by Lucy Diamond
‘And … maybe another time?’ he asked, his gaze hopeful.
The girls looked up at her with similar eagerness. ‘That would be nice,’ she said, determined not to be pinned down until she’d had time to think about it. ‘Thanks again. We’ll see you around.’
And that was as much as she would give him. For now.
Chapter Four
OH BABY! website – for helpful, friendly advice on CONCEPTION, PREGNANCY and MOTHERHOOD
Members’ forum > Trying to conceive > New thread
Subject: New member
Posted by: EmmaJ35
Hello everyone,
I’m new to the forum so I thought I’d introduce myself. I’m Emma, and have been trying to conceive for nine months. I am starting to feel obsessed with sperm counts and am pouncing on my husband as soon as I hit my ovulation window, but nothing’s happened yet.
I’m 35 and aware that the clock is ticking. I can’t help wondering if we’ve left it too late, or if there is something wrong with me/him. STRESS!
Friends with babies keep saying unhelpful things like ‘Just relax! As soon as you stop thinking about it, you’ll get pregnant!’ but I CAN’T stop thinking about it, and I can’t relax – it’s not as easy as that. Work is a nightmare and, since my husband lost his job two months ago (yes, just before Christmas – great timing!), I am the only breadwinner and feel under massive pressure. I work as an interior designer and used to love it, but recently have found myself getting increasingly impatient with customers dithering over a light switch or a paint shade. A light switch, for heaven’s sake!! It all seems so trivial when my mind is taken over by baby-making.
ALSO, before my husband lost his job, we were meant to be moving to a really lovely house – perfect for a family! – but at the very last minute (we were packed and everything) the vendors upped the price. I was all for coughing up – I LOVED that house – but then he was made redundant, so we had to pull out.
We went ahead with the sale of our house anyway, as it seemed a good idea at the time, but are now living in a tiny rented flat with all our stuff still piled up in boxes and, believe me, it’s not remotely conducive to getting pregnant. David, my husband, is fed up because he can’t find another job and is now saying we can’t afford a baby anyway. HEEEEEELP.
Emma stopped typing and read back what she’d written. Then she frowned and deleted almost all of it. If she posted such a long rambling rant on the forum, the other women would think she was a fruit loop. Maybe they’d be right.
I have been pregnant once before, she began typing again, more slowly this time, but—
‘What are you doing?’ David asked just then. He was lying at full stretch on the sofa, watching the football and slagging off the referee’s atrocious decision-making.
Emma jumped. She’d almost forgotten he was in the same room. Hot colour surged into her face and she swiftly backspaced the sentence she had begun. Had she seriously been on the verge of sharing her darkest secret with an online forum of strangers, when her husband had absolutely no idea of its existence? ‘Nothing,’ she replied, editing her post right down to the barest introductory sentences and sending it off.
She scrolled through some of the other topics on the discussion board, unwilling to leave this world of women like her just yet. Ovulation charts – do they work? Polycystic ovaries. Fertility diet. Someone had started a thread with the heading GOOD NEWS!!!! and Emma clicked it open to reveal some nameless woman – BroodyMama37 – announcing that, after four years of trying, including three rounds of IVF, she was pregnant with twins, whoop-whoop. There then followed a long list of congratulatory comments, but almost all of them failed to disguise the writer’s envy or self-obsession each time.
LilMiss: So pleased 4 u – hope it’s me next time. Period due next week – am crossing fingers that I have news like yours 2 share!
NicNac: Well done! Any tips???? hopeful face
BiddyWren: LUCKY YOU! How are you feeling? We have decided to go down the IVF route too now – wish us luck!
For some reason Emma felt compelled to write as well, as if by not congratulating the woman she might jinx her own chances. Congrats! she typed. What lovely news. Well done!
‘Well done’ indeed. Like there was some special art of procreation that BroodyMama37 had fortuitously hit upon. Like there was any particular skill involved, any incredible talent. Luck – that was all it was. Luck and good genes and having youth on your side. None of which seemed to apply to Emma and David right now. They seemed to be getting more decrepit and unlucky and genetically cursed by the day.
