by Emily Barr
‘Did Jack tell you?’ I ask, cautiously.
‘He knew he shouldn’t, but, well, he did anyway. He started off telling me that Sophia was pissed off with him and he was thinking of finishing with her, and then it all came out.’
‘Have you told Kate?’
Finally our gazes meet. I quickly look back to the road.
‘No,’ he says. ‘I thought that was up to you. And she would be upset. She needs to be calm.’
‘I know. That’s why I didn’t want her to know. Any other time and I’d have gone straight to you two, not to Jack.’ I pause, and wonder whether what I’ve just said is true. I’m not sure that it is. ‘I’ll tell her after it’s all cleared up. Perhaps when she’s had the twelve-week scan.’
We drive on for a while. I am cruising around randomly, looking at the buildings I pass without seeing them, at the shops and cafés and bars and apartment buildings. I turn left and right as the mood takes me, being careful only to travel the right way down one-way streets. Suddenly, despite my casual attitude to navigation, Howard’s office leaps out at me. ‘There it is!’ I say, triumphantly, as I see the large H and D looming on the other side of the road, and I pull into the car park. I find Howard’s car, park close to it, and leave my key with the receptionist.
We walk through the SoHo streets, enjoying the cool sunshine. Manhattan is buzzing. It is glorious in the sunshine. I appreciate it all on a hypothetical level. I know that it is an exciting, energetic place to be. I can pretend that I am swept up with the excitement. My heart, however, is with my baby and my correspondent.
I’m not sure what to say about the letters, and Ian doesn’t seem to be asking any follow-up questions. I know he is thinking of Kate, resting resolutely as she waits for the embryos to embed themselves in the lining of her womb. I consider saying something trite and reassuring - ‘It’ll work, I know it will’, when I know no such thing - but on balance, it’s best to leave him to his thoughts.
The pavement teems with people. Besuited workers on their way to meetings charge impatiently past tourists. Sex and the City girls scan shop windows and chat on their mobiles. As a six-foot blonde wearing seven-inch heels struts past, I look at my black boots. My feet are sweating in there. They would look and feel wonderful if I was wearing a pair of strappy sandals, which had perfectly painted and shaped nails peeping from the ends. I resolve to go shoe-shopping tomorrow. That is a pleasingly shallow occupation.
The streets are full of yellow taxis and buses and kamikaze cyclists. People hurry past us, clearly on their way to important places. They carry briefcases and handbags, and charge across at ‘Don’t Walk’ signs. It takes me a while to acclimatise to New York, to come to accept that, for instance, it’s OK to set off across a road when a ‘Don’t Walk’ sign is flashing, that they give you much more time than you get with a flashing green man at home. It takes me a long time to feel that I’m part of it, rather than an awestruck observer. I can’t believe anyone feels that way about London. London sucks you in and offloads part of its misery.
‘Look at that,’ I say to Ian, pointing to the road. ‘Yellow cabs, and steaming manhole covers. Do you think they just lay that on for people like us?’ It feels odd to be wandering around with someone. I have so few friends.
‘What?’ he asks. ‘So we can burst into song? “Start spreading the news!” So we get so excited about being in New York that we tell all our friends what a great place it is to be? I don’t think this city needs that sort of attention. This is just Manhattan being itself.’
‘It’s an amazing place.’ I look up, at an enormous shiny skyscraper. ‘I mean, the buildings. I get quite freaked out by them sometimes. They’re so tall. So much is going on above us. God knows what - things I will never understand, like deals and mergers and, I don’t know, acquisitions. All those wires buzzing, and phones ringing and emails zinging around the world. And it happens up in the air. Which obviously has a sinister side to it these days.’
Ian looks up too. ‘It’s all a bit frantic for me. I couldn’t handle it here. I love visiting, but London’s always going to be home. Crappy as it is, it’s where I belong.’
I take my black jumper off, and sling it over my bag. ‘Really? You’ll stay there for ever? What about when you have kids?’
