The No-Kids Club

by Talli Roland

  A black BMW pulled over in front of her flat. Clare slipped her feet into court shoes, threw on a fawn-coloured mac, then hurried outside. She opened the car door, smiling at Nicholas, whose navy blazer made his eyes look even bluer. Inside the close space, the air was thick with the scent of his cologne, and Clare’s stomach shifted unpleasantly as she breathed in the spicy fragrance.

  Nicholas leaned over and kissed her cheek. ‘Good to see you again. Thanks for coming out at the last minute. I’m glad you were free.’

  ‘That’s one advantage to not having children,’ Clare said. ‘No need to arrange babysitters.’

  Nicholas nodded. ‘You’re lucky. And so am I,’ he added. ‘The cost of childcare these days is crazy, from what I hear.’

  ‘It’s been ages since I’ve been to the opera,’ Clare said, eager to change the topic away from children. She tilted her head, trying to remember when she’d last seen a performance. Maybe in secondary school, on a school trip? Even then, it was only the local theatre production of Aida. Wincing, she recalled how the singers were more suited to scaring off wildlife than performing arias.

  ‘Oh, really?’ Nicholas gave her a sidelong glance as he pulled into the street. Fulham Road was clogged with Saturday night traffic, and Nicholas darted around a cab that had stopped to let out passengers. ‘That’s a shame. Well, you’ll love this, I’m sure. I try to catch at least one show a season.’

  ‘What’s the story?’ Clare asked, impressed to find a man interested in culture. Most of the blokes she met treated culture like a venereal disease.

  ‘Actually, it’s quite tragic.’ Nicholas swerved to avoid a white van. ‘A Japanese woman marries an American soldier. He leaves to go back to America, promising he’ll return. In the meantime, she gives birth to his son.’

  Clare nodded, admiring his clean-cut profile. He had a strong nose and jaw, she decided, just the way she liked it. ‘And?’

  ‘Well, he does come back—with his American wife.’ Nicholas grinned. ‘Men, eh?’

  She forced a smile, thinking once again that pregnancy and children weren’t beneficial for women, no matter the age or the culture. Sure, there were successful examples like Ellie, who seemed to be holding it all together. But more often, motherhood made women vulnerable, dependent on those around them.

  ‘Anyway, the long and short of it is, Madame Butterfly kills herself.’

  ‘Wow.’ Clare raised her eyebrows at the dramatic conclusion. So much for a little levity on a Saturday night. God, even at the opera she couldn’t escape from children and the inevitable tragic consequences.

  ‘I know,’ Nicholas said. ‘Rather heavy going. But the music is divine, I promise, and the sets and the costumes are beautiful. I’ve seen the opera several times, and on each occasion I’ve really enjoyed it.’

  ‘Thanks for asking me.’ Despite balking at the sudden invitation, Clare was happy now she’d pushed aside her hesitation.

  ‘My pleasure.’ Nicholas squeezed her hand. ‘I’m delighted you could make it.’

  ‘Me, too,’ she said, as his warm fingers intertwined with hers. ‘Me, too.’

  Four hours later, Clare followed Nicholas down the curving stairs of the opera house, feeling like she was in a trance. The performance had been simply breathtaking; there was no other word for it. The music had swirled around her ears, transporting her to another time and place, and even though she hadn’t understood everything, the emotion was palpable. She’d never thought music could have so much power.

  ‘That was amazing,’ she said when they were out on the street and the spell had dissipated.

  Nicholas placed a hand gently on her back. ‘I know. I told you you’d enjoy it.’ He glanced at his watch, then checked his mobile phone. ‘Right. Got time for dinner? I’m ravenous.’

  Clare’s hand slid down to her belly. Despite not eating since lunch, she wasn’t the slightest bit hungry. Even though she had to be up early tomorrow morning, she wasn’t ready for the evening to end. The music was wonderful, but she hadn’t been able to chat much to Nicholas.

  ‘Dinner would be great.’ She smiled as he took her hand and led her to a nearby restaurant. Inside, it was crowded and warm, and a maître d’ showed them to an empty table in the corner.