‘Moan, moan, moan,’ she muttered to herself, turning off the computer. She hated feeling like this – so glum, so despondent. It just wasn’t her. Five years ago, when she and David had got married, she’d been Fun Emma, throwing parties, dancing until dawn with her friends, cavorting around the bedroom with David at the drop of a hat. Now look at her: whinging on to anonymous people online, getting sucked into a forum of other unhappy women obsessed with their wombs. Every time she saw a pregnant woman in the street she wanted to cry with envy.
‘And he SCORES! Get in!’ crowed David, punching the air. He lifted the beer to his lips and swallowed triumphantly. ‘Watch this, Em. Amazing passing.’
‘Mmm,’ she said dully. The screen showed a bunch of jubilant men hugging each other and the crowd going wild. Don’t worry, David, she felt like saying. You sit there and watch the amazing passing. I’ll just agonize about our finances, if we’ll ever be able to afford another mortgage, if you’ll ever find another job, if we’ll ever have a baby. But you enjoy the match, won’t you?
Emma woke up at six o’clock the next morning, even though it was Saturday and there was no need to move for hours yet. Rolling over, she was on the verge of slipping back into a dream when a thought pinged into her head, a message from brain to body. Alert! Alert! Ovulation peak time has now begun! Prepare for imminent shagathon!
Sleep was instantly forgotten. It was like waking on Christmas morning when you just knew something special was in the air. Her cells felt primed for action, her womb was all a-tremble with anticipation (well, you know, probably; if such a thing was physically possible) and she felt a thrilling thump of joy as she imagined that brand-new egg inside her waiting to be brought to life. Hello, little egg. I know you’re there. Please turn into a baby. A nice, fat, beaming, toothy baby. Please.
She wrapped her arms around her body, resisting the urge to molest her husband there and then. All in good time, she told herself. No point waking him too early; he’d be grouchy and not in the mood. She had to time it all perfectly.
Slipping out of bed silently to go to the loo, she noticed when passing the chest of drawers that a red light was flashing on her phone to indicate a new text. She paused outside the bathroom to open it, and saw it was from Sally, her closest friend from uni, who now lived across town with her husband Paul and baby Violet. The text had been sent at five-thirty: ouch. Violet was still not a good sleeper, by all accounts.
Hi hon, the text read. Are we seeing you later for V’s party?
Emma sighed. Violet’s first birthday party. She had been putting off replying because she wasn’t sure what to say. Had it really been a whole year since Violet was born, and Emma and Sally had been immediately cast into different universes? In some ways it seemed longer. Emma had tried to be delirious with happiness for her friend – she truly had – showering her with treats and goodies, hoping to paper over the gulf that had suddenly widened between them, with hand-stitched baby shoes for Violet and Jo Malone bath oil for poor shattered Sally, but it hadn’t been enough. Sally had crossed to the other side – the side of breastfeeding and birth horror stories, the side of broken nights and teething and nappy-bags, her life now completely dominated by the tiny pink-faced tyrant who always seemed to be crying or smelling or wanting something.
It wasn’t just Sally who’d defected. Almost all their friends were doing it. Bellies were swelling, phon
e calls frequently began with the portentous ‘We’ve got some news …’, beautiful announcement cards showing teeny baby feet plopped through the door, heralding the safe arrival of Flora or Alfie or Lola. Wild sweaty club nights and wall-shaking house parties with the old gang were a thing of the past. Nowadays she was more likely to be invited to a baby’s christening or a toddler-infested Sunday lunch than anything outrageous or fun. Their friends had joined the National Trust en masse and went for buggy-pushing walks in the leafy grounds of stately homes; they ordered packages from Mini Boden and compared notes on breast-pumps or washable nappies. Emma felt the mutual ground between them was crumbling away. She had become sidelined, left behind. Was she a bad friend, an evil person, for feeling so damn jealous?
‘You’re so lucky, still being able to wear skinny jeans/lie-in at the weekends/go on nice holidays,’ various friends had sighed over the last few months. ‘I would kill to lose this last stone/have a single good night’s sleep/go abroad again.’
