by Hugh Mackay
‘She lives in Perth, so, no, he doesn’t see much of her.’
‘How does he sound when he talks about her? Or when he talks to her on the phone?’
‘I really don’t want to go into this, Fern. Do you mind?’
‘It’s just that I remember how heartbroken you were over that last miscarriage.’
‘Fern, I’d really rather not go into it. Okay? That was mainly about the End of Dave, anyway.’
‘So my opinion doesn’t really count?’
‘Of course it counts. I was hoping for a kind of blessing, I suppose. I haven’t introduced him to Mum yet. And I sort of wish he’d met her before he met Felicity. Anyway, what’s done is done.’
‘I wonder what he thought of us.’
‘He loved you. Really. I could tell. He was already predisposed, of course. He’d studied your photo. Thought you were like an older version of me.’
‘Gee, thanks.’
‘As for Flick . . . I probably influenced him too much before he met her.’
‘Actually, I thought she was pretty subdued, for her.’
‘He couldn’t take his eyes off her hair, of course. Even though I’d warned him it’s so red it looks fake. And Fern, I’d practically guarantee Richard’s hair is not coloured.’
‘Don’t dwell on it, Frey. What about his teeth?’
‘What about his teeth? What kind of a question is that? He’s not a horse. I haven’t inspected his teeth.’
‘Are they all his, is all I meant. That smile is to die for, I agree. Just wondering.’
‘Well, he doesn’t take them out at night, if that’s what you’re asking.’
‘Does he always wear those rather tattered jeans?’
‘Distressed, if you don’t mind. No, he often goes to work in a suit, as a matter of fact.’
‘Don’t sound defensive. I’m just interested.’
‘Well, I’m pleased you’re interested. That’s a start.’
‘It’s just that . . . well, I wondered if distressed jeans might suit a rather younger person. Frankly, I doubt if Mike would wear pants like that.’
‘I agree with you, as it happens. I think Richard was trying to impress Felicity. But those jeans will have to go. He has a perfectly normal pair, as well.’
‘One other thing. What is his attitude to his mother? I like a guy to show respect to his mother – Mum always says it’s a clue to a man’s general attitude to women.’
‘His mother died when he was fourteen. He doesn’t like to talk about it. Pretty traumatic, naturally, at that age. It happened not long after his father left them, to general relief all round, by the sound of it.’
‘Oh.’
‘What do you mean oh?’
‘Just . . . that’s so sad. I think I might have been unfair about his looking weathered. Father leaves, mother dies. A fourteen-year-old. Gosh.’
‘I agree. Very tough.’
‘So . . . this is serious, is it, Frey? I mean, you’re serious?’
‘You could say that.’
‘Very serious?’
‘Totally.’
‘Actual marriage?’
‘Absolutely. He only has to ask. And if he waits too long, I’ll do the asking myself.’
‘Really?’
‘Really.’
‘But . . .’
‘What?’
‘You know.’
‘I know what?’
‘Daniel.’
‘Daniel?’
‘Yes: Daniel.’
‘What in God’s name are you talking about? Daniel is one of my oldest and best friends. Period.’
‘Period? Really?’
‘Really. End of story.’
‘That’s not what he’s been telling Mum.’
‘Mum? When does Daniel ever talk to Mum?’
‘I’m not supposed to tell you this, but he dropped in on her last week.’
‘Go on.’
‘I’m not supposed to say anything.’
‘Fern, tell me what the fuck Daniel said to Mum.’
‘Surely you can imagine. That he was still in love with you even though he was living with Lizzie and their baby. That he believed you were secretly still in love with him, but you couldn’t admit it. That he needed to know how serious the Richard thing really was. That he would still be your friend, no matter what. That he had always felt part of our family. Mum was in tears telling me. She loves Daniel. You know that.’
‘The Richard thing? She said the Richard thing?’
‘I’m paraphrasing.’
‘I’ll go and see Mum straight away. Finish your drink. Why are you drinking, anyway? Aren’t you supposed to be pregnant?’
