I stepped over the cracked in the sidewalks as I walked, trying to decide what to do next. Neil had to be wondering what I’d do now that I knew that he was curious about more than just wedding planners. Maybe he’d even been wondering if he’d made a mistake by leaving without me?
“Lauren?” A male voice startled me and instinctively I pulled my purse close to my side.
“Lauren?” The voice called again, following me. “What are you doing downtown?” I jumped when he grabbed for my arm and almost screamed before I realized this wasn’t a random mugging.
“Charlie, are you following me?” I blurted out, guiltily. Deflection was highly underrated when you were buying time.
“Um, no. I work here, remember?” He pointed up at the building.
“Oh, sure. I was just on my way home from Filene’s. A little shopping.”
“Apparently very little.”
What did that mean? Was I that obvious?
“You’re not carrying any shopping bags,” he explained, and then laughed at me. “Are you okay?”
“Sure, I’m fine. Just a little frustrated from shopping, that’s all. I couldn’t find what I was looking for.” It wasn’t a total lie. Besides, what did I have to feel guilty about, Charlie and I had only gone on two dates.
“I know what you mean. Sometimes it’s harder when you know exactly what you want. You won’t settle for anything else.” Charlie held up the white paper bag in his hand, a small grease stain bleeding through its side. “I’d offer to go grab a bite to eat with you, but I just ran out to get a little dinner myself. Cheeseburger and fries. It’s going to be a long night.”
“That’s okay. I was just going to catch the T home,” I explained, but didn’t make a move to leave. Being around Charlie made me hungry.
“We’re still on for Cambridge with your friends on Thursday, right?”
I nodded. After Paige agreed to go on a non-date date with Hugh, I called Amanda and asked for Hugh’s phone number. After promising that Paige was a confirmed heterosexual with little chance of changing her mind, he agreed to meet us all for margaritas in Cambridge.
“Great, I’ll see you then.” Charlie walked through the revolving door, but instead of stepping out when he reached the lobby he kept traveling in a circle and ended up back outside with me. “And don’t be too bummed about the shopping. You’ll find what you’re looking for as soon as you stop looking. That’s the way it always is, right?” He winked at me and spun back into the foyer, where he waved and headed toward the elevators.
Chapter 19
Robin had asked me to meet her at ten o’clock on Beacon Hill. As I headed down Charles Street, the gas street lamps lining the narrow cobblestone street reminded me that squeezed between the contemporary shopping haven of Newbury Street and the glass and steel of downtown, historic Beacon Hill lingered as a souvenir of the city’s history.
Robin was pacing back and forth in front of our designated meeting spot when I arrived. “It’s about time. You were supposed to be here ten minutes ago.”
“It was nice out, so I walked.”
“Well, this is important and I don’t want to be late.” Robin looked up and down the street, as if checking to see that I wasn’t being followed.
“You haven’t sworn off men for good and now want to ask me to be your girlfriend, do you?” I asked, thinking Allison and Amanda seemed pretty damn happy compared to a lot of other couples I’d seen.
Robin crossed her arms. “You should be so lucky.”
“Because, don’t get me wrong, I’d be flattered.”
“Are you finished?”
“I guess.”
“Okay. Here it is.” Robin pointed to the discrete rectangular brass plaque secured to the side of the building. In polished raised letters, I read the name of the building’s tenant - The New England Cryobank and Clinic. The brick three story building looked more like a turn of the century townhouse than a high tech medical office.
“What’s a cryobank?”
“It’s a fancy name for sperm bank. Kinda like boutique is a fancy name for bakery.”
I started to object, but Robin raised her hand and cut me off. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean that. I’m just nervous.”
“About what?”
Robin reached for my hand and squeezed it. “I’m thinking about having a baby.”
“You and every other thirty-two year old woman.”
“I mean now. I’m thinking about having a baby now.”
“Why?”
“Why not?”
I wanted to point out the anonymous girl holding the rainbow striped beach ball and the unidentified elderly couple strolling on an unspecified beach – Robin couldn’t even replace Mark’s pictures with anything more than fillers, and now it sounded like she wanted to replace him with a baby.
“You mean besides the obvious?”
“What’s so obvious?” Robin pulled back defensively.
Was I surprised that a week after bumping into her ex-husband Robin had decided to retaliate by replacing Mark with a child to prove she had no use for him? Unfortunately, not as surprised as I should have been.
“Are you doing this because of Mark?”
“No, I’m not doing this because of Mark,” Robin mimicked me. “In fact I’m doing this to prove that I don’t need a man at all.”
“And you just happened to decide you want a baby after running into your ex-husband.”
Robin walked toward the front steps of the cryobank and sat down, ready to defend her decision and prove that the fact Mark was moving in with another woman had nothing to do with it.
