Daisy Dooley Does Divorce

by Anna Pasternak

  “There’s no easy way to say this. I’m pregnant.”

  Troy gulped. “You’re what?” Troy began drumming his fingers on the table. “Is it mine?”

  “Course,” I said, insulted.

  “Have you done a test?”

  I put my hand out, stretching my fingers, and mouthed “Five.”

  “I thought they were only ninety-seven percent accurate,” he said, swiping his hand across his forehead.

  “Troy,” I said slowly, trying to get the notion into his head. “I. Am. Pregnant.”

  For such a cool customer who was presumably used to dealing under pressure—the man was a top bond trader, for Christ’s sake—he lost it. “This can’t be happening . . . I’ll do anything in the world for this not to be true.”

  “You’re not the only one, kiddo.”

  Troy put his hands to his ears and started shaking his head from side to side, like a child refusing to listen. “I can’t deal. Cannot deal. No deal. No deal.” His leg, jiggling madly up and down, kept hitting the edge of the table.

  The waiter, who was passing, gave Troy a quizzical look. “Double vodka. No ice,” snapped Troy.

  I batted away a plume of smoke that wafted over from a neighboring table. Troy leaned in toward me, his eyes narrow. When he spoke his voice was ice-cold steel. “You were out to trap me all along, weren’t you? You selfish, bitter bitch. I should have listened to Edward Primfold. He warned me you were mad.”

  Of all the awful responses I’d forecast, none came close to this. I stared back, mouth hanging open. He paused while the waiter gave him his vodka, which he downed in one.

  “What is it with you crazy divorcées? You don’t want men, do you? You just want walking wallets. You, with your wound-up body clocks and shriveled ovaries. All you want is some decent seed and for us to shell out for the rest of our lives. You don’t want husbands”—he was spitting now—“you just want sperminators.”

  “Are you out of your mind?” I shouted as tears of shame and temper coursed down my scarlet cheeks. “What was with the ‘I just want to fill you up, baby?’ You weren’t accusing me of wanting a ‘sperminator’ then, were you? When you wanted to ride me bareback?” He narrowed his eyes. I raised my voice above the din of the bar. “You were the one who refused to fuck me with a condom,” I screamed. Troy put his hand out, as if to shut me up.

  “It may surprise you, Troy, but it doesn’t fit my game plan to get pregnant right now,” I continued, vaguely aware that the couple at the next table had stopped talking and the woman was staring at me. “But it’s happened and yes, it’s a bloody shock, but it’s a new life and you’d be prepared to throw that away without consideration?”

  “I’ve got nothing to offer you,” he said. I let out a bitter laugh. Nothing to offer? “Obviously I’ll pay for the . . . erm . . . you know.”

  The woman at the next door table interjected, “Abortion, dickhead.”

  Relishing her sisterly support, I stood up and shouted, “It’s all about the money with you, isn’t it? Don’t you get it? I don’t want your money, you pompous prat.” I threw my glass of bitter lemon in his face. He jerked his head in shock. Two women at another table clapped and cheered. “All I wanted was some support.”

  I turned, broken inside, but tried to hold my head high as I walked steadily toward the door. Once outside, I hurried around the corner and was violently sick in the gutter. Afterwards, shaking, I leaned my forehead against the cool of a nearby brick wall. I had never felt more alone or out of control in my life.

  When Edward Primfold opened the door and saw me, he visibly shuddered. Mascara streaked my cheeks, my eyes were red and bulbous, I was puffy with tears, and my skin was blotchy from stress. “Daisy, what on earth’s happened?”

  I pushed past him. “Why the hell did you set me up with Troy in the first place if you think I’m mad?” As I caught a glimpse of my tortured face in the mirror, bearing a distinct resemblance to Munch’s Scream, it briefly occurred to me that he had a point.

  Lucy rushed into the hall. “What’s happening? Daisy, whatever is it?” She put her arms out and I fell against her, hysterical.

