by Jackie Clune
“Oh, Jesus, you’ve not gone back to the one true faith, have you?” said Ang with genuine horror.
“No. I’m past all that—there’s no confessional big enough for my crimes. Let’s just say I’ve gone a bit soft in my old age.”
“Well, I know you went a bit gooey over that baby you found,” said Ang, blowing her dripping nose.
“Yes,” said Amy. What to do now? Should she tell Ang about her plans? And if she did, what would Ang say? This was a tough call. On the one hand she felt defensive—they had grown up together and Ang had always done the right thing. They had polarized into good girl/bad girl, and Ang had spent their teenage years and well into their twenties tutting and rolling her eyes in half-envious disapproval at every wrong turn Amy made. Surely she would disapprove of this latest madcap idea.
Amy cleared her throat.
“Well, yes, that was a bit of a watershed. In fact, ever since then I’ve been thinking that maybe I would quite like to have a go myself,” she said, picking absentmindedly at the candlewick bedspread, a study in casualness.
“Have a go? At having a baby? You make it sound like skydiving!”
“Well, it is, isn’t it? You take a running jump and hope that you get a soft landing.”
“Blimey, Amy—are you sure about this? I mean, have you really thought it through? This is so out-of-the-blue. . . . I mean, how?”
There was nothing for it now. She was halfway in and the water was cool, but there was no getting back out—might as well take the plunge. Amy launched into her by now almost scripted monologue while Ang sat slack-jawed on the bed. At least it seemed to have distracted her from her own situation for a while, even if she did look horrified. When she had finished, Amy waited for the verdict.
“Well, well, well,” said Ang slowly. “I think that’s great, Amy. Really. It’s just what you need.”
“Oh, no, please don’t tell me it’ll be the making of me. I hate all that ‘you’re not a woman until you’re a mother’ bullshit, so spare me, please.”
“OK,” said Ang, smiling.
“If I do go through with it, if I find someone in time, if I do manage to get pregnant and I end up with a baby, I want you to know right now that it’s not going to change me, you know. I’ll still be the same chippy, difficult, borderline-alcoholic partygoing businesswoman I am now. I won’t suddenly turn into some caftan-wearing earth mother with flip-flops and rusks in my hair. I’ll stay completely the same.”
“Of course you will,” said Ang, patting her friend on the knee. “Of course you will.”
. 19 .
Can someone please talk to the cleaners again about making sure there is toilet paper in the ward toilets? I had to go and fetch some myself for a woman who was bleeding heavily this morning. I’ve got more important things to be getting on with, like delivering babies and making sure no one dies. And nurse, put your mobile down when a patient is talking to you—there’ll be plenty of time for texting your boyfriend at the end of your shift. And where’s Aicha? Aicha—late again. We can’t all wait for you before we decide someone needs an emergency C-section. Get it together.”
Joe pretended not to notice Aicha sucking her teeth in defiance.
“Lord, doctor, I don’t know who she is, but I hope she sweet to you soon—you is like a bear wid a sore head these days,” said Patience as she brushed past with toilet supplies.