“I want a family and, unlike you, I’m not willing to wait for Mister Right. I thought I’d found Mister Right and he turned out to be Mister Completely Fucking Wrong. I’ve been looking into it and it’s actually quite easy. It’s kind of like the turkey baster method of conception.”
I went over and sat next to her on the cool slate steps. “Let me get this straight – you want to have a baby with a stranger?”
“That’s the beauty of the whole thing - I wouldn’t be having it with anybody. I’d be having it by myself. All I need to do is pick out some sperm. It’s like flipping the bird at all those men who think they’re indispensable.”
“You can’t be telling me you’re seriously considering this?”
“I’m telling you that I don’t want to make the mistake of putting off having a baby until I find a man. I’ve kissed more frogs than I care to recall and yet the closest I’ve come to a prince was a bicycle messenger who took me to a midnight showing of Purple Rain. So will you come in with me?”
Robin looked so determined, so set on going through with this that I couldn’t turn her down. “I’ll go in with you, but if they’re offering free samples, I’m running out the door.”
“Don’t worry, I just need you there to help me pick out my donor, and maybe for a little moral support.”
Robin wanted me, a woman trying to figure out if she should pursue her engaged ex-boyfriend or a guy who eats pineapple foster for dinner. “Being one of few morals, I think a little support is all I have to offer.”
Robin threw her arms around my neck. “This is so great! I knew you’d do it. Thanks.”
After the receptionist buzzed us in, she handed Robin a clipboard and asked her to complete a stack of forms. We took a seat in the waiting room, where vintage furnishings were clustered around a marble fireplace.
“I feel like I’m in a bed and breakfast,” I whispered as Robin started writing.
“Yeah, well there’s nothing quaint about this application – have you ever seen a semen order form?”
“How’d you even know this place existed?”
“My doctor’s registered with the clinic. She’s used them before.”
“Does she earn frequent insemination points that can be redeemed for magazine subscriptions or free trips?”
“I don’t know about free trips, but you’d never think something
in such ample supply would be so expensive.”
“How much is this costing you?”
“When all is said and done, about twenty four hundred dollars, assuming it works the first time.” Robin stopped writing and looked at me. “Do you realize how many times I’ve had guys offer to do for free what I’m paying thousands of dollars for?”
I pointed to the glossy brochure I was reading. “Yeah, but did you see how many donors you get to choose from? You’d have to be one busy girl to get this variety on your own. And it says here you can have your order shipped to your door in a liquid nitrogen vapor tank – giving a whole new meaning to the term male order delivery.”
After she completed the recipient information form and signed the consent agreement, the receptionist handed Robin the donor catalog and showed us into a smaller room where we were told to wait for the counselor. I looked over Robin’s shoulder as she carefully studied each page of the three ring binder.
“So, how’s this work? They fill up a turkey baster and pretend you’re an oven stuffer roaster?”
“Actually, yeah. I can even do it myself at home if I want.”
“Please, I know you, and if you had a spatula in your kitchen I’d be shocked, no less a turkey baster.”
“I’m not going to do it myself, I just said I could. And it’s called an aspirating syringe, but same principle.”
“Sounds like something best left to the professionals, if you ask me.”
Robin carefully read each donor’s credentials, and I couldn’t help but wonder if she really knew what she was about to do.
“Are you sure you’re ready to be a mother?”
Robin nodded and stopped turning the catalog pages. “You know, I was reading this book about how families are like little microcosms of the world around us, and we need to create a behavior model of what’s acceptable or punishable just like in society.”
“And the catchy title of the seminar I know you’re hatching in your brain?” I asked, walking over to the wall to look at the photos of all the happy donor babies the New England Cryobank and Clinic had produced.
“It’s a Small World After All: Behavior Models for Better Families. It’s just a working title right now.”
“Wow. There are a lot of guys in that catalog,” I observed, in awe of all Robin’s choices - from bald and brainy geologists to brawny firemen with varsity letters. “There must be three hundred donors in that book. It’s babies a la carte.”
“You’re enjoying this aren’t you?”
“I’m just saying… Look at this.” I pointed to the page Robin was reviewing. “You can pick the eye color, the height, even the religion. But where’s all the important information?”
“Like what?”
“Like whether or not he puts the toilet seat down when he’s finished.”
Robin laughed. “You’re right. Who cares what color his hair is. They should really ask if he’s going bald.”
“Or sports a comb-over,” I added.
Robin closed the binder and turned to me. “We should come up with a more useful questionnaire they could give their donors.”
I reached for a pen on the desk and flipped over one of the handouts I found in a Lucite rack nailed to the wall.
“Question number one – can he recall every golf shot he’s ever taken, including the hole in one he got on the windmill hole playing miniature golf, but can’t remember that you don’t put Saran Wrap in the microwave.”
