by Frances Pye
The nurse pulled a roll of paper over the table, handed Jules a blue throwaway gown, and gestured at a screen placed across one corner of the room. “If you could get undressed and put this on, please. Take everything off. Dr. Cotton will be with you in a minute.” With that she left, closing the door behind her.
Jules took off her favorite navy designer suit, which she’d worn for luck, slipped out of her Italian silk underwear, and put on the large, stiff paper gown. She held the two edges of it together behind her, walked to the table, and perched on the edge. She tried to look away but couldn’t stop staring at the stirrups. The dish. The speculum. The reality of the place was hitting her hard. She was desperate for a baby, but this was so…crude. So businesslike. So unromantic.
She thought she’d grasped what the words “sperm bank” implied. But she hadn’t. Not really. Not until she’d been faced with the boys outside, the room here, the implements of Dr. Cotton’s trade. She was proposing to have a stranger, a complete stranger, father her child. She’d never know anything about him apart from the barest medical details. Never know what he looked like, never be able to search for him in her baby, never know what part of her child was her genetic heritage, what part his.
The door swung open to admit the nurse, followed by a middle-aged man in an expensive three-piece suit. He was perfectly turned out, with matching tie and handkerchief, monogrammed cuff links, silk socks, and handmade shoes.
“Miss Dunne?” He held out his hand. “Hello. I’m Dr. Cotton.”
“Hello.”
The nurse handed the doctor a buff-colored file and he flipped it open. Inside, Jules could see the questionnaire she had filled out. “So you want a baby? Well, good, babies, that’s our business. I see you were tested for fertility some years ago, but I need to examine you, make sure there’s no new problem. Take some blood, check your hormone levels. Then we can talk about arrangements, times, what you need to do to prepare. Okay? If you’d just lie down here…”
Jules stared at him as he went to the bottom end of the table, positioned himself between the stirrups, and turned on a small light that was on the end of a flexible steel arm.
“Miss Dunne? If you could lie down, put your feet in the stirrups?”
Jules didn’t move. Her fists were clenched, her nails biting into her palms, her body as stiff and unyielding as the cold, metal speculum the doctor now held in his hands.
“Are you all right, Miss Dunne?”
Jules burst into tears. She wanted a baby so much. But not here, in such a cold sterile environment, with the father a person she’d never met and the doctor a dispassionate, workaday man whose prosaic attitude was better suited to giving her an enema than a baby. There was no love, no romance, no beauty here. “I’m sorry. I can’t do it. I can’t. Not like this.”
twelve
Sean tugged at his collar, took a deep breath, and walked onto the stage. Lily, dressed in jeans and a sweatshirt, her thick mane still slightly damp, was standing talking to a striking woman with shoulder-length white-blond hair. It was the wrap party for We Can Work It Out. An hour before, the cavernous studio had been filled with the audience’s laughter. Now the seats were empty and the stage, with its sets of reception desk, juice bar, treadmills, and dance studio, was filled with cast and crew and caterers.
It was the first time Lily had asked Sean to meet any of her friends or colleagues and he was nervous. Terrified, in fact. He was desperate to make a good impression, to make Lily’s friends and, through them, Lily think well of him. They’d been going out for the last month and she’d changed his life. Seeing her had helped him to stop thinking about the boys all the time, to put his troubles aside for an hour or two and concentrate on her.
He crossed the stage, stopping only to pick up a glass of red wine and take a quick gulp on the way. He came up behind Lily and laid his hand on her shoulder, gently caressing her. She looked up at him and grinned. He bent down to give her a quick kiss.
“I thought you’d got lost. Here, this is Jules. Jules, Sean.”
“Hello.”
“Hi. It’s good to meet you at last. Lily’s told me a lot about you.”
“Oh.”
“I better mingle. See you guys later.” Lily moved off to join some other cast members who were huddled in a group, gossiping.
