by Kate Hewitt
She chews her lip, looking miserable. ‘I think this was a mistake. I shouldn’t be here.’
‘But you’re here now.’
‘Maybe it’s not a big deal.’ She shifts in her seat, as if to leave. ‘I think I may have overreacted.’
‘Perhaps, but perhaps not. I won’t be able to assess the situation unless you tell me.’ I try for a smile, even though I’m starting to feel nervous. If this is a case of sexual harassment, which I am sensing it might be, then it needs to be handled very carefully, especially as Lara is offensively scornful of the whole #MeToo movement.
Sasha continues to chew her lip, looking undecided, while I wait with a patient, encouraging smile on my face. Then Lara opens the door to my office, which is also the reception area for the HR department. Topping six feet in black stilettos, dressed in a fitted black power suit with a silk blouse in deep purple – she has the same blouse in a dozen different vivid shades – she is intimidating on the best of days, and downright scary on others. Her piercing, narrowed gaze focuses on Sasha before she turns to me, ruthlessly threaded eyebrows raised.
‘Anna? Are you ready for our meeting?’
‘Yes, just chatting through some things.’ I turn back to Sasha, but she’s already scrambling up from her seat.
‘I think I’ll go—’
‘Sasha, why don’t we schedule another time to talk?’ I rise as well. ‘So you can tell me a little bit more about what’s been going on?’
‘It’s all right.’ I watch unhappily as she backs out the door. ‘I’m all right,’ she says again, and then she’s gone.
I turn to Lara, who looks unimpressed. ‘What was she whinging about, then?’
For a head of Human Resources, Lara is not the most sympathetic person on the planet.
‘She was concerned about something,’ I say as I click my mouse to print off the performance reports. ‘But she was uncomfortable telling me.’ And you scared her off, I add silently. I’d never dare say it, and Lara knows it anyway.
‘Someone told her she looked pretty, I suppose?’ Lara says, rolling her eyes. ‘Girls these days.’ She turns quickly, her heels like sharpened points, naturally expecting me to follow. With a sigh, I gather up the reports. I know this meeting will just be Lara’s attempt to justify not giving anyone a pay rise, and I am not looking forward to sitting through it. I love my job, but dealing with Lara requires a level of skill and caution I find exhausting, even though I certainly should be used to it after so many years. At least it provides a distraction from the thoughts about eggs and babies that have been circling in my mind all weekend.
* * *
As the days pass, I fight a restless, edgy feeling; I realise I am waiting for Milly to ring. I text her once, just to check in, and she gives a brief reply. It’s not that unusual, but for the first time it feels as if there is something unspoken that has settled between us, and I start to think about how, if Milly does take up my offer, this might affect our friendship.
I don’t want to believe it would, or even could, at least not negatively. Milly and I are solid. We always have been. This, if anything, should bring us even closer together, giving and sharing so much, a child that would bind us together forever. At least, that’s how I want it to be. Yet something about Milly’s silence niggles at me, like a stone in my shoe.
When another weekend rolls around without more than a few texts from Milly, though, I start to wonder. I can’t remember the last time we’ve gone this long without seeing each other. I consider ringing her, but I wouldn’t know what to say – So do you want my egg? It feels ridiculous, as well as overwhelming.
And then, on Sunday night, she calls.
‘I’m sorry I haven’t been in touch,’ she says a bit breathlessly. ‘I’ve just been trying to sort out everything in my mind…’
‘It’s okay.’ I sink onto the sofa, Winnie on my lap. I am relieved she has called, but I am also anxious too, waiting for her verdict. Waiting for Milly to call the shots, as she always does.
‘I’ve been thinking about your… your offer a lot,’ she says after a moment. ‘It’s so kind and so generous, Anna, but…’ She pauses, and I tense, unsure if I want her to accept or refuse. My ambivalence alarms me, because I don’t entirely understand it. ‘Could I come over?’ Milly asks abruptly.
