by Talli Roland
Speaking of husbands, wasn’t Anna supposed to bring hers tonight? By the sound of things, they were usually joined at the hip. How on earth that woman managed to make a life out of doing up a house and working part-time in a bookshop, Clare couldn’t even begin to imagine.
‘Hi, ladies.’ Clare squeezed past a swarthy man crammed into a suit and collapsed on a chair. Ah, it felt so good to sit after the hectic day. Now all she needed was a glass of wine and she’d be set. Her heart sank as she took in the hordes at the bar. ‘I’m going to grab a drink. Would either of you like something?’
‘I’ll have another Merlot, please,’ Anna said, taking the last sip of hers. ‘I’ve got to get my tolerance up for my Italian getaway this weekend!’ Her face glowed.
‘Oh, fantastic,’ Clare said. ‘Where are you going? The Amalfi Coast is beautiful.’ Her mind flipped back to the family holiday there the year before Mum left, heart twisting as she recalled her parents clasping hands, drinking wine on the balcony overlooking the sea. In that one moment, she’d truly believed they were happy together. To this day, she still couldn’t make the memory jive with her mum’s departure the next year.
‘We’re heading to Venice,’ Anna responded. ‘I’ve always wanted to go there.’
‘You’ve never been?’ Poppy asked.
‘No, it’s the first time for both me and my husband.’ Anna grinned excitedly. ‘I’m planning the whole thing as a surprise. I can’t wait to see his face!’
‘Wow.’ Clare raised her eyebrows, impressed with Anna’s chutzpah. Given what she’d said about her husband, Clare had her pegged as the passive one in the relationship. She hoped for Anna’s sake the man actually went along with the plan. Personally, she hated surprises. ‘Poppy, how about you? Would you like a drink?’
Poppy shook her head. ‘No, thanks. I’m fine with this.’
‘Tell you what,’ Clare said, making it her mission tonight to get Poppy to relax. A single drink wouldn’t impede her fertility. ‘Why don’t I get us a bottle and three glasses.’ She threaded through the crowd before Poppy could open her mouth to protest.
A torturous fifteen minutes later—ordering at an All Bar One on a weekday night was the equivalent to dodging rabid bulls in Pamplona—she returned to the table, clutching a bottle of Merlot and three glasses. Quickly, she sloshed liquid into each glass and placed it in front of the girls.
Poppy examined the wine like it was poison. ‘Oh, I’m sorry, Clare. I really can’t.’
Clare was about to respond that it would take a whole lot more than one glass to stop her getting pregnant, but she snapped her mouth closed. Although she couldn’t understand wanting a baby so badly, she didn’t want to make the woman feel worse than she already clearly did. That’s not what this club was about.
‘Okay,’ Clare said, meeting Poppy’s eyes. ‘I just thought you could do with something to relax. You seem kind of tense.’ She did, too. Hunched over the table with her foot jiggling away, she looked like someone who could explode any minute.
Poppy sighed. ‘I am a little tense. And believe me, I’d love to have that wine. All of it.’ For a second, the intensity of her gaze at the glass made Clare think she would grab the bottle and down it. Then, she pushed the drink away and shook her head. ‘I have an appointment tomorrow to start another IVF cycle.’
‘Wow,’ Anna said. ‘Good luck.’
Poppy breathed in a quivering sigh. ‘Thanks. I really hope it works this time. I mean, I’d do it as many times as necessary, but my husband . . . ’ The way her mouth twisted showed they might not be in agreement. ‘I think he may have given up after the last round. He found the whole thing quite tough.’
‘And he’s willing to try again for you, despite how he feels?’ Anna raised her eyebrows. ‘Sounds like a great guy.’
Poppy looked down, her fair cheeks turning rosy. ‘Yeah, he is. He just needs a little encouragement to keep going.’
A small pang hit Clare as she glanced from Poppy to Anna. Even though baby-making or husband-pleasing was worlds from what she wanted, these women had been able to find men they loved with the same priorities. For the millionth time, Clare cursed the fact that Edward wanted children. And, she thought as she toyed with the stem of her wine glass, it had hurt that he wanted kids more than he wanted her. Then again, she hadn’t budged on her position, either. It’d been a reproductive stalemate, and neither had been willing to cave.