Sean tried hard to think of something interesting to talk about. And came up empty. At first sight, he’d been impressed by Jules’s cool good looks. Then he’d heard her voice. Only a childhood of Norland nannies, exclusive finishing schools, and lots and lots of money bought a voice like that. What on earth did he have to say to a woman like her?
“Did you see the show?” Jules asked.
“No.” Was that the best he could do?
“It was one of Lily’s finest. She’s an amazing writer, don’t you think?”
“Yes.” Useless.
Jules smiled. “Do you say anything other than yes or no?”
“Yes, I mean, of course. I just…Excuse me. Nice to meet you.” Deeply embarrassed, Sean shuffled off to the other side of the stage.
Mara came over to Jules. “Is that him?”
“Yes. Lucky Lily. All that and shy too.”
“He looks nice. Kind.”
“Mara, Mara, Mara. Open your eyes. He’s not nice. He’s gorgeous.”
SEAN HUGGED the side of the juice-bar set, trying hard to look as if he were enjoying a moment’s respite before plunging back into the party. In reality, he was standing by himself because he’d mucked it up. His nerves had gotten the better of him. After his monosyllabic disaster with Jules, he’d been introduced to all of the cast, most of the crew, and Lily’s friend Mara and he’d not done much better with any of them.
He gazed around the room. Everyone looked happy chatting to someone else: Lily was laughing with her production manager, Raymond; Charlie and Nick, her two producers, seemed to be attempting to drink the bar dry; Jules and Mara were with a small, redheaded woman wearing an extraordinary pale-green, black, and ecru 1920s dress, and there was a tall, thin, sulky-looking teenage boy hanging about in the far corner. He looked as uncomfortable as Sean felt. Poor kid.
Sean strolled over to him. “You look like you’re hating it as much as me.”
“Stupid bloody party. Don’t know why Mam made me come.”
“I don’t even have that excuse.” Paul looked puzzled. “No one forced me to come,” Sean explained. “I’m here all of my own accord.”
“If I was grown up, no way I’d be within a million miles of here.”
“I know. You’re right. I’m a real fool.”
Paul looked at Sean speculatively. Then decided that this wasn’t a trick. “Yeah.” He grinned.
TERRY HAD had Sean pointed out to her by Jules and Mara the moment she arrived. Now she was amazed to see him deep in conversation with Paul, who was smiling and chatting away as if he were an ordinary good-tempered, talkative child rather than the teenager from hell. And he’d been like that for at least ten minutes. Desperate to find out what Lily’s latest’s secret was, Terry walked over to them.
“You really think we’ll make it this time?” Paul asked.
“Sure. The manager’s learned from last time. We’ve all learned. Wait and see. In May we’ll all be looking back on a successful season in the Premiership.”
“What’s it like, you know, at the Valley?”
“Great. Like you’ve come home. I can’t describe it.”
“I’ve only seen the stadium on TV. I wish I could go.”
“Go where?” Terry asked.
Paul’s eager, smiling face collapsed back into its habitual scowl as he spun around to face his mother. “Nowhere,” he snapped, then stomped off.
Terry watched her son wend his way through the guests to find a quiet spot safe and uncontaminated by his mother. She turned to Sean. “God, I’m sorry. I ought to have left you alone. It’s the first time he’s said more than two mumbled words to anyone over the age of fifteen
for months.”
Sean smiled down at the woman he’d seen talking to Mara and Jules. Her pretty face, her soft, Liverpool-accented voice, and her disarming candor made him realize that there was no need to be nervous about talking to her. “Having a hard time with him?”
“Are they all like this?”
“So they say. I certainly was.”
“And me. Oh, no, this is a punishment for the way I was at his age. If only I’d been nicer to my grandmother…”
“I think I detect a Catholic upbringing.”
“You too?”
“Yeah.”
“No matter how much I deny it, it’s always there, even though I left years ago and I hate the whole idea of it. Oh, shit. I’ve put my foot in it, haven’t I? You’re still going, aren’t you?”