He shrugs, and again I see Jack’s features in his. ‘I don’t think it’s a terrible place for them, whatever anyone says. If we feel it’s not ideal, we’ll move out to somewhere like St Albans, or Brighton. But you’ve got the parks, you’ve got the galleries, and there seems to be a playground on every street corner, or maybe that’s just something you notice if you’re in our situation. Bright-eyed toddlers shrieking on swings.’
I notice a bar. It looks a little too trendy for us, with me in my jeans, T-shirt and trainers (and none of them my best ones), and Ian looking like a politician on a day off, with a buttoned-up shirt over jeans. But I am desperate for a drink, so I lead him in anyway. We are afforded a mild welcome. I order a large glass of Sauvignon, Ian drinks from a bottle of Miller, and we sit in comfortable padded chairs and look round at the bleached floorboards and the baffling art on the walls.
I smile at Ian. I am beginning to enjoy today’s role play. I like being someone who is happy to find herself at a loose end in Manhattan on a sunny afternoon.
‘So what are you going to do?’ Ian asks, abruptly.
I look at a swirly red and black painting. ‘I don’t know,’ I tell him. ‘Today is about Kate and you. Tomorrow I have to play my cello all day. Very soon I am scheduling a state of utter panic about my Lincoln Center concert. In the long term?’ I spread my hands. ‘That depends on a lot of things.’
‘You should stay here,’ he says firmly, taking a long swig of beer. I wait for him to elaborate, but he doesn’t.
‘Right,’ I say, and there is a slightly awkward silence. ‘You think I should stay out of Jack’s way?’
‘That’s not what I meant at all.’
I look at Ian, and bite my lip. ‘I haven’t treated him very well.’
Ian smiles. ‘Jack’s a big boy. He can look after himself. You don’t exactly hold a knife to his throat - he’d do anything for you. Sophia knows that. That’s why she’s mightily pissed off. She told Kate he comes with too much baggage.’
‘But he needs to get on with his life,’ I protest, overjoyed that, at least, I am succeeding in keeping Jack where I need him. ‘He should be with her.’
‘He should be with you,’ Ian corrects me. I am surprised at his forceful tone. ‘I never understood why you two split up. Kate tried to explain, but I don’t think she knew either. You had a good time together, didn’t you? Jack loves you. You told him you love him. I don’t really see what’s missing.’
I quell the urge to criticise Jack. Ian is, after all, his cousin.
‘It’s all been my fault,’ I say, as meekly as I can. ‘I do love him, but I don’t want to mess him around. Things hadn’t been working brilliantly for a while, and Jack knows that really. Actually,’ I tell him, leaning forward, ‘it was Kate that made me realise it. It was the night before that royal birthday performance, and we were talking about the fact that her period had started and she was depressed. I remember her saying to me, “I’m so glad you guys don’t want children. If you got pregnant I’d be happy for you, but it would just kill me inside to see you making a child when I couldn’t do it.” And that made me think. I’ve always wanted children, really really wanted them, but Jack and I never discussed it. And I realised that the moment had arrived for us to start trying, if we were going to have them. I couldn’t imagine the reality of me going home that night, and suggesting to Jack that we should start trying for a baby. It didn’t feel right. So of course that makes the whole relationship unravel.’
Ian is shaking his head. ‘Call me a witless bloke here, Evie, but if you want kids, why don’t you want them with Jack? You two would have beautiful babies. Wouldn’t Jack be a great dad?’
‘Of course he would
. Would I be a great mother? I doubt it.’ I stop for a few seconds, and compose myself. For a moment I have an insane urge to confess everything. The moment passes. I drain my wine glass. I am beginning to feel pleasantly fuzzy-headed. I will order another, when the waitress comes back. ‘I’m not blaming Jack, Ian. I’m blaming myself. Call it an early midlife crisis, if you like.’
Ian looks at me. ‘I don’t understand women,’ he says. ‘I just don’t. I’m glad I don’t have to go on dates and fathom out people like you.’
I reach out and squeeze his hand. ‘You’re lucky. You and Kate have everything.’
