The Two Week Wait (18 page)

She turns into Magdalene Street; there’s litter everywhere, the seagulls have been busy again. The rubbish is worse than ever since the council cuts, and mounting the steps to the front
door Lou sees someone’s tagged the whitewashed frontage of the house with black paint. Brighton is such a tapestry of light and dark.

It’s possible Adam’s got a dark side too, she reminds herself. I’d hate to discover that when we’re too far down the road to turn back. But how on earth can I get to know
him properly, when my time to have a baby is fast running out?

‘I’m sorry about last night, mate,’ says Mike, backing the 4x4 out of the drive.

That’s
why he offered to give me a lift, thinks Rich. He suspected an ulterior motive – it’s sunny and the station is not far on foot.

‘Is she all right?’

‘I think so. Seems a bit better this morning.’ This is a lie; Rich has left Cath seething in the bedroom. ‘Still, might be best if you can avoid leaving them alone together
before she heads off.’

‘It’s more than my life is worth. But anyway, I wanted to ask, how do
you
feel about all this?’

Rich contemplates, half watching a lollipop lady safeguard a chain of schoolchildren, dressed in green pullovers, crossing the road. ‘I can see both points of view, actually. Between you
and me, I worry about the drugs regime myself. But apparently it’s the other woman we should be thinking of rather than Cath. And at least she’d be taking the drugs anyway.’

‘I didn’t mean that,’ says Mike. ‘If you ask me, Sukey was very insensitive. She can be so stubborn sometimes.’

Rich raises his eyes skyward. ‘She’s not the only one.’

‘I was referring to the IVF thing in general,’ says Mike. ‘It often doesn’t work first time. I gather it’s a numbers game. You hear about these couples who keep
going and going, end up spending sixty, seventy thousand pounds. It must be hard to know when to call a halt.’

‘I can imagine.’

‘My guess is that with her history, it might be hard for Cath to get pregnant, though obviously I’m not a doctor.’

‘Hopefully it will be easier using donor eggs.’

‘Yes, but still. And aside from the money – I was concerned about your . . . um . . . Well, I suppose one thing I wanted to ask is what you’d do if Cath were to get ill again,
for instance – it’s a lot to take on, a baby, you know.’ Mike glances across at Rich. ‘Feel free to tell me to mind my own business, but Cath’s my sister and I’m
concerned for both of you. What if, er . . . you know, you ended up having to bring up a kid on your own?’

‘They caught the cancer before it spread. So the odds are she’ll be fine.’ Nonetheless Mike is voicing Rich’s own fears.

‘I know, and she seems really well now, which is great. It’s just a huge commitment, isn’t it, all this?’

‘Mm.’

‘And my sister can get so carried away. You are on board with it all too, aren’t you?’

‘Frankly? Yes. I know what you’re saying, but Cath’s illness changed my view of life, a lot. I used to think I had everything planned – insofar as I ever plan anything
– and now I realize I can’t do that: you never know what’s coming. I can’t refuse to do this with Cath because there’s the possibility she
might
be ill again. I
couldn’t live with myself and do that. I have thought about it, but I’ve made my decision: I want her to be happy more than anything, and she’s got her heart set on trying for a
baby. And should anything happen to her, I’d rather we’d done this and had a child than that we hadn’t.’

‘Even though it wouldn’t be hers?’

‘It wouldn’t be her eggs,’ corrects Rich. ‘But it would be hers in every other way, and genetically it would be mine.’

‘And have you and Cath talked about what you might do if it
doesn’t
work?’

‘We saw a counsellor together yesterday – the clinic insists all patients do – and it did come up.’

‘It’s only, forgive me, but you both seem to be setting such store by it.’ They are at the station forecourt. Mike pulls the car parallel to the taxi rank and turns to face
him. ‘When I was chatting to her yesterday before you got to us, I was worried that she didn’t really seem to be considering that possibility.’

‘You know Cath is good at talking the talk when she has to, and an hour of counselling isn’t very long to cover so many issues. Perhaps we skated over it a bit.’

‘Hmm . . . I’d just hate for her to be so dreadfully disappointed, when she’s finally back on an even keel.’

A driver toots behind them; Rich had better get going. He pauses briefly, hand poised to open the door. ‘I know, Mike. It worries me too.’

