A Funny Thing About Love (12 page)

She sat down once more at the desk and clicked
open the document. She would write for at least three hours, then go out and have lunch. No, hang on, she couldn't have a late lunch as she was meeting Will for dinner tonight; she would have to have an early lunch, which meant working for less, say an hour and a half.

At the thought of Will she found herself gazing, not at the expectant screen, but out of the window and at the stately horse chestnut tree, whose leaves were already turning golden. She still didn't know what to make of their relationship. Her instinct warned her to steer clear, to get on with writing. Matthew had told her to be careful, but she couldn't deny the attraction. Those three kisses had been intoxicating, and the feel of his body against hers had been quite something as well. And they did get on, the flirtatious banter was delicious, but more than that she felt Will was also a friend, she felt connected to him. The truth was she was looking forward to seeing him that night. She was determined not to drink; she hadn't since Matthew's leaving party. She almost felt proud of herself for achieving this unprecedented spell of abstinence until she remembered that she had probably consumed a month's worth of units at the party.

Carmen fidgeted some more, wrote a few more lines, then went on Facebook and sent a message to Matthew. Then she gave her profile picture an American year-book style makeover, emailed Sadie, Jess and Marcus, googled the new Vivienne Westwood collection on Net a Porter and spent a wistful few minutes wondering if she could afford anything, maybe a trinket such as the
crystal orb pendant? That would be a lovely pick-me-up. Maybe if she didn't eat for a couple of weeks? Maybe not. Maybe she would have to disable her broadband connection to stop this random googling and emailing, never mind twittering, which Marcus kept telling her she should do though she was yet to be convinced. She made a coffee and wrote a few more lines – admittedly she was slow, but hey, Rome wasn't built in a day, was it? Her mobile rang. It was Nick. Carmen hesitated. She hadn't replied to his message about the flat the other week, but she was going to have to speak to him sometime.

‘Hi,' she couldn't stop herself from sounding curt.

‘Hi, Carmen. How are you?'

‘Great,' she snapped, sounding far from it.

Nick sighed. ‘Look, I'm back now and there are things we need to talk about.'

Carmen steeled herself. ‘Like what? My tips on motherhood? After all, I read all those baby books, didn't I? I'm very well up on the subject, I could give Marian plenty of useful advice.' Her voice was now brittle with pain.

‘Carmen, I'm so sorry to put you through this,' Nick said gently. ‘I'm sorry for everything; I'm sorry we couldn't have children together, I'm sorry we broke up, but we've got to face it.'

Carmen took a deep breath and tried very hard to be brave. It wasn't Nick's fault. It was no one's fault. It just was. ‘Okay, go ahead, I'm sorry.'

A pause, ‘It's about the flat.'

‘My home, you mean,' the brittle voice had turned bitter.

‘I know, Carmen, and believe me I don't want to put you through this, but I'm really strapped for cash at the moment – we're bursting out of Marian's one-bedroom flat and with—'

‘Yes, I know what's on the way,' Carmen interrupted. ‘So what do you want to do?' She picked away at the Rouge Noir nail varnish on her nails, ruining the look.

‘I need you to get the flat valued and see if there's any equity which you could give to me, then I'd take my name off the mortgage and the flat would be yours.'

It was a generous offer and if Carmen was still working it would have been entirely possible, however she doubted she could take on a mortgage on her own with her conspicuous lack of income.

‘Actually, Nick, I just resigned, so I'm not sure if that would work.'

‘Oh,' Nick paused, clearly taking on board the enormity of Carmen's statement. ‘So we might have to think about selling the flat.' He said it quickly, as if somehow that would make it hurt less, like ripping a plaster off a wound. Carmen would much rather have left that particular plaster stuck on.

‘I suppose we might,' Carmen replied, trying to keep her voice steady. Everything suddenly seemed uncertain, unstable. She was a little girl again trying to avoid stepping on the cracks in the pavement, and right now she had fallen down a bloody great chasm. She was still falling.

‘Look, I know this is tough for you, do you want me to set up the valuations?'

