Atlantic Shift

by Emily Barr

  Above all, I must concentrate on my surroundings. Deflecting all talk about myself, on all but the most shallow levels, and surrounding myself with other people is the only way I can preserve the appearance of sanity. This is a disastrous time to crack up, and I cannot allow myself to do it.

  Ron Thomas is more or less as I’d expected. He knows about minor celebrity himself, as he appears regularly on television drumming up business for his clinic, and commenting on any fertility-related story in the news. He looks younger than Guy, but I know he’s the same age. Without a doubt, he goes to the gym before six thirty every morning, and I’m sure that if you added up the cost of everything he’s wearing the total would be more than five thousand pounds. He has a suspicious head of hair: it is too full, and too black. His skin is smooth, and his frameless glasses have ‘Armani’ written subtly along one arm. Given how much Kate and Ian have already paid him, I’m surprised he’s not dressed even more ostentatiously. Given what Guy said, I’m also surprised he’s not waited on by an army of Ron Thomas clones, oozing their charm in unison.

  His clinic, however, is a lot smarter than I had imagined. I knew it was going to be posh, but I never expected a five-star hotel. We came up a mile-long drive to reach the building, which nestles in landscaped parkland, and I even saw a couple of deer in the distance. I drove the hire car, with Kate next to me, reaching back to clasp Ian’s hand. I find driving in America to be something of a compulsion, and insisted that I should be the only named driver when we made the rental. Being in control of a vehicle gives me a responsibility. I know I won’t fall to pieces at the wheel. The worst I could do is point the car west and keep going until I hit the Pacific. From one ocean to another: the temptation occasionally feels overwhelming, and I will probably do it one day, when I am least expecting it.

  The house is grand and luxurious. It is furnished with plush dark red carpets that cover my ankles. The walls are cream and white, and bear expensive-looking, exquisitely tasteful canvases. Some are traditional landscapes. Others are contemporary and abstract. All of them are perfectly chosen. Black-and-white photographs of smiling babies grace the reception area, and a noticeboard in there is filled with thank-you cards. I looked at a few of them, and they all say, essentially, the same thing. Thank you for bringing our child into the world. This man is, in certain circles, a demigod. I wonder whether Elizabeth’s new parents have ever wanted to send a card like that to me.

  Ron leads us into a sitting room, which is furnished like an English gentlemen’s club, and motions for me to sit in an armchair. I sink down into the cushions.

  ‘Won’t be long,’ he says, as he leads Kate and Ian away. ‘You just make yourself at home. There’s coffee and tea over there.’ He motions towards a varnished table which bears a coffee machine, a kettle, and tea bags from across the spectrum, as well as a huge plate of Danish pastries. ‘Help yourself. Please eat the pastries. We throw away so many of them, because I make my patients follow a strict diet. I’m sure Kate has familiarised you with that.’

  Kate winces. ‘Evie knows all about it. So does everyone else I know.’

  ‘But Evie’s not planning assisted reproduction any time soon, is she?’ he asks, and I shake my head with a little laugh. ‘So you go right ahead. Eat them all, make my day. Now, Mrs Dawson. Let’s get you pregnant.’

  I sit back in the leather chair, and look around the room. This place is eerily quiet. The only person we have seen has been the frighteningly well-groomed receptionist. She was beginning to page Ron when he turned up, professing to be absolutely delighted to see us. He is American in all but accent. He has certainly come a long way from being the class swot at Bristol University’s medical school.

  I stand up suddenly. It could be Megan writing to me. The letters started soon after I moved into her flat. I don’t know her well enough to know why she could be doing it. Now I have insulted her, God only knows what she might do.

  I hate being alone. It makes my mind run wild. I walk to the wide French windows, and look out on to the lawns. They are, of course, immaculate. There is a cedar tree, whose branches make gentle horizontal lines against the pale blue sky. There are immaculate beds of daffodils.

  If someone was following me, waiting to get me on my own, he could be behind the tree. He could be behind the door. I have no idea in which room Kate’s treatment is taking place, and apart from that the clinic appears to be empty. Quickly, I pour myself a coffee, put an apricot Danish on to a small plate, and head back towards the reception area.