*  *  *

Hi there, I’ve gathered when I have IVF I’ll have to go through a period of shutting down my hormones, and I’m worried about the side
effects of the drugs. I’m quite into alternative things and switching off my hormones chemically sounds so extreme. Louloubelle

Louloubelle, Hello again! I went through similar fears when I was starting out – taking eggs from my body and fertilizing them in a lab seemed such an
unnatural way of creating life. I’d heard of women experiencing hot flushes, night sweats, mood swings, blinding headaches – all symptoms associated with the menopause because
we’re basically closing down our hormones so the doctors have greater control over our ovaries. But it’s important to remember that during IVF you’re simply creating the right
circumstances for fertilization. The real miracle of why some eggs fertilize, implant in the womb and grow is still all down to God. Rainbow Girl

See? thinks Cath indignantly, at least
these
women understand one another. She’s poised to comment when the purr of an engine in the drive reveals Mike is back
from the station. In the light of a new day, she appreciates his arbitration skills; she needs his presence if she’s to face Sukey over breakfast.

*  *  *

Thank goodness I don’t have to deal with a commute like this every morning, thinks Rich. His regular drive down the M1 to Leicester bores him stupid and he doesn’t
enjoy travelling by train to London either, but at least he gets a seat, and two days he can work from home. Here his face is unpleasantly close to a guy with halitosis, and he’s having to
hang on, arm raised so he doesn’t fall over, with a young woman wedged into his armpit. He’s hardly past Richmond and this is a stopping train; Waterloo is miles yet. If he turns his
head, he can just see out of the window, get a sense of space.

The station at North Sheen overlooks allotments surrounded by blocks of flats. How sought-after this land must be in the depths of affluent suburbia, he muses. Each plot seems so well tended,
all set for the summer. There are smart wigwams ready and waiting to support the ebullient twirls of runner beans, giant bathtubs bursting with spring greens, beds edged neatly with floorboards,
and carefully aligned trenches with mounds of earth for planting new potatoes, like the hills of ancient forts.

I bet the allotment police are ferocious, booting people off who don’t plant properly, he thinks. I can’t ever see myself putting that much effort into gardening.

But Rich has surprised himself before now; he might do so again. He never would have guessed he’d be able to put anyone before himself, yet when circumstances forced him to, it transpired
he could do it without a second thought. Like the time Cath came running in from the bathroom, for instance, clutching handfuls of her hair and weeping. He didn’t have a chance to say he
found it devastating too; he simply got his beard trimmer and shaved it off for her properly, carefully holding her scalp as he did so, kissing her forehead when he’d finished. He can
remember it as vividly as yesterday. And so it might be with a baby; he’s much more confident as a result of what they’ve been through that it will. He’s no longer scared at the
prospect of being a father – he’s only scared it might not happen.

Nonetheless, in spite of these reservations, he’s increasingly excited. Everyone at the clinic was so supportive, so understanding of their circumstances, so encouraging. If it does work,
imagine. He – Rich – will be a father, a dad. What a world of possibilities that would open up.

Ouch, thinks Lou. The supermarket carrier bags are cutting into her palms. She pauses for a rest before lugging them down the final stretch of St James’s Street back to
her studio.

Hmm, she thinks, looking up: I’m right by Howie’s flat, why don’t I pop in and say hello? He lives above a dog-grooming parlour and his living room window is cast wide open; it
seems he’s home. She rings the bell and shortly sees his blurred outline through the frosted glass of the front door, heading down the stairs.

‘Lou, hi! Good to see you. Fancy a cuppa?’

‘Is it a good moment?’

‘Sure . . . Come on up.’ He eyes her Co-op bags. ‘Blimey, doll, what a lot of shopping.’

‘I’m cooking for Adam later.’

‘Leave them there if you like,’ says Howie, and Lou follows him up. His living room doubles as an office; there are papers and open books everywhere, fluttering in the breeze. His
computer is on and there’s a half-eaten sandwich on his desk.

‘I won’t stay long,’ she says.

‘Nah, it’s fine, I was going to call you anyway. I was dying to hear – so tell me, how did it go with Adam? Can’t have been a total disaster if you’re seeing him
tonight.’

‘It was good, thanks.’

‘You two going ahead, then?’

‘Yes, maybe . . . I hope so . . . ’

Howie whoops, delighted. ‘Just call me Cilla.’ He sits on his work chair and swivels to face her.

