by Julie Cohen
‘Of course,’ Claire said quickly. ‘I’m sorry. You will. I didn’t mean to imply—’
‘Let’s take it one thing at a time. I have to get pregnant first,’ said Romily, with her normal heartiness, and Claire was left wondering if she’d imagined the emphasis, the setting of boundaries. ‘What’s all this stuff you’ve brought?’
Claire opened the bag. ‘I’ve got pre-natal vitamins – several kinds because I found one brand gave me indigestion. Some supplementary folic acid. I’ve got you a digital thermometer so you can do basal temperature readings, and some ovulation testing kits.’
‘Basal temperature readings.’
‘Your body temperature goes up slightly when you’re ovulating. If you take your temperature every morning before you get up, and you do a chart and plot your results on it, you can establish your normal temperature, and it should be quite clear when it spikes. You’re most fertile on the day or two beforehand. Here are some charts I did, for example.’ She found them in her folder and showed them to Romily.
‘Right.’
‘Of course, if your cycle is regular, you can predict better when you’ll ovulate, because it’s about halfway through.’
‘Okay.’
Claire paused. Could she ask if Romily’s cycle was regular, or not? Normally it would be too intrusive, but in their position …?
‘You can also tell by the consistency of your cervical mucus,’ she said instead. ‘It’s slippery when you’re ovulating. There are some pictures here.’
‘Right.’ Romily wiped her hands on her jeans and took the photographs Claire had printed out.
‘Of course sperm live for some time, so you’re fertile before you ovulate as well. Experts say that the best thing to do is to have sex every few days. But that’s not exactly possible in our situation.’ Claire laughed, and then stopped because she sounded silly.
‘I don’t want to spend more time with the Big Bird Baster than necessary.’
‘Well. You don’t have to use that, obviously. I bought some syringes.’
Romily poked in the bag and found them, as well as the specimen cups. ‘You’ve really thought of everything. Have you got pregnancy tests in here too?’
‘I didn’t— I don’t usually plan ahead that far. Not at this stage.’
Romily stopped chewing. ‘Oh. Okay. Of course not. I’m sorry.’
Claire looked at her for a moment. She was wearing jeans with holes in the knees, and a white button-up shirt that looked as if it had originally belonged to a man. She looked more like a twelve-year-old boy than a grown woman, and yet she was entirely certain of her own fertility. She made no sense to Claire at all.
The words burst out of her. ‘Romily, I appreciate what you’re doing so much but I think I need to ask, why are you doing this? Is it something you’ve just decided to do? It’s – I just ask because I need to know because I …’ She trailed off.
‘What did Ben tell you?’
‘He said it was because you cared about us. And because we helped you look after Posie when she was a baby.’
It sounded so unconvincing; not enough reason to offer to carry a baby for someone else and then give it up.
Romily’s gaze darted in the direction of Posie’s bedroom. She bit her lip, and appeared to come to a decision.
‘Has he ever told you why I’ve got Posie?’ she asked quietly.
Again, Claire wondered how much she was allowed to say. Ben and she had discussed Posie’s estranged father, though Claire had never met him. Ben talked about how irresponsible he was and how Posie and Romily were lucky to be shot of him. ‘I don’t think I know all the details.’
‘I didn’t mean to get pregnant. It was a total mistake. Her – father and I had pretty much split up before I even found out that I’d fallen pregnant; he was going away to work for the foreseeable future and we’d decided there wasn’t any point staying together. And then I missed a period. I’d just started my PhD, I had hardly any money except for my grant and a bit that my dad left me. I’d never pictured myself as a mother. I told him and we both decided it was best if we got rid of it.’
Claire opened her mouth, and then closed it.
‘I’m aware of the irony when compared to your situation,’ Romily said.
‘I … didn’t know that.’
‘Ben convinced me to have her. The day before the appointment, I … I asked him to go with me. I didn’t have anyone else. We stayed up all night talking.’
