Dear Thing Page 7

  ‘Er …’ she said. ‘How’s your holiday going so far?’

  ‘Lovely,’ said Claire. ‘Yours?’

  ‘Not too bad.’

  ‘Nice day, isn’t it?’

  ‘Yes. Very nice.’

  There was no snarling, no spitting, no ‘stay away from my man’ vibe. Maybe all Claire was thinking about was her baby. Maybe she’d already refused the idea. She’d probably be worried that any baby genetically Romily’s would have an unhealthy interest in aphids.

  By the time they got to Pirates’ Landing, Romily was ready to scream. Ben hadn’t spoken a single word to her; he was entirely engaged with Posie, laughing, joking around, going on the rides with her and leaving Claire and Romily to stand there together, watching. Claire kept the conversation light and general, marvelling at the Lego reproductions of London and Paris.

  Finally, finally, Posie ran off to play on the pirate ship-shaped playground. Romily took her chance to escape and buy them all cups of tea, and when she got back to the bench where they’d been sitting, she saw Ben exchange a look with Claire. They were holding hands, sitting close together.

  ‘We’ve got a few minutes now to talk,’ he said. ‘About the baby.’

  Relief. Yes, it was about that after all.

  ‘Great,’ said Romily. ‘So I suppose the question is, do you want me to have this baby for you or not?’ She gave them their paper cups, which were already starting to become mushy at the seams.

  ‘It’s an incredibly generous offer,’ said Claire.

  ‘It’s the single most amazing thing anyone has ever offered to do for us,’ said Ben.

  ‘Oh, well, it’s only nine months, right? What’s nine months in the scale of things?’

  ‘Do you really want to do it?’ asked Claire. ‘I know you told Ben you did, but I want to make completely certain that you’re willing. It’s a huge ask.’

  Romily looked from one to the other of them. They were so hopeful. They’d be brilliant parents.

  ‘Sure. Why not?’

  Both of them relaxed noticeably, as if they’d been holding the same breath together.

  ‘Thank you,’ said Claire.

  ‘No problem.’ Romily kicked her feet, trying to be casual. Posie was still safely occupied in the play park. ‘So how do we go about it, do you think?’

  ‘Well,’ said Claire. She was suddenly efficient. Much more like the Claire Romily knew. ‘If we’re doing this, we’ll do it properly. We’ll get you started on pre-natal vitamins right away, for a start.’

  ‘We can make an appointment to see Dr Wilson at the clinic,’ said Ben.

  ‘Why do I need to see a doctor?’ asked Romily.

  ‘To make sure you’re healthy,’ said Ben. ‘That your eggs are in good shape and there’s no reason for you not to get pregnant.’

  ‘A check-up. Right. I can see my own doctor for that, surely?’

  ‘Dr Wilson can talk you through everything, though,’ said Claire.

  ‘What’s there to talk about? I’ve had a baby. I know what it’s like.’

  ‘But this is a complicated procedure. They stimulate egg production, then they extract the eggs, and then they fertilize them and re-implant the embryo. And maybe you’d prefer that we found an egg donor, so you’re not … er, genetically related to the baby?’

  ‘That would be a delay, wouldn’t it?’

  ‘Months,’ said Ben.

  ‘I can see how it might come to it,’ said Romily, ‘but it seems unnecessarily complicated to medicalize it. To bother with the whole test-tube thing.’ She faced Claire. ‘I don’t know how you went through all that. And all the drugs, all the tests.’

  ‘I – well, we always thought that in the end, it would be worth it.’

  ‘Does it hurt?’

  Claire stiffened. ‘It’s uncomfortable. I wouldn’t say it hurt. Not physically.’

  ‘Far be it from me to criticize science,’ said Romily, ‘but it seems as if there’s an easier way to do this. We could use a turkey-baster or something for artificial insemination. Then if it doesn’t work the first time, we can just try again. No doctors, no expensive equipment, no big deal.’

  ‘No big deal?’ said Claire.

  ‘Well, you know what I mean.’

  ‘I’ll do some research,’ said Claire. ‘There has to be an ideal way of going about it.’

  ‘Romily is a biologist,’ Ben reminded her.