  ‘So I’m interested in your take on Madame Butterfly,’ Nicholas said as he settled into his chair. ‘Tragic or idiotic? I know where I stand,’ he continued before she could respond. ‘I mean, I understand in that society, women had little power. But to kill yourself because you lost your husband? Purely idiotic in my books.’

  Clare nodded. Although she had felt sorry for Madame Butterfly and her plight, ending one’s life over a failed relationship was ridiculous. Her mind flipped again to Anna and her relationship with her husband. In a million years, Clare couldn’t fathom making one person your all. What would happen if Michael ever left? Clare had found it hard enough when she and Edward broke up, and they’d only been together a few months.

  All in all, it provided a very good case for the kind of relationship Clare was seeking now: one that wouldn’t consume her emotions or her life.

  ‘I have to agree with you there,’ she said finally.

  ‘The woman had a child, too.’ Nicholas shook his head. ‘At the very least, she should have stayed alive to take care of him.’

  ‘If you make the choice to have kids, you should honour the responsibility.’ As she spoke the words, Clare couldn’t help thinking of her mother.

  ‘Exactly.’ Nicholas nodded emphatically, pausing to order a bottle of red from the waiter.

  ‘So you’ve never wanted children?’ She hated when people asked her that, but she knew Nicholas wouldn’t judge her, and they were on the subject anyway . . .

  Nicholas shrugged and then reached out to grab the menu. ‘It’s a lot of responsibility,’ he said distractedly as he scanned the tiny print. ‘Hmm, I think I’ll get the steak and chips. How about you?’

  Finally, a man who wanted to talk less about kids than she did. ‘That sounds perfect,’ Clare said, although the thought of food made her stomach groan in protest.

  A waiter swooped in and took their orders. Nicholas reached across the table and clasped her hand again. The feel of his skin against hers was lovely, even though she felt curiously detached, as if she were watching from above. They chatted as they downed their dinner, Nicholas regaling her with humorous tales from his job. He’d just finished describing how the on-set chef had spectacularly burnt a roast lamb in the oven when Clare caught a glimpse of the clock on the wall.

  ‘Yikes, it’s after midnight. Guess we had better make a move. I’ve got an early start in the morning.’ She pushed back her chair, rummaged through her handbag, then removed her credit card. ‘Shall we split this?’ Edward had always rejected her offer, but Nicholas just shrugged.

  ‘Sure,’ he said, taking her card and handing it over with his to the waiter. At last, a bloke who didn’t feel obliged to pay for her, Clare thought. She hated feeling like she owed her date, and besides, Nicholas had given her a free ticket to tonight’s performance.

  Out on the street, Clare breathed in the cool night air, glad to escape from the stuffy restaurant. She’d choked down most her dinner, and her stomach was having difficulty accepting her efforts. As they climbed into the car, Nicholas kept up a running commentary about his job. Clare let the patter wash over her, trying to suppress a yawn. She’d enjoyed the evening, but exhaustion was pressing down on her, and curling up on the leather seats to snooze was becoming more and more irresistible.

  ‘Here we are.’ Nicholas pulled over in front of her flat, eyes glittering as he turned towards her. He laid a cool hand against her cheek. ‘I’ve had a great night with you, Clare. I’d like to do it again some time.’

  Clare nodded. ‘Me, too. Thanks for asking me.’

  He leaned in and she closed the space between the
m. His mouth slid against hers, and his arms encircled her. There was no awkward bumping of noses or slippery tongues; everything was smooth and slick and . . . nice.

  She climbed from the car, waving as Nicholas pulled away. They got along well, he was fun to be with, and they agreed on all the important points. What more did she need?

  There was nothing wrong with nice, Clare told herself, unlocking the front door. Nice was perfect, actually.

  CHAPTER TEN

  Poppy tried to ignore the sun peeping through the crack in the curtains. Usually, she was raring to go—Alistair always groaned at how she leapt from the bed with so much energy, as if she flicked a switch to ‘On’. But today was different. Today was Mother’s Day.

