Inconceivable

by Ben Elton

  Penny,

  I’ll probably be writing to you a bit less from now on. The original intention of the letters was, as you know, in order to become a partner with my emotions and to avoid feeling like a cork bobbing about on the sea of fate. Well I no longer feel like a cork because by beginning this cycle of IVF, gruesome though it is, I really feel a lot better and that I’ve taken control of my destiny. I don’t like to admit it, but I feel very slightly confident. I mean, although the chances are reckoned at about a fifth, I’m top of the list in terms of the perfect patient. I’m still relatively young, very young for IVF, I have nothing apparently wrong with me. My husband appears to be packing a full scrotum. All the signs are good. I don’t even feel strange about trying to get a baby this way, which I thought I might. In fact just the reverse. I’m quite combative on the subject.

  I was talking to Joanna at work about it and she said something I hear quite a lot. She sort of shook her head in disbelief and said, ‘Wow, isn’t it amazing? I mean we really are playing God these days, aren’t we?’ Now she wasn’t trying to be mean, quite the opposite. She’s very supportive, but nonetheless I bridled. People do still seem to see IVF as a deeply unnatural process and so it is, but no more unnatural than taking antibiotics or flying in an aeroplane. Left to themselves people’s teeth would fall out in their twenties and they’d die of pneumonia. Everything we do is unnatural but nobody ever shakes their head in disbelief about eating apples out of season or talking on the phone to people in Australia or being able to get from Highgate to Spannerfield Hospital, which is in West London, in under an hour (depending on the traffic). It’s just babies that people get funny about. But I won’t have it. All IVF is, when you get right down to it, is the process of getting the sperm and the egg to meet outside the body. That’s it. It’s my egg. It’s Sam’s sperm. If it works it’ll develop inside me. All they do is create more ideal conditions for the moment of conception than the inside of my plumbing. As far as I’m concerned, it’s like a Caesarean but in reverse. Millions of women have their babies

  by the hand of man. I’m just going to have mine inserted, that’s all. I said all this to Joanna and she said she hadn’t meant to offend and I said that she hadn’t, but I suppose in a way she had. I don’t feel remotely different or weird because I have to go through this, and I can do without people shaking their heads in gentle disbelief at my situation and talking about playing God.

  I just took a moment out to inject my leg. Sam hates this and turns away (as if I enjoy it!). Just wait till he starts having to give me my bum injections, that’ll give him something to think about. Actually, he probably turned away because my legs look so horrible. These injections leave awful bruises (maybe I’m not doing it very well). I look as though I’ve been beaten up by a midget.

  Dear Sam,

  Nigel and Justin have been asking again about the ending. They want to know when they can expect to see it. I’ve told them that I’ll do it soon, but I’m not sure when. Lucy’s and my IVF cycle will last a few weeks and I can’t decide whether to commit myself to saying how my story ends before I know our result or after.

  After, I think, so I’ve told them that it’ll be a month and a half.

  They don’t like it because we’ve planned to begin shooting by then, but I’m being firm. Surprisingly, Ewan is being tremendously good about it. He says it’s only one out of a hundred scenes and since the whole story is one of doubt, hope and unanswered questions he rather likes the idea of leaving the ending ambiguous for as long as possible. He says it’ll be very healthy for the actors to discover their parts in the same ignorance and confusion that the characters are in themselves. I find myself warming to Ewan.

  I’ve now bought four diaries from W.H. Smith identical to the one Lucy uses for her journal. One of them is bound to have a key that fits hers. Tomorrow, when she’s gone off to work, I intend to return to the house and read her story.

  Dear Penny,

  I wasn’t going to write to you tonight but then I thought I would because Sam’s been acting very strangely this evening. From the moment I got back from work it’s all seemed rather odd. He’s been alternately offhand and angry-looking and then suddenly very huggy and affectionate. Normally he doesn’t express much emotion either way but tonight he seems to be aglow with it. Perhaps it’s his hormones. I’ve heard that when women are pregnant their partners sometimes react in sympathy with them, experiencing the same symptoms. Who knows, maybe it’s the same with IVF?