  ‘But she’s never actually tried to get pregnant,’ Claire said, and then she put her hand to her mouth, as if she’d not meant to reveal that she knew that. ‘I mean—’

  ‘And to be honest, I do know a lot more about the mating habits of Japanese stag beetles than human reproduction,’ Romily said. ‘It can’t be that complicated, though, can it? Hello, Sperm. Hello, Egg. Let’s get together and make a … thing.’

  ‘A thing,’ Ben repeated. ‘Are you sure that PhD isn’t mail-order?’

  ‘There is quite a lot you can do to maximize your chances of conceiving,’ Claire said. ‘Basal temperature charts, ovulation kits. I have a lot of it already. We can monitor your cycle, enhance your diet, start you on half an aspirin a day.’

  ‘Right,’ said Romily. ‘Okay. It’s all new to me, but it’s your baby.’

  ‘This is really going to happen,’ said Ben. ‘I can hardly believe it.’ He gazed around him, at the children playing. ‘I feel we should be drinking champagne or something.’

  ‘And what’s wrong with tea?’ Romily asked.

  ‘Nothing. Absolutely nothing.’ He grinned at her and at Claire, and raised his paper cup. ‘A toast. To our thing.’

  ‘To our thing,’ said Claire, tapping her cup against his.

  Romily raised her own. ‘To your thing.’

  9

  Smiley Face

  CLAIRE WAS HEADING down to the staff room for a break-time cup of tea, students chattering around her, when she saw Georgette stepping out of her classroom into the corridor ahead. There was no mistaking the narrow shoulders and hips, the brown hair twisted up into a ballet-dancer’s bun. Georgette spotted Claire as she closed the door and her eyes widened with curiosity. Claire stopped as if she’d just remembered something and made a gesture with her hands, half-frustrated, half-apologetic. Then she turned round and headed back the way she had come.

  ‘Aren’t you coffeeing?’ asked Lindsay, passing her in the doorway of the music block. Claire shook her head.

  ‘I didn’t do enough marking over the holiday,’ she said.

  ‘I’ll bring you one. And a biscuit.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  Lindsay was lovely, in her early twenties, just starting out at St Dom’s. She was in charge of the choral teaching. Claire wondered if she’d talk with Georgette in the staff room during break. If she did, she might be bringing back questions as well as a cuppa and a custard cream.

  With everything that had happened, Claire had forgotten about Georgette, and how she knew about Claire’s sudden departure from the baby shower. The Latin teacher was part-time, and Claire’s path hadn’t crossed with hers. Georgette had evidently forgotten too, but now she would be talking at break time. There were going to be curious glances in the staff room, and discreet enquiries about how she was doing. Claire needed to be prepared.

  But what was she going to say? Yes, I was upset because we lost the pregnancy, but it’s all hunky-dory now because Ben’s friend has offered to have a baby for us?

  St Dominick’s was a lovely school. That was exactly what everyone called it: lovely. The grounds were lovely, the boarding houses were lovely, the students were lovely, the staff were lovely, the parents were lovely. Although it had stopped being a Catholic school some years ago, the prospectus still emphasized the caring atmosphere, the ethos of compassion. In Claire’s experience, that compassion was often founded on quick-spreading gossip.

  It had been the same, she supposed, when she’d been at school herself. She dimly remembered whispered bulletins, secretive notes. The difference was
, they’d been children then, and none of the gossip had been about her.

  One of her Year Nine students sat in the corner of the classroom, his spiky-haired head bent over a sheet of composition paper. It was the same pose he’d held through the entire last lesson. He looked up as Claire entered and headed for the desk where she’d left her laptop. ‘Aren’t you taking a break, Max?’ she asked, falling into her default pleasant tone. As much as she might complain to herself about how everyone in the school was in each other’s pockets, she loved the music and she loved the students. It was a good job. It was lovely.

  ‘I wanted to keep working on this,’ Max said.

  ‘That’s fine, though I’d have thought you’d want to see your friends after the holiday?’

  He shrugged and scribbled on the paper.

  ‘Did you have a good Easter?’

  Max shrugged again. ‘Boring,’ he said, addressing the table rather than her. She could see he was writing musical notes on the staves – he’d already written half a sheet full – but he was too hunched over for her to be able to read it. His class-work, thus far, had been rather desultory, so she was pleased he was making an effort on this assignment. Composition was something that most children found very difficult.

