by Frances Pye
TERRY JIGGLED open the front door of the flat. Behind her Paul was scuffing his way up the stairs, hanging back, waiting for her to disappear before he came in. Well, he was out of luck. Even though the chances of his listening were microscopic, she had to discuss with him what he’d done. No question, at fifteen he was too young to be having sex. The last thing she wanted was for him to take after his dad, who had boasted of fathering his first child when just fourteen.
As Paul slunk through the doorway and sidled down the corridor, heading for the steps to his room and sanctuary, Terry called out, “I need to talk to you.”
Paul carried on toward his room.
“Don’t try and sneak off. Come here!” Terry was trying to sound tough, but even to her own ears her voice rang out as more panicky than hard. She tried to lower her tone. “Paul! I said I wanted to talk to you, didn’t I? Paul!” Deeper, but still feeble. And useless. Paul reached his room, sloped in, slammed the door behind him, and rammed home the lock.
TERRY’S KITCHEN was an oddly welcoming room, a mishmash of junk-shop furniture and reconditioned appliances, of old metal signs and ancient posters, of innumerable treasures picked up at countless garage sales. Flower-shaped lamps from the 1950s, chipped blue-and-white china, old biscuit boxes, and bits of wax fruit were scattered amongst assorted glass jars of dried beans and herbs and coffee and oil.
Now out of her uniform and draped in a multicolored, flowery dress, tied around the waist with an old Eton school tie, Terry came in, trailing Minnie in her wake. She walked over to an ancient, half-stripped pine dresser that was held up on one side by a pile of telephone directories and looked at the various jars huddled on the middle shelf. Herbal teas to cope with any occasion. Teas to calm you down. To pick you up. To increase your brain power. To lessen your stress. To ease your digestion. To cleanse your system. To do everything except help you cope with a teenage son who’d been suspended from school and was now closeted in his room, refusing to talk.
Terry picked out a chamomile and ginger mix that its makers claimed would turn even the tensest person into a laid-back, what-me-worry type. Anything was worth a try. She made her brew and sat down at her rickety old kitchen table whose scrubbed surface was half covered with opened mail and newspapers and bottles of vitamins. She took a swig of her tea, reached out for the phone, and dialed a number. “Lils? You busy?”
Lily was slumped in her dressing room. She was taking a ten-minute break from their final rehearsal before taping the penultimate show and she was exhausted. The last thing she needed right at that moment was a conversation with anyone. But then she heard the worry in her best friend’s voice. “Terry. I’ve got a few minutes. What’s happened?”
Terry brought Lily up to speed on Paul and the girl and Mr. Wallace. “You wouldn’t have believed it. Suggesting the Boy Scouts like it was 1950 or something. I tried to talk to Paul, but he ignored me. God, I have had it up to here with this version of my son. I want my Paul back.”
“Patience, sweetie. You’ll get him. He’s fifteen. It’s only a stage he’s going through.”
“But suppose it’s more than that? Before Finn, he was fine. Teenagery, but I could still reach him. Suppose Wallace was right? Suppose Paul needs a man in his life?”
“Well, it wasn’t easy for Jack, and he had Clive off and on.”
“See. There you are. Wallace was right, the bastard. Hell, it’s not like I hadn’t thought of it for myself. But I buried my head in the sand. Didn’t want to face it, did I? Shit, shit, shit.”
“It’s not that bad.”
“Yes it is. Lils, think. Where the hell do I find a father figure?”
“There’s an easy answer to that.”
“Easy for you, maybe. I gave all that up years ago, didn’t I?”
“Yeah, but you can change your mind. It’s not like it’s a religious thing or anything. And you’re stunning.”
“I’m fat.”
“Terry. For the thousandth time, you’re not. You’re stunning. A bit curvy maybe, but guys like that. I can think of hundreds would go for you in a minute.”
“I don’t want them. I’d have to fuck them, and I won’t do that. I know you love it, but it’s never done anything for me. Just a lot of sticky mess.”
