the success rate justifies it. In your case, the chances of a live baby at the end of all this are pretty low.’
Marian glances at Tom, then back at the doctor. ‘We know that. But we want at least to try.’
Three days later, she starts the process of injecting hormones into her stomach daily in preparation for egg retrieval. Tom helps her with the first two, but then makes excuses or manages to be out of the house when they need to be done. Marian persists for the remainder of the twelve days, watching her stomach become mottled with bruises. She’s uncomfortable, sweaty and moody, and feeling increasingly lonely. The process of having a baby is finally under way, but Tom is distant and disengaged. He’s just worried, she tells herself. Protecting himself against the possibility of it not working.
Thirty-six hours after the final injection, they return to the clinic for her eggs to be harvested. They are pronounced to be of adequate maturity, and the ICSI procedure results in two fertilised embryos.
‘Could we have twins?’ Marian asks, her eyes shining, when she and Tom return on the fourth day for the implantation procedure. ‘I’ve always loved the idea of twins!’ She glances over at Tom, but he still seems absent, shell-shocked.
‘Well, yes, pote
ntially…’ Dr Dempsey prevaricates, picking up a pen from his desk and twisting it through his fingers. ‘But I ought to warn you, that although we’ve seen cell division, the embryos aren’t very good quality. They’re graded under the microscope, and in your case the number and quality of the cells in the blastocysts are at the lower end of the scale.’ When Marian’s face falls, he adds, ‘That said, we’ve had high quality embryos that don’t result in a pregnancy, and vice versa, so let’s remain hopeful.’
Tom holds Marian’s hand as the thin plastic catheter is slid inside her, but he’s looking down at his shoes rather than at his wife’s face.
For the next twelve days Marian dutifully takes it easy, resting as much as possible.
Her abdomen feels swollen and she’s sure her breasts are a little more sensitive than normal. Could this be it? she wonders, so excited that her heart flutters from just thinking about it. Is she really expecting a baby after nearly four years of trying? Or are these signs just – as the clinic warned – the result of the progesterone pessaries she’s using?
She swings between hope and terror, sometimes sure that they will be lucky, at other times despairing that they won’t. At night she has incessant dreams of conception and birth, sometimes disturbing, sometimes tantalising.
‘Best not to think about it,’ Tom instructs her, whenever she recounts a dream or ventures to raise the possibility that the embryos have implanted. Not thinking about it certainly seems to be his approach, changing the subject every time she mentions some intriguing little sign or symptom.
After what feels like months of agony rather than two weeks, the wait is over: day thirteen of Marian’s cycle finally arrives. Her breasts are still tender and she’s sure her abdomen is more rounded than usual. This has to be a positive sign, surely? She feels optimistic as she takes a pregnancy test into the ladies’ toilet at work, and waits for the result, mentally running through how she will surprise Tom with the news that night.