Man of the Month Club

by Jackie Clune

  “And what exactly do they say about Essex girls? That must have passed me by,” said Joe, stubbing out his cigarette and instantly reaching for another.

  “Oh, you know, all those jokes . . .”

  “Jokes?”

  “Oh, come on, you must have heard them!”

  “Nope. I’m kept rather busy at the hospital. No time for jokes. It’s wall-to-wall vulvas for me. Dr. Nencini—at your cervix.”

  “That’s very good. I bet you say that to all the girls.”

  “So the jokes, the ones that are true?”

  “Well, like, how do you tell if an Essex girl’s had an orgasm?”

  Joe raised an eyebrow.

  “She drops her kebab.”

  “I see.”

  “Or, what’s the difference between an Essex girl and a Kit Kat?”

  “Go on.”

  “You only get four fingers in a Kit Kat.”

  “Oh, God.”

  “Or, erm—”

  “No, really, that’s fine. I get the picture.”

  Joe had gone rather gray and was sucking furiously on his second cigarette. Amy felt instantly stupid. Why had she decided to go full-pelt for the up-for-it approach? That had worked in the past when she had wanted to pick up someone rough and ready in the pub, but this was a different affair altogether. It wouldn’t do to be so up front that she risked scaring him away.

  “Are you OK?” she asked, adopting a softer tone.

  “Yes. Why?”

  “You look a bit pasty and you’re chain-smoking.”

  “Yes. Sorry. Actually, I think I’m going to be sick,” said Joe, pushing his chair back and running for the toilet.

  Well done, thought Amy. That’s him out of the frame. He’s probably not sick at all—just horrified. He’ll probably climb out of the toilet window. He’s probably legging it down Walton Street right now, back to the girls and the nanny. Fuck.

  Amy sat gloomily, waiting for him not to return. The food arrived and her pasta started to congeal nastily on the plate while Joe’s pizza turned hard and his salad wilted. Minutes went past and Amy stirred her meal, absentmindedly wondering what to do if he didn’t come back. Surely he wouldn’t do that? She’d had some rotten luck with men since this whole baby thing started, but surely he was a cut above cutting and running?

  “Sorry about that.”

  He was back and looking better.

  “Must have been the whiskey and the cigarettes. I don’t normally smoke at all. Anymore. Truth be told, I’m a bit nervous. Well, actually, I’m fucking shitting myself. It’s been a long time. Not since I first met Eve.”

  Amy gulped. So this was his first date since the DSW passed away? She didn’t know whether that was a good sign (he must be keen on her) or a bad one (too much pressure, no possibility of ever living up to Eve). Either way, it was clear she had misjudged the importance of the evening as far as Joe was concerned. Time for some repair work before it was too late. Amy unconsciously pulled her cardigan over her cleavage.

  “So I suppose me making repeated and brazen references to shagging and kebab-dropping hasn’t been the gentle ease-in you were hoping for?”

  Joe smiled.

  “Not really. But it’s no big deal. You didn’t know.”

  “Sorry. I get a bit giddy sometimes. Shall we start again?”

  “OK. No more shagging.”

  “And no more fagging,” said Amy, screwing up the packet of cigarettes.

  “Deal.”

  “We’re just two normal people having a nice, unpressurized meal together on a normal Monday night in London.”

  “That’s just it, though—this is not a normal Monday night. Normally, I’d either be on call or slumped in front of the TV with two screaming eight-year-olds jumping all over me. I’m not sure how to behave when I’m out alone after dark!”

  “Has it really been that long?”

  “Eighteen years.”

  “Eighteen years since you went out on a Monday night?”

  “No, since I went on a first date.”

  “Jesus.”

  “Quite.”

  “How come?”

  “Well, I met my wife when we were at university. She was my first girlfriend. My only girlfriend. Not deliberately—I wasn’t waiting for The One or anything—it just happened like that. And since she died I just haven’t felt like getting back on the horse, because I was never really on it in the first place.”

  “Eve. The first woman.”

