Lover in Law

by Jo Kessel

  “Ali,” I speak quietly. I’d have liked to come up with a pseudonym, but couldn’t think quickly enough.

  “Hello Ali. How are you feeling?”

  I fend off the absolute desire to cry because what I need now, more than anything, is to talk, to share my burden.

  “I’m four months pregnant,” I begin, “and I don’t know if it’s my partner’s or the person I was having an affair with.”

  “Are you sure it could be either one’s?”

  “Unfortunately, yes. Although my partner and I had been trying for a baby for almost a year and a half, so I suppose it might not be his.”

  “Have you considered that your partner might be infertile?”

  “Yes, but he’s had a sperm test. They said he was fine.”

  I nervously coil the telephone wire round my right index finger, tight as can be.

  “Your partner and the person you were having an affair with, are they vaguely similar looking?”

  Ouch. This woman’s good. Long pause. I semi-titter, not because it’s funny, but because sometimes you just have to.

  “My boyfriend’s white. The man I was having an affair with is black. Well, half black. His Mum’s African, his Dad’s Caucasian.”

  “You’ve got a major problem then,” she sympathizes. “This must be keeping you awake at night. What are you going to do?”

  The coil around my finger starts to inflict pain, so I release it, which leaves a puffy red and white indentation ring. I massage the circulation back.

  “I don’t know. I was hoping you would tell me.”

  “I can’t advise. I can only offer emotional support.”

  Silence.

  “This is the sort of stuff you read about in women’s magazines. I know what they might write,” she offers hope.

  I reach for the remote control. Even though the sound’s on mute, the television’s still on and the pictures are distracting. I turn it off and lie back, focusing on the ceiling.

  “What would they say?”

  “They might say the whole thing might come out in the end, so perhaps you should tell your partner.”

  “But how the hell would I tell my partner? And the baby might be his anyway, so he might never need to know.”

  “Do they both know you’re pregnant?”

  “No, only my partner does.”

  “And how does he feel about it?”

  “He’s absolutely thrilled.”

  “And if you were pregnant from the affair would you still want it? How would he feel?”

  Silence. “I’ve no idea.”

  I’ve not really contemplated how Anthony would feel if I were pregnant with his child, let alone how he’ll react when he finds out I’m pregnant, although I fully plan to tweak the dates. I take in the detail of the ornate ceiling rose. I’ve never paid much attention to it before, but now I realise the design’s a circle of leaves bordered by rings of beads. It’s really quite pretty.

  “Have you considered discussing it with your partner?”

  I’ve barely contemplated telling Adam. The consequences don’t bear thinking about.

  “Yes and no. I guess I’m being naïve. I’m hoping the baby will come out white, looking like my partner’s and that nobody will be any the wiser. Nobody will ever have to get hurt.”

  “Well, there’s a very high chance that it might be his, but you’ve got to consider that it might not end up that way. What will you do if the baby comes out black? You’ve got to consider living with this for the rest of your life, perhaps not even knowing yourself.”

  I’m becoming steadily more depressed, rolling awkwardly from side to side in my reclined position, like a centipede with half its legs chopped off. I’d been hoping for answers, to be told what to do and that this can all have a happy ending, but now I’m being forced to confront the reality, when I’ve not yet let my mind wander that far. I’ve not allowed myself to dwell on what will happen, if it doesn’t come out the way I hope, when I give birth in less than five months time.

  “It’s a diabolical situation,” she breaks my silence.

  “It could be better,” I half laugh again.

  I reach for the remote control and turn the television back on, keeping the volume right down. The pictures, some drama set in a hair salon, are now a comforting distraction.

  “This is all very well, we can both laugh, and sometimes it’s the only thing you can do, but perhaps you won’t always be able to laugh. Perhaps you really do need to think about the long-term scenario. If the baby does come out black, absolutely everybody will know about it, and you might have to cope with these things at a vulnerable time when you can’t think straight and you’re on your own.”

  This is all looking bleaker and bleaker. Thankfully the hairdressers on the box all look like they’re having a pretty crap time too.

  “I’ve got my twin sister, she’ll still love me,” I whisper.

  That’s got to be true. Surely Kayla will always stand by me?

  “Oh dear,” she says. “I wouldn’t know what to do myself. You’re between safe dry land and a raging sea. The thing is, you’ve got a choice of battling it out now or in five months time, but then again you might not have to.”

  “At least I’m pregnant,” I say, desperate to find something positive in this mess. “That’s a good thing, isn’t it?”

  “Yes,” she says. “And it might be your partner’s baby.”

  “And it might not,” I whisper.

