Love Nest

by Julia Llewellyn

‘But what will we live on?’

  Phil made a sheeshing sound. ‘Stop worrying about that. We’ll be OK. I can’t believe this house came to us. It must be something cosmic. Giving us a second chance.’ He placed his hand on her bottom, their shorthand for ‘How about it?’ Karen winced. Only six bloody hours until morning; how could he not crave sleep in the way that she did? But then, like most men, Phil’s need for sex had always been pretty feral – she’d known he’d been really sick when he hadn’t wanted it, and as soon as he was better it had shot straight back to the top of the agenda.

  ‘Darling, do we have to?’ she said. ‘I’ve got that headache again.’

  ‘I’m getting worried about you and your headaches,’ Phil said crossly. ‘I think you should see the doctor.’

  That was another problem with having a husband who’d knocked at death’s door, you couldn’t invent symptoms to get you off nookie duty. Not without being eaten by guilt.

  ‘If I get any more, I will,’ she lied miserably, as his hand slid along her thigh.

  In the Parenthope Clinic’s plush waiting room, the only sound was the purr of the credit card machine from the lobby. Alex frowned over a thick brief. Gemma attempted to read a magazine, but she couldn’t concentrate. She felt as if a drawer had been pulled out of her stomach. Where the hell was Bridget? How could she do this to them on today of all days? All right, it was only ten minutes, but suppose Dervla saw this as a sign of not being committed and declared them unfit for parenthood?

  Dervla was their counsellor. She was in her forties, skinny, dark and mesmerizingly well dressed. Just a glance confirmed that she was the kind of woman whose soufflés always rose and who had views on contemporary art. She would also be a Pilates devotee. Gemma had found it hard to concentrate during their session with her, wondering if her dress could really be Marni and if so what could her husband do – there couldn’t be that much money in counselling, surely? Then she’d found it hard to focus because she’d been worrying that entertaining such shallow thoughts instead of focusing on your unborn child’s welfare might lead to instant expulsion from the clinic.

  Still, she’d taken in something. Dervla had made them discuss their expectations of parenthood, what role they expected Bridget to play in Chudney’s life, how and when they’d tell the child everything about its origins. (‘When Chudney’s two weeks old and then we might fail to refresh its memory,’ Alex had joked on the way home and Gemma had cried, ‘Al! You know we must never hide anything from our child.’)

  They’d discussed how they must be prepared for disappointment every step of the way, how even if Bridget’s eggs were good enough quality, there was still only around a thirty-five per cent chance that the embryos formed from them would attach to Gemma’s womb. They’d talked about how, with Bridget’s permission, they would like any extra eggs produced to be frozen in order to give them a chance at having a second child.

  Alex moaned that the counselling was all a formality and the clinic would pass any couple who could find the money and weren’t obvious child abusers. Gemma disagreed; she was sure they’d be failed but it seemed her husband was right because Dervla had approved them and – more miraculously – approved Bridget. Now they were all back for their final session together.

  ‘Stop tapping your feet,’ Alex said in the soft voice people always use in waiting rooms.

  ‘Sorry.’ Gemma picked up a copy of OK! and flicked through it, while subtly eyeing the beaming couple sitting on the leather sofa. They were holding hands and occasionally exchanging soft words. Making eye contact was the worst possible faux pas in this situation, but Gemma was sure she could spot just the tiniest bump under the woman’s purple shift dress. Cow. The woman was old – well, not old, but over forty, and she’d obviously hit the jackpot. Why was Gemma such a freak to be still in her baby-making prime but unable to produce?

  ‘Sorry! Sorry!’ boomed Bridget on the threshold.

  ‘Hi,’ Gemma said. She wanted to snap: ‘Why are you late?’ but she bit her tongue and instead said, ‘You look great.’ And Bridget did. Her hair was shiny and swingy, she’d definitely lost weight, and she’d dressed far, far more elegantly than usual in black trousers and a grey cardigan that Gemma was amazed to find she coveted.

  ‘Thanks for making the effort,’ she smiled.

  ‘Oh, it’s not for you,’ Bridget giggled, as the forty-something pregnant couple pretended not to listen. ‘It’s for the barrister.’

  ‘The who?’ For a confused second Gemma thought her sister was trying to please Alex. She was touched.

  ‘The barrister, remember. The guy I sent a Valentine to. It worked! We’re an item. Hardly been out of bed since.’

  Now the forty-somethings couldn’t disguise their fascination.