  Edward, snug in olive green cashmere, stared at me, trying not to wince, as if I were not human at all but some sort of violent species. I felt a surge of anger. How dare he stand there in judgment? How lucky for him that in his smooth life path mapped out at birth—private prep school, public school, Cambridge, the City, along the way picking up the pretty wife who pushed out some perfect kids—he had never succumbed to anything as unruly as angst. Why has it all been so easy for them? As Lucy led me to the calm perfection of their first-floor drawing room with the heavy Old Master oils, overstuffed sofas, and matching side tables with jasmine plants wafting heady scent, I felt ruptured to the core of my being. Edward and Lucy, sitting on their damask sofa, eyeing me with silent horror, had always expected to be happy. They had been fully secure in their destiny, whereas I must have doubted mine somewhere along the line or I wouldn’t have been sitting there, the savage outsider, sobbing into my sleeve over my monumental mishap.

  “For your information, Edward, I am pregnant. Your friend Troy is the father. Apparently you told him I was mad. I’m not mad enough not to sleep with, it seems, just too mad to call afterwards. Apparently, with bonkers bitches like me, you can refuse to use a condom and then blame the consequences on the old bag for being so batty in the first place.”

  Edward leaned away from me, visibly disgusted. “Well, let’s face it, Daisy, you are rather highly strung. You’ve always been a drama queen.”

  Taken apart by his callous comment, I managed to blurt out, “No, Edward, it’s called having a pulse.”

  “Edward,” snapped Lucy, “go and get us a drink.”

  “So Troy freaked out?” asked Lucy when Edward had left the room.

  “Yup. Pinned his colors right to the mast. Doesn’t want anything to do with it—or me.” I sighed. “Oh God, Lucy, what am I going to do?”

  “I don’t know, darling,” she said softly. “Listen, take your time to think about this. There’s no rush.”

  “Oh, but there is,” I said, deeply pained. “Every day that I’m pregnant it makes the decision more difficult. I’ll get attached. If I’m seriously going to consider an abortion, I’m going to have to do it sooner rather than later.”

  “You’re in shock,” said Lucy. “Or, knowing you,denial.”

  “Maybe.” I sighed. “But part of me feels almost detached. It’s as if the only way for me to deal with this is to make a brutal decision and not allow myself to get overemotional. I feel quite unlike I ever have before. As if I’ve gone into some weird survival mechanism. Perhaps that’s the only way for me to stomach the shame.”

  “It’s Troy who should be ashamed, not you,” Lucy pointed out.

  “But to have an abortion. It’s so . . . so . . . ugh, undignified and awful.”

  “You’d be surprised who’s had them,” said Lucy. “I’m constantly amazed by girlfriends’ revelations after they’ve had a few drinks. Most have had them in their early twenties before they were ready to settle down, when they had years ahead to try for another baby with the right guy. This is a tougher call for you when you’re nearly forty.”

  “Can you believe that Troy thought I was out to trap him?” I said, starting to cry again.

  “Rich men always do,” said Lucy flatly.

  “Oh Luce, how did you figure it all out and I’ve only gone from mess to mess?” I whimpered.

  Lucy paused. “It’s not always what it seems.” Something in Lucy’s tone was off—her speech had a grim quality that I’d never heard in her before. “Listen, Daisy, I know you’re hurting and your life seems a mess but please, don’t envy me.”

  “But I do,” I wailed. “You’ve got everything. A good marriage, two beautiful kids, this house, a great life. You’ve got it all.”

  Lucy stood up and shut the door. “And you’ve got choices. That’s the greatest free
dom of all.”

  “Are you saying you feel trapped?” I said, shocked. We could hear Edward walking back up the stairs.

  “Believe me,” whispered Lucy, “nothing comes without a price.”

  In the taxi on the way back to Jess’s flat, where I was staying as I couldn’t face being at Mum’s, I puzzled over what Lucy had said. If she wasn’t happy, what hope was there for the rest of us? Jess, who was away at a medical conference, called as I was scanning the empty, alcohol-filled fridge wondering what on earth I could eat. “Baked beans and a bagel from the deep freeze?” she offered helpfully.

  I told her about Troy. “No surprises there,” she said.

  Then I told her about Edward and Lucy. “I’ve always had my doubts about steady Eddie,” she said. “He’s so squeaky clean. He probably buffs his own balls.” I managed a weak laugh. Then Jess asked, “How are you doing?”