  In fact I am certain I am not being stalked by a stranger. I’m certain that it’s someone I already know. This doesn’t make it any less scary.

  The blonde woman looks round, startled. ‘Hi there,’ she says, when she sees me. ‘May I help you?’

  ‘No,’ I say, and see confusion passing across her face.

  ‘Didn’t Ron show you to the drawing room?’ she asks, beginning to stand up.

  ‘No, it’s fine. He did. But if you don’t mind, I’d rather sit in reception. I’m sorry. I just - it’s hard to explain.’ I realise how strange I must appear. ‘I’d appreciate some company, that’s all. I’m not very good at being on my own at the moment.’

  She smiles, her professionalism restored. ‘Sure. I see you have refreshments. Help yourself to a magazine.’

  I pick one up from the top of the pile. It is called Ceramics Monthly. That will do.

  While I drink and eat, covering the front of my sweater in flaky pastry as I do so, I take sneaky glances at the receptionist. She is older than she initially appears. At first I thought she was twenty-six, but in fact she’s more likely to be forty-two. She, like Ron, has had cosmetic surgery. Her hair, like so many American women’s hair, is immaculate, and Barbie-blonde. She has it arranged in a chignon. She’s wearing a uniform: a dark red jacket with a white blouse. I am certain that, under the desk, she has a short red skirt, perfect legs, and high heels. She’s like a flight attendant.

  ‘Nice baby photos,’ I say, gesturing to the wall.

  She smiles. ‘I’m pleased you like them. They went up recently. I wondered whether it could be seen as insensitive by couples who are experiencing troubles, but Ron decided it was inspirational.’

  ‘Are they all babies conceived here?’

  ‘They sure are.’

  ‘Wow. How long have you worked here?’ I am desperate to force a proper conversation on this woman.

  ‘Me?’ she says. ‘Oh, I’ve been here for four years now. I met Ron through his partner, Anneka. She’s one of my best girlfriends. We were at beauty school together. When this post came vacant, Anneka tipped me off.’ She smiles, checking whether she’s answered my question.

  ‘I think I should go to beauty school myself,’ I say, looking down at the crumbs on my black jumper.

  ‘Oh, honey, you are so pretty. Look at you, you’re practically a model, and you’re on the TV every day. If there was one thing, perhaps I’d get your nails seen to.’ She holds out her own nails, which are long red talons. I look down at mine. I file them every few days, and usually paint them with a clear varnish, but that’s as far as I go. I don’t let my eyebrows out of control for a moment, but nails have never been something I’ve bothered about. In my line of work, nails are functional.

  ‘The trouble with nails, for me,’ I explain, ‘is that I have to have them short. Yours are beautiful,’ I lie, ‘but I just couldn’t do that. I wouldn’t be able to play.’ I make a face that is supposed to be self-deprecating.

  ‘Hmmmm.’ She gestures to me to come closer. I walk over to her, and she picks up my hand. ‘You see, I hear what you’re saying, but, honey, you should still visit a salon. Look at these cuticles. They’re ragged. I’m afraid it’s the only word that fits. Give one of the girls at my salon five minutes with your hands, and you’ll be a new woman. I have the card in my purse. Take it. You should have a pedicure at the same time.’

  This woman cannot even see my feet. Yet clearly she knows about the ha
rd skin and the chipped varnish. I usually get a pedicure when spring arrives and the open-toed sandals come out. New York is much sunnier than London was. That day is almost here.

  It is relaxing to be making small talk about inconsequential trivia with someone who has never met me before. I need to try to do more of this.

  ‘How long are you with us in New York, Evie?’ she asks, and I pull up a chair.

  ‘I don’t know,’ I say, with a smile. ‘My father lives here, you see, and I kind of like it. Of course, everyone loves New York. As long as I have my cello, it doesn’t matter that much where I am. I’m going to stay for a few weeks, for sure. I’m playing at Lincoln Center in three weeks. Kate and Ian will be around for a while too, won’t they?’

  ‘Sure they will. Ron doesn’t advise patients to travel by air in the weeks following implantation.’

  ‘And I have people to see here too. My album is out.’

