Man of the Month Club

by Jackie Clune

  “So what are you going to cook for us tonight?” said Amy, trying to deflect her attention away from Joe’s admiring glances. He seemed different tonight—more assertive, more present than he had the last time they had met. She was keenly aware of his physical presence close by. His body seemed to occupy its space with vitality, electricity almost.

  “Well, that depends,” he said, moving closer. If she wasn’t mistaken, he was moving in on her.

  “Carluccios—I’m guessing pasta?” said Amy unnecessarily while her stomach turned somersaults.

  “Are you hungry?” asked Joe, slipping an arm around her waist. Amy noted that he had almost stopped breathing.

  “Erm, well, not really, but I don’t want to eat late and then you bugger off and leave me with all the washing up.”

  “Bugger off? It’s you that buggers off.”

  “What I mean is, just so that I know how much time we’ve got, I mean, that sounds awful, I mean just in terms of the basic shape of the evening—Christ, that sounds crap—look, what time do you have to get home? Just so that I know.”

  Joe’s mouth flickered into a grin as he put his other arm around her waist. They were face-to-face now. Amy cursed her knees for submitting to the cliché of the moment by almost buckling.

  “I don’t,” said Joe quietly.

  There was a long pause, which Amy silently noted would be, if this were a movie, where they kissed for the first time. So this was it then. Full steam ahead.

  “If that’s OK with you,” said Joe eventually, nuzzling into her neck.

  Amy rested her chin on his shoulder and caught sight of the ovulation test stick jutting out of the bin, its window slashed through with a thick blue line. She bit her lip hard.

  “That’s more than OK. That’s excellent.”

  . 21 .

  Amy woke early. By the light trickling in through the gaps in the blinds, she guessed it must be about five a.m., although it could have been earlier. It was difficult to tell in high summer. She resisted looking at the clock. She didn’t want to break the spell with harsh reality. What a night. For a slow starter, Joe had proven himself to be a passionate and enthusiastic lover. Maybe he was making up for lost time, and maybe it had felt so good for her because it had been a while since she had shared a bed with anyone, but she couldn’t remember a better first time. First time? Amy checked herself. One-night stand. Although there would be no harm in doing it again in the morning, just to be on the safe side. Turning her head slowly so as not to wake him, Amy ventured a peep at her bedfellow. She jumped. He wasn’t there. Where the hell had he gone? And when? Amy sat up and grabbed the clock. Five twenty-three. Where the hell could he have gone to in such a hurry at five in the bloody morning?

  Surely it wasn’t the girls? He must have had the nanny staying overnight, and surely she could hold the fort until a reasonable hour on a Sunday morning? Amy felt hot tears prick at her eyes. Shit. What was this? She’d done the same thing herself often enough—woken in a strange bed and tiptoed out before dawn. Why were her eyes wet? Was it indignation? Here she was, secretly trying to get impregnated, and the man of her choice has upped and left before the cells had even had a chance to divide. Typical. That’s why she’d decided to go this alone—men could not be expected to stay around long enough to be of any real use, so why not do it all yourself and literally cut out the middleman? Amy reminded herself of this as she wiped her eyes with a corner of the duvet, leaving a trail of black mascara in her wake. At least the deed was done. Amy tried to rouse herself. There would be no getting back to sleep now. The dull ache of disappointment in her chest was weighing her down too much to sleep.

  “Stop it,” she said out loud. “You’re doing it again—acting like some lovelorn loser. It was a shag. Hopefully, a baby-making shag. Job done, no hard feelings, cancel and continue.”

  Amy pulled on her robe and got out of bed with exaggerated care—she didn’t want to risk dislodging anything that might be attempting to subdivide deep within her.

  Treading softly into the open space of her living room, she noticed glumly that the roof hatch was open. She must have forgotten to close it in her haste to get him into her bedroom. Better get up there and close it before it decided to piss down. Amy climbed the ladder delicately, taking care not to trip on the cord of her gown. Sticking her head out of the hatch at the top, she was greeted by a pair of hairy legs.

