Her jaw was tense with purpose as she rescued this morning’s paper from the top of the pile in the recycle bin. She crossed to the kitchen table and spread the paper wide, thumbing through until she found the classifieds section. She stared at the columns of small print, aware of her heart beating a determined tattoo against her rib cage. Then she ran her finger down the page until she found the Male Seeks Female section and began to read.
After a few minutes she grabbed a pen from the caddy on her kitchen counter and started to circle the likely suspects.
Male, mid-forties, good sense of humor, professional, seeks woman in mid-to late-thirties, attractive, good sense of humor. Enjoys movies, hiking, reading biographies…
Man, 30s, seeks woman for potential relationship. Should enjoy outdoor sports and overseas travel…
Successful professional male seeks mature, attractive woman no older than 40 with strong sense of self and independence. You should enjoy dining out, weekends away and the theater…
By the time she’d finished she had a list of eight possible prospects. Response was via email so she hauled out her laptop and fired it up. There was no reason she couldn’t send the same response to all eight men. Coming up with that response, however, that might take some time.
She called up a document program on her computer and sat with her fingers hovering over the keyboard. How to best describe herself? She needed to sound appealing but not desperate. She’d never considered herself a great beauty—her jaw-length dark hair was thick and healthy but nothing spectacular, and her mouth was too wide and her eyes too large for conventional standards—but she was attractive enough and Jacob had always said that he loved her plush mouth and full breasts. But she could hardly put that in an ad. She typed a few lines, then immediately deleted them. How to get the essence of herself across in a few short paragraphs? How to cut through all the other responses these men might receive and stand out from the pack? Because the more men she met, the higher the chance of finding someone compatible and the sooner she could sound him out on the subject of children.
She jotted down some sums in the margin of the newspaper. Say it took her six months to find someone. Then another, say, four months before she felt comfortable broaching the subject of children with him. Or was four months too soon? It was hard to know.
Maybe she’d have to simply play it by ear, see what came up in conversation. But if the man was keen for a family, then they should probably wait another six months before attempting to get pregnant. Just to consolidate the relationship. In the meantime, she could talk to Dr. Ramsay about all the things she needed to do to be in tip-top condition to conceive—folate supplements and whatnot—so that she would be ready to go at the drop of a hat.
So adding the six-month search time to the four-month vetting period, then the six-month double-check time—
What are you doing? Can you hear yourself?
Alex stared at the figures. A formula for desperation—that was what she’d calculated. A formula for a woman who was terrified that she was going to miss out.
Was this what she really wanted? Did she really want a baby this much? Was motherhood so important to her that she was prepared to put it at the forefront of any potential connection she developed with a man?
She was no psychologist, but she didn’t need to be to understand that embarking on a relationship with someone while her biological clock ticked loudly in the background wasn’t exactly the ideal way to go.
But what choice did she have? It was this, or leave it to fate to throw the right man in her path before it was too late. And at the end of the day, she’d never believed in luck. She’d had to fight for every good thing that had ever come her way. Why should this be any different?
What she was planning wasn’t particularly pretty or dignified, but if it helped her reach her end goal, then so be it. Life, as she well knew, was often not pretty or dignified.
She stood and grabbed the scissors from the kitchen drawer then cut the relevant pages from the paper. She’d start a folder to keep track of the ads she’d responded to, in case she doubled up.
She was about to close the paper and return it to the recycle bin when her gaze caught on a small, neat ad in the bottom right-hand corner.
Sperm Donor Wanted
Our client is an independent woman with her own home and business. She has a wide support network and wishes to become a mother. She is seeking a donor with a clean bill of health and no family history of major illness. If you are a male between the ages of 18 and 45, you can help her attain her dream of motherhood by contacting Fertility Australasia at O2 9555 2801. Interstate donors welcome, travel payments available.
Alex stilled. For a moment there was not a single thought in her mind. Then she reached for the newspaper and read the ad again, and again.
A sperm bank.
It simply hadn’t occurred to her before.
She stared at the kitchen wall. Not five minutes ago she’d decided that she didn’t believe in luck and that she was prepared to fight for what she wanted, even if it smacked of desperation and meant loosening the tight grip she’d always held on her pride.
A sperm donor was a dead cert. There would be no equivocating or pussyfooting around worrying about compatibility if she went the route of sourcing frozen sperm, bought from a suitably qualified clinic. There would be no responding to want ads and waiting anxiously in coffee shops for her date to show up, no awkward first, second, third dates. She’d never have to judge when it was appropriate to sound out a man on whether he wanted children. She’d never have to worry about the relationship being based more on a biological imperative than mutual attraction and shared feeling.
It would be clean. Direct. Honest.
Best of all, it meant she was in control of her own destiny—as much as any person could be. Her body might not want to cooperate, of course, but at least she would have tried. Given it her best shot. Several best shots, depending on the costs.
She waited for her conscience to catch up with her, to sound a warning chime. But there was nothing.
This was not the way she’d wanted to have a child. She’d wanted to be one half of a couple, two people working together to bring new life into the world. A family.