Much as he hated to admit it, her words stung. It was true. Ever since his date with Amy, he’d felt irritable and jumpy. It wasn’t sexual frustration—after three years, he was used to that—but a sense of having let himself down and sold himself short. She had clearly been interested at the start of the evening—or else why would she have come along?—but something about the way he had conducted himself had put her off enough to send her speeding into the distance alone in a cab at the end of the night. He didn’t have to think too hard about what it might have been. All that morbid, mawkish talk about Eve. Why couldn’t he have just played it cool and not mentioned his nerves? He had clearly scared her off, come across as a depressive, neurotic, inexperienced nerd when what he really wanted was the chance to get to know her better. He wasn’t sure why he felt this, but from the first time they had met, he had felt pulled toward her. It was what had compelled him to go along to her shop on several occasions on the off chance that she might be there. On his fourth visit, there she was, and it had seemed fated. If it hadn’t been for the girls’ compulsive need to tell virtual strangers their most intimate family business within seconds of meeting, he would have been able to tell her he was a widower in his own time. As it was she had found out in a very public way, which couldn’t have helped. She was the first woman he had felt remotely interested in since Eve had died, and he had completely blown it. In the intervening week, he had tried to put it down to experience, tried to cast her from his mind. But Patience was right—she had set up shop in his heart and he could not rid himself of her. He had been grumpy and sullen all week. Even the girls, whose normal emotional antennae were only inwardly trained, had noticed, telling him he was turning into a “boring old git.” On top of that, he had started smoking again. Off he sloped whenever he could snatch a minute to the roof of the hospital for a quiet fag. It didn’t really help, but the image of himself standing alone on a rooftop blowing smoke into the wind was somehow soothing, making him feel more the macho Marlboro man than the mouselike medic he had become. It was to the roof he found himself going now for what would be his fifteenth cigarette of the day, and it was only two o’clock.
Sod it, he thought, pulling the packet from his trouser pocket. It felt smooth and reassuring in his hand, as if it were saying, “Don’t worry, whatever happens, whatever shit life throws at you, I’ll always be here for you.” Joe felt the familiar sense of soothing expectation as he flipped the packet open. It was empty.
“Shit!” he shouted, throwing it down. What now? “This is ridiculous. Enough. That’s it.”
Joe took his mobile from his shirt pocket and dialed, only moderately ashamed that he knew the number by heart. No matter that she probably wouldn’t be there—it had been pure luck (or serendipity?) that he had managed to see her there at all—that irritating woman behind the counter who always smirked whenever he went in would just have to give him Amy’s home number. He could make up some excuse about having lost it, or left it at home or something. Never mind the fact that she hadn’t ever actually given it to him in the first place. His hand shook slightly as he heard the ringing tone—was he sure about his? What if she didn’t want to know?
“Hello?” said a cross voice at the end of the line.
“Oh,” said Joe, thrown by the abrupt manner and lack of corporate identification. He had expected the girl to announce “Precious Little Darlings” in her usual sickly baby voice. She’d done it often enough whenever he’d been there.
“Can I help you?” said the voice again.
“Is that Precious Little Darlings?” he asked, feeling silly. Of course he must have the wrong number, and how humiliating to have to say the name of the shop to a wrong number.
“Yes, sorry, yes, Precious Little Darlings,” said the voice, sounding flustered and distracted.
It was her. Joe froze. What to do now? It had been easy to prepare for asking a third party for her number—he’d have spent the next twenty-four hours working out his next move—but here she was at the end of the phone, and he had no idea what to do next. He panicked.
“Sorry, I think I must have the wrong number,” he muttered before hitting the off button on his phone.
“Jesus, that was close,” he said, simultaneously thrilled and appalled at his odd teenage behavior. He breathed deeply and started to let himself relax.
His phone vibrated. Someone was ringing him. What now? “Number withheld” showed on the screen.
“Hello?” said Joe, glad of the distraction.
“If you knew it was Precious Little Darlings, why did you say you’d got the wrong number
?” said Amy, sounding a little rattled.
“What?” said Joe, stalling for time. Damn women and their command of caller ID.
“You just rang and you asked me if this was Precious Little Darlings, and when I said yes, you said you’d got the wrong number.”
“Yes. Yes, I did. I meant to ring someone else,” said Joe lamely.
“Oh.”
“Sorry.”
“That’s OK—it was just a bit odd. And I can’t help thinking I know you from somewhere.”
“Really?” said Joe, totally out of his depth now. Should he confess and risk looking an absolute fool, or ring off again and look like a mad stalker?
“Is that . . . is that Joe?” said Amy, sounding suddenly nervous.
Shit. He’d blown it. Nothing for it now but to appeal to her sense of pity.
“Yes, yes it is, Amy.”
“Oh, hi. I thought I recognized the voice—so, why did you ring and then say you’d got the wrong number?”