‘Yeah, right,’ he says, bitterly. ‘Everything apart from the one thing we really want in the world. I think you look at us sometimes and see the perfect relationship, Evie. Jack does too. Things go on behind closed doors that you will never know about. Fertility treatment is hell. It would test the best relationship. Don’t think otherwise. If it doesn’t work with Ron, we’re going to have to think about adoption. And if that happens, it means giving up the thought of our own child. We’ve held on to the idea of our own baby for all these years, and we don’t want to give it up. Kate in particular wants to cherish our child in her body. You know, the little girl who might have Kate’s hair and my nose, the boy with his mummy’s eyes and his daddy’s footballer’s legs. Adoption would be fine as a last resort but it would be a different matter entirely. In a way we would have to say goodbye to our own child, even though he or she has never existed, before we could think about giving a home to someone else’s.’
I touch his hand again. ‘Would you feel strange about taking on someone else’s child?’ I ask him, suddenly nervous.
‘Yes. I would at this precise moment, because my wife’s undergone treatment today. Those are our little bundles of cells in there. By the time it comes to adoption, if it does, I think we’ll feel grateful for the opportunity, more than anything else. But only once we’ve accepted that we’ve done everything we can to try to have our own.’
‘Do you think all adoptive parents feel that?’
‘Feel what?’
‘That taking on someone else’s baby is second best. That it’s what you do when you’ve run out of other options.’
Ian puts his bottle down on the table. ‘I don’t think that, exactly. I think adoption is a very, very frightening prospect, much more so than having your own child, not least because we’d be highly unlikely to be able to adopt a new baby, so from the very beginning we’d be faced with God knows what behavioural problems and traumatic background. But when we’re ready for it, I think it’s going to be a very positive thing, and I would hope against hope that we’d never, ever make the child think it was second best. And part of me is certain that it will come to that.’
‘Really?’ Kate has never wanted to speak about the possibility of adoption, and I have been only too happy to go along with that. The subject makes me tremble, but it is fascinating. I motion to the waitress to bring me a new drink. I need it, and another after that.
‘Of course. But what I’m saying is, the idea of adoption is something for Kate and me to get our heads round if and when the time comes. People mean well when they say, “Oh well, you can always adopt,” but it’s not that straightforward. And the idea of starting to try for your own baby is equally mind-fucking. It took us a while to pluck up the courage to do it, and then of course we wished we’d started sooner. And I think that, after you had that chat with Kate, you were probably freaked out at the idea of you and Jack having children, for all the normal reasons. And it sounds to me as though you projected that on to your marriage, and found the whole thing so alarming that you took the easy way out.’
I snort. ‘It’s hardly been easy.’
‘What, prancing about in front of the cameras with a sixteen-year-old hanging off your arm? It must have been hell. The sacrifices we make for our art.’
Instantly, I hate him. ‘You have no idea what you’re talking about, when it comes to me and Jack,’ I tell him, ‘and on top of that it really isn’t any of your business. You don’t know the full story and you probably never will.’
He shrugs. ‘Whatever you say, Evie.’
‘What do you mean, whatever I say?’
‘I mean, I’m trying to be reasonable here.’
‘Well, you don’t entirely know what you’re talking about.’
‘You’re pissed off with me. Well, maybe I’m pissed off too. Jack’s my best mate, as well as my cousin, and I don’t like to see my mates or my family being taken for a ride. You’re either with him or you’re not. It stinks to run to him when you need someone to hold your hand, trashing his relationship in the process, then to run off again once he’s stood you back on your feet. You’re either with him, or you leave him alone. I think, and Jack thinks, and Kate thinks, that you should be with him. I am trying to help.’
I glare at Ian. This has all gone wrong very quickly. ‘I did not run to him to hold his hand. I asked him to come here with us. He said no. And you know it. Plus, what happens in our marriage is up to us. And, frankly, none of your business. I don’t interfere in your marriage.’
‘Oh, apart from coming along to our fertility treatment.’
‘Because Kate asked me to! I had no idea you had a problem with that! God, Ian, do you hate me or something?’ I stare at him. He moves up a couple of places on my list of enemies and potential suspects.