  “Morning,” said Joe. “Did I wake you?”

  A huge and stupid surge of relief ran through her.

  “No, no, I just thought you’d gone,” she mumbled.

  “Gone?” Joe looked genuinely shocked. “Why would I have gone?”

  “No reason. People do. They stay and then they go.”

  “How extraordinary. Well, I didn’t go. I’m still here,” said Joe, helping her out and pulling her to him.

  “What are you doing up here at this ungodly hour?” asked Amy, resisting the urge to grab him and start a repeat performance.

  “Couldn’t sleep.”

  “Was I snoring? Sorry.”

  “No, you weren’t snoring, you were being lovely. That’s why I couldn’t sleep. You kept curling up behind me and wrapping your arm around me. It was nice.”

  “Did I? How extraordinary.” Amy blushed. How treacherous her body could be. How dare it show neediness in her sleep.

  “Is it? Well, I liked it. And I had a great time last night. And I’m excited. So I got up,” said Joe, planting a soft kiss on her lips.

  “Oh,” said Amy, disarmed by his forthright, unabashed enthusiasm. There was no getting away from it—Joe was really, really nice. This was going to be tough.

  “And I’m slightly ashamed that in the heat of the moment, I didn’t use any protection. Me being a doctor and all.”

  “I know. I didn’t have anything. But it’s OK. I’m fine, and you’re practically a virgin, so . . .”

  “Well, thank you very much, Miss Sleeparound. You sure know how to make a man feel better.” Joe’s eyes sparkled despite his obvious concern. He wasn’t used to doing this, or to having this kind of conversation. Amy put her hands under his shirt and gave him a squeeze. He was ludicrously attractive. She almost wanted to punch him for it. She would have to have another go before sending him off into a liberated future while she waited the two weeks until her period was due to see if their liaison had yielded any results.

  “Easy, tiger,” said Joe as she squeezed his bottom.

  “You know you want it,” she teased.

  “Of course I do—how could I not? You’re a sex goddess. But we should probably use something.”

  “Too late for that, big boy, a definite case of shutting the stable door after the horse has bolted. I mean, we’re both healthy, very low risk of HIV . . . what’s the worst thing that could happen? I get pregnant!” said Amy, smoke-screening the issue with lightheartedness.

  “So you’re not even on the pill?” Joe laughed, responding to her touch now. His hands stroked the back of her neck in an expert mixture of massage and caress.

  “Nope. Bad for you.”

  “Well get you!” said Joe, laughing at her devil-may-care attitude. It was curiously attractive.

  “I know, I’m such a free spirit, such a maverick, I’ll get my comeuppance one day, I’m sure.”

  “Well, you’ve got no worries with me.”

  “Oh?” Amy tried not to wriggle as he gently kissed the length of her neck. For someone so woefully inexperienced, he was good at this. “You seem to be firing on all cylinders to me. . . .”

  “I may be firing, lady, but they’re all blanks.”

  Amy froze.

  “What do you mean?” She tried to keep the panic out of her voice.

  “The good news for you is . . . I had the snip. Just before Eve’s diagnosis. Bastard timing, but I don’t want any more anyway, so I don’t mind. I’m free to come and go as I please. As it were.”

  Amy pulled away and let his words sink in.

  “W
hat’s the matter?” said Joe, stepping back and letting go of her arms.

  “Nothing. Nothing.”

  Her head was spinning. This was a totally unexpected blow. How could she have been so stupid as to not anticipate this one? Here she was on the fourth month of her baby quest, in danger of falling for a man whose sperm were rattling around in his body with just a culde-sac to swim into. Amy’s mind flooded with images of dead ends, brick walls, and stagnant ponds. This was not part of the plan. She suddenly felt dizzy and sick.

  “You look like you’ve seen a ghost. Sit down. Keep your head down. Let me get you a glass of water.”