“You really, really have never had an orgasm?” Lily still couldn’t quite believe this.
“I really, really have never had an orgasm.”
“Even with all those men?”
“Even with all those men. I guess sex is something other people enjoy.”
“Like sweetbreads.”
“Or Barry Manilow. Yeah.”
“There’s nothing you miss?”
“The cuddling was nice. But I never got much of that, did I? Either they thought I was a frigid bitch and turned their backs on me, or if I gave my Oscar-winning performance and pretended to come, I was the hottest, sexiest thing, to be fucked, not cuddled.”
“I still don’t think you should’ve given up. I said at the time you should persevere.”
“It’s easier this way. Less stressful. No frustration. No disappointment. And no lies. I was getting so I didn’t even know the truth myself. I ever tell you I taught myself to clench my inner muscles in rhythm to fake orgasm? Now, that’s sick.”
“No. Not sick. Never sick. Sad, maybe.”
“Am I being selfish? Should I give up on this celibacy stuff for Paul’s sake? Go out and find a man for him?”
“You can’t do that.”
“Why not? That’s what you were suggesting, wasn’t it?”
“Only if you want the guy yourself.”
“Why not? How bad can it be? It’s not like I haven’t done it before.”
“Okay. One, it’s taking good motherhood way too far. And two, could you really hide your feelings for the time it’ll take for Paul and this father figure to bond?”
“I’m out of practice, but I could try.”
“What if he wants more? In my experience, they always do.”
“What, like commitment?”
“Yeah. Pretending to love would be harder than pretending to come.”
“I see what you’re saying.”
“And you don’t want to raise Paul’s hopes and then disappoint him.”
“No, I don’t. Not again. That’d be worse than doing nothing.”
There was a tap on Lily’s dressing room door. “Needed onstage, Lily,” a man’s voice called out.
“Listen, Terry, I got to go. Don’t worry too much about this, okay?”
“Okay.”
“Ignore Wallace and his father figure. Paul’ll come round, give him time. It’s hard to lose your dad before you even knew him.”
“I know. I know. Talk later, yeah?”
“Yeah. ’Bye.”
“’Bye. Oh, and Lils?”
“Uh-huh?”
“Love you.”
“Love you too.”
eleven
Jules’s town house in Chelsea was her own personal haven. Outside, it was one of a long row of similar properties, each with its own cellar, its own porticoed doorway, its own wrought-iron balcony on the first floor. Inside, it looked more like a pretty country cottage than a hard-edged piece of London. Walls covered in landscapes and paintings of dogs and horses; old, comfortable leather armchairs; chintz sofas; candles and books and photos in silver frames. It wasn’t chic, it wasn’t even vaguely fashionable, but Jules didn’t care. She loved the place, loved the treasures she’d collected to put in it, loved the feeling of peace it gave her whenever she was there.
But that day, the house’s calming effect wasn’t working. Jules was on edge. Sitting in her pastel-colored, custom-made kitchen, the phone in her hand, she was trying to work up the courage to call a sperm bank. Trying and so far failing. She’d already dialed the number twice and hung up before anyone answered.
She knew she was being ridiculous. If this were for work, she’d have no problem. She’d rung some of the strangest places and a
sked for some of the strangest things on behalf of her clients and never felt the slightest bit embarrassed. But this was for her.
Through her very successful company, Dunne Parties, Jules organized almost any kind of gathering. Important book launches, opening nights, glamorous weddings, expansive anniversary celebrations, even funerals and memorial services. The more unusual, the more elaborate, the better. For years, problems, and especially complicated, apparently insoluble, last-minute problems, had turned her on. There was an initial sickening panic, followed by a surging rush of adrenaline, a desperate attempt to discover answers to misshapen tents or lost live lobsters or walk-out waiters, and, finally, an enormous sense of satisfaction when she found a way around things regardless of how unlikely that had seemed at the start. It was better than drink, better than drugs, even better than sex.