  ***

  I’ve been here before with Kayla. I didn’t like it then and I don’t like it, or myself, for why I’m here right now. Who cares that the road breathes leafy suburbia or that the waiting room is more faux lounge? This place is what it is and there’s no getting away from it. No amount of smiley faces or stylish furniture can change that. Not in my wildest dreams did I imagine coming back here, alone and for me. I’ve had my wake-up call though, assessed my options and weighed them up. When it comes down to it, I don’t have many choices. There is a possible win/win scenario for me, but can I live with the not knowing for the next five months and the potential outcome where everyone loses? I’m not sure I can, which is why there is only one option. The Marie Stopes option.

  “Alison Kirk?” calls a baby killer disguised as a nurse.

  I get up and follow her. They’d squeezed me in pronto. Even though legally you can have an abortion up to twenty-three weeks, Marie Stopes only cater for eighteen weeks and under. Time is not on our side.

  “Right,” she says, closing the door to the consultation room behind her, pulling out a couple of chairs for us to sit on at a small table. “How many weeks are you?”

  “I’m not exactly sure,” I say. “I think I’m about four months.”

  “When was your last menstrual period?”

  “It’s not that simple,” I explain. “You see I’ve had light periods throughout my pregnancy. I didn’t even know I was pregnant until just over a couple of weeks ago.”

  “Right then, we might as well do a scan straight away. Do you mind hopping up on that couch?”

  She points to a dentist type chair with stirrups and my gut instinct is to run like the wind, but I don’t. I do as I’m told and lie down. It’s a relief to have someone telling me what to do. They’d said, on the phone, I was so far on that the contents of my womb would have to be removed by suction, whilst I was asleep under anaesthetic. They said it was gentle, but I don’t buy that. The whole procedure sounds barbaric. The sheer thought terrorizes me, turns my blood blue. And what would I tell Adam? I’ve thought of that too. As far as he’s concerned it would be an unfortunate miscarriage and we would both mourn the loss of our child. She’s about to turn the screen away, once she’s squeezed on the gel and found the right spot with the probe.

  “No, please don’t,” I gently pull on her arm. “I want to see.”

  I remember how miraculous it felt seeing my baby for the first time, on the scanner, once I actually started to believe it was true. E
ven I, with lay person’s eyes, can see the baby’s grown. It’s a perfectly formed little being, curled up in foetal position. This time it’s not waving, it’s sucking its thumb.

  “Oh,” I gasp, bringing my hand to my mouth.

  We both stare at the screen. After a while, the nurse turns her gaze to me. I can feel her eyes boring a hole in my head, but I ignore it, not wanting to waste this time, perhaps my last time with the baby.

  “I’d say you’re about seventeen weeks,” she finally breaks the silence.

  “Is it a boy or a girl?” I whisper.

  “I’m afraid it’s slightly too early to tell that with any real accuracy.”

  They might not be able to determine the sex, but perhaps they can see other characteristics.

  “I’m sure this is a stupid question, but you can’t, by any remote chance, tell if the baby’s black or white?”

  “Is that what this is all about?” she asks.

  I nod imperceptibly.

  “I’m afraid we can’t. Have you considered paternity testing though?”

  “Yes, but that would be after the baby is born. I want to know now.”

  “We don’t offer it here, but there are places you can test for paternity on the unborn child.”

  “You’re kidding.”

  This is the lifeline I need. It’s the answer to all my problems. It never crossed my mind. I can tell from her expression that she’s not spinning a yarn.

  “How the hell does it work?”

  “Well, they take fluid from the amniotic sac and both the mother and alleged father give a sample of blood and they compare the DNA.”

  I smell a rat. This can’t be as simple as it sounds.

  “How much blood do you need?”

  “Normal blood test amount.”

  And how do I get that from Adam without him knowing?

  “Would a pin prick do?”

  “I’m afraid not,” she cocks her head in sympathy, understanding where I’m coming from. “And I’m afraid you’d need consent from the alleged father. You’d both need to sign a form.”

  “Right,” I say, deflated and defeated, back to square one.

  She gives me a moment to take it all in. “Look, normally I tell people to go away and think about it, be sure this is really what they want to do, but you don’t have a lot of time. I know for a fact, without even looking in the diary, that the only place we could slot you in is at the end of today. We had a cancellation this morning. Now you can either take that or hedge your bets that another appointment becomes free in the next couple of days, should you still decide to go ahead.”

  I take an age staring at the screen, out the window and at my tummy. Then I tell her to book me in for later.

  ***

  I’m slightly early for my appointment. I managed to slip away from work without anyone noticing, without making excuses. I have no alibi. Nobody knows where I’ve gone or what I’m doing and for once, that’s a good thing. It’s nil by mouth until the procedure, but I’m so hungry that I’m queuing up, in a little bakery round the corner from Marie Stopes, so I’ve got something for after. Not that food should be relevant at a time like this, only I need it, for comfort. I’m next in line to be served, but this man who I saw leave a couple of minutes ago has just come back and has politely pushed to the front. He’s smart and tall and handsome and very flustered. He also happens to be black. The only black person here.