Sean was tempted to tell Terry about the boys and his recent attempt to make a pact with God. Something made him want to confide in her despite the fact that he didn’t even know her name. He was close to opening his mouth and pouring it all out, but he held back. She wouldn’t want to hear all that stuff. “Not really,” he said.
Terry glanced over at Paul, huddled in his corner on the far side of the stage. “What’s your secret?”
“Nothing. I like kids. They like me. I don’t know. Don’t panic, he’ll get over it soon enough. You’re a parent. You’re embarrassing. That’s all it is.”
Terry was sure it was a bit more complicated than that but she wasn’t going to tell this guy all her problems, nice though he was. “So what were you talking about?”
“Football. We’re both Charlton supporters.”
“Oh. Right.”
“He said his dad supported them.”
Terry felt the familiar guilt tug at her. Finn hadn’t known what shape a football was, let alone anything about Charlton Athletic. Then something else hit her; Paul had mentioned Finn for the first time since he died. That jerk Wallace had been right; Paul did need male company. If a few minutes at a party with this guy could make him open up this much, what would a real relationship with an adult man do for him?
“He talked about his dad?”
“Yes.”
“Only Finn died a few months ago and Paul hasn’t mentioned him to anyone since.”
“I’m sorry. That must have been hard.”
Terry didn’t know how to answer him. Whether to tell the truth or let it go. So she changed the subject. “Is that where he wanted to go? Charlton?”
“Yeah.”
“Maybe I should let him. I guess I’m being too protective, but, you know, football….”
“It’s not like the eighties. I go every time they’re playing at home and I haven’t seen a fight in years.”
“I don’t know. He’s still very young. To be going alone…”
Sean looked over at Paul, still holed up in his corner, and had a glimpse of himself at that age. Prickly and tongue-tied, still not comfortable in his own skin, he had come to life at the Valley, where he’d been able to forget his shyness and cheer for Charlton. “Umm, I suppose I could take him. If you like?” After all, why not? Paul seemed like a nice kid and Sean wasn’t going to be taking his own sons.
“You wouldn’t want to do that, would you?”
“I’d be going anyway. Besides, all the kids now are Manchester United crazy. It’s great to meet a teenager who cares about a local team. And he says he’s never been.”
Terry watched her son glowering at them from the other side of the set. Maybe a treat like this would cheer him up a bit. Make him easier to live with. “Are you sure?”
“Course. It’s no big deal. Honestly. I’ll call you when I can get tickets.”
“Thank you. Thank you. You’re a real star. I’m Terry, by the way.”
“The third musketeer.” Terry raised a dark red eyebrow at this. “Lily’s three friends. Jules, Mara, and you.”
“Oh.”
“I’m Sean. I’m…I’m seeing Lily.”
“Hi, Sean.” She held out her hand and smiled. He seemed much nicer than any of Lily’s others. Terry supposed he’d be for the chop soon enough, but she couldn’t help hoping he and Lily would last for a bit so he could deliver on his promise to take Paul to Charlton.
JULES SAT on one of the stools at the juice-bar set, alone for a moment amid the noise and laughter. She’d done well, she thought. No one there had any idea of just how miserable she was. It wouldn’t have been fair to Lily to droop through the evening. And she could wait to talk to her friends about her problem; tomorrow or the day after would be soon enough.
But she couldn’t help thinking about it herself. Of the cold, bleak, workaday sperm bank. Of her instinctive refusal of its services. And of where she could go from there. Of course, there was always the Internet, but she didn’t like the sound of that. Yes, she’d have a picture of the donor, but as Lily had said, who could guarantee that the website was telling the truth? Besides, how was she supposed to conceive? Inseminate herself? Or get one of her friends to help with a piece of kitchen equipment? Jules didn’t know whether to laugh or scream at the mental pictures that idea conjured up. It was definitely the very, very last resort. No, Mara was right. She was going to have to look for a donor. And one who would be prepared to give his sperm without wanting anything in return. Except perhaps for a bit of simple sex. Jules wouldn’t say no to that.
