She's Having Her Baby

by Lauren Sams

  My phone, sitting on my lap, beeped. A message from Ellie.

  Lucas’s first attempt at toilet training. Oops! He missed. Better luck next time! PS He really loves those farmer’s market flash cards you gave him – he keeps asking me for a ‘pommy-gwanit’!

  I rolled my eyes and turned back to the team, who were talking over each other, the way they do when they are excited and ready to work. Finally, Lucy spoke up.

  ‘Yeah, there are lots of things we should be doing. Charm is a good example, because they’ve done it for a long time.’ She paused, surveying the room. ‘It’s the little details that they always get right. Like, they’ve got icons at the end of all their stories for sharing them on social media. They’ve had so many things go viral that way. And all their writers have their Twitter handles in their bylines, so you can follow them personally. Plus, there’s no division between the digital and editorial teams there – everyone works together and you can see how successful it is.’

  ‘Yep, absolutely,’ said Dom. ‘Their beauty pages are totally interactive as well. You can put so much extra info in with the iPad.’

  I nodded, but my head was drowning in terms I knew but couldn’t use properly in a sentence. How the bloody hell would we make Jolie go viral? If it had anything to do with videos of cats, I figured I may as well just quit right now.

  ‘Um, guys, this is great. Thank you for your enthusiasm. Like always, though, we don’t have a huge amount of money, so this is something that’ll be done in-house.’

  It was a euphemism that basically translated to ‘you’ll be doing all of this, for free’.

  I wanted to explain to them that it wasn’t my fault, that it was a business decision I couldn’t help. I wanted to tell these passionate, smart women what I suspected was really going on: that if we didn’t get it together we would all be gone before you could say ‘voluntary redundancy’. Instead, I took the coward’s way out and stood up, indicating that the meeting was over.

  ‘Any questions, come see me,’ I said, and slinked back into my office, shutting the door behind me.

  Minutes later, Lucy opened it.

  ‘George,’ she said as she sat. ‘We need to talk about this digital stuff. I know it’s not your … your focus, but we need to do more than just click-to-buy. And these smokey-eye videos with that girl. That stuff is old.’ She paused and – perhaps I was imagining this – sniggered. Just a touch. So quietly and quickly that it was close to imperceptible.

  ‘Fair enough,’ I said.

  Lucy was right. Even I knew about click-to-buy, and by this stage it was blindingly clear I knew nothing about the digital world.

  ‘Don’t you think we need to know what the next thing is?’ she asked, not unlike the way Ellie might ask Lucas if he didn’t think it was time to put his nappy on after being bare-bottomed for an hour. ‘We can’t just copy everyone else. We need to look further ahead than that.’

  I felt myself blinking for a second too long. ‘Well … what do you propose, Lucy?’

  She shrugged. ‘I have a few ideas. Like the social media issue. We really need to show our readers that we know this stuff. We can’t be left behind. Please, George, it’s important.’

  I nodded. ‘Right, right. Let’s have a meeting soon.’ I went back to my emails, wanting the conversation to be over. ‘Anyway, let’s hope we can understand what the hell all this digital stuff is, right?’

  Lucy cast her glance sideways, then looked back at me. ‘Uh, I already do, George.’

  I looked up. ‘Really?’

  She nodded. ‘Yeah. That’s what I’m doing my Master’s in, remember? Digital cultures. And, you know … I live in the world. In 2015.’

  Bells rang. Faintly condescending bells.

  ‘Well that’s amazing.’ I felt a rush of relief. Lucy could help me. Lucy knew stuff about … things. She would know what to do. ‘Let’s have a meeting and talk about all of this, OK?’

  Lucy nodded, more slowly this time. ‘There’s a lot of work to do here, George. We’re starting with rubble. And everyone else has their buildings pretty much finished, you know what I mean?’

  ‘Yeah, I know. But Meg is really behind this and I’m sure we can get the resources we need,’ I said, lying and hoping Lucy wasn’t smart enough to figure it out.

  ‘OK. I’ll send you a meeting request.’

  As she left, I let myself fall into my chair and close my eyes. How had this happened? How had everything become so truly, deeply, royally fucked? Lucy shouldn’t be telling me how to do my job. I shouldn’t be relying on her to get me out of this mess. And they were the very, very, very least of my problems.

