The Longing

by Jane Asher

  Anthony Northfield was telling his girlfriend about his day. He had showered and changed into beige slacks and an open-neck white shirt, his hair slicked back and still wet, cuffs rolled up to reveal his forearms. She loved him like this: relaxed and apparently self-confident; tired by his day at work but with the stresses of it washed away and with only the echoes of minor power remaining to bolster his hopes for the golden future that was expected of him. He leant back in the cream-covered sofa, secure in his good looks and reasonably so in the progress of his life so far, and took another sip of whisky. A childhood in Hampshire, surrounded by an adoring family of doctor-father, musician-mother and two bright younger siblings had brought him up to assume his life would be successful; the only small cloud on his horizon being the secret fear that he was not quite up to scaling the heights his parents had projected for him. It was unspokenly taken for granted in the closed confines of the family that, being the first-born son, he would continue the medical tradition of his father and grandfather, and he knew they had never really appreciated the sweat that this expectation placed on him. Where his younger brother and sister sailed calmly through homework and exams, he battled through storms; where his parents moved smoothly about the Hampshire social set, whether at local dinner parties or in French ski chalets, he bumped and staggered. But the smooth good looks were a huge asset and, combined with hard work and late nights struggling to master the complexities of the human body, he scraped through medical school with an acceptable degree. By this time he had learnt to use his physical attractions to good effect and to combine them with a not entirely manufactured charm that, together with good use of his father’s influence in the old boy network still prevailing among the medical fraternity, secured him a post in a large London teaching hospital. There the effectiveness of his bedside manner was soon spotted and exploited to its full potential, and when offered a move to the hospital’s infertility unit, he jumped at it, sensing that his talents would be used to best advantage if employed in the care of women.

  When Professor Hewlett left the hospital to set up a private clinic in Weymouth Street, he invited Anthony to join him, and in the ensuing six years he made himself a valuable member of the team; technically competent, and in style and manner impressive. The clinic flourished, and everyone involved began to reap the financial and emotional rewards of being part of its success. The only shadow hovering over the sunny upward slopes of the path Anthony could see ahead was the secret, niggling fear that still came to him at unexpected moments – in the middle of a dinner party, halfway through an egg removal, deep in the darkness of the night – that he was not quite up to all this; that in some unknown way he would one day be found out as a sham, as lacking in some essential ingredient, as a pretender to the throne of the golden few who went on to consultancies, brass plates and knighthoods. He could not have foreseen that it was the physical attributes that had, in no small part, led to his progression, which would cause the biggest threat to his stability so far.

  He looked across at Andrea as she sat in the armchair opposite him, shoeless feet tucked up under her neat thighs, and stretched out one arm and arched his back as he felt the warmth of the whisky taking the edge off any lurking uncertainties.

  ‘And what about you, sweetheart?’ he said. ‘How did it go?’

  Andrea worked for a PR and marketing agency, handling the accounts for several major food manufacturers; as successful in her promotion of new ready meals and repackaged canned vegetables as Anthony was in his pursuit of pregnancies. Any qualms she had at abandoning her original dream of working in journalism and vigorously pursuing truth and revealing injustice had been shelved at about the same time that Anthony had convinced himself he could contribute more to the overall good of mankind by working in private practice at the clinic, than by leasing his skills to the NHS. They’d first met when she was sent to research the subject of infertility as part of a promotion project for a vitamin manufacturer – later abandoned. Andrea’s interviewing technique was immaculate. The long legs were beautifully displayed as she leant her elbow on one crossed knee, pencil in manicured hand hovering delicately around her mouth, the rubber-tipped end occasionally but provocatively gripped between even white teeth as she listened, rapt, to the intricacies of sperm mobility. It didn’t take long for Anthony to suggest that they continue the discussion over lunch, and within a week they were exploring sperm mobility far less theoretically.