  The receptionist beams. ‘Oh, I know! I saw it in the store, and I made sure to buy it because Ron said you were Kate’s friend. And here you are! We never thought we would actually meet you. I haven’t listened to it yet but I just know I’m going to love it. I don’t mind saying, it is a bit different for me - I’m normally an R. Kelly kind of girl.’

  ‘Thank you for buying it. That means a lot.’ A thrill runs through me. If I can pick up the R. Kelly market, I will have a Malibu beach house next year. But then again, the receptionist only bought mine because she had a connection with me. At least it was in the shop. The store.

  The phone rings, and my new friend mouths, ‘Excuse me,’ and picks it up with the words, ‘Aurora speaking?’ Then she laughs.

  ‘Yes, Ron, she’s right here.’ She turns to me. ‘They thought they’d lost you! Apparently poor little Ian is worried. I guess he knew you didn’t like being alone, honey!’

  I stand up. ‘Is it done, then?’

  ‘It is. Kate is resting. She will rest here for a couple of days now, as you know. I think she’d like to see you now.’

  I replace my copy of Ceramics Monthly, having learned nothing whatsoever about its subject, and turn to head back down the corridor. Aurora stops me.

  ‘They’ll come for you, honey,’ she says. ‘You don’t know where you’re going, do you? And remember! Cuticles!’

  I nod, obediently. Cuticles it is.

  Kate is lying back in a beautiful double bed, wearing the negligée we picked out yesterday in Bloomingdales. She looks flushed and happy.

  Ron and Ian stand back to let me into the room first, and I hurry to her bedside and kiss her.

  ‘Hey!’ she says, beaming. ‘Whatever happens next, I’m pregnant now!’

  ‘Congratulations!’ I say. ‘How do you feel?’

  ‘Kate,’ says Ron Thomas, sternly, ‘you know I don’t encourage you to think or talk that way. You’re not technically pregnant. A test would come up negative. We don’t know whether any of the embryos will implant. If this didn’t work - and you know I am highly optimistic that it will, given your age and health - then I would like you to see it as an attempt that was unlucky, and not as a miscarriage.’

  I look at Kate anxiously, before remembering that she has suffered far worse knockbacks than this mild telling-off. She smiles at Ron.

  ‘Sorry, sir. But you must admit I am hosting three tiny little babies.’

  ‘Three tiny little embryos.’

  ‘Potential babies.’

  ‘Indeed; they have enormous potential.’

  She looks at me, triumphant. ‘See?’

  I glance around. It’s a large room, light and airy. I assume that the door leads to an en suite bathroom. The long windows give a view on to the parkland, with those deer visible among some trees about half a mile away. I give it a quick scan, just in case. There is no evidence of shady characters lurking.

  ‘Nice pad,’ I say to Ron.

  ‘I’m pleased you like it,’ he replies, courteously.

  ‘I’m quite jealous of Kate, actually, getting to sleep here. It makes me want IVF myself. Does it matter that I’m single?’

  He smiles, that fake smile again. ‘Not a jot. We have many techniques which could help you. This does make for an expensive hotel, but I’m sure a girl with your earning capacity can afford it.’

  I see Kate and Ian exchanging glances. I know they are worried about the fact that they now have no assets whatsoever, and I decide that as soon as Ron has gone I will offer them a further contribution.

  Ian looks over to Ron, who is standing with me at the window. For a second I consider Ian as a suspect. Of course it’s not him. I smile at my paranoia, and rule it out.

  ‘Ron, did we ever mention our friend Guy to you?’ he asks.

  ‘Evie’s friend more than ours,’ Kate interjects nervously.

  Ron looks at me questioningly. ‘Guy?’ he asks, and I study his face for recognition.

  ‘My flatmate’s boyfriend,’ I tell him, and wonder whether I see him relax slightly. ‘“Boyfriend” is really the wrong word,’ I add. ‘He’s a million years older than she is. It’s a strange relationship - we fell out because of it. Or rather, because I was ungracious about it. He’s a friend of my family’s, in Bristol. He knows you from medical school. Guy Chapman.’

  All three of us watch his reaction. He is a professional: he regains his cool almost instantaneously, and I wonder whether the others notice the flicker that crosses his face. For a second he looks astonished, and horrified. It is exactly the same reaction that Guy had when I told him Ron’s name, but it is covered up even faster.