‘This is my last one. Really.’
‘Like hell it is.’
‘Frey, you must not talk to Mum about this. Ever. My reputation with her will be trashed if you say a single word about it. I’m telling you because I tell you everything. But I promised Mum I would keep this to myself. She was so distraught. She just had to tell me.’
‘Distraught? A minute ago she was just in tears and now she’s distraught! God, Fern, this is hopeless. Hopeless! Oh, this is typical Daniel. Driving a wedge between me and my own mother. Or trying to. He can be a real little shit sometimes. Will Mum say anything to me about it, do you think?’
‘Probably not. Definitely not, I’d say.’
‘But how can I confront Daniel if I’m not supposed to know?’
‘You don’t know. Frey, listen to me. Read my lips. You. Don’t. Know. Okay?’
‘So Daniel has managed to top up Mum’s already deep well of sentimental tosh about him and me. Planted the idea that I’m abandoning him for “the Richard thing”. This is unspeakably awful, Fern. Unspeakably awful and desperately unfair. I don’t know what to say.’
‘Yes you do. Nothing. Nothing at all. Not to Mum. Not to me. Not to Daniel. And certainly not to Richard. Obviously.’
‘Have you told Mike?’
‘Absolutely not. Nor will I.’
‘I hate this. Trust Daniel to do something to spoil the moment. He really is a little shit.’
‘Also one of your oldest and closest friends, I seem to recall you saying.’
‘I’m going to have another drink, and you can’t have one. I’ll get you a mineral water and you can bloody well sit there and watch me drink my wine.’
‘Oh, by the way, what are you going to get Richard for his alleged forty-second birthday? A ball and chain?’
‘Shut it, Fern.’
8
Coming Home –
4th Variation – ‘The Joy of Children’
The sight of his travertine-paved convivium gladdened Richard’s heart, as it always did when he returned home. Freya, his wife, was sitting with her back to him, and her shoulders appeared to be shaking.
‘You okay, Frey?’ Richard said as he bent and kissed the top of her head.
There was a distinct pause before she replied: ‘I’m fine. Why do you ask?’
‘I thought I saw a bit of a shiver as I came in. Can I get you a sweater?’
‘No, I’m fine. It’s not cold.’
Richard hesitated, not wanting to pry. But he was curious. ‘You seemed to be shivering. Are you sure you’re okay?’
Another pause. Longer. Freya straightened her shoulders before she spoke.
‘Oh, I was probably just laughing to myself. I had a lovely exchange with little Pippa next door when I was coming home. She was sitting on their front steps, waiting for her mum. I said to her, “Isn’t it a lovely rainy day?” and she looked a bit puzzled. So then I said, “Listen to the birds. Can you hear them singing? They love the rain, too.” We both listened and, sure enough, several birds were trilling on cue. It was a magic moment. Then she asked me why birds sing in the rain – don’t you love the questions kids ask? She’s only five.’
Richard thought he detected a dangerous conversational corner approaching, but decided to stay with the story and see where it le
d. Where Freya was concerned, an apparently non-threatening andante could very easily morph into appassionato or even misterioso.
‘What did you tell her?’
‘Because they love splashing around in the rain, the same way they love dunking themselves in our birdbath. They love the feeling of rain on their wings. It makes them feel all clean and fresh.’
‘And?’
‘She cocked her head on one side and frowned. Don’t you love it when little people frown? Do you think it comes naturally, or are they copying their parents?’ Pause. ‘Richard?’
Richard was on his hands and knees, studying what looked to him like a chip on the corner of one of the travertine pavers.
‘Sorry. Do I think what?’
‘Frowning. Little kids frowning. Do you think it goes naturally with thinking, or are they just copying?’
‘I don’t know. Copying, I suppose. At that age. Nothing to frown about, surely?’
‘Anyway, guess what she said.’
‘Not impressed with your explanation?’
‘Not at all. She said she thought the birds loved the rain because they knew it made the trees grow and they needed the trees to live in. Isn’t that gorgeous?’