Carmen looked around the living room, painted a shade of pale green that she and Nick had debated over endlessly, down at the honey-coloured floorboards that Nick had spent an entire weekend stripping and then varnishing – badly, it had to be said – and nearly having a major bust-up with their neighbours over the noise. The maroon velvet Habitat sofa that she didn't think they'd even paid for yet, where they'd hung out watching films, made love, consoled each other when yet another month went by without Carmen getting pregnant. Towards the end it was the battleground where she sat at one end, Nick at the other, and they'd fired off accusations and recriminations at each other. The flat wasn't grand, it wasn't stylish, but it was hers. But not any more, it seemed.

‘Yep, if you could set it up that would really help. I'm going to have to go now, Nick, so take care and just let me know the arrangements.' She sounded businesslike, calm and collected on the outside. But inside she was screaming with hurt, pain and despair. She looked at the computer screen, wanting with all her heart to escape into her fictional world.

But of course after that conversation writing was out of the question. Instead Carmen alternated crying with pacing round her flat, even opening the drawer she wasn't supposed to open
ever
which still carried a selection of baby books, relics of a life which would never be hers. She pulled out the week-by-week planner to
work out what Nick's baby looked like for maximum pain. At twelve weeks Nick's baby was about twenty-two millimetres long. It was fully formed; all its organs, muscles, limbs and bones were in place. Nick's baby was already moving about, but Marian wouldn't be able to feel it yet, that would come at around eighteen weeks, along with the baby's finger- and toenails, eyelashes and eyebrows. Nick's baby and her tiny, not-yet-grown fingernails needed the flat more than Carmen did. It was time for the barren, childless woman to get out.

The pain of not being able to have a baby was like a raw wound inside her, which most of the time her brain cordoned off for her own self-preservation. From her early twenties she had longed to have a child, and because she and Nick had decided to try in their late twenties it never crossed either of their minds that there would be a problem. She was not playing Russian roulette with her fertility and precious eggs by leaving it until she was forty to try. Their failure to conceive took them both by surprise. For a few hours Carmen was back in the dark place. It wasn't one of those things she could just shake off; it clung to her as she got ready for her night out with Will, hardly caring what she wore and what she looked like, was there as she sat on the Tube, staring mindlessly at her reflection in the opposite window, and was why she was already over half an hour late meeting Will. What did it matter if Will flirted with her now? He surely wouldn't if he knew that she couldn't have children. He would simply feel sorry for her.

*  *  *

It felt strange charging up Great Portland Street, her old stomping ground. It had only been a week since she was last there but already she felt so detached from it. The workers were heading off for post-work drinks at the variety of bars and pubs lining the street. She turned down a small side road and headed to the Ship. Desi gave her a cheery wave as she walked in.

Will was sitting at their usual table.

He smiled when she bowled up to him. ‘Miller, you have the worst timekeeping of anyone I know.' He pointed at his watch. ‘Shall I introduce you to this invention? It's called a watch and it's really useful.'

‘I'm sorry, Will, I just got held up.'

‘Was it all those creative juices flowing?' he asked, lightly kissing each of her cheeks.

‘Something like that.' Carmen knew she was expected to banter back but in her present mood couldn't manage it. Now she was with him she realised it was a mistake seeing Will tonight, she should have stayed at home. She just felt too bleak. ‘So what can I get you to drink?' Will asked. ‘It can only be a quick one as we're meeting the others in fifteen minutes.'

‘What others?' Carmen asked, sitting on the sofa next to him and pulling the sleeves of her black sweater dress over her hands to cover up the ruined nail varnish. She'd thought she was seeing Will one on one. She could just about handle that, but having to make small talk with strangers was really pushing it.

‘Sorry, I meant to tell you, I'd double-booked. It's just some friends slash former work contacts of mine,
you don't mind, do you? I didn't want to cancel you; I really wanted to see you.' He gave her his most smouldering look.