  Two years on, their relationship was steady and fulfilling, although even in this Anthony worried that it was a little too good to be true, and that Andrea might one day see through to his buried uncertainty. She had no such hidden twinges, and her outward confidence and satisfaction were a true reflection of what lay beneath.

  She still worked in the same agency as when they had met, and had recently been briefed to upgrade the image of packaged pizzas, which were still selling in vast quantities but which were now manufactured by such a large number of different companies that the client, Middlesex Foods, feared for their market share.

  That day she had made a presentation to the marketing director of her proposal for a nationwide pizza competition, in which readers of a major national newspaper and of one of the leading women’s magazines would be invited to send in ideas for new pizza toppings, at a charge of a pound for each entry which would then be given to charity. Andrea was pleased with the plan: it had a satisfactorily triple-pronged attack. Pizzas would be mentioned for three consecutive weeks in the national press, always linked with the brand name of ‘Pizza Pete’, a few hundred new ideas for toppings would be gathered for the price of a prize weekend in Italy, and the charity connection would, as usual, add some warmth to the whole operation.

  ‘Yeah, I think it went well. They wanted me to suggest the charity I had in mind, and I haven’t really got round to that yet, but I said I’d got a list which I was considering. There must be something that works well with the whole idea of pizza. Aren’t there diseases when you can’t taste or something, so that we can say all the money we raise will go towards helping children taste these wonderful toppings for the first time?’

  Anthony’s medical expertise came in very useful from time to time, just as Andrea’s work complemented his when advice was occasionally needed on the careful handling of a sensationalist press story about eliminating embryos or disposal of eggs.

  ‘Well, of course there are conditions where you lose all sense of taste – strokes and things like that, but it’s more likely to be in adults, and probably associated with other problems.’

  ‘Oh God, no! I can’t have pictures of old men with heads on one side and drool coming out of their mouths,’ laughed Andrea. ‘It’s got to be children, and they’ve got to look sweet.’

  They were quiet for a moment, each riffling through their mental filing system of unfortunate medical conditions; tossing aside images of mongolism, blindness and crutches in a search for the perfect tie-up of picturesque human suffering and pizza.

  ‘There’s a ghastly skin disease where you get to look awfully like a pizza topping,’ Anthony said, raising his eyebrows at Andrea in mock disapproval as she burst out laughing. ‘No, you really do, it’s quite awful. Perhaps you could have a picture of someone on the packaging, just to bring it all to life a bit?’

  ‘Oh, shut up!’ Andrea giggled. ‘You’re not being any help at all. Maybe I’m on the wrong track; d’you think it should be Romanian orphans again? Or have they been done to death? Anyway, I’d better get changed if we’re really meeting Rachel and the others. What time did you say?’

  She got to her feet and smoothed down the front of her skirt. Both she and Anthony generally changed down in the evenings, abandoning their neatly suited work uniforms for jeans or slacks, and designer sweaters or Calvin Klein sports shirts.

  ‘I said we’d meet at The Lion at eight,’ Anthony answered. And as she walked out of the sitting room he called after her, ‘I think one of today’s fancied me, by the way.’

&nbs
p; ‘Not another one!’ she shouted back from the bedroom, enjoying the sureness she felt in their relationship as she did so. ‘Pretty?’

  ‘Not bad, bit old for me, of course, but then you know what they say about women of experience. She couldn’t help enjoying it, I could see that. They always think I can’t, but I always can.’

  ‘You’re outrageous. Where’s your clinician’s impartiality and disinterestedness?’

  ‘Oh, it’s there really. I just felt like annoying you, that’s all. Hurry up, darling, or I’ll come and examine you in a minute. I’m getting bored.’