It had been a long time since she’d been to bed with anyone and she did miss making love. But she wasn’t interested in becoming a nuclear family, a mother-father couple. Or in the power games and risk of further abuse that went with all that. Regardless of what Terry might say, Jules was determined to do this on her own.
She started to make a mental checklist of her requirements. She needed a man who was interested in someone else and thus unlikely to fall for her. A man who would be prepared to do her a favor but who was not on the lookout for a relationship. And who wouldn’t expect to have contact with the child. She’d have to be clear about that from the start. This baby was to be hers.
The donor would need to be a proven breeder. Preferably, she would like someone who was reasonably good-looking. If she was going to go to bed with a man, she might as well find him attractive. Besides, one of the how-to-get-pregnant books she had read years ago had said orgasm was supposed to aid conception. And there was little chance of that if the man was a Quasimodo. Plus, she’d like there to be a better than even chance that her baby would be pretty or handsome. There was no harm in trying to get it right….
She gazed across the room to where half-drunken producer Charlie was trying to persuade Lily to write another series of the show. No, not him. Too single. Too tough. Her eyes carried on skipping over the male guests, trying to imagine one of them as her donor. It was difficult. There was a problem with every one of them. Too annoying. Too ugly. Too hard. She attempted to fantasize about a couple of the marginal ones but got stuck at the point where she asked them for their sperm. Then, her eyes lit on Sean.
Sean. Was he a possibility? She conjured up fantasy images of him naked. She could definitely go to bed with him. But what about Lily? Would she mind? After all, she only wanted a bit of Sean for herself. And it wasn’t as if Jules intended to steal him. All she needed was a few milligrams of sperm. With luck and a friendly ovulation test, no more than one or two nights. Well, she could only ask.
But first, the most important question. Jules walked over to Sean, who was propping up the reception desk, listening to Lily finish her conversation with Charlie.
“Hi.”
“Hi.”
Jules thought about how to bring up the subject of children. Mentally, she tried out various hopelessly clumsy opening gambits and then had an inspiration. “Have you met the girls?” she asked, pointing at Moo and Tilly, happily playing on the gym equipment.
“Yes.” Keen to recover lost ground, Sean cast about for something that would keep the conversation going. “They’re very cute,” he managed.
“Aren’t they. Do you
have any kids?”
“Yes. I did. I mean, I do.”
“That’s nice.” Jules smiled. This was looking better and better.
thirteen
It was four in the morning. Sean woke to find himself alone in bed. “Lily?” he asked softly. He looked around her bedroom. It was all about self-indulgence. Rich velvet; warm, age-polished wood; deep, thick carpet. The bed itself had been Lily’s greatest extravagance. She had slept on one like it in the Four Seasons Hotel in Los Angeles and had immediately bought one for herself, mattress, Daz-white linens, duvet, and all. Sean loved that about her, that ability to decide what she wanted and go for it. Just like she had with him.
LILY HAD had trouble sleeping ever since she’d first had the kids. Something to do with the acquired habit of waking in the night. When alone, she’d just read for a while or watch TV and eventually drift back to sleep. With Sean there, she had got up and was in her study, in the middle of the latest Martin Amis.
Sean stood in the doorway, watching her curled up in the deep armchair by the fireplace, her feet tucked underneath her, needing to keep them warm despite the sticky summer night. He smiled at the sight of her.
“I missed you.” Sean’s deep voice echoed through the late-night room.
Lily jumped. “I didn’t see you there.”
“Sorry.” Sean walked over to kneel in front of Lily. “You weren’t in bed.”
“I couldn’t sleep.”
“You should’ve woken me.”
“Why would I do that?”
“So I could keep you company.”
“I’m not that cruel.”
“I’d have liked it. We could’ve talked.”
“You were asleep. And I wanted to read.”
“I was worried about you.”