But that was in the past, she told herself firmly. Nicholas was the kind of man she should be with now. And even if she never heard from him again, there were bound to be others like him out there. Somewhere.
‘All the more wine for us, then.’ Clare grinned at Anna, who nodded and took a big gulp as if her life depended on it. ‘So onto the business of the club,’ she said, after sipping her own wine. Was it her imagination, or did it taste kind of strange? That’s what she got for ordering the cheapest bottle. ‘Still a lot of messages and interest from everywhere in the world, but only one person who might actually come along. Nicholas Hunt is his name. He’s just busy this week.’
‘Oh, it’s a man? That’s good news,’ Anna said. ‘If I do ever manage to get Michael to come out, it’d be great for him to have another bloke to chat with.’
Clare nodded. ‘Exactly. I want this to be a place for both men and women to socialise and provide support. And the best bit is, Nicholas works as a producer for Wake Up London and he might be able to get the club mentioned on the show. It’d be a great way to boost numbers.’
‘That’s fantastic!’ Poppy said enthusiastically. ‘A friend of mine once got her new business onto the telly, and she sold out of everything within a few days.’
‘Just what we need to help get more members,’ Anna agreed. ‘I could post something in the bookshop, too. We have a community bulletin board there.’
‘Okay, that sounds good.’ Clare thought that’d have all the efficacy of a sponge trying to dry up the Mediterranean, but she appreciated the effort.
‘I’d love to do something to help, too, but I don’t know what.’ Poppy sipped her cranberry juice. ‘I mean, I work in a school, and by default most people there are parents or other teachers, who all have children.’
‘Don’t worry.’ Clare waved a hand in the air. Poppy would probably be pregnant in a few months anyway and fall into the same hole that had engulfed Ellie. ‘Just have a think,’ she added, hoping she didn’t sound too dismissive, ‘and if you run across anyone or a way to spread the word, let me know.’
They chatted about Anna’s visit to Venice for a bit, working their way through the bottle of wine. When the conversation slowed, Anna glanced at her watch.
‘I’d better make tracks. I have a few more things to finalize for our trip.’ Her face lit up with anticipation again.
‘You’ll have to tell us all about it next week,’ Clare said, although in reality, the last thing she wanted to listen to was someone else’s romantic vacation. Still, Anna seemed so excited it was hard not to want to share it with her.
‘Oh, I will! I’ll take tons of photos, I’m sure.’ She heaved a handbag over her shoulder and lifted a hand. ‘See you next week!’
‘I should make a move, as well,’ Poppy said. ‘I’ve got an early start in the morning.’
Clare sighed inwardly. She didn’t have to work until seven tomorrow night, and while a big night out was never on the cards, she had hoped they’d make it past—she looked at her watch—bloody half past eight! God, this club really did need some new blood.
‘Okay, well, I’ll see you both next week, then.’ Clare pasted on a smile as she watched them go, feeling the funny pang inside again. They were heading back to waiting husbands, and she was going home to . . . an empty flat. But silence was nice, especially after her hectic day at work. Sighing, Clare downed her glass and stood, her muscles protesting. The sooner she got home, the sooner she could c
rawl into bed and sleep.
CHAPTER TWELVE
‘You do know your chance of conceiving falls with each unsuccessful IVF cycle, yes? And as this is your fifth attempt . . . ’ The doctor’s voice trailed off as he sat back, regarding Poppy with serious eyes.
Poppy shifted in the chair. ‘I know. But there is still a chance, right?’
‘Well, yes. There is.’ He leaned forward. ‘I know you’ve been through the process several times already, but I’ll review it again. We’ll give you a hormone that will suppress your monthly cycle—you’ll need to inject this every day for two weeks. Then, we’ll stimulate your egg supply by giving you another hormone, again which you’ll inject for another two weeks. A day or so before your eggs are due to be collected, you’ll have an injection to help them mature. Finally, the eggs will be collected and mixed with your partner’s sperm. We’ll check after twenty hours to see if any are fertilised.’