Emma didn’t feel lucky, though. Not the slightest bit. She wouldn’t care about sleep or having a post-pregnancy muffin-top or never getting on another aeroplane for the rest of her life, if she could just hold her own baby, feel that soft new body against her skin, nuzzle into his or her fragile, sweet-smelling head. Her friends were the lucky ones, not her. She hadn’t even gone to visit the most recent arrival – baby Poppy, daughter of their friends Mike and Sara – because she was scared that if she had to hold and coo over little Poppy, she might cry actual tears onto the baby’s face.
When would it happen for her and David? When?
She sniffled, trying to stay positive. Come on, Emma. This could be the weekend where it all turned around. In a matter of weeks they might be rejoining the gang with their own breathless good-news phone calls. I’ve got something to tell you! Months from now they might be posting out their own announcement cards and asking for advice about prams. They could do it. They would do it.
Sorry, Sal, she texted back eventually. Feeling a bit ropey today, so had better not bring my germs to the party! Hope V has a lovely time, and you too. Must catch up properly soon. Love Em xxx.
There. Sent. The guilt lurked around the edges of her mind for a few minutes until she reassured herself that one day she’d be able to apologize to Sally for not being beside her this year, for letting their friendship drift. Sorry I was so crap while Violet was tiny, she’d say. I was just jealous that you had something I wanted too.
And Sally would give her a hug (because Sally was the lovely, forgiving sort) and say, Don’t worry about it, hon. I understand. I’d have been the same. Then they’d both look over at their brood with adoration (multiple babies and toddlers, Emma imagined, crossing her fingers), and back at each other with renewed affection, and it would be okay.
It would all be okay.
After a cup of tea in the living room, watching the sun rise above the city streets, Emma crept back into bed. Seven-thirty. Let the shagathon commence!
She lay on her side, feeling jittery and excited as she looked at her husband sleeping soundly nearby. He was going to be such a great dad, she knew it already. He was an outdoorsy type, David, tall and strong, built for hunting and gathering. She could already imagine him carrying a tot – their tot! – on his broad shoulders, swinging round a giggling toddler, playing noisy games of football in the garden, helping to make paint-splattery Mother’s Day cards and breakfast in bed.
She watched his eyelids flicker mid-dream and smiled. Look at him there, so golden and strong and handsome. It was unusual to see him at rest; he was the most energetic person she’d ever met, always wanting to be out and about doing something. She’d never let on as much, but secretly he reminded her of a bouncy, boisterous dog in the way that he needed to be out every day, if not being taken for walk on a lead, then exerting himself physically: pounding around Victoria Park, playing five-a-side football with his mates every Thursday evening, swimming a ferocious, splashy butterfly in the pool on Dean Lane …
Lately, though, he’d even seemed disinterested in exercise. A torpor had settled upon him since he had lost his job; an inertia that leached him of energy and enthusiasm and kept him in the flat, watching daytime television. This was not a good thing. She was worried he was becoming depressed.
Feeling a pang of sympathy, she rolled closer and put an arm around his warm, sleeping form. He’d had a tough few months in all. Being made redundant had dented his pride, sending him into a downward spiral. It was hardly surprising he was self-absorbed, withdrawn into his shell. She had to keep making the effort to lift his spirits, to remind him that she still loved and wanted him, even if the architecture world didn’t right now.
She ran a hand lightly down his chest, gently caressed his nipples, snuggled closer into his body. Brace yourself, little egg. Prepare to be invaded.
He stirred and muttered something. Encouraged, she slipped her hand along his side and down to his hip. Then he jerked irritably and his eyes snapped open. ‘F’fuck’s sake, Emma, I’m asleep,’ he grunted, pushing her hand away and rolling over.
The breath seemed to catch in her throat; her eyes suddenly filled with tears. She retreated to her own side of the bed and listened to the tick of the clock, the traffic grumbling outside, her own heartbeat slowing with disappointment.
He didn’t even want her any more. How could she draw him back in from the cold?
