At Your Beck & Call

by Jane Harvey-Berrick

  Sian had cut me off completely. I felt sad because I’d known her a long time, but the way she’d spoken to Hallen—and the message she’d left on my answer machine afterwards—well, I was really angry with her.

  I missed him. I missed his smile, I missed his laughter, and God, I missed the way he’d looked at me—so full of desire that my whole body would throb with pleasure. That was before he’d laid a finger on me. Making love—I mean sex—the sex with him had been amazing. I’d never known such heights of pleasure. I hadn’t realized the responses that my body was capable of. He’d become my addiction, and now I was going cold turkey without him.

  Every time I saw a tall man with blond hair, I’d look twice, hoping it was him. It never was.

  Eventually, after two long weeks with no news, I telephoned Eloise. I couldn’t think of any other way of finding out how he was. I was sure he was fine—his silence had certainly been final—but still, I wondered.

  She’d been surprised when I said we’d broken up. More than that, I think she was disappointed. When I told her what had happened, when I could finally bring myself to admit why we’d broken up, she was angry, telling me that I was a fool.

  “And if you think Hallen will be over you so easily, then you’re a blind fool as well,” she snapped. “I’ve known him a long time and I’ve never, never seen him with anyone the way he was with you.”

  Then she ranted for several minutes, but as it was in French, I didn’t know what she was saying, but I certainly got the message. When she’d finished yelling, she promised to find out how he was.

  I waited anxiously for her call, but it was two days before she got back to me. She simply said he was upset and that she was looking after him. That was all.

  I wasn’t sure what she meant by ‘looking after him’, but I supposed she meant taking care of him like a friend.

  She was restrained when she spoke to me, which made me feel worse, but I was hurt, too. I’d known her far longer than she’d known Hallen, and we’d been through a lot together. I was hurt that she’d taken sides, although a small part of me acknowledged that I could have done more to bridge the growing distance between Eloise and myself.

  But when she sent me an email with the date of his exhibition after New Year’s, I sent her a message back saying that I was unable to go. I couldn’t just turn up as if nothing had happened. I couldn’t.

  I missed him.

  I missed him so much. But I felt that I didn’t have the right to interfere any further in his life. We were never meant to be, no matter how much I’d begun to believe it could work between us. The look of disgust on Maggie’s face had shaken me to my core. I couldn’t, couldn’t have my daughter look at me like that.

  But the days seemed very empty.

  I carried on with my volunteer work listening to children read at the elementary school, and I carried on going to my book club. When the girls there asked me about him, as they always did, I made some noncommittal comments and eventually they stopped asking.

  And then I found I was pregnant. My world fell apart.

  It started with what I thought was a bout of stomach flu. When that didn’t subside and I still felt queasy, I thought it was something that I’d eaten. I cleared everything out of the refrigerator and stayed in bed for two days. It was only when I was still feeling nauseous a week later that I checked the calendar and realized that not only was my period two weeks late, I’d completely missed, ignored or forgotten the one prior to that.

  My first assumption was that I’d started menopause. I was nearly 49 after all, so that seemed like the obvious reason, but then a quiet voice whispered another suggestion. It seemed impossible that I could be pregnant. Completely impossible. But I remembered that for the first time, we hadn’t used protection that night. Our last night together.

  Hallen had fucked me against the wall of my living room and God, I’d wanted it. Seeing him so aroused, thrusting into me ruthlessly, I’d come so hard I almost passed out. Then we’d spent the night making love. Neither of us had mentioned the fact that he wasn’t using condoms. I hadn’t cared and he probably thought I was protected.

  I don’t know what either of us were thinking that crazy, wonderful, amazing night.

  But finding that I was pregnant, single, alone, and a couple of months from my 49th birthday completely terrified me. I had no clue what I was supposed to do. I was in denial for the first two weeks after my doctor had confirmed that I was carrying a child and was 10 weeks pregnant. He’d sent me from his office with a bunch of leaflets on ‘healthcare for the older mom’, as well as a list of vitamin supplements that I should take, advice to rest as much as possible, and a schedule of bi-monthly appointments that would last throughout the pregnancy.

  I knew I had to tell Hallen, but I was terrified of his reaction. I couldn’t face another rejection and the doctor told me I needed to avoid stress. Telling my 29-year-old ex-lover that I was knocked up was definitely on my list of stressful things to do. And yes, I knew I was being a coward. I convinced myself that I was putting the baby’s welfare first by avoiding that conversation.

  I began to prepare mentally for the arrival of my third child, even as my first was in the final year of a Masters program.

  And then.

  The day before I had promised myself that I would finally tell Hallen about the baby, I woke up with my sheets soaked in blood. I didn’t scream. I knew exactly what was happening. I phoned for an ambulance and then I phoned Joe.

  They arrived at the same time and he saw me being carried into the ambulance, still covered in blood.

  He came to the hospital and was with me when I was told that I’d lost the baby. He held my hand while the doctor calmly explained that they now needed to perform an emergency hysterectomy. And he held my hand as I was wheeled into the operating room. And even though my son was completely wonderful, it was Hallen that I was desperate to see and touch.