  “And the last.”

  Now it was Amy’s turn to feel uncomfortable. Here she was scheming her way into bed with a provenly fertile man in order to get herself pregnant and then disappear into the ether, and here he was on what had turned out to be only his second date ever after the death of his true love. Amy felt chastened. So far, it had never occurred to her that the men she had been chasing might have feelings and needs of their own. Everyone knew that men were out for all they could get. Hadn’t Amy’s mum told her as much in grave tones the day she found Amy’s first packet of contraceptive pills? She had just assumed that the men she had targeted would be as noncommittal and easy as she herself felt, but in reality, she was finding it impossible to meet an uncomplicated bloke who would jump at the chance of a one-night stand. What was happening to men? Suddenly they had hang-ups, sensitivities, and emotional agendas. Men never had emotional agendas the last time she had looked. It had been the heartfelt cry of the more liberal feminists she had known at college: “Why can’t men show their feelings?” Amy felt it was just her luck that the crisis in masculinity had struck the very year she decided she needed a man—for thirty-six hours, at least.

  “Now you look ill,” said Joe.

  “No, I’m fine, I was just . . . thinking. So, well, I’m honored then! Here’s to getting back on the horse!”

  “Salute,” said Joe, raising his glass.

  “So . . . why me?”

  “Well, I suppose because I had been thinking for a long time that I should try to meet someone, and then there you were, and I liked the way you came back to the hospital to check on the baby—yes, they told me you came back, I have my spies—because it reaffirmed my suspicion that beneath that flinty, joky exterior there beat a caring heart.”

  “Oh,” said Amy, not expecting such a full answer.

  “And why did you accept?” said Joe, much more assured now.

  “Nice ass,” said Amy, deflecting the intimacy of the moment.

  Joe looked shocked, then visibly lightened up. He threw his head back and started to laugh. Amy joined him, and between them they made a tacit agreement to let go and just enjoy the evening. He had revealed his shameful dating inadequacy and she had inwardly resolved that this was not going to be a potential inseminator. She couldn’t do it—not now that he had chosen her earnestly as only his second date ever. Somehow it wouldn’t feel right. They would just have a nice evening together and perhaps become friends. It was clear he wasn’t ready for anything more, and she had her own plans for the rest of the year, so she was happy to be his stepping stone to some distant, wholesome lover who wanted a nice husband and a ready-made family. It wasn’t for Amy.

  Once the dreadful first hour was over, Amy found herself feeling more relaxed than she had since she started her pregnancy bid. It was nice to enjoy an evening out without constantly weighing what time of the month it was and whether there were any likely candidates in the near vicinity. Joe was easygoing and funny, despite his neurotic start. She was careful to keep the subjects light—she didn’t want to provoke a bout of grief-stricken crying by bringing up anything relationship related. If she was completely honest, her reasons for not mentioning Joe’s late wife were not entirely altruistic; as the evening wore on, she found herself feeling inexplicably jealous of Eve. It was not a feeling she was happy about harboring, but try as she might, she could not shake it off.

  This is what Kath meant, she thought to herself as Joe chatted on about work, the nurses, the inadequacies of the
NHS, and how even they were overshadowed by the joy of working with babies.

  He is absolutely gorgeous; he’s bright, funny, and passionate about his fantastically worthy job; and yet he holds an invisible placard that states, “Don’t think about getting close to me because I am a tragic, broken-hearted widower and I will not besmirch the memory of my dead perfect wife,” thought Amy as they stirred their coffee.

  “So,” said Joe, helping her on with her coat outside. It was gone eleven. Three hours had passed in a blur, and Amy found herself hoping that, despite her resolution to remain on guard, they would meet again. It wouldn’t do any harm, even though she already had enough male friends.

  “So?” said Amy, wanting to put the ball firmly in his court. There was no way she was going to be accused of pushing him too fast too soon. If he wanted a friendship, he would have to continue to do the running. She liked things to be clear and simple, and she didn’t want to give him the idea that she was pursuing him romantically.