  *

  ‘Let’s start with the good news,’ Dr Fisher had said. Her face was completely expressionless, which wasn’t unusual for her. But I had interviewed enough celebrities who lied about how involved they were in writing their autobiographies or creating their fashion lines to know that something was up. ‘As you know, Nina’s eggs reacted very well to the fertilisation process. The sperm injected very well.’

  ‘Yes,’ I said, allowing a smile. ‘That’s good.’

  The IVF had gone well. That was the good news. Which meant that there was bad news. Immediately, my mind bounced to the worst possible outcome. I was dying, wasn’t I?

  ‘Do I have … a problem?’

  When Dr Fisher had screened me as a candidate, she’d been positive that I was an excellent choice for surrogacy. She’d gone so far as to say that I had a ‘beautiful cervix’. Now there’s something you don’t hear every lifetime.

  Dr Fisher raised an eyebrow. ‘Well … it depends on how you look at it.’ She paused for a little too long and suddenly all I could hear was ‘brain cancer’ and ‘inoperable tumour’ on repeat in my mind. In less than a second I was imagining my funeral and all the people who’d be there, and weirdly wondering what would happen at Jolie without me and whether Jase would be sad.

  ‘Georgie, you’re pregnant.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘You are already pregnant.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I know it’s a lot to digest.’

  ‘No, no –’ Meatlovers pizza is a lot to digest. This is … wait, what is she even talking about? She’d said it hadn’t worked. It didn’t make any sense. ‘Wait, what? We only just did it. How do you know already?’

  She paused, taking a breath and staring at me steadily. ‘Georgie. I’m telling you that you are already pregnant.’

  I stared back.

  ‘We didn’t complete the implantation. When we did the blood test this morning, we noticed that your oestrogen levels were very, very high. Your HCG levels indiated you are already pregnant. So Nina’s eggs are safe.’

  Nina’s eggs are safe? NINA’S EGGS ARE SAFE? What about MY eggs? My eggs, which have apparently been colonised!

  ‘I don’t … how …? You didn’t even do the transfer?’

  Dr Fisher shook her head, smiling gently.

  ‘No. We can’t perform an embryo transfer if you’re already pregnant.’

  I cocked my head to the side a little, as if all that was separating me from understanding all of this was a slight angle change. ‘I just … it doesn’t …’

  ‘Georgie, you’re pregnant.’ She paused. ‘Do you see where I’m going with this?’

  I wondered what Dr Fisher was like outside of her office. Was she always so matter-of-fact and even-keeled? Did she always deliver news like she was showing a student the best-practice way to do it, without any emotion or nuance? ‘Excuse me, Mr Fisher,’ I imagined her saying to her husband. ‘Our dog has passed away. Here are our options for internment.’

  I forced myself back to the moment. Did I see where she was going with this? Did I see … oh fuck. Ohhhhh fuck.

  Lateline.

  I was pregnant and it was Lateline’s fault.

  12

  Week 17

  The brilliant thing about having a recently converted earth mother for an erstwhile best friend is
that she barely reacts when you turn up on her doorstep at 3.30 pm on a Tuesday afternoon, looking for all the world like you just lost your best friend, because, well, you really just did.

  I’d gone to Ellie’s because I had nowhere else to go. Well – that wasn’t strictly true. I could have gone to Mum’s, but then I’d have to tell her about the … the Situation, and I wasn’t ready for that. Not then, possibly not ever.

  I couldn’t go back to Nina and Matt’s. That was certain.

  I definitely was not welcome at Jason’s. Also, he didn’t even know about The Situation. I had frequently briefly wondered how he would react, before reminding myself that it was an entirely redundant musing. It was going to be a non-Situation soon.

  ‘Come in,’ she’d said, without so much as asking what the hell had happened. I suddenly remembered why we were friends and felt a rush of gratitude and promised I’d be nicer to El.

  But I couldn’t move. I stood there on Ellie and Simon’s porch, rooted to the ground. I’d made it this far; that was enough. I couldn’t go any further.

  So Ellie stepped out, for once ignoring Lucas as he called out to her to turn The Wiggles on, and hugged me close.

  ‘Come on,’ she’d said quietly. ‘Come on. We’ll sort it out. Whatever it is, we’ll sort it out.’