  When I woke up, Maggie was there. We cried together and she apologized over and over for what she’d said all those months ago. I didn’t have the words to comfort her. I felt so empty inside—my precious baby, my second chance—gone far too soon.

  My baby had been a little girl. I named her Anika, which meant ‘grace’ in Swedish. She’d clung to life for just 18 weeks.

  And my stupid, stupid pride had cost me Hallen. I should have called him. I should have told him that I wanted him in my life. I should have told him we’d made a child together. I should have done so many things differently.

  I should have told him that I loved him.

  Jack had visited, quietly taking charge of the hospital bills and insurance claims. He didn’t know what to say to me, so we just stared at each other across the room.

  Eventually, he said he needed to get back to Yasmine and his family. He couldn’t bring himself to say the word ‘child’, and I was grateful for that. He kissed my cheek and said, “I’m sorry.”

  I wasn’t sure what he was apologizing for: for having an affair, for walking out on 26 years of marriage, or because I’d lost my child.

  But he said it, so that was something.

  Maggie insisted on moving back in with me. For those first two days, she did all the practical things that needed doing—helping me wash, preparing meals. Joe visited twice a day and held my hand and talked quietly to me. Mostly about ordinary things, and what he’d been doing—undemanding trivia that he knew would soothe me.

  But on the third day he was unnaturally quiet.

  And then he said, “I think you should tell him, Mom.”

  I was confused at first. “Tell who, what?”

  “You should tell Hallen. About the baby.”

  I shook my head. “There’s no point.”

  He looked down before raising his head and meeting my eyes. “He has a right to know.”

  My stomach lurched and my empty womb ached. Oh. I didn’t have a womb anymore. My phantom womb ached for my phantom child.

  I shook my head again
. “There’s nothing to know,” I said. “Not anymore.”

  “I’d want to know,” he said.

  He looked like he had more to say, but I closed my eyes and he changed the topic.

  Later that evening he said to me, “I went to see his show at the gallery.”

  “Oh.”

  “I have the exhibition catalogue, if you want to see it.”

  “Maybe later.”

  “I think you should.”

  “We’ll see.”

  Day five. Five days after leaving that dreadful hospital.

  My children had been wonderful, and even Jack had been helpful, although emotional support wasn’t something I’d ever been able to expect from him. But he’d helped, and I was grateful.

  I’d been crying again. What a surprise.

  The hospital had telephoned to see what I wanted to do—with Anika. I was horrified to learn that most fetuses below 20 weeks of age were handled as medical waste.

  No. Not for my precious, lost baby.

  I contacted a funeral home who agreed to organize a cremation ceremony at the end of the week. They would deal directly with the hospital for the transfer of her tiny, unfinished body.

  So I’d been crying when Joe knocked on my bedroom door.

  I was surprised to see him so early in the day. I don’t know, maybe Maggie had called him, bored by my constant tears.

  He made me shower and fixed me some tea and toast.

  We sat in the kitchen, him drinking coffee, me sipping my tea. He looked uncomfortable. Maybe he was tired of my tears, too. I knew I was.

  Our complete lack of conversation was interrupted by a knock at the front door.

  “I don’t want to see anyone,” I intoned, robotically.

  He wasn’t surprised. I hadn’t wanted to see anyone for weeks—not since my baby bump had started to show.

  “I’ll get it,” he said, almost running from the kitchen.

  I heard his muted voice from the hallway but I couldn’t tell who he was talking to. I didn’t care much either.

  He was tentative when he came back.

  “It’s for you,” he said.

  I looked up angrily. “I told you I don’t want to see anyone!”

  The door opened more fully and an angel walked into my kitchen.

  “Laura,” he said.

  And then I couldn’t stop crying because he was there. Hallen was there, and he was holding me, and he was crying, too.

  We held each other for a long time. A long time, but never long enough.

  I clung to him, crying out every grief, every sadness, every battered dream.

  “I’m sorry,” I said, over and over again. “I lost our baby. I’m sorry.”

  And over and over again he said, “I love you. I love you. I love you.”

  And all those stupid worries and fears about not being pretty enough, not being young enough, not being good enough, they all disappeared under the weight of our mourning.

  We weren’t just mourning our child, we were mourning the life we might have had. Together. A family.

  And although I was the mother of two healthy children, I was mourning the loss of motherhood, too. And, perhaps, some essence of being a woman.

  Finally, we’d cried enough—enough for now, at least.

  We looked at each other. Really looked at each other.

  His eyes were red and tired, filled with a depth of sadness in those blue, blue eyes.

  He was a beautiful man, no doubt, but his eyes were windows to his soul. Sometimes they were shuttered and hidden, severe and hard, but now they revealed a depth of pain that was new. And I felt so horribly guilty for having put it there.

  He was thinner, too, betrayed by an increased sharpness to his profile, lines of tension around his eyes and mouth, his clothes just a shade looser than they’d been before. My fault again.

  But he was still breathtaking. I don’t think he realized how much. Obviously he knew that women were attracted to him, but he didn’t truly recognize the power he had over them.