  Chapter Nine

  Juliet was missing her regular visit to the clinic. While H she’d been going through the course of daily injections to stimulate her ovaries, she hadn’t realised how much she had become dependent on the ritual it involved, and how much it meant to be able to talk regularly to people who understood what she was going through. Now she tried to reimmerse herself in her work, knowing there was nothing more she or anyone else could do except wait, but finding it almost impossible to keep her mind on anything; using every excuse to try to be alone with her private thoughts, willing the time to pass more quickly, and yet dreading the moment when she would know. The clinic had presented her with yet another sheet of information the last time she attended, which she read and reread when she could find a moment to sit alone at her desk in the office. It included the unachievable advice: ‘After the embryo transfer we suggest that you conduct your life in a routine manner.’ And ended with the request that, ‘You will kindly get in touch with us when you know the outcome of this attempt, whether successful or otherwise.’ ‘Try and stop me,’ she muttered to herself.

  She would often silently rehearse the phone call she would have to make to the clinic: ‘Oh hello, this is Mrs Evans. I just thought you’d like to know that I’m pregnant . . . Yes, it is good news, isn’t it? We’re thrilled . . . oh, about July the fourteenth or fifteenth they think – a summer baby . . . Well, thank you, that’s very kind of you . . . yes, of course, I’d love to . . . the day after tomorrow? Yes, that’s fine, I’ll see you then.’

  She never stopped to wonder why it was always Anthony Northfield she saw herself talking to, or considered it odd that in her fantasy he should ask her to come back to the clinic for a special check-up. In reality it had been made quite clear to her that if the attempt at pregnancy should prove successful, it would be up to her GP to find an obstetrician to look after her and deliver her, and that her relationship with the clinic would be satisfactorily closed.

  There were just under twelve days to go before she could expect the physical evidence that would send her hopes crashing, or the lack of it that would allow a trip to the Pathology Lab for an early blood test and the unimaginable joy of a positive result. Although she knew it was far too soon, she found herself once again checking the gusset of her underwear for signs of blood each time she went to the lavatory, and gazing earnestly down at her nipples in the bath for evidence of swelling. At least now she felt there was more justification for the repetitive searching and checking; no one could deny her the knowledge that inside her was an embryo, and that the possibility of its growing and developing was real. She didn’t like to think that it might already have died and shrivelled and been expelled from her body, unacknowledged and unmourned – only in her nightmares did she sometimes see a tiny white body with lifeless webbed hands, eyes open and clouded like a dead fish, slithering helplessly from between her legs in a smear of water and blood. She would wake from such dreams sweating and frightened, not wanting to confront them for fear of making them too real to tolerate, and instead shaking Michael awake and asking him to fetch her tea.

  Juliet already sensed in him a newly cherishing attitude towards her, a metaphorical arm on her elbow permanently guiding and guarding her, which, instead of making her feel nurtured, tended to verge on the edge of patronage. When she caught him looking at her anxiously as she got up from a chair or ran down the stairs, it irritated her – as if his premature assumption of the need for any special treatment was tempting fate. I’m probably exactly the same as I ever was! she screamed at him in her head. Don’t look at me like that! I can’t bear it! We don’t know yet, we don’t know!

  But she never said such things, merely looked away from him and came out with one of her brisk, practical remarks which just added to his concern and made him treat her more carefully and gently than ever, which in turn annoyed her more.

  Juliet had got into the habit of dropping in on Harriet on the way home from work. She told Michael that she needed a buffer between office and home, and that a half hour or so of her friend’s chatter relaxed her and took her mind off the self-analysis that was dominating her thoughts. In fact the real reason was more to do with the shops that, by making a slight detour, she could pass on the short walk from the office in Sloane Square to Harriet’s flat in Pimlico. Several of them had become magnets: Boots, where she could stand for several minutes gazing at boxes of Farley’s Rusks and packets of disposable nappies; the small newsagent’s opposite, where she couldn’t resist a quick glance through Mother and Baby or Parents; the Early Learning Centre – tiny chairs and wooden toys; even Gap had become a place of pilgrimage, thanks to the soft and simply designed tracksuits which she remembered Harriet wearing through both her pregnancies. Juliet would stand looking at the choice of colours, seeing her own swelling belly instead of Harriet’s pushing out the fabric and stretching the waistband, picturing herself in aquamarine one day, navy blue the next, but always smiling and always enormous; Mother Earth in pure cotton.