“Because I didn’t think you’d be there.”
“You rang because you didn’t think I’d be here? So, do you want to speak to Sarah? Are you planning on working your way through my staff?”
She was teasing him now. That was a good sign. At least she didn’t think he was a weirdo.
“No, it’s you I wanted to speak to, but I thought I’d have to get your home number. You didn’t give me it when you rushed off like that the other night.” Time to put the ball in her court.
“No, no I didn’t, did I. But here I am. So what can I do for you, Joe?” her tone was friendly but businesslike. Too late for demurring now.
“I just wanted to say that I’m sorry if I was a bit of a crap date, and I wanted to know if you’d like to do it again—go out, I mean, for dinner, or a drink, or maybe we could do something else like go the pictures or . . . I don’t know, what do people do on dates? Go bowling? We could go bowling.”
“Bowling?” said Amy, laughing.
“Is that crap? Sorry. Dinner then?”
“Dinner would be lovely. Why don’t you come to my flat tomorrow night and we can decide from there?”
“Great,” said Joe. This had gone much better than he could have hoped. He scribbled her Docklands address down on the back of his hand and they chatted for a few minutes before ringing off. What a result! He felt elated, but at the back of his mind was the niggling thought that she seemed to have changed her tune a bit. One minute she was all “Good-bye, it’s been nice meeting you,” and the next “Come on over to my place.” He had expected to work much harder for his second chance. What could have accounted for her change of heart? Perhaps in the last few days she’d realized that she’d had a nice time, or perhaps she’d been persuaded by friends to let her defenses down a bit? Maybe she was one of those Rules women who insisted on men doing all the chasing. In any case, Joe walked back to the ward with a spring in his step. For whatever reason, she’d accepted a second date and he was more excited than was befitting for a man of his age.
Back in the shop, Amy opened her diary and smiled as she penciled in the name “Joe” alongside a little picture of an egg surrounded by exclamation marks.
. 20 .
The candles were lit, the bed linens fresh, and a variety of tasty tidbits were in the fridge just in case she got lucky and he opted out of dinner. Amy flitted about the flat making last-minute man-visit checks—removal of self-help books bought in moments of girlish weakness, careful placement of “I’ve got a life” ticket stubs and laughing photos with friends. Popping into the bathroom, she paused over the depilatory cream before stuffing it down to the bottom of the toiletries basket—everyone had unwanted body hair, but there was no need to advertise the fact. All the while she laughed at herself for her fastidiousness—it was only a potential shag, and here she was acting like one of those retarded desperate singletons who see every chance encounter with a man as a bridal audition. Why was she making such a special effort for this one? She told herself over and over that this was just man number four.
The fourth month. July already and still not even one attempt at fertilization. Amy felt sure this was not what the statistics meant when they said it took the average woman twelve cycles to get pregnant. Those stats were based on women in relationships—what chance did a poor single girl with itching ovaries have? Despite the fact that each month so far she’d been let down at the last minute by one hapless bloke after another, Amy couldn’t help but let herself feel excited again. This, she felt sure, was it. At first she’d written him off as a potential donor-on-tap—he was far too needy, clearly still in love with his dead wife and . . . well, she really liked him. She’d chided herself for falling for the Good Doctor routine, but it was more than that. He was gentle but not wimpy, strong but not hard.
“Bloody hell, you make him sound like a toilet roll—soft, strong, and incredibly long!” Brendan had laughed when she’d told him about her feelings. He’d rung that morning to ask if he could come over—the latest unsuitable man had just let him down again, and Amy was always his safety net. Not tonight.
“Sorry—I’m busy tonight.”
“You slag—who is he?”
Amy paused for effect. “The doctor.”
“The baby doctor? Ooh! Can we share?”
“Nope. If there’re any emissions this evening, they will be gain-fully employed, my friend.”
“You’re not doing what I think you’re doing, are you? With the doctor?”
“I don’t know what you mean. . . .”