So why couldn’t she treat the sperm bank as just another problem to be solved? Why couldn’t she dial a simple number and say the words she’d practiced over and over, “I’d like to make an appointment, please. To discuss artificial insemination.” There. It was easy. If she could find five thousand live edible locusts to slap on the barbecue at an obsessed-with-ecology rock star’s survivalist party, surely she could make a phone call on her own behalf and arrange a simple appointment?
She took a deep breath, ordered herself not to be such a coward this time, and dialed the number.
“Harley Conception Center. Good morning,” a bright, perky female voice answered.
“Um, er, um, I…” Jules ran out of steam.
“Can I help you?”
“Yes, please. I…I want to make an appointment.”
“Certainly, madam. Which of our services were you interested in?”
“Um, art…artificial…insem…”
“Artificial insemination. Of course. One moment, madam. Hmm. We have an opening with the doctor next Monday at three.”
“That…that’ll be fine.”
“Good. We’ll need you here at two-thirty to fill in some details.”
“Yes. Yes, of course. I’ll be there.”
“And your name is?”
“Juliet Dunne.” The last bit of nervousness disappeared as she went through the everyday, reassuring routine of giving her address and phone number.
“Thank you, madam. We’ll see you on Monday.”
The line went dead. Jules looked at the phone in her hand, amazed that she had made so much fuss over something that people must do every day. They hadn’t even asked her whether she had a partner or not. How times had changed.
She had her appointment despite the idiotic way she had behaved. Now all she had to do was contain her impatience until Monday at three. And dream about her baby…
Her thoughts were interrupted by the doorbell. She decided to ignore it. Nobody knew she was here, apart from the office, and no one from there would come around without phoning first.
The doorbell rang again. Whoever it was wasn’t going to go away. Jules got up and hurried through her living room to the hallway. She looked through the glass spy hole to see a tall, besuited man of about seventy.
Jules opened the door. “Daddy!” She leaned forward to give her father a kiss on the cheek.
“Juliet. Your office told me you were here.”
“What a…nice surprise. Come in. Come in.”
“I’m glad to see you’re well.” Lord Dunne walked past his daughter and into her house. He was a handsome man despite his years. His chestnut-brown hair, though graying, still covered his head, his figure was as trim as it had been during the days when he was a commander in the navy, and his raw stare could still intimidate those around him. After resigning his commission, he had become a politician, been elected to Parliament, and five years ago had been given a peerage in the Queen’s birthday honors. He now spent his days terrorizing his fellow members of the House of Lords in the same way he had once bullied the sailors on his ship.
“Thank you, I’m fine. And you?”
“Very well, thank you, Juliet. Very well.”
“Good. That’s good. Would you like some tea? Coffee? No? A glass of champagne, then.” She’d have to talk to the girls in the office about telling people she was at home. Although she had to admit that it wasn’t easy to resist Ian Dunne when he wanted something.
“Far too early for me. And stop flapping.”
“Sorry.” There was something about her father that sent Jules right back into childhood. If anyone else had spoken to her the way he just had, she’d have been furious and ready to snap back some clever, acid response. All her early life, she’d been desperate to please him but she just wasn’t his idea of a proper daughter. She dreamed of going to university; he thought that a pointless thing for girls to do. She refused to marry the family-approved man-with-a-title who asked her when she was twenty, preferring instead to start her own company and work; her father thought women belonged in the home. When she finally did marry, she opted for someone way beneath her socially and compounded that by splitting up with him; Ian Dunne didn’t believe in divorce, regardless of the situation. Everything she’d done had been a disappointment to him. And that wasn’t going to change. There was no chance Jules could ever be the woman he thought she should be. Nevertheless, there was still a part of her that longed for his approval and made her jump through hoops whenever she saw him.
Ian Dunne stood in front of the unlit fireplace, legs apart, hands Prince Philiped behind his back, master of all he surveyed. “Now. I’m on my way to lunch with the Lord Chancellor but I wanted to pop in for a moment, to find out when you’re going to come and see us.”