  Seventeen thousand cups of tea and a week later, we still hadn’t.

  Lucas tore through the house on his new scooter, ignoring Ellie’s pleas to slow down.

  ‘Ugh, he just doesn’t listen sometimes.’ Ellie ran her hands through her hair and smiled ruefully. ‘Want a cup of tea?’

  ‘Yes, please. Do you have peppermint?’

  ‘No, sorry, we’re out. But I have this fertility tea that women in Nairobi have been using for centuries – I drank it when I was preggy with Lucas. It tastes like dirt but it’s really good for the baby. Want to try that?’

  I raised an eyebrow. ‘Really? Is there a third-world infertility crisis I’m unaware of?’

  Ellie shrugged. ‘Don’t be so cynical, George. It’s good for you. There’s a superfood in it. Do you want it or not?’

  ‘Well, apparently I don’t really have a problem with fertility. But yeah, what the hell.’

  ‘Here it is,’ said Ellie, producing a glamorously packaged cube containing – I assumed – the famous and magical tea. The price sticker was still attached – $37.99.

  ‘Fucking hell, Ellie, you paid $40 for tea?’

  ‘George! Swearing!’ Ellie brought a finger swiftly to her lips, but it was too late.

  ‘Fuck, fuck, fuck!’ Lucas pronounced gleefully, scooting past us again. I stifled a laugh for Ellie’s sake.

  ‘Sorry, El. Lucas, Aunty George said a bad word. You mustn’t ever say that again. It’s very naughty,’ I said, with as much authority as I could muster.

  ‘Fuck! Fuckfuckfuck! Fuck. Fuck. Fuck!’ Great. I had given Lucas Tourette’s. As he ran around the living room shouting ‘fuck!’ Ellie glared at me with gritted teeth.

  ‘Thanks, Aunty Georgie,’ she said, rolling her eyes theatrically.

  ‘Sorry, El,’ I said, cringing. Jesus, being a parent was so hard. At no other point in your life is there so much to swear about, and you’re not even allowed to. Could the baby hear me swear right now? What if its first word was “fuck” or “piss” or “bitch”? God, there was so much pressure in this situation. Non-Situation, non-Situation, I reminded myself.

  ‘Oh, it’s alright. You just have to really mind what you say around him now. He’s a sponge. Last week he told Simon to ‘hurry the fuck up’ because he’d heard me say it in the car.’

  Do not laugh. Not funny. Not cute. Do not laugh.

  ‘Oh my god. What did Simon say?’

  Ellie rolled her eyes. ‘Well, he laughed, didn’t he? So now Lucas thinks it’s a hoot to say it over and over. Anyway, do you want some of that tea? Or I have chamomile.’

  ‘Chamomile, please.’

  ‘So how are you feeling?’

  ‘Actually, I feel OK. I think I’m all dried up, crying-wise.’

  ‘That’s good,’ said Ellie, placing a mug full of steaming tea next to me. It read: ‘If it fits inside a toaster, I can cook it’. Ellie had schtick like this all over her house, but the ironic thing was that she was actually Suzy Freaking Homemaker. She fussed over Lucas’s meals with the dedication of a hatted chef. I’d overheard her chastise Simon for telling their neighbour they’d had organic shepherd’s pie on a Monday. ‘Don’t tell people that! It’s Meatless Monday!’ she’d whispered venomously, as if Stella McCartney herself was listening in. In the same breath, though, she’d also brag about how slovenly her and Simon’s diets were, how she survived on Lucas’s discarded (organic!) apple cores and a thousand soy lattes a day. I seemed to be the only one who thought this sort of ‘self-sacrifice’ was a) not worth it, and b) complete bullshit.

  ‘Have you talked to Nina yet? Or Jase?’

  I shook my head and stared at my tea.

  ‘Well, you have to. You can stay here as long as you like, George, but you have to face this like an adult. You’re pregnant. You have to deal with it.’

  Obviously Ellie was right, but I honestly had no idea what to do. I’d lost my boyfriend and my best friend, and I was faced with a decision I had never wanted to face.