‘Of course. Do you mean… now?’
‘Yes, now, if that’s okay. It’s just… this whole thing… Matt and I have been doing some research. There’s so much to think about, and I wanted to talk to you about it. Because I don’t want you – or us for that matter – going into this lightly…’
‘I wouldn’t.’ My offer might have been made in the spur of the moment, but it was still sincere. ‘But yes, of course. Come over.’
When Milly arrives just fifteen minutes later, she hugs me quickly and then paces the length of my small sitting room, a dark-haired bundle of nervous energy as always. You could power a city with Milly’s energy; it practically crackles from her wild hair, the quick strides, the way she rubs her hands together. Today it feels even more intense than usual.
‘Do you want a drink?’ I ask. ‘Coffee, tea… wine?’ I think I have a dusty bottle in the back of the cupboard. I’m not much of a drinker when I’m home on my own. It reminds me too much of my childhood.
‘Just water, please,’ she says with a distracted smile.
I go to the kitchen and pour her a glass from the tap. When I return to the sitting room, Milly is still pacing. I hand her the glass and then draw the curtains against the dark night. It’s raining, the patter of icy drops on the pane sounding like bullets, but it’s cosy and warm inside my flat.
‘So, what’s up?’ I ask lightly as I sit on the sofa. Winnie, having sniffed Milly and then decided not to approach, jumps into my lap.
‘Everything, it feels like.’ Milly turns to face me and then sinks into the armchair opposite the sofa, a huge, squashy one in nubby purple velvet that I bought from a charity shop. With sympathy, I notice how tense and tired she looks, Milly amped up, on hyper-speed.
‘How are you doing, Milly? This has all got to be so tough.’
‘Yes, well.’ She rakes a hand through her hair, which springs wildly up around her face in a dark halo. ‘There is a lot to deal with. I’ll need to start HRT soon, and of course there’s this…’ She gestures to the empty space between us, and I nod, waiting. Milly leans forward, her eyes bright with both urgency and determination. ‘Did you mean it, Anna? Do you really mean it, that you’d be willing to do that for me? Because I can’t stop thinking about it. It feels like a lifeline, but it also feels… strange, I suppose. It’s such a big thing. And I suppose I’m worried you might regret it, you know, down the line.’
‘Why would I regret it?’ I ask as I stroke Winnie, letting my hands slide over her soft grey fur as she purrs like a car motor.
‘I know in the past you’ve said you didn’t,’ Milly says hesitantly, ‘but considering things now, I have to ask. Do you think you might want children yourself one day?’
I hesitate, turning her question over in my mind. ‘I don’t think I’ll change my mind,’ I say at last. ‘It’s getting a bit late, anyway.’
‘Yes, but if things were different, if you had someone in the picture… would you want them, then?’
I frown, wondering what Milly is really trying to say. ‘I don’t know. I don’t think so. I suppose I’ve never felt maternal in the way you have.’
‘It’s just… I wouldn’t want you to feel cheated, somehow.’
‘I wouldn’t feel cheated, Milly. I want to do this.’ I think I know what she’s afraid of, but she doesn’t want to say it out loud. Perhaps she’s afraid it would offend me. ‘Look,’ I say gently, ‘I understand that this would be your baby. It would just have my genes, that’s all, and we both know genetics don’t count for much. Look at my parents. Look at yours.’
‘Right.’ Milly smiles, and I can tell she is relieved by my words. I can’t blame her, not really. No
matter what I’ve just said, I’ve thought about what my child would look like. Wondered whether he or she will have my eyes, my hair, my height, never mind all the other traits – would he or she be quiet like I am? Would they find the same things funny?
But I would never admit those thoughts to Milly, at least not like that. And I know, in my head, and yes, even in my heart, that no matter who provides the DNA, this baby would be Milly’s. Milly’s and Matt’s. But I still wonder.
‘Matt and I feel we need to consider all the emotional ramifications,’ Milly explains, ‘because there would be so many people involved.’