  I stared into the unappetizing pan of beans. “I’ve never been more scared. I’m afraid to have this baby. Look at me: I’m in no state to be a mother.” I choked back grief. “But I’m even more afraid that this will be my only chance to have a child.”

  “That’s not a good enough reason to go ahead,” said Jess. “You know, our biological clocks speed up when we perceive time is running out. But they slow down when we believe we have all the time in the world. You have plenty of time, Daisy. You must remember that.”

  “What if this is my last chance?” I asked, pressing my hand against my heart.

  “You just have to trust that it won’t be.”

  I suppose I knew before I received Troy’s e mail saying, “If you have this child, I’ll fight you every single day” that I wasn’t going to keep the baby. Although the decision was agony, I felt it was right—for me—to make it. Of course I wanted a baby, but more than that, I wanted to be a good mother. I wanted to be like my mother, who was patient, centered, kind, and wise—not scatty, selfish, and unsure of herself and her future, like me. I honestly didn’t think it was fair to a child to bring him or her into my anguished world. And as I didn’t feel the feral kick of maternal desire above all else, I had to trust my instinct that for me, the time was not right.

  Jess drove me to a private clinic in Chelsea. Troy had sent me a conscience-salving check for five grand, so at least I could have my insides hoovered out in safety and style. “That was an expensive date for him, then,” Jess said.

  “Hardly. He got off light. It was a lot cheaper than a lifetime’s child maintenance and care,” I pointed out.

  “Does he know you’re doing it today?”

  “No. He’s so callous. What does he care, as long as it’s done?”

  Judy Garland was singing “Over the Rainbow” on the radio and as I stared out of the window, the streets seemed to be teeming with pregnant women and couples pushing prams. Were there always this many mums-to-be staggering around that I had been oblivious to, or had I only just woken up to the fact that every other woman in the world was breeding but me? We stopped at a zebra crossing and a man lifted a baby up in his arms, blowing kisses. Judy was singing “. . . and wake up where the clouds are far behind me . . .” and I was crying inside. Tears were shedding from my heart, flaking off like shards of glass.

  Everyone in the clinic was frightfully proper and polite, which made it worse. I made my payment at the desk by credit card and they assured me that it would appear discreetly on my bill. Like pay-per-view hotel-room porn. Behind the atmosphere of studied calm, amid the glossy magazines, the elaborate flower arrangements, and the strategically placed brochures about contraceptives and sexually transmitted diseases, the air was one of unmistakable sorrow. As I sat in the waiting room I could almost feel that the women who had waited on these leather seats had similarly been silently screaming with future regret. There was an expensively dressed City type in her early thirties, sitting next to a similarly suited man, who at least had the decency to look ashen. Neither made eye contact with the other. It was the wedding ring that gave him away while she wasn’t wearing one. It gave me strange comfort to imagine him freaking—what if his wife found out? At least he, too, could be reassured that she wouldn’t suss it if she was poring over his credit card statements. The man was holding his lover’s hand—well, his sat limply in hers—as they stared tensely ahead and I wanted to shout, “At least you could hold it like you mean it, you wet fart. You meant it when you were banging her, didn’t you? I bet you had a bit more lead in your pencil then.”

  The silence was suffocating and as I was in danger of losing it, I rushed into the loo and dry heaved over the sink. I stood there gripping the side of the porcelain, staring at my face in the mirror. This couldn’t be me, could it? When was I going to wake up and be in another life? My rightful, easy, uncomplicated, much-to-be-proud-of life?

  Jess came in and stroked my back. “I want to kill that man out there,” I said. “Happily screwing her with no thought for the future or his wife. Sitting there all meek and terrified, when in an hour he’ll probably be some big swinging dick in the boardroom, masterminding some massive takeover.”

  “Come on, Daise,” Jess said gently. “That City slicker played her part too. She knew what she was doing.”

  “That’s just it,” I said, tears splashing into the sink. “She may be qualified to the hilt and a total star at work but we’re all capable of making these terrible mistakes, aren’t we? I mean, the university degree or the great job doesn’t qualify you for a successful love life, does it? There’s no guarantee against this sort of pain.”