I scribbled on the paper, thinking that this list would be a hell of a lot more useful than the list I’d found in my storage room. “Number two – Is he capable of replacing the tube of toilet paper or does he just use the box of Kleenex sitting on the sink until that’s gone too?”
“Three – Can he tell the difference between a boob job and a pair that’s au naturale?”
“More importantly, does he prefer the real thing?”
“Right.” Robin tapped the page and told me to keep writing. “Five – Does he wait until the last minute to shop for Christmas gifts and then think you’ll love the ninety four ounce bottle of Jean Natee body splash he picked up at TJ Maxx?”
“That’s a good one,” I complimented.
“Unfortunately, I learned that one from personal experience.”
A set of boney knuckles rapped on the door and a gray-haired woman poked her head in. “Ms. Cross? Are you ready to begin?”
Robin and I exchanged looks. I gave her a reassuring smile and she waved the woman in. “I’m ready.”
“Do you need to get back to the boutique?” Robin asked as the clinic’s door closed behind us. We’d emerged with Robin’s top five donor choices and a calendar Robin was supposed to use to monitor her ovulation cycle.
It was almost noon, and my next appointment wasn’t scheduled to arrive until two o’clock. “I’m fine. Let’s get some lunch.”
We walked around the corner to the Beacon Hill Hotel and Bistro. The bistro had the warm, old moneyed feel of a men’s club, with raised mahogany paneling, etched glass and a large fireplace. The maitre d’ seated us in a banquette, its table top covered in stiff white butcher block paper, and I waited to see if Robin had any second thoughts since she’d put her plan into action.
“That wasn’t so bad, now, was it?” Robin asked, obviously her decision unchanged by the counselor’s mandatory lecture.
“Actually, it wasn’t,” I admitted.
“Cryobank sounds so much better than sperm bank, don’t you think?”
I shrugged. “Certainly more high-tech. So you think it’s weird that I call Lauren’s Luscious Licks a cake boutique instead of a bakery?” I asked, glancing up from my menu.
“Look, I said I was sorry,” Robin repeated.
“I know. But it’s not the first time you’ve said something like that. You said I was a florist.”
“Oh my god, Lauren, most people wouldn’t find that insulting.”
Most people weren’t in the greenhouse killing the flowers while Maria the gardener was out taking care of a family crisis.
“You don’t think calling it a boutique is just a matter of semantics?”
“No, not really. When I was in elementary school my mom would take me to a little local bakery for cupcakes and cookies after school, you know the kind of cookies that were scalloped like shells, dipped in chocolate and covered with sprinkles?”
I nodded, picturing the cookies Robin described. I used to love them, too.
“Well there’s no way Lauren’s Luscious Licks could be confused with Dinkle’s Bakery. I remember they had a tall spool of red and white string they used to tie the white cardboard pastry boxes closed. I loved carrying that box home, hooking my fingers under the string so I could swing it back and forth as we walked. Of course, the cupcakes always ended up with smudged icing from slamming into the sides of the box and the cookies cracked, but it never stopped me from doing the exact same thing the next time.”
“So, calling it a boutique isn’t just some marketing tactic?”
“Not any more than Woman In Action calling our seminars lifecycle management programs and shedding the whole self-help label, even if that’s what everyone else thinks they are. I’d argue that if our clients could help themselves why the hell would they be sitting in a meeting room at the Park Plaza attending my seminars?” Robin returned her attention to the menu. “So what are you having?”
“The rare roast beef sandwich with field mushrooms and horseradish mustard.”
“Sounds good.” Robin closed her menu and placed it on the table next to her bread plate. “What’s with the crisis of conscious about what you call your business?”
“The other day Maria had a family emergency and had to go home,” I started to explain.
“Maria has a family? The thought never occurred to me. I just assumed she emerged from the belly of a beast, her horns and tail already fully formed.”
“Yes, Maria has a family. Quite a big one, from what I understand. Anyway, when Maria w
as gone I had to fill a few orders – nothing difficult, just a few of our basic cakes. And I blew it. Even Dominique and Georgina were looking at me like I was an imposter.”
“You’re not an imposter. You’re just out of practice.”
“But I’m supposed to be a pastry chef, Robin.”
“No, you’re supposed to make a pretty dessert.” Robin sat back in the banquette to give our returning waiter room. After the bread basket was on our table and we’d both ordered a refill on our iced teas, she continued, “And that’s what you do, even if you’re not the one baking the cakes.”
“But my name’s on the front of the boutique.”
“No, your name is associated with the vision of the boutique. Nobody expects Coco Chanel to be sitting at the sewing machine stitching the seams of a suit.”
“That’s because she’s dead,” I pointed out.
“It’s obvious nothing I say is getting through to you so why don’t we move on. Did you invite Charlie to join us tomorrow night?”
I nodded. “I saw Neil again yesterday.”
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