“Well, I…I don’t know. It’s a bit difficult.”
“You haven’t been to Bevingdon since you came for tea at Easter.”
“I know. I’m sorry. I’ve been hard at it. Summer’s always one of our busiest times.” In truth, she’d been avoiding her mother. Diana Dunne could barely manage a civil word to Jules. Apart from one brief period eighteen years earlier, she had never liked her middle daughter, not even when Jules was a child. And as she had got older, Diana’s dislike had got stronger. Jules had struggled to understand it; eventually, after much soul-searching and a few expensive therapists, she had given up. Lady Dunne was a force of nature.
“You should always find time for family.”
“Yes. Of course.”
“It’s been some months.”
“I know. I’m sorry.”
“Philip, Alice, and Elena say they haven’t heard from you either.”
“They’ll understand, I’m sure. I have been very busy.” Jules was fond of her brother and sisters—all their lives, they had tried to protect her from Diana, when they could—but they lived in a different world. They’d done what was expected of them by their parents; Alice and Elena were married to wealthy, prominent men and Philip was an up-and-coming Conservative MP. They were invited to parties, not paid to organize them.
“Your mother’s missed you.”
“Oh.” Jules found it hard to imagine a less likely event than Diana Dunne missing her. Intelligent life being found on Mars, perhaps.
“She wants to see you.”
“Did she say so?”
“I know she does.”
Jules said nothing. There was nothing to say. Lord Dunne had always refused to accept that she and her mother were better off apart.
“So. You’ll come for lunch next Sunday?”
“Does Mummy know you’re inviting me?”
“She’ll be delighted. Next Sunday it is.”
Jules knew from long and painful personal experience that there was no point in arguing. Her father refused to accept the word “no.” The more she resisted, the more pressure he would put on her to do what he wanted. And she’d end up agreeing anyway, in the vain hope of pleasing him. So she allowed him to believe that she had accepted his invitation. She would send him a note a few days before the lunch, claiming illness. That usually worked. He would be back, of course, but at least
she would have postponed the dreaded day.
THE NEXT Monday, Jules hurried along Harley Street, passing door after door decorated with expensive private doctors’ brass plates. Finally, she turned into a yellow brick, modern blocky building and ran up the stairs to the second floor. She paused before a blond oak door with a small, very discreet steel sign beside it: “The Harley Conception Center.” Taking a long, slow, deep breath, she grasped the doorknob, turned it, and strolled inside trying to look nonchalant, as if she did this every day.
Five minutes later, ensconced in a small, functional waiting room, Jules attempted to concentrate on the detailed questionnaire she’d been handed at reception—Had she ever had rubella? When had she had her last period? Had anyone in her family ever suffered from diabetes? How long had she been trying to get pregnant?—but she couldn’t stop herself from wondering about the other people there. Was that nervous couple clutching hands in the corner waiting for the results of tests, hoping for good news? Was that forty-something woman playing with a toddler a happy client, back for another helping?
And what about that group of three young men, boys even, over by the window? Sprawled on a sofa, laughing and joking as one of their number was called by the nurse? Jules watched the short, podgy, spotty young man as he walked toward the door, turning back every now and again to look at his friends and giggle. Was he a donor? A student, here to earn some extra money?
She stared at him, at his greasy, unwashed hair, his acne-flecked skin, round shoulders, and slouchy walk. She was never going to get the handsome baby she’d been dreaming about if someone like that was the father. A young, grubby, uncouth kid wasn’t what she’d had in mind at all. She hadn’t expected George Clooney, but she had hoped for tall and reasonably presentable.
“Juliet Dunne?” A pretty, young nurse holding a sheaf of folders appeared in the doorway. Jules got up and followed her down a cheerless beige corridor and into a bleak colorless room. There was a modern desk with two chairs placed in front of it, a long, waist-high, black-vinyl-covered table, one end raised, the other fitted with shiny chrome stirrups. A swivel chair for the doctor. A kidney-shaped dish holding speculum and syringe.