But she was thirty-eight years old, staring down the barrel of her thirty-ninth birthday. She didn’t have the luxury of waiting for Mr. Right anymore. Not if she wanted to be a mother.
How much do you want this? Enough to do it alone?
She didn’t have to stretch her imagination to know what it would be like to have to cope with the pressures and stresses of raising a child on her own. She was all too familiar with the sense that there were not enough hours in the day, that she was utterly alone, with no help in sight, and that the only thing that stood between her mother and herself winding up on the street was her determination. She knew what it was like to live with the constant fear that there wouldn’t be enough food for tomorrow or that her mother would do something that would bring the wrath of social services down upon them.
She’d survived eight years of loving, nursing, corralling and policing her brain-injured mother after the accident. She could be a single parent. Absolutely she could.
She had money—more than enough to ensure she and her child would never want for anything. Years of obsessive saving had seen to that. She could easily afford to take a year off work, two years, even. She was resourceful and determined. And she wanted this. She wanted this with every fiber of her being.
Picking up the scissors, she sliced the ad neatly from the page.
ETHAN LEANED on the doorbell of his brother’s Blackburn home and waited. Sure enough, a small face appeared in the window beside the door, grinning like crazy.
“Uncle Ethan!”
“Hey, matey.”
There was the sound of fumbling from behind the door, then it was open and his eldest nephew, Jamie, was sticking out his tongue and making fake fart noises.
Ethan waited patiently for Jamie to
get it out of his system. He could only blame himself, after all, that the first thing his nephews did when they saw him was to break out the noisiest, wettest raspberry they could come up with. His sister-in-law, Kay, had warned Ethan when he’d started teasing the kids with raspberries.
“You’re making a rod for your own back, Uncle Ethan,” she’d said. “You know you’re going to be Uncle Raspberry for the next ten years, don’t you?”
She’d been spot on, but he figured there were worse things in the world.
Stepping over the threshold, he grabbed Jamie around the waist and tucked him under his arm.
“Now, where’s your mom and dad?” he asked as Jamie bellowed a delighted protest.
He hefted his nephew up the hallway to the kitchen where Kay was stacking dishes in the dishwasher. Her dark blond hair was pulled back in a tie and she was wearing her tailored work shirt over a pair of seen-better-days tracksuit pants.
“You just missed dinner. You should have called, I would have saved you some.”
“I’ve got stuff at home for dinner, but thanks anyway. I thought I’d drop in and see if Derek had finished with that boxed set of The Wire yet.”
“He’s finishing up some end-of-quarter figures for one of his clients in the study.” Kay wiped her hands on a tea towel and gave him an amused look. “Let me guess what’s on the menu tonight—wagyu beef, fresh green beans, potato dauphin, maybe some red wine jus. For dessert, vanilla semi-freddo with poached seasonal fruit.” She cocked her pinky finger in the air as though she was having high tea with the queen.
His love of good food and wine had always been a source of amusement for his family. He set Jamie on his feet.
“As a matter of fact, it’s chicken stir-fry. What did you guys have? Fish fingers? Mac and cheese? Beans on toast?” Two could play at that game, after all.
Kay laughed and threw the towel at him. “Walking a fine line there, buddy.”
“Uncle Ethan, come and see the new trick I can do on my bike,” Jamie said, tugging on his hand to drag him toward the door to the patio.
“Hold on there, mister. Didn’t I ask you to put on your jim-jams? It’s too cold and dark out there for you to show Uncle Ethan anything,” Kay said.
“But—”
Kay put her fingers in her ears. “Nope. Can’t hear it. We don’t have that word in this house.”
Jamie’s sigh was heavy with resignation. “All right. But you are one tough customer, lady.”
Kay and Ethan exchanged amused glances as Jamie slouched off to his room.
“Apparently I’m a tough customer,” Kay said. “And a lady.”
“Who would have thunk it? Where’s Tim?”
“In the bath. You can go wrangle him if you want.”
It wasn’t until he was helping his wriggling five-year-old nephew into his pajamas that Ethan understood why he’d come to his brother’s house instead of going home after racquetball. It had shaken him, hearing the longing and yearning in Alex’s voice tonight. Reminded him of his former life.
Because once, a long time ago, he’d wanted kids, too. He’d wanted to hold his sons or daughters in his arms. He’d wanted to dry them like this after the nightly bath. He’d wanted to teach them to read and kick a footy or ferry them to ballet classes. He’d wanted to guide them and help equip them with the skills they’d need to grapple with the challenges life would throw their way. He’d been so bloody certain that children would be a part of his life…
He smiled a little grimly. Alex would probably wet herself laughing if he told her that. She’d think he was being ironic or making fun of her. She didn’t know about his marriage. She only knew him as a guy in a slick suit with a fast car and a reputation for churning through women.
But then he didn’t know much about her, either, did he?
If anyone had told him that formidable, sharp, street-smart Alex Knight was even capable of breaking down the way she had tonight he’d have laughed. As for the surprising revelation that she wanted a child… He’d always thought of her as the consummate career lawyer, a woman who’d dedicated herself to the job and moving up the ladder.