“Amy, are you ovulating?”
“Did you ever in all our years of knowing each other think that you’d be seriously asking me that question?”
“Stop avoiding the answer—are you planning on getting pregnant by that nice doctor? Oh my God, you are!”
“Enough! No comments, I made you promise right from the start!”
“I know but it’s been three months—”
“Four.”
“Four months—I thought you’d have got bored with the whole thing by now. I mean, three failures to even do the dirty—that should tell you something!”
“Shut up, Brendan. Have a lovely evening on Gaydar, try not to get killed, and good-bye.”
Amy had felt mildly guilty all day—not for letting Brendan down, but because of what he had said: “that nice doctor.” It was more than just an observation, it was an accusation.
Yes, Joe was “nice” in a way that Amy was not. She got the impression he had lived a life of moral correctness: married his first girlfriend, trained long and hard to become a doctor, been a great father to his (horrible) twin daughters, and seen them through the untimely death of their mother. He had done nothing to deserve being trapped into unwitting fatherhood by an inexplicably hormone-crazed serial commitment-phobic, thong-wearing, would-be baby machine. He’d talked about their evening as a “date,” showing that he was expecting some kind of emotional development in their relationship.
How could Amy string him along like this when she knew that all she wanted from this evening was the content of his testes? And she was certain that that was all she wanted. There was no way she was going to get involved with a widower and father of two precocious children. No way.
The buzzer went and Amy rushed to the intercom, trying to ignore the lurch in her stomach—surely it was just the charade that she felt nervous about? It would be difficult to pretend that this was going to be the first of many such evenings when all the time for her it was a one-way ticket to motherhood, no returns, no second chances.
“Hi, it’s Joe,” said Joe unnecessarily.
“Come on up.”
Amy waited at the door as he ascended, carefully wetting her lips and flicking her freshly blow-dried hair over her bare shoulders. It was hot, and she felt flushed with anticipation. The lift doors slid open and there he was—white shirt open at the neck, faded jeans, and brown loafers. Amy grinned in appreciation. He looked like the sort of man they cast in car adverts—smolder
ing but unthreatening sexuality, racy but family-oriented. He was carrying two blue plastic bags and he thrust them at her as he stepped out of the lift.
“What’s this?”
“Dinner. I thought I’d cook for you. If that’s OK,” said Joe, pausing briefly before planting a small kiss on her cheek. Her nose bumped into his ear as she misjudged the gesture as a hug.
“Great! I wasn’t feeling in the mood for going out anyway, and I hate cooking!”
Amy peered inside the bags—fresh pasta, a jar of white truffles, various tubs of olive oil-soaked Mediterranean vegetables, some floury ciabatta, and a huge chunk of fresh Parmesan cheese, all wrapped in Carluccios’s distinctive quality paper.
“Italian, then,” said Amy, going to the fridge for the champagne she’d been chilling since midday.
“Yes—I’m afraid it’s all I know how to do. Mama, you know . . .” said Joe, casting a glance around Amy’s flat.
“Very nice, very . . . urban. Is that what they call it—urban living?”
“I prefer urbane living—urban is so nineties,” said Amy, handing Joe a glass.
“And champagne—how nice. Cheers. Here’s to urbane living.”
“Cheers.”
They sipped their champagne in silence until a familiar sound broke the tension.
“Ak ak ak ak ak!”
“What the hell’s that?” said Joe, peering up.
“Oh, just the resident lunatics in the attic.”
Joe stared at her in horror. There was something blissfully naïve about him.
“Magpies. Three of them. They’ve installed themselves on my roof terrace—been driving me mad for months now.”
“Three for a girl,” said Joe.
Amy smiled. He knew the rhyme, too. It had been partly her Catholic superstition that had set her on her present course of action—the three magpies had seemed to nag her into it. But in truth, she hadn’t heard them for a week or so. She hadn’t even noticed that they’d stopped their incessant squawking. Was it just synchronicity that they had chosen to pipe up now?