  Jess took me in her arms and held me tight. “I love you, you mad bugger,” she whispered. “You didn’t deserve this.”

  I stayed with Jess afterwards, sleeping fitfully. I lurched forward, my head pounding with pressure. “Daisy, wake up, it’s okay. It’s just a bad dream.” Jess was shaking me by the arm. I looked around her spare room and wished it was just a bad dream. The surreal horror of the clinic and the termination I’d had the day before came flooding back.

  The doorbell rang and Lucy entered, her face full of tenderness and concern.

  “Are you okay?” She kissed me, then handed me a bunch of daffodils.

  “Yellow. The color of hope,” I said bleakly.

  Jess and Lucy smiled nervously.

  “It was supposed to be different,” I said, staring at the flowers. “My life wasn’t supposed to be like this. I no longer feel like I know who I am or how I should be.”

  “Give yourself time,” said Jess, pouring me a glass of water. “It takes a while for the anesthetic to wear off.”

  “I’m still not speaking to Edward for setting you up with Troy,” Lucy said, sitting on the bed. “I had no idea Troy Powers was such a complete cowardly, craven,condom-eschewing . . .”

  “Cunt?” interrupted Jess.

  Lucy pulled a “you’ve got a point” face.

  “What does Edward think about Troy?” asked Jess.

  “Oh, nothing bad. He feels sorry for him,” said Lucy. “Men never judge their male friends. Haven’t you noticed?”

  “You’re right,” agreed Jess. “Men totally accept their male friends. Women always want to change men, whereas men buy into ‘what you see is what you get, dude.’”

  “That’s because men are too shortsighted to see the beauty of potential,” said Lucy.

  “But at least they’re not disappointed when that potential goes unrealized,” I said bitterly.

  When Lucy left to go and collect her girls from school, Jess followed her—they obviously wanted to talk about something—clearly, me. I got up and wandered aimlessly around the room. Standing by the door, which was ajar, I heard Lucy and Jess whispering urgently in the hall outside. I edged closer to the door and stood, straining to listen.

  “It’s un-bloody-believable timing. I wouldn’t dare tell Daisy, but Katie is pregnant,” hissed Lucy.

  “Who’s Katie?” asked Jess.

  My stomach did a sort of lurch cum spasm. I knew exactly who Katie was.
r />   “Jamie’s girlfriend,” I heard Lucy answer.

  “Jamie’s girlfriend is pregnant?” repeated Jess, incredulous. “Crikey. She didn’t waste much time.”

  “She’s forty-one and desperate for a baby, apparently,” said Lucy.

  Jess tut-tutted, “Honestly, the childless women I see in my surgery amaze me. They are willing to endure anything, from painfully long needles to agonizingly dull men, to satisfy this one desire. Their need to conceive on any terms consumes them. Don’t they realize that if you are a woman with a brain, you are a mother in conflict?”

  “No, because you don’t realize that until you’ve had the child and it’s too sodding late,” snapped Lucy.

  I didn’t hear the rest of Jess’s tirade against the barmy biological clock brigade because I fainted. The next thing I knew, I was sitting up in bed and Jess was administering an ice pack above my right eye. Apparently I hit my forehead on the door handle as I fell. “Your bruise is going to be a beauty,” she said proudly.

  “I can’t believe that Jamie is having a baby with Katie, when he never wanted a baby with me,” I wailed. “I feel I did the right thing by not backing Troy into a corner, while Jamie is probably having his baby because he’s too weak to fight.”

  “No surprises there. You’ve always gone for men who need women to give them back their balls,” said Jess, carefully reapplying ice.

  “Are you saying I’m not turning into my mother but my father with ovaries?”

  She nodded and I managed a laugh.

  Later I couldn’t sleep because I felt so empty and alone. I wanted to cry but no tears came. I tossed and turned for hours before it dawned on me. There was only one man I wanted to talk to. I needed to hear it from him that everything would be all right. I picked up my mobile and dialed his number. When he answered, his voice reassuringly slow and thorough, I went to pieces inside. “It’s Daisy. I need to see you . . . No, everything is not all right.”