  I must say I’m feeling pretty strange myself, in fact. I’ve started having hot flushes, so the injections must be working. Their purpose is to sort of shut down my reproductive system so that the hospital can take over. Amazing, really, and pretty scary. Basically they induce a sort of premature menopause. That’s nice, isn’t it?

  Dear Sam,

  Well, I’m devastated. I just don’t know what I think any more.

  They do say that eavesdroppers never hear good of themselves.

  Well, nor do diary readers.

  Lucy very nearly had an affair.

  I’m stunned. Absolutely amazed. It is the absolute last thing I would have expected of her.

  What’s more, I have to seethe in silence. I can’t say anything about it, of course, because the way I found out is absolutely unforgivable. And what would I say, anyway? I don’t really know what I think about it at all. Of course part of me is riven with jealousy. The thought of that fucking shit Carl Phipps sneaking about trying to screw my wife and actually managing to get his hands on her, albeit briefly, makes my blood boil. I’m furious. I’m livid. I want to punch him and give her the biggest piece of my mind in history.

  On the other hand, she was pissed, and she didn’t do it, did she?

  There she was, drunk, with a top star, a star whom she has always fancied, a star who was putting the hardest of hard words on her (That bastard. I’d like to kill him) and she didn’t do it. She pulled back because she loved me. Would I have done the same?

  Me, who is capable of sneaking about and invading the private diary of the woman I love? I mean if I honestly ask myself, if I was drunk, on Winona Ryder’s bed, and she’d taken her top off and offered to kiss me all over and shag me all night, would I have held back the way Lucy did?

  That’s why I feel so confused. Part of me is angry and hurt and jealous and part of me is thrilled. Thrilled that after all these years, and with me being such a grump most of the time (plenty about that in her book), Lucy still loves me the way she does, loves me enough to walk away from a fantasy when the crunch came.

  When I read about it I was furious. I literally felt I was burning up with anger, but now I’ve calmed down a bit, in a way I think it makes me love her more. I’m still seething, though, and very angry with her and I still hate Carl Phipps’s fucking guts.

  Of course one positive thing is that now I know she nearly betrayed me it makes me feel slightly better about betraying her.

  Well, I think that’s fair, surely.

  Dear Penny,

  I feel pretty awful, I must say. Now I know how Mum felt a couple of years ago. Looking back, I don’t wonder that she was moody, and I’m not even allowed to slap HRT patches on my bum.

  Sam’s not himself either. He seems emotionally confused. He kisses me a lot, but then I catch him glaring at me. I think in a strange sort of way he’s jealous, control of my body now being in the hands of the hospital and him reduced to the role of a near bystander in this dreadfully and intimately intrusive process.

  Dear Sam,

  I’ve read the rest of Lucy’s book now and it’s wonderful. Just what I’d hoped for and exactly what I need. It’s stuffed with really funny thoughts and poignant bits. Quite difficult for me to read, of course, since I’m the butt of most of her barbs, but in the end I don’t feel that I come off too badly. I felt very guilty reading it and not just because it’s so wrong to be doing so but also because it’s clear that I haven’t always been as attentive to Lucy as I should h
ave been. I’ll definitely try to be more sensitive to her needs from now on. Perhaps the appalling revelation of her near infidelity is what the Americans term ‘a wake-up call’ and the pain I’m feeling will serve a purpose. I’m not one for fatalism but perhaps I was meant to find out about what so nearly happened so that I can work harder on my marriage before it’s too late.

  Anyway, I’ve copied out loads of good stuff from Lucy’s book and really feel that I can get down to finishing the script. Obviously I’ll give Lucy some kind of co-writing credit, depending on how much of her stuff I use. That’ll of course mean telling her, which clearly I shall have to do anyway in the end. Oh Christ, how am I going to do that?

  Dear Penny,

  Sam came with me to the hospital today to pick up all the needles and drugs for the next series of injections.