Blind Date
hasn’t been on TV in years. ‘You’re showing your age there,’ she teases, lifting some files to make room on the cerise velvet sofa. It’s typical
of Howie to want to claim credit: doubtless if she and Adam do have a baby, he’ll tell all of Brighton it was down to him. But she can’t begrudge him. ‘It was a brilliant idea
getting us together,’ she says.

‘Well, I knew he’d got a long way down the road with Evie and Nikita. He was pretty gutted when it didn’t work out.’

‘Oh really?’

‘Mm.’

She’d like to know more, but Howie is clearly busy and she has a meal to make; she cuts to the chase. ‘It’s only, I was wondering, actually, if I might ask your advice?
You’re always so insightful.’ Flattery is likely to make Howie open up and she wants an honest appraisal. ‘So . . . is there anything I should know? Like skeletons in Adam’s
closet?’

Howie hesitates, scratches his goatee. Either there’s something truly heinous, or he can’t think of much.

‘What’s his relationship history? Go on, spill the beans.’ Normally Lou is discreet; she winces at manipulating Howie by gossiping like this, but needs must.

‘Ooh, well . . . He was with this guy for years. Best part of a decade, I’d say. Norman. He’s Mexican.’

‘A Mexican called Norman? That can’t be for real.’

‘He may have made it up, you never know. He was terribly theatrical, very different from Adam, he was: more camp, flamboyant, younger, bit of a flirt.’

‘So why did they split?’ says Lou, already concluding that Adam sounds too good for him.

‘Ah. Norman was unfaithful a handful of times. No more than that.’

That’s quite a lot, thinks Lou. Therein lies the difference between me and Howie. I’m with Adam on that score.

‘Though really, they just grew apart. After all, what appeals when you’re twenty-five isn’t necessarily the same in your thirties.’

Lou sighs: there’s a mirror of her own life there too. ‘So, Adam outgrew Norman, you reckon?’

‘Er, yes, if you like to put it that way.’

‘How would you put it?’

‘C’mon, let’s be honest here. Adam’s a smashing guy. I love him to bits. But you can’t blame Norman for wandering.’

‘Eh?’

‘Adam’s successful, kind, solvent, bright . . . ’

Oh dear, thinks Lou. I’ve obviously failed to pick up something.

‘He’s got his own pad, he’s tidy, drives a decent car . . . But, you know . . . ?’

‘No.’ By now she is sitting on the edge of the sofa. ‘You’ve got me worried. Tell me!’ She could swear Howie is enjoying the suspense. Has Adam got the clap? He
can’t have, he’s had all the tests. A criminal record, then, a drug habit? It’s my job not to be blind to these things, Lou thinks. What on earth have I missed?

‘If you ask me . . . ’ Howie coughs and looks away. He seems reluctant to say it. Finally he bursts out, ‘He’s just not very fanciable, doll. Norman was hot, but Adam,
erm . . . He’s no oil painting, is he?’

*  *  *

Adam checks his face in the mirror in the surgery washroom. He looks tired; it’s been non-stop all day.

What sort of a dad do you think I’d make? he asks his reflection.

The prospect certainly excites him; it was a smart move of Howie’s to put him in touch with Lou. The idea of adoption hasn’t the same appeal as fathering his own child; the
biological aspect matters to him, maybe all the more because of his profession. He can’t kid himself genes aren’t important when almost every day he sees evidence of hereditary disease.
Still, he’s wary of rushing in headlong.

I don’t want to muck Lou about, he thinks. I know what that feels like.

He gets in the car, checks the clock. It’s not worth going home – perhaps he can kill a few minutes at his friend’s. Presently he rings the doorbell.

‘Adam!’ A voice answers from above his head; a window is open, Howie is leaning out.

‘Hi.’ Adam grins up at him.

‘Gosh, that’s a coincidence,’ says Howie.

‘Really, how come?’

‘I, er . . . was . . . um . . . just thinking about you, actually.’

I wonder why, thinks Adam.

‘Wanna come up? I’ll chuck you the keys.’

Adam ducks, and with a clatter they land on the pavement. He lets himself in and climbs the stairs to Howie’s flat. It’s a right tip in here, he thinks, stepping over the piles of
books and magazines scattered between him and the pink sofa. ‘I hope it’s not a bad moment?’

‘No, no. You’ve timed it perfectly, before I got back down to this article. So, tell me, how did it go with Lou?’