He slumps in his chair, all the fight drained away. After a few moments he looks up at me. ‘No, I don’t,’ he admits. ‘Sorry, Evie. I don’t know what I’m on about. It’s a stressful time, you know? Everything’s resting on this. I can’t bear to go through the agonies of a failed treatment again. I had no problem at all with you coming along today. It’s good to have company.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘Yes. Let me get you another drink. We may as well get drunk. And I know it’s none of my business, about you and Jack.’
‘Thanks for being so open about adoption. Kate’s never wanted to talk about it.’
‘I’m afraid that one of our problems is that Kate has a lot more capacity for perseverance at the baby with her hair and my nose than I do. It’s been three years and if this doesn’t work I’d be ready to call it quits. But she wouldn’t, and I know it’s her decision. It’s her body. Surrogacy’s not for us and we both know it, so IVF is our last chance to have a child with any of our genetic material in it.’
I reach out for his hand again. ‘I’m sorry, Ian. I really, really hope this is it for you.’
‘Thanks.’
‘And you’re probably right about me and Jack.’
He smiles. ‘At the risk of offending you again, I know I am.’
‘So what do you reckon about Sophia?’
He hesitates. ‘Lovely girl, but I don’t think you have to worry about her. She’s very independent-minded and she doesn’t like being second best. Which, for Jack, she definitely is.’
I am delighted to hear it. ‘Let’s talk about something else,’ I tell him, as our new drinks arrive.
‘Hey, Jack said you thought those letters might be from Guy. I’ve always thought he was an odd one.’
‘Why?’
‘Everything about him. He’s been asking us way too much about Ron Thomas. He wants to know everything: what’s the clinic like, is Ron married, what exactly has he said about Guy? He pretends he doesn’t know him when he obviously does. What’s that all about?’
I lean back and sigh. ‘Ian, I have no idea.’
chapter fourteen
The next day
I spend the morning taking my hangover out on my cello. I bash my way through every scale - major, minor and chromatic - and every arpeggio. I work my way through dull studies that I normally ignore in favour of the more interesting pieces from the repertoire. I play notes, mechanically, to improve my technique. I do bowing exercises, and repeat them over and over again. I use the whole bow and half a bow, play staccato and legato, with slurred and detached bo
wing. I dread to think what it’s like for poor Sonia, who is attempting to mark a pile of essays, to have to listen to this turgid rubbish. This is the way I should practise every day. I don’t think I could bear to be this aggressive to my poor instrument more than once in a blue moon.
I am sitting on Howard’s work chair, in the room I have now almost completely colonised. He doesn’t use his study any more. He works, when he has to, at the kitchen table, like a schoolboy doing his homework. Howard’s study is now called ‘Evie’s room’. My clothes hang from shelves in his bookcases, obscuring his library. My toiletries occupy every space on his desk. All his stationery has been shoved into a drawer. I have taken up residence here, but I know I can’t stay long.
I am doing this intense practice partly to fill my mind with the mechanics of my trade, but also because when I picked the cello up this morning, I was terrifyingly bad. I was, in fact, atrocious. I didn’t practise yesterday, or the day before, and only briefly the day before that. On the day I arrived, I bashed out a quick rendition of ‘The Swan’, which is taking the place in my repertoire previously occupied by the Bach suite. That was for Sonia’s AA friends, who were having a Virgin Mary party.
I have neglected the instrument lately, and that is the one thing I cannot afford to do. If the cello goes, my livelihood goes with it. I am nothing without it. I would have to get a job, and I am not qualified to do anything. I have a first-class music degree from nine years ago. The only thing you can do with that, apart from music, is teach. I would be a diabolical teacher. I know I could never concentrate on my pupils. I would want to show off to them, all the time.
Until the Easter of the final year of my degree, I assumed that teaching was my destiny. I didn’t particularly want to do it, but I wanted to keep playing, and couldn’t see any other way. About half the people on my course were thinking the same thing. There must be a lot of terrible music teachers about, for this reason, and I would have been one of them. Then something happened that almost made me believe in God. I haven’t had a proper job since then. The last place I worked was at Dorothy Perkins in Broadmead, in the Christmas holidays when I was twenty.