  ‘Do you mind if I use the computer in here while you’re working?’

  He grunted. His body language was the classic adolescent ‘stay away’, so she settled herself in front of her laptop and logged in, tilting the screen away from Max’s line of vision.

  There was so much information, so many support groups, so many discussion forums. From the internet, you’d never guess that most people managed to have children without any help whatsoever. She found her ovulation charts, and sent a blank one to the printer to make several copies for Romily.

  The look of surprise on Romily’s face when Claire had mentioned kits and tests. As if she hardly believed that such things existed. The two of them lived in different worlds.

  If they went through with this, the baby would be genetically half Romily’s. It might look just like her, though theoretically that wouldn’t lead to too many questions; Ben had dark hair too, and dark eyes. Romily was intelligent and healthy. Posie, her child, was intelligent and healthy. What more could Claire possibly ask for?

  It seemed, though, with every attempt to have a child, she and Ben became more and more removed from the natural, normal way to have children. Making love hadn’t worked, so they’d tried the charts, the temperature-taking, the ovulation kits. Then the clomiphene to stimulate egg production. Then the IVF, with her body at the mercy of drugs and instruments. And now they were involving a whole other person.

  ‘Everyone asks the same thing,’ Max said.

  She stopped on her way to the printer. ‘Pardon?’

  ‘How are you? How was your holiday? They don’t want a real answer. They just want to tell you about the amazing things they did.’

  ‘Let’s have an agreement,’ said Claire. ‘I won’t tell you about my holiday if you won’t tell me about yours.’

  He didn’t smile, but he stopped frowning a little. ‘Yeah. I can live with that.’

  ‘Do we need to stop off at the chemist?’ Ben asked her. ‘Or do you have some ovulation kits left?’

  ‘I think I might have one.’ She knew she did; she could picture it on her side of the bathroom cabinet. ‘I printed off the charts at work.’

  ‘We don’t have to drop the stuff off today,’ Ben said. ‘We can take a little longer to think. There’s no hurry.’

  But he was so excited. Since they’d talked it over with Romily at Legoland, he’d been like a boy waiting for Christmas. So optimistic, so happy that they were giving it another go.

  ‘No, we can go today if she’s expecting us. Besides, it’s bound to take ages before anything happens.’

  By the time they finished at the chemist’s rush hour was in full swing and it was difficult finding a place to park in the centre of town; however, Ben managed to squeeze in between two vans on the next road over from Romily’s flat. He took the box and the plastic bag and Claire walked with him around the block, though his footsteps were so rapid that she had to hurry to keep up. He went down the steps to the basement flat in front of her in the same characteristic way he went down the stairs in their house: quickly, almost skipping every other step, making a syncopated rhythm. He didn’t have to knock before Romily opened the door.

  ‘Hey,’ she greeted Ben, and then she saw Claire behind him and her smile froze a little. ‘Hi!’

  ‘We’ve brought round the tests and charts,’ Claire said – unnecessarily, because of course Ben had already arranged this with Romily, but she felt, somehow, as if she needed an explanation to be here. She’d never been inside the flat before. When she and Ben picked Posie up, Claire tended to wait in the car, with its engine running.

  She followed Ben inside. She’d assumed, more or less, that Romily’s flat would be chaotic and jumbled, like Romily herself. The door opened straight into the front room. A sofa and armchair were squeezed into the limited space, and books lined the walls, stacked in piles along the skirting boards. The walls were painted apple green, probably in an attempt to brighten up the flat, and although they were mostly bare, two framed canvases smeared with blue and orange hung over the sofa. Claire recognized Posie’s work. Ben immediately put the box and bag on the coffee table and sat, with the ease of familiarity, in the armchair.

  ‘This is nice,’ Claire said, trying to hide the implication that she hadn’t expected it to be.

  ‘Ah. Thanks.’ Claire followed Romily’s gaze as it settled on the worn carpet and then glanced over two dying potted plants on the windowsill. ‘Well, it does all right for me and Pose. Cup of tea?’

  ‘That would be lovely.’

