The No-Kids Club (3 page)

Time to move forward, she told herself firmly as she clicked to create a Facebook page for the club. She’d advertise the link
to the
page, and people could contact her there by posting or messaging.

The name of the page was easy enough—The No-Kids Club was short and clear—but what should she put for the “about”
section
?
A
club for men and women who don’t want children
,
she typed.
Hmm, maybe not “don’t want children”, because that might limit the membership. There were plenty of women who couldn’t have kids for a variety of reasons, and they might be looking for a refuge too. Perhaps something like “a club for men and women with a child-free life” was better. Clare quickly made the correction, and then typed out the rest.

Tired of friends who can’t stay out late because they need to put the kids to bed? Bored with endless conversations about the best schools and potty training? Looking for like-minded
people
who won’t judge your
childless
life? Then post here or message Clare Donoghue to be an
inaugural
member
of The No-Kids Club. Meetings will be held weekly at a central
London
location.

Not bad, Clare thought as she skimmed the text, then sat back and examined the page. Still pretty bare, but at least the basic scaffolding was in place.

Now for the advert. She clicked “create ad”, completed the necessary information, made a nominal payment (as much as she wanted to meet people, she wasn’t about to invest her life
savings
—
she’d waste
d enough on Internet dating), and hit “place
order”. Don
e.

Padding to the bathroom for a Tums to settle her still-queasy stomach, Clare wondered what kind of people would respond. Surely there must be legions of well-adjusted, child-free individuals like her, looking to meet similar souls. Well, once the advert went live, she’d find out.

CHAPTER FOUR

‘E
xcuse me! Miss!’

Anna Nelson glanced up from the box she was unsuccessfully trying to open with a pair of scissors and stifled a sigh. At this rate, it’d take all morning to get the stock sorted. Only
10:00 a.
m. on a Monday, and already it felt like half of Muswell Hill had been into the bookshop, dragging their progeny behind them.

A customer with expensive-looking sunglasses holding back honey-coloured hair loomed over her. Beside the thirty-something woman, a curly haired boy clutching a gleaming scooter was already dismantling the display of books Anna had carefully co-ordinated first thing that morning.

Anna pasted on a smile and clambered to her feet, brushing bits of cardboard box from her tailored trousers. Days like this, she thanked her lucky stars the job was only part-time. ‘Yes?’

‘Milo and I are looking for the latest book in the Terrible Tom series. Milo! Get down!’ The woman rolled her eyes at Anna instead of pulling Milo off the bookshelf he was attempting to scale with the determination of a Sherpa bound for the summit of Everest. ‘You can’t keep them under control at this age! It’s a crazy time, isn’t it?’ She shot Anna a smile, clearly expecting Anna to share her commiserations. Why did women of a certain age always assume that similarly aged women had kids, too, Anna wondered? And even if they didn’t, that they found children’s bratty antics sweet and endearing?

Anna quite liked kids—well, those who didn’t destroy an hour’s work in ten seconds. She loved cuddling babies or even babysitting every once in a while, but she’d never thought of having one of her own. So when Michael, her husband and the love of her life
(a cliché, yes, but he really was)
had made it clear children weren’t on his agenda, Anna had been perfectly fine
with that.

Six years on, and she still was; no maternal twinges for her. Things might have been different if she’d married a man who wanted kids, but she couldn’t imagine life without Michael. After watching her mum and dad rip each other apart in an acrimonious divorce, Anna knew she was lucky to have him and vowed their relationship would never hit the lows of her parents’. Giving up something she hadn’t envisioned in the first place wasn’t a high price to pay when she had her dream man.

‘The Terrible Tom series is on that table over there.’ Anna pointed to the corner of the shop where a neatly stacked pile of colourful books rested. She gave it about thirty seconds before Milo knocked them onto the floor.

The mother nodded her thanks. ‘Come on, Milo!’ she rang out in a high falsetto, trying to extricate her son from the bookshelf onto which he was clinging. She looked back at Anna and smiled. ‘That’ll keep him occupied for the rest of the afternoon.’

Anna watched them head off towards the books. How on earth did people with children have time to talk to their partners, let alone ensure the relationship was on an even keel? God knows
making
everything run smoothly at home on top of her job here was more than enough. Add a kid to the mix, and Anna wasn’t sure she could keep it all up. Her co-workers often lamented how they made it out child-free just once a year or that they hadn’t had sex for months, and she could only shudder.