  “So what now?” he said, staring at the pavement. He suddenly looked sad and uncomfortable again.

  “It’s OK,” said Amy softly, placing a hand on his arm.

  “What is?”

  “You don’t have to do anything. It’s been a lovely evening and I’m really glad we met properly, and I’m sorry about Eve, and I realize you must be feeling really mixed-up right now—but it’s OK. You’ve made a start and that’s good, but now you can go home and lie in bed and tell her all about it.”

  “But—”

  “Ssh. You don’t owe me anything, and I don’t want anything from you. You’re a lovely man and I’m sure you’ll meet someone just as soon as you’re ready,” said Amy, sticking her arm out at an approaching taxi. She winced at her own stoicism, but it was for the best. The timing was not right, and to Amy, timing had become everything.

  “Oh,” said Joe, sounding suddenly winded.

  Amy turned to plant a chaste kiss on his cheek but stopped short, taxi door ajar, when she caught sight of his face. He was the picture of abject disappointment. This was hard. How could she let such an important rite-of-passage evening end with such finality?

  “Bye, Joe. Thanks for a lovely evening. And good luck,” she said as she slammed the door shut and sped off into the night.

  “So I suppose a shag’s out of the question then?” Joe said to the car’s taillights.

  . 18 .

  Can you come over?” Angela’s voice was small and flat on the end of the line.

  “Yes, sure. Is everything OK?”

  “What time will you be here?”

  “In an hour? Is that OK?”

  Amy had never heard Ang like this. What on earth could be wrong? All the way there, she fantasized about what could be the matter. Dave? He couldn’t have left her—they were devoted. Properly devoted. They were not at all showy or romantic in any stereo-typical way, but it was clear to everyone how quietly besotted they were with each other, even after five kids and not enough money to go around. Was something wrong with one of the kids? It would have to be something deadly serious—Ang always took their bumps and bruises and childhood ailments in stride. She prided herself in being a coper. Knocking on the door, Amy felt a terrible sadness descend around her. Dave answered and let her into the hallway.

  “Where is she?” Amy asked quietly.

  “Upstairs. She’s a bit upset,” said Dave, whose own eyes looked red and watery.

  Amy tiptoed up the toy-strewn stairs and knocked on the bedroom door.

  “Come in,” said the small voice.

  Ang sat on the large bed surrounded by photos. Shoeboxes, albums, and envelopes covered every inch of the mock-satin bedspread, and strips of negatives lay scattered on the floor. Amy quickly noted that all of the photos were of their five children—family snapshots, crass photographer’s studio portraits, family gatherings. A box of tissues lay empty on the bedside table.

  “Ang—what’s wrong?” said Amy, going to her friend’s side. In all their years of friendship, it had always been Amy having the crisis, Amy needing a shoulder to cry on, Amy demanding instant sympathy.

  “We’ve lost the baby,” said Ang, before breaking into gut-wrenching sobs.

  The baby. Of course. Ang must have been just over three months pregnant. Amy had almost forgotten. It was easy to forget—Ang had been pregnant or nursing an infant for pretty much the last fifteen years. It was her default state. Amy searched for something to say.

  “Oh, God, Ang, I’m sorry,” she said, rubbing her friend’s back. “What happened?”

  “I don’t know. We went for the first scan today—we were really excited, we thought everything was OK, well, you just don’t think anything’s going to happen, do you? And they couldn’t find the heartbeat at the antenatal clinic but they said not to worry, it’s often hard to find this early but that the scan would show everything was all right, so we went up to the scan department and she put the jelly on me and switched on the machine but then she didn’t say anything, she was just measuring things, white lines stretching across the screen and Dave was smiling but I could tell something was wrong—they usually say, “There’s baby,” or something, because it’s hard to see where it is at this stage, but she didn’t say anything for ages, then she just switched off the machine and said, “I’m sorry, but your baby has died. There’s no heartbeat. I’ll leave you alone for some private time,” and Dave and me just looked at each other like it was a practical joke, then this doctor came in and asked me if I wanted a D and C or to let it come out naturally.”