  ‘Guy Chapman?’ he muses. ‘You know, I think I do remember him. He wasn’t one of my immediate crowd. Liked a drink?’

  I nod. ‘That’ll be him.’

  ‘And you say he’s involved with your flatmate? Is she your age? I assume your flatmate is a she?’

  Ian laughs, and I smile. ‘Oh yes. Megan’s younger than I am, actually, but they both seem happy.’ I have no desire to start talking about Megan. I haven’t even told Kate and Ian, yet, that we’ve moved out of the flat. Let alone anything else that has gone on.

  ‘Guy had a girlfriend when we were at college,’ Ron says, and I notice him watching me intently. ‘I assumed they were going to get married. Her name was . . .’ He casts around for it, so elaborately that I know he is pretending. ‘Marianne! That was it. Guy and Marianne. Lovely girl, Marianne. Do you know what became of her?’

  ‘No idea,’ I say. ‘But he was married, I know that. His wife died. I don’t know her name. My mum knew her.’

  Ron shrugs. ‘I do hope it wasn’t the beautiful Marianne. Would I have known your mother, Evie? What was her maiden name?’

  ‘I doubt it. She never said, and she knows Kate and Ian are having treatment with you. Her name was Anna Shaw.’

  He shakes his head. ‘You’re right, she must have been after my time. What a small world it is, all the same. Bristol. That takes me back.’

  He flashes a bright smile at us, and we know that it’s time to change the subject.

  Ian and I leave Kate to the attentions of the Babylove Clinic, and I drive him into Manhattan. I chat inanely all the way, to keep my mind occupied. I am uncomfortable being alone in a car with any man, so I baffle Ian by telling him about the New York Philharmonic Orchestra and the first rehearsal I’ll have with them, in a couple of weeks. I give him far too much detail about anything I can think of.

  I make a long detour to ensure that we arrive via the Brooklyn Bridge.

  ‘There it is,’ I say happily, gesturing to the island. ‘The Manhattan skyline.’ The clouds that were hovering lightly earlier have dispersed, and the sky is now pale blue and absolutely clear. For a moment I can barely breathe. This city is magical.

  ‘You sound like a true New Yorker showing the sights to the silly British tourist,’ he observes.

  ‘No, just two silly British tourists caring about their first sight of the city. A true New Yorker would be far more insouciant. If you say a word about the twi
n towers being missing you’ll blow our native cover for good.’

  ‘Oh, Evie,’ he says, ‘you’ll be a New Yorker before you know it.’

  I look at him sideways, then swiftly readjust my gaze to the road as a taxi approaches from a slip road and blasts a long hoot at me for not getting out of the way. ‘What do you mean?’ I ask, when I have negotiated the crisis.

  ‘Nice one. Most girls I know would never drive here. Where are you parking?’

  I smile. ‘At Howard’s office. We can ditch the car there and go for a drink. He’ll take it home for me tomorrow. But what did you mean? I’m a Londoner.’

  ‘Not a happy one, though.’

  ‘What?’ I am startled.

  ‘You seem determined to get away from Jack. Surely you will also want to get away from the city where you lived together? You call it moving on, I know, but it could also be seen as running away.’

  ‘That’s not true,’ I tell him defensively. ‘I’m just sorting my life out.’

  ‘Whatever you call it, Jack’s afraid you’ll stay here for good. You have it made out here. No one could blame you.’

  ‘What else does Jack say?’

  We are heading uptown along Bowery. Abruptly, at the last minute, I turn left along East Houston. I love this part of town, this mix of seedy garages and slightly scary groups of people, with fashionable bars and galleries. ‘Howard’s office is this way, I’m sure it is,’ I say, before Ian has answered me. ‘Tell me if you see it.’

  Ian grabs the armrest between us as a cyclist with a loud stereo on his handlebars gives me the finger. ‘I don’t know what it looks like.’

  ‘You’re no good then. It’s called H and D Telecom.’

  ‘I know about the letters,’ Ian says suddenly. I look at him, but he is staring straight ahead. It is strange to see the shadow of Jack on his features. I consider, again, whether Ian could be writing to me. I very much doubt it, but I don’t feel that I can rule anyone out.