by Claire Allan
“Hello?” I answered.
“How could you?” came the reply. No “Hello”. No “How are you?”. No “How is Maggie?”.
“How could I what?” I asked, running through possible offences against my mother – apart from the obvious child-out-of-wedlock one which I thought we had already dealt with.
“Don’t play the innocent with me, missy,” my mother retorted. “I don’t know where I went wrong with you, Aoife, but you are not the child I reared.”
I had to bite back a response that she would hardly know the child she reared as she never spent more than an hour at a time with me, but instead I tried – in vain – to think of what the holy feck she might be going on about.
As she slammed the phone down, it dawned on me. Perfect fucking Jacqueline. That is what happened.
Immediately I lifted the phone and called Anna. “Has my mother been on the phone to you today?” I barked. It had been my time not to say hello, or ask how she was, or how Maeve was.
“Oh, indeed I have had the pleasure. She is not happy at all.”
“Is it because I didn’t book an immediate flight to designer Her Highness’s nursery?”
“I think her exact words were ‘I can’t believe our Aoife would be so selfish as to leave Jacqueline in a state like that’.”
And thus began the Big Freeze. All the work I had done rebuilding our family and getting along with my mother, despite her obvious dislike of me and my child, had been for nothing. In one fell swoop I was frozen out. I was sure that if I listened hard enough I could hear Jacqueline cackling madly from across the Irish Sea.
****
My evening was rounded off nicely – and when I say nicely I mean horribly – when Jake rang and announced something had come up and could he possibly reschedule for the Friday.
“Give Mags a kiss from me,” he crooned while in the background glasses clinked and music played. “Love ya, babes.”
Well, at least he said he loved me – and he didn’t even ask for a blow job afterwards.
Chapter 39
Beth
Dan had booked the morning off work and Aoife was going to help Heather in the shop. I felt a little guilty asking her to work but she assured me it was something she wanted. It would help her take her mind off the Big Freeze with her mother and her ongoing confusion over Jake and his arsey behaviour.
Why she was confused baffled me. This was typical Jake. He had always been like this and always would be like this. Dan had rolled his eyes as I explained this to him for the 150th time that morning.
“Betsy, you were happy enough for her to be with him before she got pregnant,” he said as he put on his tie. “And yes, I know he is an asshole but you have to let this be between the two of them now.” He ran a comb through his hair.
I felt tears spring to my eyes and I knew it was a terrible overreaction, but my nerves were on edge. We were going, in the matter of an hour or two, to be one step closer to having, or not having, a child of our own. I had so wanted to be proactive with this but now I was scared.
I swallowed a few drops of Rescue Remedy and took a few deep breaths. Dan looked at me, concern in his eyes, and came and wrapped his arms around me.
“Look darling, this is one of those times where we have to accept the things we cannot change, change the things we can and have the wisdom to know the difference.”
And I wondered just which of my major life crises he was talking about.
As he drove across town, I gazed absently at sample books and catalogues, looking for something just perfect for Elena Kennedy’s bedroom. At least I could lose myself in this. It was one of the things Aoife and I agreed on most. When all else failed, we could lose ourselves in creating magical, restful and unique rooms. Each new project was a new challenge and we promised each other that the day it felt like a chore was the day we would close the business and try something new.
But we had been going for eight years now and if anything I was becoming more obsessed and in love with what we did. The first few years had been tough, admittedly. Dan had been working his apprenticeship in the law firm and bringing in a pittance of a wage while we didn’t have the money to set up a shop and relied on word of mouth and my clapped-out Mini to get us out and about. It was only when my parents, seeing how well we were doing, had gifted me the lease to Instant Karma that things really started taking off. Since then we had transformed dozens of rooms (and not all of them Elena Kennedy’s), from dining-rooms to conservatories, lounges to bedrooms, kitchens to nurseries. I loved the nurseries most. The promise of all that was to come was so breathtaking that I would spend hours trailing shops and suppliers for the perfect room for that new little life. As I thought of all the baby rooms I had decorated, and how I had yet to decorate a room like that for our house, the tears sprang to my eyes again.
Shove the notion of a few drops of Rescue Remedy. I necked the bottle.
I knew from the forums I had been using what to expect of this appointment. Even though we had the blood tests and I underwent some glorious internals twelve months ago, we would have to basically go through it all again and if we were lucky we would also get offered a dye test to see if my Fallopian tubes were blocked. If I pushed it, I could ask for a laparoscopy too, in case there was something inside me that was stopping me getting pregnant.
Dan had already produced a sample for testing twelve months ago. He hadn’t enjoyed his experience, wanking into a cup over a seedy magazine in a sterile hospital room. He never trusted the lock on the door. All had been fine with him though. His swimmers were strong, plentiful and very mobile. We had also been able to ascertain that there was nothing in me which killed them off – which was fortunate. Dan had laughed out loud when Dr Browne told him that some women’s insides are not suitably habitable for sperm. “Typical of you women,” he said between hoots of laughter until Dr Browne assured him it was most certainly no laughing matter.
A lot can change in twelve months, so chances are Dan would have the chance to get acquainted with the little plastic cup again and I would get to experience the joy of stirrups and some man checking out my foof at close range.