  ‘Darling, you’re doing too much – you must both come and have dinner, I insist.’ Her mother’s voice on the telephone was concerned and understanding; a little too much so for comfort.

  ‘Mother, it’s very kind of you, but I’ve got so behind with work I really daren’t spend an evening out this week—’

  ‘Nonsense! You’ve got to put yourself first now you know, not just for your sake, but for the baby’s. It’s good for you to relax occasionally. You’re being very foolish if you don’t do everything you possibly can at this stage – you know how you’ll feel later if anything goes wrong.’

  ‘Mother, you don’t understand, they told me at the clinic it makes absolutely no difference if I—’

  ‘Don’t be so foolish, Juliet. Why do you think there’s so much of this unnatural birth business nowadays? You know how I feel about it, it’s obviously not right to be working when you’re trying for a baby. When I got married, I—’

  ‘Yes, yes, Mother, I know.’

  Juliet couldn’t face hearing her mother’s views on working women yet again: in her day women gave up work when they got married; in her day they were satisfied to look after their husbands and homes and bring up children; in her day you didn’t talk so much about sex and all its problems; in her day babies were conceived ‘normally’ as she called it. Juliet knew the list by heart. From the way her mother talked it would be reasonable to infer that her marriage had been happy and her only daughter a loved and well-balanced child; the reality had been drastically different, and Juliet’s memories of the miserable period of anorexia were not the only traumatic ones. Her father had always been quiet – a lifetime of successful work in the Civil Service had taught him to be adept at keeping his head well down, avoiding confrontation and staying silent rather than risking a remark that might in future be quoted back at him – but even before Juliet’s nervous problems began to manifest themselves he had retired still deeper into his shell. Taking the line of least resistance, he would leave matters of discipline to his wife, who was only too happy to take on the rôle of guiding her daughter on to the path she saw as correct. The unhappy girl had longed for a firm hand from him, and missed, more than he ever realised, the physical displays of affection, and even of anger, that she saw in the fathers of her friends. She had sensed, too, the deep misery underlying the apparent contentment of the marriage and was far more aware of the resentm
ent masked by the civilised exchanges between the two parents than either of them appreciated.

  ‘You know it’s only because I care about you, darling.’

  ‘I know, Mother. It’s very kind of you, we’d love to have dinner.’

  Why had she given in? Why did her mother always manage to make her feel guilty enough to do things her way? It was all too like her childhood and Juliet could feel uneasiness growing inside her like a cancer.

  ‘Thursday?’

  ‘Lovely!’

  Liar.

  ‘Mr Evans? It’s Detective Inspector Graham speaking. I’m sorry to trouble you at home in the evening, but I thought it better not to contact you at work. I’ve had a call from Miss Watkins. Now, I don’t know how you’ll feel about this, but she seems rather anxious to make contact with you again.’

  ‘Oh, does she? Is she all—’

  ‘I think she feels she behaved rather badly when you met at her flat.’

  ‘Oh, poor thing, poor thing. She doesn’t need to feel anything like that at all. I understand. My God, I should do.’

  ‘She’s very anxious to make amends, as it were, and if you did feel you could spare a little time to—’

  ‘Of course, of course.’

  ‘I think anything that helps her stay calm can only be a good thing, if you see what I mean.’

  ‘What shall I do? I mean shall I go to her flat again or what?’

  ‘I think that’d be the best, Mr Evans, yes, if you don’t mind. She naturally doesn’t want to move from home at all, in case there’s any kind of news, as you can imagine.’

  ‘Is there any? Is there anything else? I spoke to one of your men this morning, but he didn’t seem to think—’

  ‘No, I’m afraid there’s not really anything concrete since I last spoke to you, although I do have a couple of sighting reports which may prove interesting. They tend to confirm that it is indeed Mrs Evans that we are looking for in connection with the missing child.’