I keep stroking Winnie, from her ears to her tail. ‘You mean me?’
‘Yes, and…’ Milly hesitates. ‘The sperm donor, too, because Matt’s not comfortable using his own. I know that sounds weird,’ she continues in a rush, ‘because we’re talking about test tubes, not anything… well, you know. But he said he would feel strange, knowing it was his baby – genetically, I mean – and not mine. And I agree.’
‘Right.’ I hadn’t thought about it being Matt’s baby. I realise I am relieved that it won’t be an issue, although I’m not sure I should say that, so I remain silent.
Milly leans forward. ‘Anna, if this is too much for you, I really will understand. You made the offer in an emotional moment—’
‘It’s not.’ I speak quietly, firmly. I am sure.
‘It’s just that I don’t want you to feel pressured,’ Milly persists. ‘Because you feel as if, I don’t know, you owe me something.’
I still at that, because do I owe Milly something? Does she feel that I do? When I was at my lowest point, eighteen years old and spiralling downwards, kicked out of my house, jobless, rootless, directionless, she as good as saved me. But that was sixteen years ago, and she did it because she was my best friend. She’s never acted as if there was a debt to be repaid, but now I wonder if she’s felt that. If I do.
‘I’m not doing this because I feel like I owe you something, Milly,’ I say quietly. ‘I’m doing it because you’re my best friend, and I want to help you and see you happy.’
‘Thank you.’ Milly sniffs and smiles. ‘I know you wouldn’t… I didn’t mean…’ She shakes her head, frustrated, tearful.
‘I know you didn’t.’
‘Because I have this vision of what it could be like. What I want it to be like. We know each other, we love each other, and raising kids is hard work. Why shouldn’t we all be involved? And, of course, you will be involved. Honorary auntie, godmother, whatever. I’m going to need you in all of this, Anna, and I’m not just talking about your egg.’ She laughs a little, wiping her eyes, and my throat goes tight.
‘I’ll be there,’ I promise, my voice a bit hoarse. ‘Of course I will. Always.’ I think of the father pushing his golden-haired daughter on the swing, the way her head tilted back with joy, and then I put myself in the picture, pushing the swing, smiling, savouring the moment.
‘Good. Then…’ She hesitates. ‘We can go forward… with this?’
It feels like one of those defining moments, both of us teetering on a precipice, having no idea what yawns below. Then I tell myself not to be melodramatic, that this can be simple. Easy, even. Because this is Milly… and me.
‘Yes,’ I say. ‘Of course we can.’
Five
Milly
I don’t remember the first time I was told I was adopted. One of my earliest memories, though, is telling someone else quite matter-of-factly. It came in different versions and guises as I grew up, from I didn’t come out of my mummy’s tummy to my parents chose me to the flatly stated I’m adopted.
My parents were always upfront about the adoption, always made it a talking point of my childhood. The photo album of my life starts on the day they brought me home from the hospital at six months old.
This framing of my identity around my adoption didn’t bother me for a long time. In fact, I wouldn’t say it ever bothered me, because it was simply part of who I was, the history they imbued me with, the story they told, proudly and lovingly.
But in my teen years I became curious, as is apparently natural with adopted children. When I was about thirteen, I wanted to know more about my roots, and that’s where my parents’ friendly, open attitude about it all started to falter. They didn’t mean for it to, and of course it was hard for them – this longed-for daughter they loved questioning everything, sometimes angrily, in my teenaged angst.
Looking back, I realise how heart-rending it must have been, the words I tossed around with careless defiance – mother, father, real. Each one would have been a stab wound, especially for my mother, who took them all painfully to heart.
They tried to placate me with sentiments they’d read in books about adoption: it was understandable that I would want to know more about who I was, and if I wanted to look into my birth mother’s identity, the record would be made available when I was eighteen, and so on. They said it with resolute expressions and kindly tones, but I knew. I always knew it would devastate them both for me to look.