‘Lovely. What did you say?’
‘I felt a bit inadequate, actually. But I told her I thought she was probably right.’
Richard returned to the problem of the chipped tile, hoping his smile had brought this conversation to a simple, cheerful conclusion.
It had not.
‘Have you ever tried talking to Pippa yourself, Richard?’
The tile was not chipped, it turned out: some of the grouting had come away. It was annoying how the best artisans, working with only the best materials, could still fuck up a simple thing like grouting. Or perhaps it was the dog.
‘Richard?’
‘Sorry. What? Pippa? So she liked the bird thing. That’s good.’
‘Have you ever talked to her yourself?’
‘Who?’
‘Pippa. The five-year-old next door.’
‘I know who Pippa is. No, I don’t think I ever have. I talk to Gavin a bit – when we’re putting the bins out, mostly. Why do you ask?’
‘My period came today.’
There was a long pause then Richard said, ‘Is there a link? Have I missed something?’
Richard had not missed anything. He knew there was a link, but it suited him to slow the pace a bit. Get Freya to be more explicit. Coded remarks were dangerous, in his experience. You assumed you knew what people were driving at, but often you didn’t. And vice versa. Better to have it spelt right out.
‘I’m talking about children. A child. Our child.’
‘Ah.’
‘It’s not going to happen naturally. That’s pretty obvious, wouldn’t you say?’
Richard was unequivocally against the idea of children. Well, any more children. But here was Freya, at thirty-nine, unexpectedly mounting a last-ditch assault, and so he had agreed to let nature take its course, being fairly confident that, at this late stage, its course would carry them towards terminal infertility and a life of continued comfort, peace and relative prosperity, disturbed only by occasional visits from Angelina. Freya had had a complicated termination and two traumatic miscarriages before he met her, so her reproductive record was not promising, in his view. It was one of her many attractions; one of the things that had finally persuaded him to marry a second time.
But if it happened, it happened. Freya had said she was perfectly happy to modify her working life to take primary responsibility for the child, if they were ‘lucky enough’ to have one. She knew Urbanski was on the brink of another growth-spurt and she assured him she would never do anything to jeopardise his role in that. (Richard hadn’t wanted a dog, either, but Freya had said she would look after it, and she had been as good as her word on that one, he had to admit.)
‘I might heat up something to eat. Would you like something?’
Freya shook her head, determined not to be deflected.
‘Can I pour you a glass of wine then?’
‘Okay. Yes. Thanks.’
The lasagne was in and out of the microwave in five minutes. The wine was poured, the glasses clinked, and the only words spoken in that time were a muted ‘Cheers’ and a grimly defiant ‘Salute’.
As a form of aural self-defence, Freya took a raw carrot out of the fridge and bit noisily into it. Even as she chewed, she picked up the conversation where it had trailed off.
‘Daniel and Lizzie did it by IVF. They had a lot of disappointments along the way and it ended up costing them almost forty thousand dollars, plus a lot of stress. They will be paying it off for years – a mortgage is out of the question. There was also the risk of multiple births, but they got what they wanted. Let me show you the latest –’
Richard held up his forkless hand.
‘You’ve shown me their kid before. Very cute.’ Richard said this as lightly as he could. He didn’t want to compound this tricky agenda with a further excursion into the life and times of Daniel. (Forty thousand dollars? Christ!)
An awkward silence descended on them. Richard wanted to believe the matter would be allowed to rest, at least for the time being. Freya was considering how best to ensure that it would not rest. She had major new ground to cover.
‘Do you know about surrogacy, Richard?’
Uh-oh. Time to slow things down again, thought Richard. Ease back. Even let yourself appear a little slow-witted.
‘I know what surrogacy is, Frey. Of course I do.’
‘No, I mean in relation to reproduction.’
Suddenly testy, Richard said: ‘You mean like this rent-a-womb stuff we hear about in the media? Illegal, isn’t it?’