Granted . . . Anna chewed the inside of her lip as she watched Milo tear a page from the book in his hands. When
was
the last time she and Michael had made love? And forget making love, when had they last gone out together? Michael worked long hours as a software engineer, and lately his idea of a fun night seemed to be a virtual assault on the population of Mars, or whatever video game he was obsessed with these days. Anna often tried to coax him away with suggestions of tickets to a West End show, a football match, and even a speed boat down the Thames. But each time, Michael had patted her back, said ‘some other evening’, and turned towards the telly. Anna had nodded, telling herself he just needed a good night’s rest.

But a good night’s rest had become a good
year’s
rest! Fear ran through her. Were they turning into one of those boring couples who never did anything, never went anywhere, and had
nothing
to say to
each other? For goodness’ sake, they weren’t even in their mid-thirties, yet the most exciting thing they’d done together recently was purchasing a new rubbish bin from Homebase.

Anna tapped her foot as her mind spun. Maybe she’d been
trying
too hard with her suggestions. Something closer to home might do the trick—a film or even a walk on nearby Hampstead Heath, like they used to. A return to simpler pleasures would be just the ticket, she was sure. Her heart lifted. She couldn’t wait to get home now!

A woman dragging a scowling toddler approached, and Anna sighed. First, though, she had to face the rest of Muswell Hill’s
Miniature
Mussolini Brigade.

A few hours later, back in the large semi-detached house Michael had insisted on buying for just the two of them, Anna heard the front door click closed.

‘Honey, I’m home!’

She smiled from the kitchen at her husband’s familiar cry. He’d started doing that not long after they’d moved in together, joking she was like a nineteen-fifties housewife when she served him his after-work whisky. Anna hadn’t been offended: as far as she was
concerned
, those women knew how to keep a relationship going, and while she didn’t agree with their lack of opportunities, she
did
think women should be able to take pride in domestic duties. Women had a choice these days, and they should be able to make a decision without being ashamed. Wanting to make your husband happy and comfortable was hardly something to feel badly about.

‘Hey, babe. I’m in the kitchen!’ Anna gave the risotto another vigorous stir. This was the tricky bit, where it could all go wrong and end up a sticky mess. Her last try only half an hour ago had done just that. She sighed, exhaustion creeping in after a long day on her feet in the shop. She couldn’t really blame Michael for wanting to relax in the evening, but too much relaxation was the death knell for any relationship.

Michael’s steps thumped down the oak corridor towards her, and then his smiling face appeared. ‘There’s my sweetheart.’ He wrapped his arms around her waist and nuzzled her neck. ‘Ummm, something smells good.’

‘That’s the risotto, not me.’ Anna laughed, kissing him quickly before stirring the dish some more. The brush of his five o’clock shadow and his lingering scent never failed to make her heart quicken, even after all these years. They were lucky to still have that chemistry, unlike many of her workmates who complained the only chemistry they experienced these days was a handful of vitamins each night. Anna sighed, thinking she and Michael just needed to
act
on it a bit more. Well, there was no time like the present to get started on her mission to drag Michael from his self-induced cocoon.

‘Go relax and I’ll bring you a drink,’ she said, continuing to mix the risotto with one hand while opening the fridge with the other. ‘And then maybe we can check out the Odeon in Swiss Cottage? I’m sure there’s a good action film on there.’ Anna would have preferred a chick flick, but there wasn’t a hope in hell of luring Michael from his lair to see something like that. ‘Or perhaps we can take a walk? Some fresh air would be lovely. It’s been ages since we’ve been to the park.’

‘You want to go out?’ Michael ran a hand over his closely
cut hair.

‘Well . . . yes, I thought it would be nice to spend some time together.’ She tried to make her voice sound easy and relaxed despite the knot of tension she felt inside.

‘I don’t know, honey.’ Michael glanced towards the lounge where his video games awaited. ‘I’m a little tired tonight, and I’ve got an early start tomorrow. Maybe on the weekend?’

Anna swallowed back her disappointment, anxiety curling through her as she realised she’d never seen Michael happier than when he was firmly ensconced in front of the TV, worlds away from reality—and her. She stirred the risotto forcefully. He didn’t want to go to the theatre. He didn’t want to hit the pub. And he didn’t want movies or a walk! Well, if Michael wasn’t up for going out, she’d at least make sure they made love tonight. It had been way too long, and what man would turn down sex?

But when she entered the bedroom a couple hours later—clad in her skimpiest negligee and slathered in her yummiest-smelling moisturiser—Michael was propped up in bed, mouth open, and snoring loudly. It would have been comical if not for the sense of dread settling over her.