  The last couple of days have been uncomfortable for me, but not everything has been negative. Since the other night when he went all moody Sam has been very loving towards me. He’s really making an effort, for which I’m very grateful as IVF does make me feel low. The fact that it seems to be bringing out the best in Sam is a great help. He’s also got very enthusiastic about his work, which is a huge relief for me as his negativity had got very wearing. I must say I can’t quite see what the enthusiasm is based on. We listened to a bit of Charlie Stone’s show this morning on our way to Spannerfield and it struck me as being about the most puerile thing I’ve ever heard. I said so and Sam agreed with me, so I asked him how he’d managed to get so absorbed in it. He said that he had things in the pipeline. I definitely get the impression that there’s something Sam isn’t telling me, but I don’t mind. He’s allowed his secrets. After all, I have mine. Looking back I can scarcely believe that episode with Carl ever happened. How could I have been so stupid? To so nearly throw away everything I have. I feel particularly strongly about that now that we’re really moving on with the IVF. Could it work? Will we be parents soon? I try not to let myself hope too much, but I can’t help it.

  Sam,

  I’m filling in the final details on the IVF part of the script now.

  Well not the final detail I still can’t decide about the ending but I’m very pleased with the way I’ve dramatized the process.

  Ewan is delighted, too, as are the rest of the team. We had an excellent meeting at his house this evening. His wife Morag made us a fabulous dinner and was very interesting about the script.

  She’s one of those uniquely Scottish beauties, almost eerily white with green eyes, a hint of pale freckles and a great mane of strawberry-blonde hair. Quite gorgeous. Not a patch on Lucy, though. Well, let’s face it, no woman is. It’s probably an awful thing to admit, but I think the terrible shock about Phipps has sort of reminded me of how beautiful Lucy is. I mean of course I knew anyway, but maybe I’d begun to take it for granted. I think being brought up sharp against the fact that other men fancy her has rocked my complacency a bit and shown me how lucky I am.

  I really really do love Lucy. More than ever, I think. And that’s not because of how much she’s improved my script, although let’s face it she has.

  Ewan laughed and laughed at the new stuff. Particularly the business about the injections. The surprising thing was how excited he was at the thought of being able to put a needle on the screen that wasn’t full of heroin. He seems to think that this in itself is an incredibly original idea.

  ‘So liberating,’ he said. ‘Hasn’t been done in years. Although it did cross my mind that we might be missing out on some comedy here. What if somehow the IVF drugs got mixed up with Colin’s drugs stash and Rachel injected that instead? Could be big laughs.’

  Instantly I sensed some confusion. A fundamental misunderstanding, in fact. I said that the idea would be great apart from the tiny fact that my character Colin doesn’t take drugs.

  Ewan was genuinely surprised at this. ‘He doesn’t?’

  At first he thought I was joking, but I managed to persuade him that I wasn’t.

  ‘That is fascinating,’ he said. ‘And that business about the arse injections, about you practising on an orange, that’s actually true, is it?’

  I assured him that it was. In fact Lucy and I were doing it only yesterday. Ewan turned to George and Trevor, who were attending the meeting, and commented on the extraordinary idea of grown men and women having to actually be taught how to use a hypodermic needle. George and Trevor assumed suitably sympathetic expressions of surprise that there could be such naivety. What a couple of idiots! Trevor knows about needles because of Kit’s various health crises, but both of them would run a mile from hard drugs. Trevor may have had an E at some point and he and Kit certainly smoke grass, but that’s it. George is strictly a Scotch and beer man. What suburban souls we must be.

  Dear Penny,

  Well, Sam administered his first injection into my bum this evening. He had his last practice try on an orange and then prepared to go for the real thing. All I could say was what I had been saying ever since we first saw the bloody things at the hospital, which was, ‘That fucking needle is four inches long.’ I mean honestly the damn things are not needles at all, not in any normal sense. More like spears or lances. They belong in a museum of military history. The doctor explained that they have to be like that because the purpose is to administer an inter-muscular injection. I said, ‘That fucking needle is four inches long.’