‘Where was I?’ She’d remember if Ben had been out all night, even eight years ago.
‘I think you were at your mother’s.’ Romily’s cheeks were tinged pink; she didn’t quite meet Claire’s eye. ‘He told me how precious life was. How the love between a mother and child was the most amazing thing ever, and he knew because he’d lost his mum. He … he knew that my mum died when I was a kid, too. So I cancelled the appointment.’
Claire didn’t know how to react to this: the insight about her husband, or Romily, or their friendship. Not only did Romily have a life that was entirely separate from hers, she and Ben had history that Claire knew nothing about.
‘He’s very convincing,’ Claire said.
‘So you see,’ said Romily, ‘it all fits together. I’ve got Posie because of Ben. So you and Ben will have a child because of me. It’s fair. That’s why I’m doing it.’
She finished her sandwich, and wiped her mouth with her hand. Then she drained her tea and stood.
‘You said that ovulation happens about halfway through my cycle?’
Claire pulled herself back to the present. ‘About. It’s different, obviously, for different women.’
Romily pursed her lips slightly, thinking. ‘That’s just about today. Let’s see.’ She grabbed one of the ovulation tests from the bag. ‘What do you do, pee on the stick?’
‘It’s best at about two o’clock in the afternoon.’
‘Well, if we never try, we never know, right? No point wasting time. I’ll be right back.’
Claire sank into the sofa cushions as Romily left the room. This life-changing discussion between her husband and his friend had happened while she was visiting her parents, and she’d never heard anything about it. Why not? Because Ben was protecting Romily? Because Romily had asked him not to say?
Though the story was new to her, she wasn’t surprised that Ben would advise Romily to keep her baby. He loved children. Eight years ago, they’d still been planning to have a big family. And he still missed his own mother, to this day.
It made sense, but still, she was staggered by the simplicity of the other woman’s thought processes: I had a baby because of Ben, so I’ll have a baby for Ben.
As if it were that easy.
Something poked into her back. Claire investigated behind the cushion and found an umbrella, slightly damp. And also a sock.
‘Come and see my camp,’ said Posie, who’d appeared next to the sofa. Claire put the umbrella and the sock on the floor and followed Posie down a short dark corridor to her room. It was tiny, a box room really; all of the surfaces that weren’t taken up by the bed were covered with stacks of books and discarded clothes. There were several crumb-strewn plates scattered around. The flowered duvet was held up, tent-like, with some sort of pole. On closer scrutiny, it looked like a butterfly net.
Ben was in the tent already, lying full-length on his stomach and perusing a colouring book. He grinned at Claire. ‘Quite a set-up, isn’t it?’
‘Where are you exploring?’ Claire asked.
‘I told you,’ said Posie, ‘it’s Darkest Peru.’
‘Oh. Yes, sorry, I forgot.’
Posie clambered into the tent, sitting cross-legged beside Ben. ‘Come in! There’s plenty of room and the crocodiles won’t get you.’
The sheets were indeed smeared with peanut butter, though at least it looked fresh.
‘Maybe we should help your mum change your sheets before I go.’
‘That would ruin my tent.’ Posie’s
hand darted out and clutched Claire’s leg. ‘Argh! Look! It’s a Giant Hissing Cockroach!’
Claire jumped and looked around for an actual cockroach before she realized that Posie was playing.
‘They only live in Madagascar.’ Romily’s voice came from the doorway. ‘I thought you were in Peru.’
‘It’s a village in Madagascar called Peru,’ replied Posie.
‘Can’t argue with that logic.’
‘Plus, you had one once as a pet.’
‘That was only a temporary housing solution for the cockroach,’ Romily told Claire. ‘It’s long gone, don’t worry. Anyway, I just did the test. Does a smiley face mean what I think it means?’
‘Cockroaches don’t have smiley faces,’ said Posie.
‘You got a smiley face?’ asked Claire. ‘On the test?’
‘Very smiley.’