Enough was enough, Anna thought, tying back her wavy red hair before throwing on a robe and jamming her feet into slippers. She’d no idea how they’d reached this point, but she was bloody well not letting it go any further. There
had
to be something that would draw Michael into the real world again and revitalize their relationship.

She padded downstairs and slid into a cold metallic chair at the kitchen table, then turned on the laptop. ‘When in doubt, Google’, was Michael’s mantra, and it had rubbed off on her. First, though, just a quick peek at Facebook . . . Anna sighed as photo after photo of babies clogged her newsfeed. They were cute, yes, but personally, she’d much prefer a night out with her husband than a crying kid. She was about to open a new tab when an advert in the corner of the screen leapt out at her.

The No-Kids Club
, it said.
A club for men and women with a child-free life
. Anna tilted her head. This was right up Michael’s alley! He was always complaining how none of his old friends were free to play video games on the weekends anymore. Okay, so this was a club and not a romantic rendezvous, but they had to start somewhere. A new social circle, different activities . . . this was just what they needed to push past their slump. And she could do with some female company who didn’t feel the need to play twenty reproductive questions every time they saw her.

Quickly, Anna clicked the link, devoured the information on the Facebook page, then sent a message to the founder.

If this didn’t entice Michael to leave the house, Anna thought, she hadn’t a clue what would.

CHAPTER FIVE

‘O
kay, class, now you need to trace your hand on the front of the card.’ Poppy Elliot swished the pencil around her fingers, then held up her paper as an example. Thirty 7-year-olds squinted at her in concentration, and she couldn’t help smiling. They were so cute at this age: they
wanted
to please you and loved learning something new . . . if they sat still long enough. As trying as being a primary school teacher was sometimes, Poppy couldn’t imagine anything better—except a child of her own.

She walked around the tables, peering over the children’s
shoulders
to make sure they were on track. Mother’s Day wasn’t for another week and a bit, but she’d learned from experience creating cards was a time-consuming task.

‘How’s this, Miss?’ Faisal, one of her secret favourites, held up his card for examination.

Poppy nodded as she glanced at the shaky tracing of a hand without a thumb. ‘It’s fantastic, Faisal. Your mum will love it! Make sure you remember to give it to her first thing on Mother’s Day.’

‘I will, Miss,’ he said. ‘I’m going to cover it in sparkles, too.’

‘Even better.’ Poppy patted his shoulder.

‘Will you get a card for Mother’s Day?’ Faisal’s big brown eyes met hers, and a familiar dart of pain went through her.

‘Not this year.’ She kept smiling, even as grief contracted her insides. Every Mother’s Day, she hoped this would be the one she could finally call herself a mother. And every year, despite the
endless
parade of herbal remedies, acupuncture, then doctor’s visits leading to fertility drugs and even four rounds of IVF, she was still not a mum.

But she would be one day, she told herself, willing her eyes not to fill with tears. Ever since she and Alistair had married, she’d
imagined
a tiny baby with her curly blonde hair and Alistair’s grey eyes, the perfect fusion of them both. Alistair had started making noises about investigating adoption, but Poppy wasn’t ready to quit just yet. Despite countless tests and investigations, experts still couldn’t explain her inability to conceive, and although Alistair had a low sperm count, she wasn’t going to give up until a doctor told her getting pregnant was impossible.

She realised with a start that Faisal was staring at her expectantly. ‘Sorry, sweetie, did you say something?’

‘Earth to Miss!’ He grinned. ‘I said, maybe next year?’

Poppy nodded and crossed her fingers. ‘Yes, maybe next year.’ In fact, if she started another IVF cycle sooner rather than later, she could very well be cradling her baby next Mother’s Day. She made a mental note to broach the subject with Alistair when the timing was right.

Poppy cleared her throat and looked up at the clock on the wall. ‘Right, class, five minutes to finish up and clean your table before home time!’

The classroom erupted into chaos as kids rushed to complete their cards and tidy up. Finally, the bell rang and after all the
students
had been shepherded out the door and into the waiting arms of
parents
and nannies, Poppy sank into the chair behind her battered wooden desk and breathed in the silence. There was
something
about the stillness of the room at the end of the day which calmed her soul. She’d love to go home and have a huge glass of wine to relax, but with the next IVF cycle looming, it was better not to indulge.