I took a deep breath, closed the catalogue and stepped out of the car. Taking Dan’s hand, I walked up the three steps to the large glass door which was etched with our doctor’s name.
A cheerful receptionist greeted us. The wall behind her was covered with pictures of smiling babies and smiling parents. Products of Dr Browne’s fertility expertise no doubt. I felt hope bubble up inside me.
“Beth and Dan Jones,” I said. “We have an appointment at two.”
The cheery receptionist looked down at her computer and smiled back up at us. “Sure. The doctor will be with you in a few minutes. Take a seat. Can we get you anything?”
I bit back the urge to say “A baby would be nice” and replied that no, we were fine. Dan again found it hilarious that we were offered tea or coffee when we visited the doctor. For what we were paying for the appointment we should have been offered champagne and caviar, I had replied. It would be worth it though. Dr Browne had a remarkable reputation – he had even been on the Lorraine Kelly Show a few times to talk about all his miracle babies.
We sat looking around us, sharing furtive glances. Across from us sat a young black couple with worn faces. They were looking down at their hands which were clasped together in worry, or was it hope? I couldn’t quite tell. Beside them sat a smiling woman with a gently swelling tummy. She was reading a copy of Pregnancy and Birth and she had that motherly glow about her. I recognised it from Aoife all those months ago. It was as if a light had been switched on inside her. I swallowed down a sob and took a few deep breaths. I wanted that.
“I wonder if they’re trying to work out our story?” Dan whispered in my ear as I grasped his hand à la the couple across the room. “I bet they’re trying to figure out how long we’ve been trying and all our intimate details.”
I looked at him with a
weak watery smile. I couldn’t speak. I couldn’t join in his chit-chat because there was nothing much that could be said now. I bloody hated waiting-rooms.
Dr Browne, an amiable man in his mid 50s with speckled grey hair and those little half-moon glasses, walked into the room and glanced around. Spotting us, a warm smile broke across his face: “Mr and Mrs Jones, do come in.”
We followed him, like errant schoolchildren being sent to the headmaster’s office, and sat down. If we thought the reception was overkill on the happy baby photos, Dr Browne’s office was a revelation. Surely it wasn’t possible for a man to have helped so many children come into the world? After our last visit Dan had joked that the good doctor must cut pictures out of catalogues and pretend they were all down to him. In the eleven months since, the number of pictures seemed to have doubled.
“Now, Mr and Mrs Jones, what can I do for you?” he asked, looking down at a file on his desk, which I could only assume held our most personal of details.
“Well, we first saw you about eleven months ago,” I said. “We had been trying to conceive for a year then, but with no joy. We had tests and you were happy enough that I was ovulating and that my husband’s sperm was up to scratch. But well, it’s eleven months on and we still are not pregnant and, well, we want to be.”
Dr Browne scratched his chin, read a little more of our file and looked up. “I see. And your cycle has been as before?”
“Yes,” I answered, lifting my charts out of my bag. “I’ve been charting my temps and egg-white cervical mucus. These are the charts. It would all indicate I’m ovulating.”
He nodded. “And I’m guessing from this chart that the star stickers stand for the times you have had sexual intercourse?”
I felt myself blush. Sticking little stars on the chart to keep track of when we had done the deed had seemed like a good idea. Dan had even joked I was rating his performance depending on the colour of the stars. Gold was a great shag, silver was a quickie and any primary colour indicated a “doing it because we’re ovulating” fumble. We had laughed about it, but now it seemed more than a little embarrassing. They never made charts like these on Blue Peter.
Nodding in reply to Dr Browne, I bit back my embarrassment. “Yes. We aim for as often as possible on or around ovulation. I know some people say you do it on alternate days, but we thought we would give it the best chance.”
He nodded. “And after intercourse, do you take any special measures?”
“Well, for the last ten months I’ve been putting a cushion under my hips to tilt my pelvis. I’ll stay that way for fifteen minutes before we do anything else.”
Dan stayed quiet throughout, something which I think wasn’t lost on our doctor.
“And you, Dan? How are you finding this?”
“I’m doing all I can,” he answered. “Beth here has me on a diet designed to optimise my sperm production. I’m there to have sex every time she is ovulating. We’re doing everything the books say we should do.” His voice started to wobble and I reached for his hand. Beneath his confident, sexy lawyer exterior Dan was a shy man and discussing his virility was clearly killing him.
Sex was supposed to be intimate, between two partners. Not between two partners, a doctor and wall full of smiling, gummy babies.
“Right then, what we will do at this stage is arrange a few more tests. I can put you on the NHS waiting list but you know that could be two or three months.”
My heart sank, two or three months was much, much too long.
“And if we go private for the tests?” Dan asked.
“Well, we could get you in next week. What we want to do is a dye test. Which is basically to flush dye through Beth’s uterine cavity to see if there are any blockages.”
“And what about a laparoscopy?” I asked. In for a penny, in for a pound.
“I’m not sure that’s justified at this point,” he said. “I would be inclined to wait for the results of the dye test first and see if that gives us any more clues. I’d also like to order some blood tests from you both – and, Dan, could you supply another sample for testing just to make sure the old results are still accurate?”