Ben scrambled out of the tent. Claire stared at Romily, who had her hands in her pockets and was looking pleased.
‘With any luck we can make that thing tonight,’ she said.
‘What thing?’ asked Posie crossly.
But it’s too soon. It’s too quick. It’s too simple.
‘Does this mean what I think it means?’ asked Ben. He grabbed Romily’s shoulders and she smiled up at him. ‘You’re ovulating now?’
‘What are you all talking about?’ Posie poked her head out. ‘And the crocodiles have eaten your legs, by the way.’
Claire caught Romily’s eye. Romily shook her head, slightly.
‘It’s a grown-up thing,’ Romily said. ‘It’s boring. We’ll tell you later, if it happens.’
‘I said, they’ve eaten your legs!’
‘Ouch!’ yelled Ben, immediately falling to the floor and clutching his knees.
‘We don’t need to rush,’ said Claire. ‘Next month will be fine.’
‘Well, I am sort of busy today with the crocodiles and all. Will I still be on the boil tomorrow, do you think?’
‘I’d think so.’
‘Tomorrow,’ said Ben from the floor. ‘We’ll try tomorrow.’
Posie sat on his stomach. ‘We need to go to Antarctica first,’ she said.
10
Bombs Away
ONE OF CLAIRE’S websites had advised choosing relaxing music to aid conception. Naturally, Romily had chosen London Calling by The Clash. She sat on the edge of the bed in Ben and Claire’s guest room, holding the slim syringe in her hand.
They were waiting for her downstairs, though they didn’t expect her for another half an hour. She was supposed to lie on the bed with her legs in the air for that long afterwards. With all these rules, it was a wonder that any children were ever born.
She’d made up her mind: she was ready. Thanks to her conversation yesterday with Claire, Claire wouldn’t suspect she was doing this because of the way she felt about Ben. She could help her friends and keep her secret safe, too.
But when it came down to it, now that Ben’s sperm was actually here in this syringe, warm in her hand, fresh from his body …
Romily glanced at the door to the ensuite bathroom. It wasn’t too late to change her mind. She could squirt the syringe down the sink, wash it down with water, wait half an hour and go downstairs with her mission supposedly accomplished. No one would be very surprised if she didn’t fall pregnant the first time. Or the time after. And by then, Ben and Claire might have found another option.
But they wouldn’t have.
Romily exhaled and fell backwards onto the bed. She’d thought she’d be fine about it. But this was so intimate, this little syringe from Ben. It was even more intimate, theoretically, than if they had somehow got drunk and slept together by mistake. This was intentional. She was trying to have his baby.
Eleven years ago, Benjamin Lawrence had lived in the same university hall of residence as Romily. She was on the first floor and he was in the room directly above hers on the second. He was studying architecture, she was studying zoology. She first saw him when she was going in and he was going out, and her heart, used to being lonely, thumped in her chest so hard it nearly hurt. He was tall and sparkle-eyed, curly-haired and perfect. It had taken her three more weeks before she got up the courage to speak to him.
And a year later, before she’d got up the courage to tell him how she really felt about him, he’d met Claire.
She was being silly. This wasn’t an intimacy; it was a favour. It was a biological transaction, an act to ensure the propagation of the species. It was an experiment, albeit one that she had to do with her trousers off.
Claire and Ben were waiting downstairs for their new life to begin.
Romily arranged herself on the bed. On the CD, Joe Strummer sang in his broken-glass voice. His baby was getting a brand-new Cadillac.
Dear Thing,
When I was a little girl, I had a book called How Babies Are Made. It was beautifully illustrated with photographs of paper cut-outs of the womb, the fallopian tubes, the sperm. The illustrations were so exquisite and careful that the sperm even had shadows. The book started with a hen and a cockerel, and in the following pages the egg was laid and the chick was hatched. Then it showed two dogs mating, and some puppies being born. Finally, it showed a man and a woman lying in bed together under a flowery blanket. They were smiling and holding each other.