  Her mind flashed back to Friday afternoon, when she’d helped the kids put the finishing touches on their Mother’s Day cards. They’d been so excited, regaling her with tales of how they planned to surprise their mums on the big day. Faisal had told her all about the breakfast in bed he’d organised, so proud that his dad was letting him make French toast by himself. Poppy had forced herself to nod and smile while her gut contracted with grief and longing.

  She tugged the duvet over her face and closed her eyes, trying to go back to sleep, but her buzzing mind wouldn’t submit. Instead, her brain filled with images from Friday night . . . how Alistair had climbed into bed and said her name quietly, and how she’d pretended to be asleep when in reality she’d been far from it. They rarely disagreed about anything, but when they did, they were sure to make up within hours.

  Not this time, though. Alistair hadn’t mentioned adoption again, but he had helpfully left the literature on her bedside table, just in case she had a change of heart. She’d leafed through it, tears pooling in her eyes as she recalled his hopeful expression. He’d said he wasn’t giving up on IVF, but . . .

  Sighing, Poppy flopped over and stretched out an arm across the empty bed. Alistair was in Brighton on a training course for his physiotherapy clinic this weekend, and because it was so close to where his mum lived, he’d stayed there last night to be with her for today. He’d invited Poppy over, but she wasn’t in the mood to play happy families. She wanted to stay home and lick her wounds in peace.

  Suddenly claustrophobic in the stuffy room, Poppy sat up and threw off the cover. Outside, sun streamed from a brilliant blue sky and the first hint of green was appearing on trees and bushes. Maybe some fresh air would make her feel better about everything. She quickly pulled on her clothes and jacket, tugged on her boots, and was out the door. A wander around Portobello Road usually lifted her spirits. She loved watching the market booths being set up as the vendors bantered and laughed.

  The sun was high but the air was cool, and Poppy quickened her pace to keep warm. As she scurried under the Westway, her eyes fell on a family in front of her: mum, dad and two dark-haired girls with ringlets and high, clear voices that cut through the hum of the motorway above her. The children clung onto each of the mother’s hands as they chatted about where they were taking her for breakfast, making her guess and laughing with abandon as her answers became increasingly outlandish.

  The smaller of the two girls turned and smiled straight at Poppy, and her heart ached as she noticed the little one was the spitting image of her mother. Unable to tear herself away from the family, she lingered several feet behind them, smiling as their voices floated back. Before she knew what she was doing, she’d followed them down a side street and right up to the door of a small restaurant called Mike’s Café.

  ‘Coming in?’ The dad turned to look at her quizzically, holding the door open behind him.

  Poppy froze, her cheeks flushing. ‘Um, no, that’s okay.’ Before the man could respond, she rushed down the street, pulling her blonde hair forward to cover her flaming face.

  She sagged against a concrete wall, the longing that gripped her insides making it hard to breathe. Oh, God, how she wanted that—a child whose grin resembled her husband’s, whose laugh echoed her own. Desire mixed with determination as she thought of the literature littering her bedside table.

  If Alistair was thinking of adoption because he was worried about her, than he needn’t: she was strong enough to handle any disappointment on the road to pregnancy. Hurt and frustration wouldn’t get the better of her, like it had before. They didn’t need to consider other options, because someday soon, she’d carry their child inside her. She could feel it in her bones: this time, it would work.

  But how could she convince her husband? He always laughed at her ‘bones’, asking if she could predict the weather the next day or when the Chinese takeaway would arrive. Poppy gnawed her bottom lip as her mind turned over. Perhaps she couldn’t persuade him to buy into her prediction, but she could show him she was calm, in control, and able to tackle the emotional process once more.

  In fact, Poppy decided as she strode home, she’d prove how ready she was to move ahead by booking an appointment next week for another IVF consultation. Alistair had always overseen all the logistical details, even giving her the hormone injections when she felt squeamish. No wonder he was getting tired of the process.

  This time, she’d take on everything herself.

  ‘Thanks for coming with me to Mum’s,’ Anna said to her husband as she navigated the early Sunday-afternoon traffic on the way home. ‘Sorry lunch didn’t work—I’d no idea she’d already made plans.’ Imagine, her own mother not wanting to go out for Mother’s Day lunch!