  Amy sat reeling as Joe slipped down the stairs to the kitchen. She had finally managed to bag herself a really nice man at the perfect time to conceive and he turned out to be a dud. She felt deeply disturbed—more so because she suddenly realized that she had been harboring a secret “and they all lived happily ever after” fantasy from the first moment she’d met Joe. It was crushing to come face-to-face with her own denial. If she gave in to her feelings and pursued a relationship with Joe, there would be no baby. That possibility suddenly cut her to the quick. She was shocked by how deep the idea of becoming a mother had rooted itself within her heart. If she was serious about having a child, then there was no way she should take this any further with Joe—she would be wasting her time, and his. He was too vulnerable to be messed around with. He didn’t deserve it. Amy knew that the next few minutes were vital. If she didn’t make her decision either way, she would get sucked into a relationship that would leave her forever childless. Momentarily she clutched straws, reminding herself that vasectomies can be reversed—but he’d said himself he didn’t want any more children, and in any case it would be a complete nightmare having a new baby with the twins. She didn’t want to be the wicked stepmother. Amy held her head in her hands and let out a moan.

  “Drink this,” said Joe, offering her a glass of iced water. “You look like you might faint. I didn’t realize I could have this effect on women. All those wasted years!”

  “I’m fine. Really. Must have got up too quick or something.” Amy was aware that her voice had a new coldness. What was she doing? The words fell like odd-shaped pebbles from her lips.

  “I think I need to go to bed,” she said flatly.

  “OK, let’s go and have a lie down.”

  “No,” Amy heard herself saying. “On my own.”

  There was a long and awkward silence. Amy resisted the urge to look at him—it would be giving away too much to show her face. She could scarcely believe what she was doing, but she told herself over and over that it was for the best. His bombshell had put things into sharp focus. She wanted a baby. Very badly. The realization overwhelmed her, and there was no room for anything else.

  “Right,” said Joe. “Well, at least let me help you down.”

  “I’ll be fine, honestly.”

  “OK, if you’re sure . . .” said Joe, sounding confused and more than a little shocked himself.

  She heard him slip past her and down the stairs. She sat and listened to him dressing, collecting his things and, no doubt, his thoughts. She estimated the amount of time it would take him to get to the front door and leave so that she could time her good-bye when he was at the point of no return. Finally, she ordered her legs to move and went down to see him out.

  She had gotten it just right. He was standing at the door, checking his pockets.

  “Bye,” said Amy, trying her best to sound as though she did this all the time.

  “Is that it?” said Joe, almost hotly.

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean, I don’t get it, one minute we’re getting along really well, and the next you’re packing me off home. Was it something I said?”

  “No, I’m just tired,” said Amy lamely.

  “Bullshit! Look, I think we’ve established that I’m no expert in this field, but I’d say this is fairly odd. Or maybe it’s not. Maybe this is the way it goes—is it? You meet a guy, go to bed, and then act like strangers in the morning? I suppose that’s what you were trying to tell me on our first date, was it?”

  He really didn’t know. Of course he didn’t—it would be the last thing in the world he would think. Why would a thirty-nine-year-old self-confessed child dodger be at all upset that he was sterile, especially so early on in what he was probably hoping was their “relationship.”

  Amy steeled herself. Despite the fact that a large part of her wanted to rush to him and reassure him that he was fabulous, perfect, and ideal, and that she could imagine herself curled up in front of the TV with him for many years to come, she stuck out her chin and dealt her final blow.

  “You’re a really sweet guy, Joe, but I’m just not looking for a relationship right now.”

  Amy held her breath and wondered if it sounded as unconvincing to Joe as it did to her. She didn’t know which was stronger—the desire for him to just leave or the desire to have him fight back, argue, beg, and persuade.

  “Christ, in my day, that was the man’s line. How things change. Well, good luck, Amy, with finding whatever it is you are, as you say, ‘looking for.’ And whatever it is you’re not looking for, I hope you never find it.” Joe shut the door quietly behind him and was gone.

  Amy sat on the floor and let herself breathe. With each breath came a single tear, and within a minute she was sobbing. She cried for Joe—for his wounded face and his confusion; she cried for Ang’s lost baby and Brendan’s loneliness, for Mrs. Cummings’s empty nursery. But mostly she cried for herself. She knew what she wanted more than anything now, and it had taken a huge sacrifice to find out. She promised herself it would be worth it.