Sighing, Poppy rounded the space, crouching to pick up scraps of paper, the odd pencil, and Pritt Sticks the children had left behind. Alistair would be at work until six, and the house they’d bought eight years ago—the house they’d hoped to fill with at least two kids by now—would be empty and quiet. Every so often she considered getting a cat for company, but she’d tell herself to give it one more year. One more year had turned into almost a decade.

Poppy plopped into her chair again and booted up the ancient computer. If she wasn’t heading home, she’d do some work. But first, a bit of a browse on Facebook to see what her friends were up to tonight. With its endless stream of baby photos—each one an arrow straight to her faulty ovaries—Facebook used to be a no-go area until she’d installed an app that replaced baby pictures with generic photos of cats. Poppy often wished there was an app to replace all things baby in the real world, too.

She scrolled through the statuses of friends she hadn’t seen for years, even if they did live in the same city. London had a way of doing that, of separating everyone into their neat little islands that only intersected with great difficulty. And it wasn’t just the city: add children to the mix, and logistics became a nightmare. She was about to log off when an advert on the right caught her eye:
The No-Kids Club
.
A club for men and women with a child-free life
.

This was exactly what she’d been wishing for! A place where she could relax without being reminded every ten seconds of what she was missing. Poppy leaned back in her chair. Were these people
anti-kids
, though? She clicked the advert, then ran her eyes across the brief lines on the page. There was nothing to suggest the
members
hated children, and perhaps she’d find a few others like her—who wanted kids but had been unsuccessful so far. She’d joined online fertility groups, but they were so depressing, and anyway, this was meeting people in real life. Just what she needed.

Before she could ponder any more, she fired off a
message
saying she
was interested and she’d love to come to the next
meeting
.

Done. And who knew, maybe someone there would have the magic pregnancy bullet she’d been searching for.

Clare staggered through the front door Tuesday morning, then collapsed into a chair at the kitchen table. The older she got, the harder these overnight shifts became. Apparently Monday night was the new Saturday night, judging from the number of stomachs she’d pumped. As exhausted as she was, though, she was dying to check the club’s Facebook page to see if any responses had come through. Less than twenty-four hours had passed since posting the ad, but social media could work quickly, right?

She pulled up the link, blinking at the screen. Wow! Already, the page had received thirty “likes”. Okay, so it wasn’t a huge number, but it was a start. If she could get thirty members to come out, this thing definitely had potential.

Her heart dropped as she scanned the posts. A pensioner in Tasmania was looking for company, a mystic was offering to cleanse her members’ auras, and a philosopher wanted to lecture the club on the ethics of choosing not to procreate. Clare shook her head. Why did not wanting to have kids mean something was wrong with you? Why couldn’t it just be a choice one made, like deciding to live in the country or the city? She quickly read the rest of the posts. There
were
a dozen or so genuine inquiries, but either the people weren’t based in London or they shied away from meeting in real life. The whole point of this club was to meet up and get to know each other, to have a social circle you could actually do things with.

Maybe there was something in her message inbox? Ah, here we go: someone named Anna wanted to come with her husband. That made two . . . Clare combed through a few more nutters before coming across a message from a normal-sounding woman called Poppy, who was excited to come along to the first meeting, and that was it. She leaned back in the chair. Four members weren’t bad to begin with, albeit somewhat fewer than she’d hoped. The advert had only been up for a day, though, and you had to start somewhere.

Right, onto the next challenge: where to meet. A public place would be best; no way was Clare about to invite these strangers into her home. Perhaps a pub? A central location that wasn’t too noisy and that would accommodate their numbers until they grew large enough to rent a function room. Her brain ticked over as she tried to think of suitable pubs or cafés around Soho or Tottenham Court Road. God, it’d been ages since she’d left Chelsea. This club was just what she needed to get out there again.

Maybe the café inside the iconic bookshop Foyles would do, she thought, perusing Google Maps. She’d spent hours there scouring the collection of medical books and knew the place like the back of her hand. The café was large, quiet, and comfy. Plus, it closed at nine, so it was ideal for a quick getaway if these people turned out to be weirdos.

Fingers flying, Clare responded to both messages, saying she’d be waiting at 7:00 p.m. at the café in Foyles tomorrow night, her one evening off all week. It might be short notice, but what was the point of living child-free without a little spontaneity? Then she mustered up the energy to trudge to the bedroom and collapse on the downy mattress. A feeling of satisfaction ran through her as she sank into the pillow. Friends might fade away once families came into play, but soon she’d have a group of people with exactly the same mindset.

This No-Kids Club was a great idea, Clare thought as her eyes closed. She only regretted not starting it sooner.