  “Christ,” whispered Amy. Her own eyes were full of water. The stomach-churning routine nature of tragedy in a hospital—so routine for them, so life-shattering for Angela.

  “I’m so sorry, Ang. You poor things—it must have been a terrible shock.”

  “It is—we still can’t believe it. It’s never happened to me before. I just let them clean me out, couldn’t stand the thought of the poor dead thing inside me. Oh, Amy!” Ang cried solidly for twenty minutes. Amy stared grimly at the digital clock and watched it click from twelve oh seven to twelve twenty-seven, hoping that each minute would help put some much-needed distance between Ang and the pain. While she stroked and comforted her friend, she felt terribly sad—it was never easy to see such a gentle, kind, and solid person such as Ang collapse so completely—but after a few minutes, Amy became aware of another, less comfortable feeling. A part of her wanted to pull back and get Ang to snap out of it, wanted to say, “Look, it’s no big deal, it’s not like it was your first—you’ve already got five children and you’re no spring chicken. Can’t you be happy with that? You could look at it as a blessing in disguise,” but she knew it was neither the time nor the place for such brutal honesty. Instead, she sighed a long sigh, wiped her friend’s eyes with her cuff, and said, “Well, thank goodness you’ve still got your five lovely babies to look after.”

  Ang stiffened and looked up for the first time in half an hour.

  “I know that. But you don’t understand. I used to think like that until I had my first—I could never get it, why people with kids got so screwed up about miscarriages. It’s just a blob after all, pretty much until six months it’s just a blob. And if you’ve already got one, or two, or even five, then you should count yourself lucky. I mean, look at Sophie and Greg—they’ve been trying for years, and here I am breaking my heart because I’ve lost my sixth. But what you don’t realize, Amy, is that it makes it worse, not better—it’s worse because you know what you’re missing, that every day of that newborn’s life is a miracle, and that every day they grow and blossom and become more and more themselves, and it just absolutely takes your breath away. So no, it’s no compensation that I’ve got five already—it’s not like too many little black dresses or too many pairs of shoes. I’ve lost a little person, a unique, once-in-a-lifetime possibility.”

  Ang was silent now, letting the full weight of her speech sink in. Amy sat and reflected on how, in the past, she would hav
e bristled at the schmaltzy subtext to Ang’s “sacred embryo” homily, but now she just didn’t have the stomach to. Since her own private struggle with the baby demons, she had come to realize that the contents of her ovaries were not just an irritation to be flushed away every month but potential people. This had begun to sit uneasily with her glib disregard for the pro-life lobby—how could she feel so obsessed with fertilizing one of her own precious and by now dwindling eggs and at the same time support the idea of abortion? The answer, she saw now, was what she had believed all along. You had to respect every woman’s choice—whether each individual pregnancy was wanted or not. It didn’t matter what the personal circumstances of each woman was—frightened teenager, exhausted mum of three, ambitious career woman—if they chose to have the baby, then that was right for them, and if not, then that also must be respected. So of course she must support Angela, and let her grieve for this sixth but utterly wanted child. It was Angela’s choice to have lots of babies, and it must be respected no matter what anyone else thought.

  “I’m sorry,” said Amy quietly. “You’re absolutely right. I’m so sorry for your loss.”

  Ang blinked back her tears and looked at Amy for the second time. Something in her eyes was questioning. It was as if she couldn’t tell whether Amy was genuinely sympathetic or just mouthing easy platitudes. She detected some kind of shift in her old friend but as yet could not work out what it was. One look at Amy’s solemn face reassured her of Amy’s sincerity.

  “Thanks,” said Ang. “I know you find all this baby stuff hard to understand, but it means a lot that you’ve said that.”

  “I mean it. I know I’ve taken the piss in the past—there was an old woman who lived in a shoe and all that—but I suppose I’ve gone through a bit of an enlightenment, shall we say.”