  Third Trimester

  . 1 .

  It had been years since Amy had been lost in Hackney. When she’d first moved to London, it had been her stomping ground of choice—the late eighties were Hackney’s heyday, albeit in an alternative kind of a way. She’d gravitated there naturally along with all her politico friends, Brendan having declared it the gay capital of Europe. It was true—you had to walk only ten paces and you’d be passed by a couple of Jimmy Somerville look-alikes, all shaven heads and tight jeans, holding hands defiantly. Another ten paces and you’d be bound to happen upon a pair of Hackney dykes, cropped and quiffed and full of reproach as they bull-dagger-swaggered along in their matching leather biker jackets. Hackney was where it was at. There was a good stock of roomy, dilapidated Victorian terraces ripe for squatting, the local council was lefty, and the cultural mix—West Indians, Bengalis, Pakistanis, and Africans living alongside old East End pensioners—made for a vibrant and interesting community. Walking down Ridley Road market on a hot Saturday afternoon you felt as though you could have been on several different continents at once as the fat, sweaty fruit traders yelled out their bargains—“Pound of mush, fifty, fifty yer pound o’ mush”—next to Jamaican Yardies selling knockoff electrical goods with bass-loaded reggae blasting from what they jokingly called a “Brixton Briefcase,” and persuasive Asian men pushing rolls of cheap sari material under your nose. She’d spent many long nights drinking Special Brew at the Hackney Empire while socialist comedians made achingly right-on wisecracks about Thatcher. If it hadn’t been for her early business success, Amy felt sure she would still be there now, cycling to sign on and spending her dole money on hash and vegan co-op groceries. She had loved it, and had known every backstreet and rat run in from the Kingsland Road to Hackney Wick. It had been only fifteen or so years since she left the borough for a loftier postcode, so why was she now so utterly lost? She’d bullishly left her map at home, confident that she would find her way easily. Up and down the Richmond Road she went, the website printout crumpled on the passenger seat next to her. The meeting was due to start at eight, and it was already ten past. She would be late. As if it weren’t embarrassing enough to be doing this without being stared at by a group of strangers, no doubt on beanbags. The streets were empty—didn’t anyone walk in Hackney anymore?�
�and all of Amy’s old orientation landmarks seemed to have disappeared. Gone were the sixties tower blocks and depressing concrete estates. Now on every corner there seemed to be loft-style development with a swanky show home on display, or a trendy gastro pub selling sausage and mash for twenty quid a go. Amy ignored the inner voice telling her that this was a sign that she should turn around and go home, despite the fact that it had been her inner voice that had insisted on the significance of signs at the start of this venture. She would get to this meeting if it killed her.

  Finally she recognized a grocer’s shop that had so far resisted the urge to sell up and become something more glamorous, and she swung onto the road, craning her neck for the right house number. She knew what she was looking for—it would be the one with the ethnic planters full of giant poppies or sunflowers growing out of old bread bins. There would be a wind chime hanging over the window, where tasteful unbleached linen curtains would partially obscure the view into the natural-wood-floor sitting room.

  Amy crawled along the curb, squinting at the doors, none of which seemed to be displaying numbers. How anyone got their post in the morning was a mystery. Out of the corner of her eye, she noticed a thin woman walking nervously along the pavement next to her. The woman was dressed in the kind of loose, murky clothes Amy instantly associated with this evening’s purpose, so she pulled over and leaned out the window.

  “Excuse me—do you know where number seventy-two is?”

  The woman smiled in recognition.

  “It’s that one there,” said the woman, extending a bony finger in the direction of a bay-fronted house with a lavender door.

  “Thanks. Are you—”

  “Yes,” hissed the woman edgily.

  “See you there!” said Amy, pulling on the handbrake and grabbing her bag.

  The woman scuttled across the road in front of Amy without looking back. Anyone would think she was heading into a Gamblers Anonymous meeting by the way she was behaving.