My eighteenth birthday came and went and I never did anything, because I knew my parents would be hurt, but also because I’d moved past angry, adolescent curiosity to a worldlier, hardened indifference. I’d thought about it, and I couldn’t help but wonder what sort of woman gives up her baby when she is six months old. A drug addict? A prostitute? A woman who doesn’t care about her child? A woman, I decided, I had no interest in getting to know.
I told my parents as much, and it felt like we’d passed a milestone; we were all relieved, because now we could go on as we were, without any questions or comments or what-ifs.
I was happy with my decision, because I loved my parents and I didn’t want to upset them. As Matt said – like everybody says – they’re wonderful. They’ve cheered me on my entire life, have shown up for every sports day or school ceremony, no matter how silly or small. They didn’t bat an eye when I went through a brief and unfortunate Goth phase in school; they took Anna into their house and treated her like their own, and they’ve loved Matt from the first moment they met him. When it comes to my parents, I am so very thankful.
And yet. When it comes to my parents, there is always an infinitesimal, unfortunate and yet, because I’m adopted. Because it’s always been a point of interest, of conversation, a fact that somehow must be mentioned, even when I’d rather it wasn’t. It’s a huge part of who I am, and while that’s not a bad thing, it’s still a thing. A thorn. And I don’t know if I can explain that to Matt or Anna or anyone.
I also don’t know how it makes me feel about this baby-who-isn’t-yet, who will be part Anna, part me, part who knows who else. Do I want the fact that my child was conceived in a test tube from someone else’s egg and sperm to be his or her thing? The fact we trot out, the point of pride because it has to be? I picture my mythical daughter, six years old, standing up in class. I came out of my mummy’s tummy but she’s not my biological mother. Do I want that?
Do I have a choice?
When I told Anna I had a vision, I meant it. At least, I wanted to mean it, because it sounded beautiful. Why shouldn’t we all get along, work together to raise this child? It takes a village, right? It can be that way for us. The more I think about it, the more it feels like the only way forward, the only way this will work. If it’s not a last resort, but a conscious decision, something we embrace rather than merely accept. And so, that’s why I suggest, instead of using Matt’s sperm, we use his brother’s.
‘Jack?’ He stares at me, dumbfounded, speechless.
‘You only have the one brother,’ I remind him lightly. ‘Why not?’
‘Why not?’
‘All I mean is, I hear where you’re coming from, when you say you’re not comfortable using Anna’s egg with your sperm. I’m not comfortable with it, either, even if it doesn’t completely make sense. But I still don’t like the idea of using some anonymous donor – it seems so cold. So mercenary. Just some random person we�
�re choosing.’ I pause and Matt folds his arms, looking nonplussed.
He’s come around to the idea of IVF with donor egg and sperm mostly, but at moments like this we both stumble, and something instinctive in us resists. And yet now I turn resolute, because I have to. Because, for me, this is the only way forward for our family, and I like the idea of our child being related to at least one of us. I’ll carry this baby, and Matt will share its genes. A win-win in what is, admittedly, a less than ideal situation.
‘If we use Jack’s,’ I continue, ‘then at least it’s still close. Still family. Siblings share 50 per cent of their DNA—’
He offers me a small smile, although his eyes are troubled. ‘So do humans with a banana, apparently.’
‘That’s a bit of an urban legend,’ I counter. I did my research. ‘It’s a completely different level of complexity.’
Matt rolls his eyes. ‘Whatever.’
‘Do you have a problem with it being Jack?’ Jack is two years older than Matt, and has been living in France for the last ten years, restoring villas. A few months ago, he relocated to the Cotswolds, to turn a barn into a pricey conversion. He and Matt aren’t particularly close, but they’ve always had an amicable relationship. I think.
‘Do I have a problem?’ Matt repeats. ‘I don’t know. I haven’t had time to think about how I would feel, raising my brother’s baby—’
‘I’ve told you so many times, Matt, it really is not like that—’