  ‘Did you tell reception you were here?’ Gemma asked hastily. ‘Because we are a little late.’

  ‘Yeah, sorry about that. I couldn’t find my keys. I was locked in the house. Too many Es when I was in Kerala last, they’ve obviously killed my memory. Or maybe just too much sex.’ The forty-somethings’ jaws were dropping. Gemma tensed, expecting her husband to explode. He loathed her sister’s cheerful references to drugs. ‘Doesn’t she realize they’re at the root of all the evils in the world?’ he’d rant. ‘Doesn’t she care that the fair-trade peasants she claims to support are having their lives devastated by the coca trade?’ But this time he merely smiled serenely. Good man.

  Bridget gestured to the door.

  ‘Anyway, I’m here now. So shall we?’

  Dervla was sitting in an armchair by the large sash window. She was wearing a sheath dress – possibly Jil Sander, Gemma thought, as she took her place in a leather armchair and accepted a cup of camomile tea.

  Dervla sat back and smiled like Blofeld might before lowering James Bond into a shark pool.

  ‘So. Bridget has made you an incredibly generous offer. You must be thrilled. Alex?’

  Startled to be put so suddenly in the spotlight, Alex cleared his throat.

  ‘Um, yeah. Yeah, of course. Knowing the baby will be genetically as close as possible to Gemma is obviously a great help.’

  ‘How do you feel about fathering what is in essence going to be your wife’s sister’s child?’

  ‘I prefer not to think of it that way,’ Alex said, looking distinctly put out. ‘After all, Gemma is going to carry the baby and give birth to it and…’

  ‘And breastfeed it,’ Gemma interrupted. ‘And change its nappies.’ She couldn’t wait. Couldn’t understand people who told her it might not be all it was cracked up to be, that babies could be boring and hard work. Ungrateful sods. They didn’t deserve children.

  ‘But you will both always have to live with the knowledge that biologically Bridget is the child’s mother. And the child will know that, we hope, since we advise you in the strongest possible terms to be open with them from day one about their origins.’

  ‘From day one?’ Bridget chortled. ‘Can you imagine? Baby: “Scream, scream, fill my pants.” Gemma: “Oh darling, I can’t be doing with all this. But it doesn’t matter because I’m not really your mummy, that’ll be auntie Bridget.” Yes, I can see the baby really caring about that.’

  ‘Bridge!’

  ‘I apologize if I didn’t express myself accurately enough,’ said Dervla. ‘What I meant was that as soon as the child can communicate it must be explained to them that they are not biologically the mother’s, but they were very much wanted and loved.’

  They all nodded gravely.

  ‘Now something we need to discuss,’ Dervla continued. ‘Money. You are all aware, I take it, that the Human Fertility and Embryology Authority emphatically forbids payment to donors. Although expenses can be covered. And the interpretation of expenses can be somewhat liberal.’ She gave an unnerving Sarah Palin wink.

  ‘That’s all right,’ Bridget said. ‘I wouldn’t want Alex’s ill-gotten gains anyway.’

  ‘My ill-gotten gains?’

  ‘Yeah. Y
ou know. Prosecuting the innocent. Defending the guilty.’

  ‘Everyone is innocent until proven guilty,’ Alex sighed. ‘My job is to help the jury make up their mind.’

  ‘Yeah, right.’

  ‘Well, what alternative do you suggest?’ Alex said, still icily polite. ‘Letting rapists and murderers walk the streets? Or would you have everyone accused of committing a crime thrown in jail?’

  ‘It’s a fascist system.’

  ‘What a brilliantly sophisticated argument, Bridget. Do you have any idea about the definition, or indeed, the origins of fascism?’

  ‘Please!’ barked Dervla. They all froze. ‘We’re not here to discuss the merits of the criminal justice system – though for what it’s worth there is clearly still a disproportionately small number of black lawyers – we’re here to discuss payment. To underline the fact that it’s not acceptable. That the motives for donation must be entirely altruistic.’

  ‘We already talked about this,’ Bridget said.

  ‘I know. But we all need to go through it together, I’m afraid. Many women would expect a financial reward for this service.’

  ‘But not me! I’m doing it for love. I love my sister. I want to give her the one thing she wants and can’t have.’

  ‘How do you feel about this, Gemma?’

  ‘I feel very honoured.’ And she did. Tears were swimming in her eyes. ‘I’m moved that Bridget will put up with all this, to help me and Alex. I… I just wish there was some way to repay her.’