She gazed helplessly at his dozing body. This was peak ovulation time. This was their chance. She couldn’t let another month slip by with an empty womb, and her soul silting over with numbness. I’m not beaten yet, she told herself fiercely. Not by a long chalk.
‘Sorry about earlier,’ he said an hour later when he finally emerged from the duvet. His skin was etched with pillow-creases, his hair stood on end and there was something adorably vulnerable about him. Then he scratched his balls, which rather killed the moment. ‘I didn’t sleep very well.’
‘No worries,’ she said lightly. Mustn’t turn it into An Issue. According to the Oh Baby! forum, bleating incessantly about conception often turned husbands right off sex. ‘Want some coffee?’
‘Ta.’ There was a pause while she poured and stirred, and he leaned against the doorjamb. ‘I’m a bit worried about what Dad’s going to say tomorrow, you know.’
‘What do you mean?’ She passed him the steaming mug. ‘Here.’
‘He sounded so odd on the phone the other night. He said he had something to tell me. I can’t help wondering …’ The pause that followed said everything. It said: cancer, heart disease, months to live. It said: blood tests, hospital, goodbye.
‘I’m sure they’re fine,’ Emma said. ‘Fit as fiddles, both of them.’ This was true. David’s parents still seemed so robust and active, running their bed and breakfast around the calendar with barely any help, still with it, still uber-competent. She thought wistfully of her own parents, now up in Scotland, who’d slumped into old age as if defeated, their lives a pale, shrunken version of before, revolving around the twin focal points of their boggle-eyed spaniel and the television viewing guide.
He ran his hand through his hair. ‘I hope so,’ he said. ‘I don’t think I could take any more bad news right now, Em.’
She went over, gently removed the coffee mug and set it on the table, then wrapped her arms around him. ‘Don’t worry,’ she said into his chest. He was still warm from the bed. ‘We’re on the way up again, I just know it.’
Mulberry House was a large sprawling farmhouse in a quiet corner of Loveday village, down in Dorset. Back when David and his brothers had been growing up, the Joneses had kept chickens, a couple of ponies and a goat, and there had been a large and well-tended vegetable plot, according to David. There was an orchard and a paddock, and incredible scenery all around – luscious green hills, woodland and the garden itself, Eddie’s pride and joy, which was a riot of colour throughout the year.
It had once been a comfortable, warm family home, if the old photos were an
ything to go by, but in more recent years the house had become rather battered around the edges. The paint was flaking on the window frames, you could see missing slates on the roof, and the ivy that swamped the front of the house had caused the brickwork to become damp and waterlogged. Inside, it never felt truly warm, even on a summer’s day, and there was a permanent dankness about the front rooms, which clung to your clothes after an hour or so. As an interior designer, Emma had often cringed at the dark-painted walls and mean windows that didn’t let in enough light, and at the ageing carpets everywhere, which were no doubt covering beautiful old floorboards. There were enough style crimes in Mulberry House to warrant a citizen’s arrest, in her opinion, although only someone with a death-wish would dare voice any criticisms of Lilian’s home turf to her face.
You had to feel sorry for paying guests, though. If Emma and David were staying over for the weekend, Lilian always tried to set aside the best room for them: the one that caught the sun setting over the hills, with just a faint streak of sparkling sea visible on the horizon – but on occasions when this hadn’t been possible, they’d slept in one of the less attractive guest rooms, complete with thin, scratchy covers on the bed and the prickliest towels Emma had ever used. The Four Seasons Hotel it was not.
Outside, Eddie did his best with his garden, but he wasn’t as fit as he used to be, and the weeds were creeping in. The farm animals had long since departed, but there was still a stable-block and various outbuildings, all in differing states of chaos, which Charlie had been helping him do up for the last two years. The aim had been to turn them into ‘holiday chalets’, but so far the going had been painfully slow. This was no surprise to anyone. Charlie wasn’t exactly Captain Reliable.
They pulled up now in the small parking area next to Hugh and Alicia’s car, and David turned off the engine. Emma was always struck by the absolute silence of Mulberry House, after the bustle of city life. The house was set right back from the road, so you never heard the traffic, just the gentle peeping of little birds or an occasional seagull screech.