  Anna sighed, slowing at a red light. Ever since the divorce, Mum had built up a huge circle of friends, all single women who were determined to stay that way. Every holiday, they went out to lunch as a group, providing support to those who didn’t have families. The irony was that even though Mum did have a family, she preferred to spend time with her friends. Anna and Michael had only managed to nab an hour before her mother headed off.

  Not that Michael minded leaving early. Anna had barely dragged him off the sofa in the first place, and while he and her mother weren’t on bad terms, tension floated in the air whenever they met. More than once, Mum had commented how Anna should look for a full-time job or get out of the house, subtly implying her daughter shouldn’t dote on her husband so much. Anna gritted her teeth. As if Mum was one to give relationship advice! What she and Michael really needed was more time together, not less. If only she could think of something he couldn’t turn down.

  ‘That’s all right.’ Michael glanced over and smiled. ‘But I’m starving! Do you think you could knock up that delicious beef stew for lunch?’

  Anna shoved away the hope of heading out to eat, biting back the response that Boeuf Bourguignon, or ‘that beef stew’, had to simmer for ages and wasn’t something she could throw together. ‘Sorry, no, but I might be able to do some spag bol.’ That was as much as she felt like cooking right now.

  Anna pressed down on the pedal as the light changed, wishing she could swing the wheel, turn away from home, and drive. She didn’t even care where they ended up! Just somewhere different; somewhere miles from everyday life.

  As if on cue, a huge billboard reared up in front of her. “Discover Venice”, the lettering said over a photo of a gondola floating down a canal. Anna swallowed hard, the image filling her eyes. Venice! This had to be a sign. One of the most romantic places on earth, it was sure to give their relationship a jumpstart. Not to mention she’d been wanting to go since forever. And she could even make the trip a surprise! If everything was organised already, Michael wouldn’t say no.

  Hope and excitement jetted through her. This was exactly what they needed to get things back on the romance track.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Clare rubbed a hand over her face, then ogled her watch in disbelief. Six o’clock already? The last time she looked, it had only been mid-afternoon. Then an ambulance arrived bearing victims from a multi-vehicle accident on nearby Brompton Road, and everything else had disappeared. Rolling h
er aching shoulders, she trudged to an empty room to change before heading to the second No-Kids Club meeting at All Bar One near Oxford Circus. She’d wanted to pick somewhere quiet and more off the beaten track, but she hadn’t the time. Given there were still only three members—including herself—and it was a Wednesday, not Friday, it shouldn’t be too hard to get a table.

  As she rushed to the Tube, she wondered if Nicholas had pitched the club idea to his boss. It’d be good to have some fresh blood. Anna and Poppy were nice, but they weren’t really her kind of people. And despite the continuous messages flooding her Facebook inbox, the club had yet to pick up any more real-life members. Lots of vague ‘maybe next week’ and ‘I’m busy Wednesdays’ messages instead. It seemed London’s no-kids contingent weren’t exactly keen socialites.

  It was still early days, Clare told herself, slapping her Oyster card on the reader and hurrying down the escalator. And if Nicholas had responded out of the blue, there were sure to be others like him.

  A pang of disappointment hit at the thought of Nicholas. After he’d dropped her off on Saturday night, she’d hoped to hear from him soon. Already it was mid-week, and there hadn’t been so much as a text. But that was what she wanted: plenty of space, flexibility to do her own thing. They’d meet again soon, she was sure. Anyway, she was so bloody tired these days, she’d probably fall asleep on him.

  Thirty minutes later, Clare entered the packed All Bar One, scanning the crowd for Poppy’s petite frame and Anna’s flaming hair. Ah, there they were, hunched over a small table at the back. Anna was almost through her red wine, while Poppy was drinking—Clare squinted—was that cranberry juice? That woman really needed to let her hair down and have some fun. Clare wondered what her husband was like, and if he wanted a baby as much as she did. If not, well . . . there was bound to be tension there, she was sure.