  ‘Don’t be silly.’ Bridget took her hand. She’d filed her nails, for the first time ever. ‘It’s what I’ve always said. Despite what you two might think, life is about more than buying and selling, running round on a hamster wheel. People are good. People help each other out because they want to.’

  Alex raised an eyebrow. If Dervla saw it, she said nothing, just scribbled something in a notebook with a paisley cover.

  ‘Good. Well. Thank you for coming. I’ll be in touch shortly.’

  ‘Have we passed?’ Bridget asked.

  ‘I’ll be in touch shortly. Goodbye.’

  14

  It was a still-frosty March morning. Lucinda was taking Daniel Chen to see a flat to rent in the Arlington, a development near the Angel. She didn’t normally do rentals but Melanie, the lettings manager, had come down with tonsillitis and everyone else was busy. Lucinda didn’t mind. A chance to prove herself.

  Daniel was twenty-four, a banker who looked straight out of central casting: tie slightly askew, stripy shirt, brogues, self-satisfied air. Lucinda had no doubt he had a red Maserati and an account with a high-class brothel. Where did they clone them? Weren’t all bankers supposed to be selling the Big Issue by now? He was the kind of guy Cass would adore. Lucinda wondered why those types did nothing for her, as she stretched out her hand, smiling broadly.

  ‘Daniel, hi. I’m Lucinda. Shall we get going?’

  In the lift, she decided to try to make even more money out of him. ‘Have you thought of buying instead of renting?’

  ‘I want to wait until the market cools.’

  Um, it’s practically frozen, my friend. ‘All the signs are that prices are starting to rise again. There are some properties on our books right now, which…’

  ‘I want to rent for now,’ he said rather harshly.

  OK. In that case Lucinda decided she’d make him rent the flat, whatever it took. She rang the bell and knocked firmly, before unlocking the door. They entered. Lucinda inhaled new plastic and dust. It reminded her of sitting in the back of one of Daddy’s cars, being driven by the chauffeur, Thierry, to school. She looked around. Typical bachelor pad, huge HDTV, kitchen full of stupid gadgets Daniel would use once and then forget about. Slate floors, granite worktops, remote controls to turn on the fire and run the bath taps. Everything would break down, get jammed, drive him crazy and Melanie – who would be called upon to sort it out – even crazier. Daniel, naturally, was enraptured.

  ‘Wow. Great entertaining space.’

  He fiddled with the coffee machine inserted in the wall and the juicer that didn’t need cleaning (allegedly), tapped on the walls and put his ear to the maple flooring. Lucinda didn’t have a clue what he was doing and she was pretty sure he didn’t either. He then pushed on into the bedroom, which was slightly untidy. Lucinda made a note to have a gentle word with the tenant to tidy before viewings, but Daniel didn’t seem to mind.

  ‘Like the blinds. Is this the en suite?’

  ‘Yes. Do you want to take a look?’

  ‘Of course.’ He tried to open the door. ‘Oh, it’s locked.’

  ‘It can’t be locked. It must be jammed.’ Lucinda tried. It did indeed appear to be locked. She gave the door a gentle kick with her heel.

  ‘How odd.’

  ‘I’ll try,’ said Daniel, who clearly fancied himself as something of a macho man. He threw himself against the door, which – being the flimsy work of a developer – flew open to the sound of screaming. Lucinda stepped forward. Someone was cowering in the shower, wrapped up in the plastic curtain.

  ‘Hello?’

  ‘Please don’t hurt me.’

  ‘We’re not going to hurt you. I’m… the lettings agent.’

  The curtain slowly unravelled. A young, pretty Asian-looking woman stared up at them, terrified.

  ‘It’s OK,’ Lucinda said again. ‘I’m from the agency.’

  ‘Oh my God. I thought you were burglars. I heard you come in. I hid in here.’ She stood up, looking mortified.

  ‘I’m so sorry I broke the door,’ said Daniel, equally abashed.

  ‘I thought you were out,’ Lucinda said. ‘I do apologize.’

  Much grovelling later, she and Daniel descended in the lift, both giggling.

  ‘I feel terrible,’ Lucinda said. ‘I did ring the bell. And knock.’

  ‘It’s all right. I still want the flat. And I’ll pay for the damage.’ The door pinged and they emerged still laughing into the lobby. Daniel’s phone started to ring, just as Lucinda spotted Anton Beleek.