Tears would flow if Freya let them. But it was important not to let them flow just now. She knew Richard had plenty of evidence for his theory that she was a textbook sufferer from pre-menstrual tension and she could feel, right now, the urge to give way to dramatics. And she could feel that familiar, ferocious conviction gripping her, the conviction that the way she was feeling now – with this monthly tide of hormones washing through her brain – was the way she always really felt; it was just that she was less inhibited about expressing it at this time of the month.
‘It is illegal here. That’s true. But not in other parts of the world.’
They’d often discussed IVF, but, given her history, Freya had herself dismissed it as an expensive experiment that was not worth the risk: ‘What if we did achieve a pregnancy and then I blew it yet again?’
‘Frey, why don’t you tell me exactly what you’re thinking, and then we can discuss it rationally.’
Richard had finished his reheated lasagne, belched with scarcely any attempt at suppression, drained his glass and was pouring another. Freya set aside her half-eaten carrot and took a tiny sip of wine. She wanted a clear head for this. Especially now Richard had introduced his favourite word: rational.
She looked at him. A surge of love overwhelmed her. His lush, wavy black hair with its ridiculously distinguished traces of grey now appearing at the temples; his rugged jaw, more suited to a film star than a brilliant architect; his powerful shoulders. She admired his steely determination: this was a man who tended to get what he wanted – including her. Though she occasionally wished for more flexibility, Richard was loyal, mostly kind, and very supportive of her career, even if he only took it half seriously. She knew she wanted to be with him, and no one else, until the day she died.
But her thoughts this night were of life, not death. If she were shopping in a sperm bank, she’d want a father just like this for her child. Eye-wateringly handsome. Clever. Creative. Yes, he could be pompous – she still cringed, all these years later, whenever she recalled his speech at the Socially Aware Architects function where they had met. He could be arrogant, insufferably opinionated and subject to childish sulks. But she wanted his baby. Though it scarcely seemed to make sense to put it like this, she wanted
his baby even more than she wanted her own.
That, in fact, was her plan. She had lost faith in her own capacity to reproduce and she was frankly scared of the very idea of producing a child from old eggs, even if it were possible. So the solution seemed elegant: Richard’s sperm, frozen and shipped to the US; a young donor’s eggs used to conceive a healthy embryo in vitro, and the embryo implanted in the uterus of a second woman. Finally, Richard’s baby in the arms of Freya, and no one else having any legal claim to be the biological mother.
It was a rational plan. The relationships with both women would be commercial, not emotional, and that should appeal to Richard. Whatever other reservations Richard might have, he surely couldn’t deny it was a rational plan.
9
Mother and Daughter
I must say Freya can be disarmingly direct sometimes. Or do I mean ‘alarmingly’? Anyway, she burst in here, those blue eyes of hers flashing like a police car, and scarcely drew breath before she tackled me about something I’d said to Fern in the strictest confidence. The strictest confidence. So now I can’t trust Fern, either.
The thing is . . . well, look, the thing is Daniel. Daniel and Freya. For years I used to say that as if it was all one word. Danielanfreya. They were just so lovely together. Such close friends. You could sense the rapport. And he’s such an attractive boy. Really. And so caring. So thoughtful. And so clearly besotted with Freya. Besotted. I thought it was a match made in heaven. Both musicians and everything. Similar ages. Similar backgrounds. I’ve never met the parents, but you can tell. Good manners. I still think that counts for a lot. The little courtesies of everyday life. For a young man, I thought Daniel was quite exceptional in that way.
I don’t like to use the word ‘sexy’, but there it is: he is a very sexy young thing. Anyone would say that. Any woman would. So I thought, well, why not? Frey was young, but it seemed inevitable that they would marry. ‘Get together’, anyway. Who marries these days? I speak as a widow, of course, though that’s a label I’ll never get used to.
But, no, typical Freya. That reckless streak. She took up with that dreadful trumpeter. Dave. God. I tried to call him David but they all laughed at me. It had to be Dave. Da-ave.