Poppy nodded, the doctor’s words washing over her. She’d studied the process so many times that it was practically tattooed on the inside of her brain. Not to mention she’d been through it already—and not just once. She tried to forget the cramping and pain (what the medical literature labelled “a little discomfort”) after the eggs were harvested. It would be worth it in the long run, and that was nothing compared to what she’d experience during labour.
Anticipation rushed through her at the thought. The birthing process terrified many of her friends, but she couldn’t wait to have a little human being make its way from the comfort of her womb and into the world.
Poppy had a good feeling about this cycle. It would work. It would.
‘And your husband?’ Poppy jerked upright as she realised the doctor had stopped his explanation.
‘Oh, yes, my husband. He can’t wait to start. He just had a meeting at work today and couldn’t get away.’ Poppy met the doctor’s eyes, hoping her cheeks weren’t flushing at the lie. It was mostly true. Alistair did have a meeting, and he would be on board, once she said the process was underway. She’d opened her mouth more times than a guppy fish to tell him about the appointment. At the last minute, though, the words had withered on her tongue. She was just being silly. Of course he wouldn’t say no; he wanted her to get pregnant as much as she did. But the timing had never seemed right to discuss it. Anyway, the more she did on her own, the more he’d believe she could handle what was ahead.
‘Okay. If you’re certain you’d like to continue, we’ll need the fee in full. Once you’ve paid—either today or whenever you’re ready—the nurse will meet with you to begin the suppression injections. Oh, and we’ll need your husband to sign a few updated consent forms before we begin stimulation.’
Poppy nodded. That gave her about two weeks—she’d definitely have his buy-in before then.
‘Would you like to pay today, then?’
Poppy stared at the doctor, her mind ticking. She’d love to pay now and get everything underway. But although she could take care of appointments and injections, she couldn’t handle the financial side on her own. As much as she enjoyed her job, the salary barely covered half the mortgage and groceries. By the end of the month, she was lucky if she had enough to splash out on a bottle of Tesco’s Finest. Over the past couple months, she’d managed to save almost two thousand pounds from the sale of her car—she never used it, anyway—and by setting aside any spare cash whenever she could. But that would barely cover half the procedure’s cost, and she’d already shelled out two hundred pounds for today’s consultation.
When she got home, she’d sit Alistair down and tell him about the appointment. Once he saw how eager and in control she was, Poppy knew he wouldn’t hesitate to start again.
‘We’ll pay in full the next few days, and I’ll contact the nurse to begin the process.’ A corner of her mouth nudged up as happiness grew inside.
‘Perfect. Until then.’ The doctor gave her a this-session-is-now-over smile, and Poppy hurried through the plush reception area of the Harley Street clinic, avoiding eye contact with any of the waiting women. When she’d come for her first cycle, she’d tried to have little conversations with them, embracing the feeling she wasn’t alone in this battle. Soon, she’d discovered hearing how many failed attempts they’d undergone—or even their successes—made her feel like a pessimistic failure. That was part of the reason she’d joined the No-Kids Club. At least there, no one would think she was any less of a woman if she didn’t have children. In fact, Clare likely thought she was mental for wanting a child in the first place, and Anna would probably consider Poppy crazy for needing kids when she already had a happy marriage.
Poppy shook her head as she strode towards the Tube. Children would make their marriage even happier! She was bursting now to tell Alistair they were good to go, to see the excitement on his face. What man didn’t want his own flesh and blood? In a few days’ time, they’d be on their way to parenthood.
She couldn’t wait.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Clare slicked down a piece of Sellotape on the box of chocolates from Harrods she’d bought for her stepmum. The Mother’s Day gift was almost a week overdue, but Tam had been away last weekend, and today was Clare’s first free day since her date with Nicholas. Not that she was complaining—burying herself in work on Mother’s Day had been a blessing. The occasion was always a harsh reminder that her own mum had chosen not to be a mother. Thank goodness for Tam, Clare thought for the millionth time.