  ‘Sorry,’ said Daniel, holding up a hand. ‘Hello? Hi, mate! Yeah! Yeah, we really went large. It was like the old days. Shorty got so hammered he pissed in the wardrobe in the middle of the night. And they say we’re meant to be grown up now!’

  ‘Hello!’ said Anton, like Lucinda was his long-lost best buddy rather than someone he’d never even exchanged the time of day with.

  ‘Good morning,’ she replied nervously. ‘What are you doing here?’

  ‘Waiting for a contact. Showing her Flat 21. This is my development. Didn’t you know that?’

  ‘No, I didn’t. I should do my homework.’ Lucinda giggled like a bimbo. An awkward silence fell. She glanced at Daniel, willing him to get off the phone, but he was chatting away oblivious to her. ‘So then we had a vindaloo and I tell you, my arse the next morning…’

  ‘So it’s full-on at the moment…’ she said, just as Anton said, ‘I was wondering. Are you free tonight by any chance?’

  ‘Oh! Oh. I’m so sorry, I’m afraid not.’ Lucinda should have stopped there. Not given any excuses. But she was so embarrassed, she gabbled on. ‘I’m going to the cinema with my friend Cassandra. This new film with Cameron Diaz. The reviews are terrible, but it still looks like fun…’

  ‘How about tomorrow night?’

  Shit. ‘Ummm…’

  ‘Or Wednesday? Or Friday? I’m afraid I’m busy on Thursday.’

  What should she have done? She should have said, ‘Listen, I suspect you’re about to ask me out but I’m not interested, you’re at least fifteen years older than me and you’re South Efrikan and – worse – you don’t know how to smile, except when you look at me and then your eyes glaze over like you’re a member of a cult.’ Or at least a polite version of that.

  But she couldn’t think properly. She felt trapped. And he hadn’t actually said he wanted to ask her out, just enquired if she was free. Perhaps she was being presumptuous and he was asking becaus
e there was a seminar for novice estate agents he thought she ought to attend. Daniel was still chatting obliviously, so, twisting her Cartier bracelet round and round her wrist, she said, ‘Tomorrow’s fine.’

  ‘Good. Because I’d love to take you out for dinner. To the Bleeding Heart. Do you know it?’

  ‘Um, no, I don’t.’

  ‘Well, that is a great omission in your education which we must remedy at once.’ He didn’t smile. Was he trying to be funny? He continued. ‘It’s very near here. Wonderful place. I’ll book a table for eight, if that’s convenient.’

  ‘Fine,’ she said, as Daniel finally hung up. Lucinda smiled as brightly as she could. ‘Well, we’d better be on our way. Contracts to sign. Goodbye, Mr Beleek.’

  ‘Please. Call me Anton.’

  She didn’t say anything, just hurried away as fast as her Bally court shoes could carry her.

  ‘See you tomorrow,’ Anton called after her.

  A harsh March wind was blowing, so rather than go to their usual café, Karen and Sophie were sitting in the Post Newspaper Group’s canteen, eating tuna salad (disgusting oily dressing, no wonder they came here so rarely) and discussing upcoming editions of the magazine.

  ‘So the week after next we’ve got “Why I Gave Up Work and Found Untold Happiness” by Elinor York,’ Sophie said.

  ‘Fantastic. Christine will love that.’ Christine was the magazine’s editor, a Dries-Van-Noten-clad, childfree fifty-something, with a much younger husband who ‘wrote screenplays’, an immaculate house in Camden and two pampered long-haired dachshunds.

  ‘And then we’ve got Naomi Jones on “My Breastfeeding Hell”.’

  ‘Excellent too!’ Christine ranked breastfeeding with devil worship.

  ‘And Anne Moncrieff on “Botox – A Disaster”.’

  ‘Tick again.’ Christine had more plastic in her body than a recycled robot – most of it blagged as a freebie from various Harley Street consultants desperate for publicity. But she still loved to scare readers with tales of faces twisted for ever in Jack-Nicholson-as-the-Joker smiles.

  For a brief second, Karen wondered why she was so desperate to hold on to her job. Phil was right – she’d surely be better off growing organic vegetables than acting as Christine’s mouthpiece. Christine, who’d not exactly been sympathetic about Phil’s illness and the amount of compassionate leave Karen had taken, who’d made it clear that she was going to die at the helm of All Woman! magazine, leaving Karen stuck in her shadow.