  ‘I’m so sorry, Nina,’ I’d said when Dr Fisher had finished explaining the situation to her. Apparently when they’d tested me before the drugs my pregnancy hormones had been so low that it hadn’t even registered. I’d had my period, too – well, not exactly my period, we now knew. Spotting. Common in the early stages of pregnancy. But at the time they’d thought I was ovulating, I was already sixteen weeks in. Looking back, there were only about a billion signs that I missed. Pimplepalooza all over my face, for starters. My worse-than-usual cravings for what restaurant critics had lately decided to call ‘dude food’, but had heretofore been known to me as ‘edible fried things’.

  Nina hadn’t said anything. This was far, far worse than if she’d cried or yelled at me. It was as if she wasn’t really there with us, like she hadn’t heard. She didn’t even flinch. This was just another in a very long line of disappointments.

  ‘Nina?’

  She shook her head and stood up.

  ‘Thanks anyway,’ she said, and walked out of the room.

  I’d taken the bus to Ellie’s. Because … well, what else was there to do?

  *

  ‘Remind me again why we’re watching this show. It’s so depressing.’

  ‘Everything on TV these days is depressing,’ Ellie said. ‘This is just ever so slightly more depressing.’

  Not true. This show, which was about a lovely, if a little put-upon guy, who becomes a meth dealer and drug kingpin and actual killer – was super-depressing. ‘Can’t we watch The Golden Girls or something?’

  ‘Sure, I don’t care. I think it’s on one of these channels, actually.’ Ellie started flicking through the TV guide on-screen, trying to find Dorothy and co.

  ‘What time will Simon be home?’ I asked.

  ‘Around eight,’ she said.

  I nodded, trying to think of more conversation. The best way, I had found, to distract yourself from awful decisions you had to make was by talking about anything and everything, all day long. Once Lucas had – thankfully – gone to bed, the house became museum-quiet. I tried to find ways to fill the silences so I wouldn’t get too caught up in my own head.

  Unfortunately, Ellie was all about getting into my head.

  ‘Do you remember the time Nina shut down that awful date you went on?’ she asked, setting the DVR to record the next episode of The Golden Girls and switching on the over-thirties music channel (Lame FM, I believe it’s called).

  ‘You’ll have to be more specific.’

  Ellie shook her head. ‘The weird guy you worked with. Threesome guy. Remember?’

  ‘Oh. Um … yeah. I remember.’ Actually, the details were fuzzy. If Nina were here, she would describe the ev
ent in detail. I’d never had to remember things because Nina knew it all for me. She was my memory hard drive, my back-up. When I was missing the blanks, Nina filled them in for me.

  ‘And wasn’t it the first time you saw Matt and Nina together?’

  ‘Yeah, you’re right. It was.’

  ‘What was his name again?’

  ‘The creep? Robin. Ugh. He was such a creep. Radiohead wrote a song about him, he’s so creepy.’

  Now I remembered. Nina had gone on Contiki – please, try not to judge her – with some money her mum had left her. I’d missed her like vodka needs soda but I’d understood that she needed to get away and do her own thing. Even if her own thing was riding on a bus around European tourist traps with forty sweaty Australians.

  While Nina was drinking steins and taking cheesy photos at the Leaning Tower of Pisa, I was trying desperately to get a job in magazines. I’d mistakenly interviewed for a job in publishing, which I had thought would be a good way to get into magazines until it was too late and I got the job, by which point I was too poor to turn it down. And that’s where I’d met Robin. It was an odd name for a boy, no? Like Lindsay or Gill or Benedict Cumberbatch. I definitely should have taken that into consideration. Robin was creepy by name, creepier by nature. I was a junior assistant (with a rather marked emphasis on ‘junior’) and Robin was a marginally less junior assistant who liked to pretend he was more like the CEO. Not that we had a CEO, because it was barely a company, just the roughshod Australian outpost of a flailing American press. Fitzwilliam Fallow had once published – literally, once – the first novel of a noted African-American writer, but it hadn’t lived up to that glory in the intervening years.

  Robin had seemed cool at first. He wore boat shoes (I only knew what they were called because I had read it in Jolie, which I was obsessed with even back then). He read books. Not airport novels or required reading like most of the guys I had been interested in before him. Robin read good books, the kind a snob like me loved and was inordinately impressed by. He lived in a share house with older people – people in their late twenties, who, at the time, seemed incredibly grown-up. They had real jobs and relationships and even pets. They kept their spaghetti in a tall jar on the kitchen bench. They had a French coffee press. They were more like my parents than me.