In spite of the look Carmen wasn't at all sure she liked the fact that
she
was the one who might have been cancelled. She had never been into that pack-as-many-people-into-an-evening-as-possible scenario – having drinks with one set of friends then going on to dinner with another. It reminded her of people who graded guests at their weddings, where some only qualified to be invited for the evening, for drinks and dancing. It seemed to Carmen as if they were saying, we like you, just not that much. You're not an A-list friend, just a B-list. Poor old you.

Will went off to the bar to buy her a vodka and tonic; she had been sorely tempted to ask for a double. She picked more nail varnish off and wondered how quickly she'd be able to leave the meal. Will returned. He looked as good as ever, though his eyes looked tired – no doubt Tiana had been keeping his nose to the comedy grindstone.

‘So how's it going, Miller? Have you finished it yet?' Will was in full flirtatious mode.

Carmen shook her head. ‘Give me a chance, Will! I've had other stuff to deal with.'

Will looked at her curiously. ‘What's that then?'

God, why had she mentioned it? There was no way that she wanted to let Will know about the emotional minefield that was her life right now. Keep it light was going to be her mantra for tonight.

‘Just stuff. So do you still miss me at Fox Nicholson? Give me all the gossip. How's Trish and the fish?' And as Will chatted away Carmen did her very best to look animated and smile.

But as soon as she walked into the restaurant with Will and was introduced to his friends, she just knew she was not going to be able to sustain the act. There was Didi, a polished blonde who was very high up in publicity at the BBC and her husband, Patrick, who was an agent working at Brand's. They were perfectly charming to Carmen as Will introduced her, but as soon as they found out that she had given up her job and was now a writer Carmen sensed their condescension.

‘So have you had the sitcom commissioned?' Didi asked. She was one of those twitchy, skinny, neurotic types who looked as if they never ate anything, and true to form she was shredding a piece of bread into tiny pellets on her side plate. ‘Just shovel it in!' Carmen felt like saying as she slathered butter on her own bread – well, she was an impoverished writer, she had to eat!

Carmen shook her head. ‘Nope, I haven't finished it yet – just the first one and a half episodes.'

‘Wow! That's so brave to give up your job before you'd actually got a deal in the bag!' Didi exclaimed. ‘And it is so hard to get anything actually commissioned, especially in the current climate, where channels are even more cautious about new projects. I was talking to a producer only the other day who said he had never known things as tough as they are now. And he's been around the block a few times, so he would know.'

Didi was enjoying her role as the grim reaper a little bit too much. Carmen was surprised she hadn't accessorised her navy Diane von Furstenberg wrap dress with a scythe and a cloak.

‘I do have a few contacts,' Carmen replied, sounding more confident than she felt.

‘She certainly does,' Will joined in. ‘And Carmen is very talented. I think she's going to be a great success as a writer.' He gave her a reassuring smile. She couldn't help thinking that he was just saying it to be nice.

‘So how's your work going, Will?' Didi asked. Cue a long discussion about what was happening in the industry, who was changing agents, who was hot, who was not. Did you see so-and-so's last show, disastrous, wasn't it? Didi and Patrick seemed to revel in bad news; perhaps their second name was
Schadenfreude
. Carmen's interest waned after ten minutes or so of insider gossip, and she moodily knocked back her Sauvignon Blanc, disregarding her earlier resolution not to drink. Hey, what else was there for it? She had thrown away her career and was about to be thrown out of her house.

‘Are you okay?' Will asked her quietly when Didi and Patrick were caught up with comparing main courses. He looked so warmly at her that Carmen was almost tempted to confide in him; then Patrick commented, ‘Your job must be so much easier now Nicholson's gone.'

Carmen bristled at the dismissive way Patrick used Matthew's surname and at the idea that Matthew's departure had been for the best.

‘Yeah, things have been running more smoothly,' Will conceded.

Carmen was not going to sit there and listen to her dear friend being discussed like this. ‘What exactly do you mean, Will? Matthew was a brilliant boss. Infinitely better than Comedy Bypass.'

‘Where do I start?' Will muttered. ‘Matthew's a lovely guy but he had no idea about managing a company in the current climate. If he hadn't accepted the buyout, Nicholson's would have gone under ages ago. His world of a gentleman's handshake is so long gone.'