Dan nodded. “Whatever it takes. And we’ll have the test next week. Anything that gets us closer to having our baby.”
Dr Browne sat back in his chair, took off his glasses and rubbed the bridge of his nose. “I think it’s only fair I tell you that these tests don’t mean we will find out what is stopping you conceiving. Sometimes things just don’t happen and there isn’t a reason. The best thing you can do is go home, spend time with each other and try to stay relaxed.”
Dan squeezed my hand, but all I could think was that I didn’t really know how to do relaxed any more. I was okay today because we were doing something positive, something in the direction I wanted to go. And it was the first fourteen days of my cycle. My descent into madness wasn’t due to start happening for at least another week and then – who knows? Last month I slapped my husband . . .
I took a deep breath. Relax – I had to relax.
We gave our blood samples, and Dan performed in the special room with the special magazines and the little white cups. Bless him, he walked out looking flushed and a little embarrassed – and I wanted to protect him from all this.
Then again, next week I would be lying with my legs splayed and strange devices inserted into my foof in what I knew, from my internet forum, to be an uncomfortable and unpleasant procedure. The best-case scenario would be that they would find out that something blindingly obvious and easily fixable was causing the problem – and we would do what we could to fix it. The worst case was that something would be properly big-time wrong – a blockage, an infection, something which could mean our journey to natural parenthood was over.
We drove home in silence. Dan stared at the road while I pored over the catalogues, turning down corners and dreaming up a dream room for Elena. Aoife and I were due to talk about it tomorrow and brainstorm our ideas and I had to be on my game, no matter what else was going on in my head.
We got home, walking through our communal hallway and lifting the post from the table. Amongst the usual junk mail and bills was a package with familiar writing. Mum. I would know it anywhere. We went upstairs and, as Dan put on the kettle, I opened it to find a multipack of loose boxers for Dan and an ovulation kit for me.
I didn’t know whether to laugh or cry so I did what everyone would do after such a stressful day. I poured a large glass of wine for me, opened a bottle of Becks for Dan, filled our bath and begged him to climb in with me.
As I wrapped my legs around his waist in the soapy water and kissed him hard on the lips I whispered: “Does this count as relaxing?”
Chapter 40
Aoife
I woke up at five thirty to rock-hard boobs, a crying baby and a magazine page stuck to my face. Peeling it off, I sat up and lifted Maggie into bed with me. Latching on, she started to guzzle hungrily, her eyes drooping with satisfaction. My own eyes drooped with exhaustion.
Luckily I was able to settle her again but then, as I changed my bed sheets and wandered about in a half-asleep daze, it dawned on me that it was now Friday. Jake would be over later and we could finally sort this out – one way or another.
I was also going to discuss Elena’s bedroom with Beth while Maggie had her morning nap and Tom had promised to call over and look at the yard in the afternoon.
It was going to be a busy day, so I crawled back under the covers, switched off the lamp and did my best to fall back to sleep. Suddenly everything seemed too loud, the ticking of the clock, Maggie’s baby snores, the rumble of my own stomach (I had been in starvation mode before seeing Jake again) so by the time nine o’clock came and Beth rattled on the shutters of the shop I had taken on the appearance of the living dead.
She called up to the flat, her voice light and breezy. Somebody had obviously had a good night’s sleep. She had texted me to let me know all had been okay at her a
ppointment with the fertility specialist – it had obviously taken a weight off her mind.
“Morning, my princesses!” she called. “Are you ready to get some work done? I’ve brought coffee and bagels from Morelli’s. Mrs Morelli says you need to eat more. You’re much too skinny, apparently.”
I walked to the doorway, cradling Maggie to me, dressed in my finest faded tracksuit bottoms and an old maternity top. Beth looked up at me and started to laugh. As I walked down the stairs, she laughed harder and harder.
“Yes, I know it’s not exactly haute couture, but we aren’t actually going out, are we?” I chided, putting Maggie in her bouncy chair, which was the latest addition to our treasure trove of knick-knacks.
“I think I’ve found the perfect scheme for the windows,” Beth said, staring at me oddly, a smile still on her face.
“Well, share then.”
“That,” she said, pointing to my cheek where my slobber had obviously transferred a print from a magazine, “is perfect.”
Once I’d washed my face and Beth had stopped laughing, we sat down to work. Maggie was happy to watch us from the sidelines. It was nice to work together, and it was nicer still to chat freely about work, about Maggie, about life. It seemed a long time since Beth had been so free and easy about everything. Heather, God love her, even smiled a couple of times. It must have been hard on her, I realised, to work with two such hormonally imbalanced women.
“I think this is starting to shape up nicely,” Beth said. “Elena will be impressed, although I think we really need to let her have a look at these prints. You know how fussy she can be.”
I nodded just as the doorbell sprang into life and the woman herself walked in.
“Morning, ladies. I just wondered how you were getting along?” She was in her sports gear, her lithe body – sculpted to within an inch of its life by her punishing exercise regime – suddenly making me very aware of my own jelly belly and my oversized smock top.