  I remembered the first time I saw him.

  I’d met Eloise for lunch, telling her about my plans to move back to the west coast, and bemoaning the difficulties of being newly single at my age and how much I was dreading the LA dating scene. Then I’d mentioned the gallery opening Magda had invited me to, and how much I’d like to go, but didn’t want to turn up alone.

  I’d been shocked and intrigued when she told me she’d been running an escort service for a number of years.

  I’d known that she had her own business, but she’d only ever vaguely said that it was in the entertainment industry. Because she lived in LA, I’d drawn my own conclusions—very wrong ones as it turned out.

  “I have someone who will be perfect for you,” she said, with a sly smile. “He’ll take you to the gallery opening. Call it my ‘welcome back to LA’ gift.”

  I’d refused. Of course I’d refused.

  “He’s very charming,” she insisted. “And he likes art, too. His name is Hallen.”

  “That’s unusual.”

  “He’s a very unusual man,” she said.

  I didn’t know that that meant.

  “What have you got to lose?”

  What indeed?

  So I said yes. And then I spent two days and two sleepless nights worrying. I had no idea what to expect. Eloise had assured me that it was all perfectly respectable and that a number of high profile professional women used her agency. Discretion was everything. Which I didn’t quite understand, because why would discretion be needed if you were just having dinner—or going to a gallery opening?

  I’d worried about that a lot, wondering what I’d agreed to.

  A dozen times or more, I’d seriously considered canceling the date, or appointment, or whatever it was. But I didn’t.

  So I sat in the hotel lobby, nervous to the point of being sick. And then I saw the most beautiful man I’d ever seen. He walked in, looking around him, as every head turned in his direction. I knew it couldn’t be who I was waiting for. Too beautiful and much too young.

  And then he walked up to me and said my name.

  I nearly died.

  He was tall and slim, but with a promise of muscles hidden under his handmade suit. His hair was pale blond and lightly gelled into spikes. And his face. Oh, his face was beautiful—what other word is there? The angle of his cheekbones, the strength of his jaw—soft, perfectly formed lips that bowed upwards as if his smile held a secret. His skin was a flawless golden tan. He was perfect. And then I saw a faint white line along his jaw—an old scar.

  Not quite perfect. And that thought helped me to relax the tiniest amount.

  But surely this beautiful creature wasn’t going to be my escort for the evening? He smiled, and his arctic eyes warmed to a Pacific blue.

  I lost the power of speech and—honestly—I may have drooled.

  Then the vision spoke.

  “Hello, I’m Hallen. It’s good to meet you.”

  And as I hadn’t yet regained the ability to form words, we shook hands instead.

  His lips curved a little more and it was obvious that something about me amused him.

  God, I felt wretched. I must look raddled and ancient next to him. It was going to be so obvious that we weren’t really a couple. I could be his mother—his grandmother. Maybe not, but … oh God, oh God, oh God! I was ready to kill Eloise. What the hell had she gotten me into?

  And I realized I still hadn’t spoken and he was waiting for me to say something.

  “Sorry,” I managed to choke out, “but I’ve never done this before.”

  “Never been on a date? I find that hard to imagine.”

  He was definitely laughing at me, but it was so gentle that I couldn’t help smiling back.

  “Well, it’s been a while, now that you mention it.”

  Oh God! How old is he?

  “You’re younger than I was expecting.”

  He didn’t look surprised by my c
omment, but his lips twitched as if he were holding back a smile. And now I was staring at his lips! Oh, shoot me.

  “I’ll try and be older.”

  He was still charming, despite what was probably a faux pas on my side. Imagine if he turned around and asked me how old I was!

  I stuttered out a reply.

  “No, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean…”

  He leaned forward, his incredible blue eyes mesmerizing. Maybe he was a hypnotist in his spare time.

  “It’s fine. I’m teasing you.” His smile was easy as he leaned back again. “Perhaps you could tell me about the gallery we’re going to this evening.”

  “Oh, yes, the gallery!”

  And that’s how it started.

  I just couldn’t, couldn’t believe that this perfect creature was interested in me. Not only was he beyond beautiful, but he was charming, too, just like Eloise had promised. He was funny and kind and thoughtful, and there was something about him that made me feel protected, like he’d throw his jacket over a puddle, or dive into the ocean to save me.

  And oh my God, he was hot. Every time I saw him, my temperature shot up ten degrees. I’d even convinced myself that I was menopausal because I seemed to be having so many hot flashes around him. But in the end I realized I was just incredibly turned on. How embarrassing. I was the mother of adult children, for God’s sake!

  We had two more fabulous dates, and I fell a little harder for him each time. Part of me was furious with myself, falling for a man so totally out of my league that I had to pay him to spend time with me. But another part of me said, to hell with the money, and that I should just enjoy his company.

  But then Sian Te happened. Or more specifically, she insulted and humiliated him to his face. His blue eyes had flashed with anger and hurt, but he’d kept a cool smile on his face. I could see that he was dying a little inside, and I wondered why Sian couldn’t see it; or maybe she could see it and didn’t care.

  And she’d said, “He fucks even better than he looks.”