Glancing at her watch, she noticed it was only half past ten—still plenty of time to catch the train to Berkhamsted. Despite hitting Carluccio’s for coffee, strolling down Fulham Road, and reading the morning papers, the day was dragging. Maybe she’d have a quick look at the club’s Facebook page before she left. Fingers crossed there’d be some new messages. Or perhaps one from Nicholas? Almost a week had passed and she’d still heard nothing. She liked that he wasn’t invading her space, but it would be nice to see him again.
Sighing, Clare opened the browser on her laptop and logged into Facebook. There were the usual random enquiries and messages of support, but nothing that signalled an influx of fresh blood.
She was about to snap the lid closed and head for the door when she spotted the message icon blinking on screen. Clare scrolled to her inbox, eyes bulging and pulse quickening when she saw Edward’s name. Edward? Why would he get in touch?
As she clicked the mouse, she noticed her fingers were shaking, and she took a deep breath to steady herself. Whatever the message said changed nothing. They wanted different things, and that was that.
Or was it?
Eagerly, she scanned the sentences before her on the screen, her mouth falling open in surprise. Edward wanted to talk? He missed her? Her heart squeezed with longing. God, she missed him, too. Her lips lifted in a smile as she pictured him typing away on his state-of-the-art laptop, feet tapping the scarred oak floorboards of his flat just off Spitalfields. Before meeting him, Clare had never known much about that part of London. He’d brought the area to life, and ever since their break-up, she hadn’t the heart to return.
Rereading his words, a memory of their first date flashed into her head. It had been a cold December day a few weeks before Christmas, and the sky was already dark by the time Clare headed out. She always tried to meet online dates for a quick drink close to her flat—that way, when they inevitably turned out to be losers, she hadn’t invested much time—but Edward had insisted on a place in East London, saying the food was incredible. Clare hadn’t been thrilled with trekking all the way across town, but she had been quietly impressed with his persistence. Usually, her Internet dates would be happy to chew beef jerky. And if he wasn’t her type, she told herself, she could use the long journey home as an excuse to leave early. She’d run a brush through her glossy dark hair, pulled on her skinny jeans and a soft rose cashmere jumper, then tugged on a heavy black coat and was out the door.
She’d recognised Edward straightaway. Waiting on the steps outside Liverpool Street station, his dark eyes lit up when he saw her. Right down to the tightly curled hair and tan skin, Edward had looked exactly like his photo. So far, so good.
‘Hello!’ He’d leant in to kiss her, and Clare had caught a whiff of his citrusy cologne. Something about the scent of him and the feel of his cheek on hers had made her face flush and her tummy flip. ‘It’s good to meet you.’
‘Good to meet you, too,’ Clare had echoed, actually meaning it for once. They’d stood there for a second, smiling at each other as commuters pushed around them. Then Edward had taken her hand and they’d dodged traffic as they crossed the street to the restaurant. Despite its no-frills interior with long tables lining the room and diners cheek to jowl, the buzz was welcoming. They’d elbowed their way to two empty seats, and with Edward so close she could feel the heat from his leg, Clare had devoured some of the best comfort food she’d ever tasted, finishing off the meal with a jam roly-poly.
Finally, when she could eat no more, Edward had led her out into the night, walking her through the deserted Spitalfields market and then over to Brick Lane past the former Huguenots houses, explaining the history of the area. She’d listened to the pleasant cadence of his voice, falling under the spell of its warm timbre. And by the time he’d deposited her back at the station, it wasn’t just his neighbourhood she was familiar with; she felt like she’d known Edward forever. He’d told her where he’d grown up, how he’d wanted to be a fireman when he was young but had ended up a graphic designer, and about his secret addiction to the Daily Mail. Somehow, he’d managed to work his way past her barriers, drawing her out and learning all about her, too.
When they’d said good night, Edward had wrapped his arms around her, bringing her close for a kiss. She’d never forget the warmth of his lips and how their breath had made clouds in the cold night air as they pulled apart, surrounding them in a misty white haze. If she’d been a romantic, she’d have said it was magical. From that moment on, they’d been together.