  Romily scooped up Posie’s crumpled school uniform from the sofa and kicked a pair of stray trainers aside on her way to the kitchenette, which was fitted into an alcove in the front room. Posie appeared in the doorway and ran to Ben to give him a hug, and then Claire.

  ‘I didn’t know you were coming over,’ she said happily. ‘Come to my room, I need to show you my base camp.’

  Claire stroked the thick yellow fringe back from Posie’s eyes. ‘All right.’

  ‘I’ll come, peanut,’ said Ben. ‘Claire needs to have a cup of tea, she just finished work.’

  ‘ ’Kay. I’m in Peru today.’ The child paused in tugging Ben’s hand towards her room. ‘Romily, can I have a honey sandwich?’

  ‘Don’t you think it’s best not to tempt the killer bees?’ said Romily.

  ‘Peanut butter, then.’

  ‘Two seconds.’

  Posie scampered off, pulling Ben along with her. ‘She’s eaten every meal possible in that tent,’ Romily said, switching on the kettle. ‘God knows what the sheets look like by now.’

  Claire settled onto the sofa, dislodging a pile of unopened post which had been perching on the arm. She stacked it onto the coffee table, neatly, beside the box they’d brought. It had not escaped her notice that Ben was leaving her alone with Romily whenever he got the chance. It was because she’d mentioned that she didn’t know Romily very well.

  ‘How do you take your tea?’ Romily asked.

  ‘White, no sugar.’

  Romily opened a cupboard. ‘I think I have some biscuits – no, Posie must have eaten them. Would you like a peanut-butter sandwich as well? I do have honey if you prefer.’

  ‘That’s okay.’

  ‘Do you mind if I do? I forgot to have lunch today.’

  ‘Not at all.’

  ‘Ben, want a sandwich?’ Romily called. The ‘no’ came back muffled, as if he was already in the tent.

  Claire watched as Romily smeared peanut butter on four pieces of white bread and stuck them together on two plates. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d bought shop-made sliced white bread, let alone eaten it.

  Romily cut each sandwich in half with the same knife she’d used to spread the pean
ut butter, squishing the filling out of the sides. ‘Pose!’ she called, starting on the tea. She looked carefully into two mugs and rejected them before settling on two mismatched flowered ones. Posie flitted into the room, collected her sandwich, and disappeared again.

  ‘Won’t it spoil her dinner?’ Claire asked.

  ‘Oh God no. Nothing spoils her dinner. It’s like having a wild animal in the house, sometimes. As long as you keep it well-fed, it doesn’t show its claws.’

  Whenever Claire had Posie to stay, she carefully avoided giving snacks too close to mealtimes, which she made sure were balanced and healthy, full of different colours and textures. The little girl loved Claire’s food and fell on it with an eagerness that always made Claire feel warm inside. From the looks of the kitchenette, Posie didn’t get home cooking very often.

  Romily put the mugs and the sandwich on the coffee table. The sandwich plate went on top of the pile of post. ‘Your kid will probably have an all-organic, all-homemade diet,’ she said, licking peanut butter off the side of her hand.

  This was so close to what Claire had been thinking that she immediately shook her head. ‘I might start out that way but I’m sure I won’t keep it up.’

  ‘You will. If anyone can, you can.’

  Claire took a sip of her tea. It was too strong, made more the way Romily liked it than the way she did. She put the mug back down.

  ‘They say you should steer clear of peanut butter while you’re pregnant,’ she said. ‘If you’ve got a history of allergies.’

  ‘Which I don’t,’ said Romily, taking a big bite of her sandwich. ‘Has Ben?’

  ‘He hasn’t.’

  Romily went on eating. Claire folded her hands on her lap. She could hear Ben and Posie playing in the bedroom. ‘When do you think we should tell Posie about what we’re trying to do?’ she said.

  Romily finished chewing before she replied. ‘I’ll find the right time,’ she said and Claire heard the emphasis on the I.

  Suddenly, for the first time since she had met Ben’s friend, she had a sense of Romily’s world, a whole world in which Claire herself played very little part, maybe even less than Romily played in Claire’s. The green-painted walls, all these books and the people who sent the unopened letters. Claire saw Posie fairly often, but Romily woke up with the little girl, put her to bed, was responsible for her every minute of every day. Knew about her allergies or not, knew, down deep, that her daughter belonged to her.