Yet she’d cried tonight as though her heart was breaking because she was afraid that she’d missed the opportunity to have a family of her own. Again he felt the echo of old grief as he remembered the way she’d curled into herself, her shoulders hunched as she tried to contain her pain.
Tim’s pajama buttons were misaligned and Ethan fixed them. He didn’t let his newphew go immediately. Instead, he tightened his grip for a moment, hugging his nephew close, inhaling the good clean smell of him.
“Love you, little buddy, you know that, don’t you?” he said quietly.
“I know,” Tim said. Then he wriggled, a signal he was over the hug, and Ethan released him.
“What’s wrong with you tonight?” Tim asked, his big eyes unflinching as they studied Ethan.
“Nothing.” Ethan dredged up a smile and used a corner of the towel to flick his nephew on the leg. “Time to hit the sack, matey.”
“Are you going to read me my bedtime story?”
“I thought I was doing that tonight,” an aggrieved voice said from the doorway.
Ethan looked up to find his younger brother wearing a mock-hurt expression on his face. Shorter than Ethan, he had the same strong cheekbones and dark hair but a slightly bigger nose and paler blue eyes. Just enough ugly to save me from being a pretty boy like you, Derek always joked.
“You can do it any old time,” Tim said airily.
“Nice to know I’m so easily replaced,” Derek said drily.
“I’m not replacing you, stupid, you’re my daddy,” Tim said, as if that explained everything.
“What brings you to this neck of the woods?” Derek asked.
“Just in the neighborhood,” Ethan said.
“What’s with the Bjorn Borg outfit?”
Ethan glanced down at his black midthigh-length shorts and charcoal hoody and raised an eyebrow at his brother’s derisive description. “Racquetball.”
“Ah. Still playing with that guy from work? Adam or whatever?”
“Alex. And he’s a she.”
“Really?” Derek’s expression turned speculative.
Ethan stood, shaking out the towel before arranging it over the rack. “You’re like a hairy, much less attractive version of Hello, Dolly, you know that?”
“What’s she like?”
Ethan rolled his eyes. “I’m not in the market. And even if I was, she’s a partner. And a friend.”
“So you’re seeing someone else? When can we meet her?” Derek asked.
For a moment Ethan considered lying, simply to get his brother off his back. “The tap’s leaking on the tub, by the way.”
“No shit. We could do dinner, the four of us. It’s been a while since Kay and I ate somewhere where they don’t have cartoons on the menu.”
“I’m not seeing anyone. I’m just not in the market.”
“Still racking up the notches on the old bedpost. What a challenge.” His brother’s tone was flat, unimpressed.
“Not everyone can have the white-picket dream, mate.”
Ethan had deliberately kept the uglier details of his divorce from his family, figuring there was no need for the world to know exactly how spectacularly his marriage had failed. The downside to that bit of self-preservation was these little pep talks his brother pushed on him periodically. Just as there was nothing worse than an ex-smoker, there was no one more pro-kids and pro-matrimony than a happily married man.
Even though he’d never admit it to his brother, Ethan’s social life was a lot less hectic than anyone imagined. Sleeping around had gotten old quickly after the divorce. Like drinking till you passed out and bragging about your exploits, being a man-slut was apparently something that a guy grew out of. Go figure. “You seen The Girls Next Door lately? Hugh’s looking pretty tragic, shuffling around in that smoking jacket,” Derek said.
“Will
you let it go, Derek?” Ethan said, an edge in his voice.
Most of the time he didn’t mind his brother’s old-lady nagging, but tonight…tonight it was really getting up his nose.
“Just trying to save you from yourself.”
“Yeah? Ever thought that maybe I don’t need saving?”
“Nope.”
Ethan turned his back on his brother and walked to the living room. If he stayed, they were going to wind up in an argument. Derek had good intentions, but he needed to let go of the idea that Ethan was going to meet a good woman and marry again. It was never going to happen. Ever.
Kay looked up from tidying the coffee table when he entered.
“Better get home to my wagyu,” Ethan said. “What time’s Jamie’s party again?”
“Midday. It’s on the invitation. You don’t want a coffee?”
He forced a smile. “I’m good. Got to go home and poach that seasonal fruit, remember?”
He blew her a kiss as he headed for the door.
ALEX WOKE with a thump of dread. Something terrible had happened…
Then it all came back to her. Jacob, the doctor, the singles pages, the fertility clinic ad.
She lay in bed for a moment, thinking about the decision she’d made last night, walking around it, examining it from all sides, prodding it, seeing if she still felt the same way in the cold, hard light of a new day.
The answer was yes. She still wanted a child. And her smartest, most guaranteed, no-muss, no-fuss way of getting one was through a sperm bank. Which meant she had some work to do.
Ever since she could remember she’d been a facts-and-figures person. It was one of the reasons she’d opted for corporate law rather than criminal or family. She liked detail, and research, and she excelled at pulling together all the relevant information to make rational, smart decisions then going over and over and over the fine print until she’d plugged every hole, taken advantage of every opportunity.
The Best Laid Plans Page 3