You weren’t conceived that way.
At some point, all of us want to know where we came from. But I’ve come to realize that when we ask about our origins, we’re not really asking about the egg and the sperm, the cut-outs and the shadows. We’re asking about the stories. How our mother and father met. Why they loved. Stories count more than cells and DNA.
So it might interest you to know that you came into being during one spring afternoon in a theme park inspired by children’s building blocks. They’re quite interesting, these blocks. They’re manufactured in plastic with interlocking parts, and each of them can be combined with any others in an infinite number of ways. You could start with a single block, add another and another and some more, and end up with an elephant. Or a spaceship. A castle, a nuclear missile, a garden of flowers.
In that one block lies an entire universe of possibility. Nothing about it is pre-determined or inevitable. The final form that block will take depends on the combinations that are made: the fortunate mistakes, the leaps of imagination, the environment and chance. It will become something more than itself.
You were conceived when three people came together and agreed to try to make you. We didn’t know what we were letting ourselves in for. But I think it’s important for you to know that it was a beautiful day, and that everything we did, we did because of love.
All the other things were just technicalities.
11
Testing
AS USUAL, ROMILY didn’t hear her alarm; she only woke up when it stopped.
‘Shit,’ she muttered, reaching over and picking up the clock. Ten past nine. And the battery was dead, again, so it might be later.
She launched herself out of bed, yelling, ‘Posie! Get up!’ Pulling on her clothes from yesterday, she went to Posie’s bedroom. Her daughter was a lump under the covers; Romily shook her shoulder. ‘Wake up, Pose. We’re late.’
Posie grunted, turned over and went back to sleep. Romily paused while gathering Posie’s school uniform and shook her again. ‘Wake up. You’re going to be late for school.’
She had to pull the duvet off before Posie was roused enough to sit up. ‘What?’ she said, brushing her fringe from her eyes.
‘Late.’
‘Romily. Again? I’m going to get detention.’
‘Well, maybe you should listen to your alarm clock when it goes off.’
‘What about yours?’
In the lounge, Romily’s phone was ringing. ‘Get dressed,’ she said, throwing Posie’s uniform on the bed. ‘I need to answer that.’
‘I don’t believe I’m going to have to stay in at lunch because of you,’ muttered Posie as she pulled off he
r nightgown. Romily ignored her – not because Posie wasn’t right, but because arguing wasn’t going to make them any earlier – and went to the other room to dig out her phone. As soon as she found it in her jacket pocket it stopped. One missed call: Ben.
Rain streaked down the windows to the street. Where were Posie’s wellies? Romily got down on her knees and looked under the sofa. There was one … what about the other?
‘You’re going to have to have school dinner today,’ she called, checking under the armchair.
‘It’s fish.’ Posie’s voice, from the other room, dripped with disgust. ‘It stinks.’
‘Well, you don’t eat fish. What’s the vegetarian option?’
‘Fake fish.’
There. Right back, near the wall. Romily stretched, reached, and snagged the welly with the tips of her fingers. When she pulled it out, dust bunnies dangled from both the welly and her arm.
‘I’m sorry, Pose, but I don’t have time to pack you a lunch today. Just hold your nose or something.’ She blew off the dust and set about looking for her own boots. By the time she’d assembled them, her phone had beeped with Ben’s message.
Posie came in, pulling on her cardigan, her face sour. ‘Can we take the car?’ she asked. ‘I hate today already, and I just got out of bed.’
‘We’d be even later with the traffic. We’ll have to walk. Where’s your homework?’
‘It was spellings. I have a test. You were supposed to go through them with me last night.’
‘Why didn’t you remind me?’
‘You never mentioned it.’
‘It’s your homework, Posie. You’re supposed to remember.’
‘Jesus Christ, Romily, I’m only seven.’
Romily closed her eyes, tried to count to ten, only got to four because they were really late. ‘Have you washed your face?’