  Ewan is anxious to know all the details about the process, which I think is healthy. I explained to him that the inter-muscular injection introduces a hormonal drug, which provokes the female subject into a sort of hyper-ovulation, producing far more eggs than is natural. It is, of course, physically intrusive and rather upsetting. Quite aside from having a four-inch-long needle stuck into your arse.

  Ewan was sympathetic about this and Morag, who was sitting in on the meeting, nodded vigorously.

  ‘Exactly,’ said Ewan. ‘This is a crucial scene, a crucial image.

  Actually, I think we should call the picture My Arse Is an Orange.’

  To my dismay there was a lot of enthusiastic nodding at this from Nigel, Justin and Petra. Even Morag (whom I had thought seemed sensible) murmured that it was a ‘brilliant idea’. I felt rather alone but nonetheless tried to fight my corner.

  ‘Yes, brilliant idea, except that the film is called Inconceivable.’

  ‘Oh, aye, at the moment,’ said Ewan casually.

  I turned to George and Trevor for support, but they just stared at the bowl of Kettle Chips.

  Anyway, the deed had to be done. Sam looked as nervous as I was as he filled up the ghastly weapon with the ampoules of hormone solution, tapping the damn thing to make sure all the air was out. If you don’t get rid of the air, apparently it can kill you. How nice.

  ‘Are you ready?’ he said.

  ‘That fucking needle is four inches long.’

  ‘And it’s not going to get any shorter,’ Sam said. ‘Drop ‘em.’

  And so that was it. Up went the skirt, down came the knickers and there I was bent over the bed like a condemned woman with Sam hovering at my arse end with a spear in his hand. Most undignified. I could feel Sam drawing an imaginary cross on my right buttock with his sterilizing swab. Upper outside quarter is the rule. That way there is less chance of skewering a major nerve centre and rendering the patient paralysed. Very comforting, I must say. One, two, three, and in he plunged. You have to do it all in one easy movement, holding the needle like a pen or a dart. I must say he did it very well, I hardly felt a thing until he depressed the plunger and pumped in the hormone solution, which wasn’t very nice, but bearable.

  I must say Sam looked quite pale when I came up for air. He said he felt he’d earned a drink, but that of course he wouldn’t have one. He said it nicely, as a joke. I really think this whole business is bringing us closer together.

  Later on, after we’d all left the Proclaimers’ house, I turned on Trevor and George for not helping me defend my title.

  ‘Oh, come on, S
am,’ said George. ‘It’s a pun, for Christ’s sake.

  Inconceivable is just a rather poor pun. Surely after all the years we’ve spent at TV Centre deleting crap puns you don’t expect me to defend one now.’

  George can be a hurtful bastard when he wants to be.

  ‘You liked it before,’ I said.

  ‘Oh yes, before,’ he said airily. Yes, before a fashionable young director with a three-picture deal in Los Angeles said he didn’t like it. God, I never thought George could be so spineless. We’re all caught in the headlights of fashion and fame.

  I’m going to sleep now. Sam’s still at the dressing table doing his book. It’s amazing the way he’s come round to the whole thing. I wonder if he’ll ever let me read it. I’d never ask because that wouldn’t be fair, but I’d love to have a look. Maybe one day when we’re both feeling very secure in our love. Of course I could never let Sam read mine, not unless I removed the Carl Phipps entries. Like Stalin rewriting history.

  I must be sure to lock my journal very carefully. I found it open in the drawer today, so I must have forgotten to lock it last night, although I can’t think how, I always check. Perhaps I didn’t turn the key the whole way. Oh well, lucky Sam didn’t find it open. He might not have been able to resist a read. Actually I think that’s unfair. I think he’d do the right thing. I’m not sure if I would.

  After the disagreement over the title, which I think I won, we got back to discussing the hypodermic scene. Nigel was not sure about the ‘You might feel a bit of a prick’ line, which I was appalled at because it’s one of my favourite lines. I also think that objections on the grounds of taste are pretty rich coming from a man who virtually ordered me to make sure there were more sheep-shagging gags on our Saturday variety shows.