  “Excuse me,” he interrupts my sale, addressing the baker. Danny’s his name. It says so on his badge. “I gave you a twenty pound note, but you only gave me change from ten.”

  The shop is small and packed with customers who all suddenly turn deathly quiet, as if time’s stood still. We’re all watching Danny, a middle-aged man with a white hat on his head, as he weighs up in his mind whether this guy is telling the truth or not.

  “Look at me,” the black man pleads. “Do I look like the kind of person who would make this up?”

  We’re all now caught in this dilemma, on tenterhooks, waiting for Danny’s next move, willing him to make what we think is the moral decision, praying he’ll give the money back. There’s a long pause, which feels like an eternity, until finally Danny opens the till, hands over a ten pounds note. The man says thank you and leaves. The rest of the shop starts breathing again. “You did the right thing,” the woman next to me says to the baker. “You’re a good man,” the woman behind me adds. “The way I look at it,” Danny the baker addresses us all, “is if he’s telling the truth I must give him the money and if he’s not telling the truth, then he needs it more than I do.” He then shifts his attention to me. I ask for a slice of pizza.

  It was a close run thing that I came back to this vicinity at all. Anthony’s been such a gentleman about our whole affair. He was so forgiving when I was slack at work this morning, hadn’t gone through all the papers carrying the ‘who’s NOT the father of Sahara’s baby story’ so I could brief him, that I started feeling even guiltier about what I was about to do. I’ve only looked at this through my eyes and through Adam’s. Anthony’s point of view has never really been part of the equation, but this morning I started seeing it from his angle. What if I was carrying his child? Did he have a right to know? Would he tell me to keep it, we had a future, or that he’d be happy for Adam to bring it up, anything but get rid of it? Did he deserve to be told? The problem is, if he deserved to be told then by God, so did Adam.

  It doesn’t matter though, because I know as I head towards the clinic that I’m not going to go in. Perhaps I was never going to. Perhaps I was just kidding myself, pushing myself to the limit to see how I would react when it came to the crunch, but the moment I knew that I absolutely couldn’t go through with it was when that black man left the bakers. He walked out with such dignity, head held high, that an instinctive, protective hand found its way to my stomach. If my baby is Anthony’s, if my baby is black, then we’ll face the world and its prejudices together. What I know now is that my desire for this child is greater than any fear I may have of the consequences that lie ahead.

  Chapter 26

  Paul and Kayla are both round this morning. It wasn’t planned. Paul had been coming by anyhow to pick up some freebie tickets Adam got him for this Mind, Spirit, and Body Fair at Alexandra Palace, although it’s the first I’ve heard of him being into that sort of mumbo jumbo. Kayla popped in because she wasn’t up to much. Bank holiday Mondays get her down as much as rain. Despite being exhausted from pregnancy and lack of sleep, I’m pleased for the distraction. Today’s the day that Maxwell Hood QC is hosting his infamous garden party. I’ve been dreading it since the invite. Anthony, it turns out, didn’t have any prior engagements and respectfully responded in the affirmative, so he and Adam are destined to meet. Not quite the worst nightmare in my current predicament, but a hazard with alarm bells ringing nonetheless.

  The porch thermometer is already tipping the 75 Fahrenheit mark and it’s only just gone eleven. Heat doesn’t suit my condition. The rest of the female population is looking great baring legs and arms, but I’m not at my finest. My entire body seems to have swelled, particularly the ankles, which are raised and resting on a stool Paul just fetched me. We’re all sitting round the garden table. Kayla and Paul are sunning their faces. The umbrella is tilted at an angle to give me shade.

  “Here you go,” says Adam, approaching with a pack of chilled Diet Cokes. He hands them out. I don’t bother opening my can. Instead I roll it up and down the right side of my face before laying it to rest on the nape of my neck.

  “Oooooh, that’s better,” I say. “So Paul, are you going to the fair today or tomorrow?”

  “What fair?” asks Kayla, pulling the tag on her can.

  “Oh, some alternative health convention at Ally Pally,” he answers, slightly embarrassed, taking a pair of sunglasses out of his pocket for distraction, putting them on.

  “It’s the Mind, Spirit, and Body Fair,” I spell out.

  “Oh, I think my college has
a stand there this year,” says Kayla. “Why are you going anyway? That’s not your bag,” says Kayla.

  “No, I know,” Paul shifts in his seat, opening up a copy of The Times he came in clutching under his arm. It’s the crossword he’s after. It’s not the concise ones he likes, but the cryptic monsters. He’s brilliant at them. He nearly always finishes and when he does he sends them off for the hundred quid prize. As he says, someone’s got to win, but in my opinion, he’d get a better return with Premium Bonds.

  “So why are you going?” Kayla persists.

  “Because they’re free,” says Paul.

  “And he’s got nothing better to do,” jokes Adam, taking a swig of fizz.