The Longing

by Jane Asher

  ‘Thank you.’

  Michael recognised the girl from previous visits and was comforted by her unassuming and friendly ordinariness. As she bent her head to reach for the telephone, the sight of her glossy blonde hair scooped behind one ear evoked a pang of something akin to nostalgia, which he quickly realised was because she reminded him of Juliet, which in turn reminded him of the worrying uncertainty of the reason for his being there.

  ‘Come on, stop being so bloody foolish,’ he admonished himself as he moved towards the waiting room, ‘there’s nothing to worry about. He said so.’

  ‘Oh, Mr Evans?’

  Michael felt pleased that she continued to remember his name so effortlessly and use it in such a familiar way. Since the last depressing trip to the clinic he had forgotten how welcoming the place could feel. ‘Yes?’

  ‘Dr Northfield is ready for you. Do make your way up — you know where to go, don’t you?’

  Her smile seemed so genuine, her encouragement so reassuring, that Michael basked in it for a split second before turning to the stairs. He’d forgotten how good it felt to be treated as part of the operation, a key player, an instigator and a beneficiary, and he felt suddenly in control. He was the father. He was needed to discuss some implications of his wife’s pregnancy. No doubt this happened all the time.

  But nothing could have prepared him for what was to come.

  Harriet’s front door bell rang at six-forty just as she was pouring herself a drink. Having vainly searched the fridge for some tonic, she was tossing up whether to go for vodka and Ribena or vodka and Tizer. The Ribena just tipped the balance and she added a glutinous quarter inch of it into the clear liquid in her glass before walking over to the receiver on the wall and lifting it with a hand still sticky from the bottle.

  ‘Hello? Oh damn!’

  ‘Hat? It’s me. It’s Jules. What’s the matter?’

  ‘Oh hi. No, nothing, it’s all right, I’ve just covered the phone with Ribena – come up. What on earth are you doing here?’ She pressed the buzzer and then opened the front door of the flat and stood waiting at the top of the stairs.

  ‘Hi, kiddo. How’re you feeling? Don’t rush up the stairs now,’ she called down to Juliet, ‘I don’t want any emergencies, you know. Come in. Do you want a drink? Carrot juice or milk or whatever?’

  ‘Yes, OK, thanks. Did I hear you mention Ribena?’

  They walked into the flat and Harriet closed the front door behind them.

  ‘Sure, you’ll get to know it very well over the next twelve years or so, I can tell you, so you might as well start now.’

  Juliet smiled. Thanks.’

  ‘Come in the kitchen, it’s the only place that’s free of all the kids’ Christmas stuff. We’re making our own paper chains this year, and I’m deeply regretting it already. Blue Peter has a lot to answer for. You wait. You look wonderful, by the way. How was shopping with Mama? And where’s Michael? Sitting at home waiting for his supper or slaving away at the office?’

  ‘Oh, he’s at home by now, I expect. I just felt like a buffer again, if you know what I mean. A bit of a neutral gap between mother and husband. And I had a call to make.’

  ‘Do you want to use the phone?’

  ‘No, I’ve done it thanks. No, I mean I had to stop shopping to make a call and then I didn’t feel like going straight home. I had to think about it all a bit. Oh, thanks.’

  Harriet handed her a mugful of purple liquid and sat opposite her, both in their usual places at the kitchen table. ‘Everything all right?’

  ‘Yes, fine. Why?’

  ‘Oh, I don’t know. You just seem a bit brittle, that’s all. You’ve been so jolly lately, I don’t like to see this little flicker of the old tense Jules.’

  ‘Jolly! I’d hardly describe myself as jolly at the best of times,’ laughed Juliet. ‘No. I’m OK. I’ve just got rather an extraordinary situation to deal with and I’m not quite sure I know the best way to handle it.’

  ‘What, being pregnant, do you mean?’

  ‘No, no, not that. That’s all wonderful. I don’t really want to talk about it at the moment, if that’s all right.’

  ‘Sure.’

  Harriet watched her as she sipped her Ribena. There was something about her friend she couldn’t quite put her finger on. The contentment was still there and there were even hints of the radiance of the glorious second stage of pregnancy stealing prematurely into her face, but something else hovered there as well. It was almost as if the success of having finally achieved her goal was manifesting itself in a brittle superiority; a feeling of indulgent triumph that was distancing her – just fractionally – from Harriet.

  ‘Don’t go smug on me, Jules, will you?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘You’re not the only person in the world to get pregnant, you know. And don’t look so affronted, it doesn’t suit you. You should be glad you’ve got me to say these things to you. I’m the only one who can and it’s because I know you so well and feel I’ve been through all the problems with you.’

  ‘What on earth are you talking about?’

  ‘Look, you’ve been through so much to get it that I’m bloody well going to make sure this pregnancy and birth is as good as we can possibly make it, and my godchild is going to be the most perfect baby that ever was. Apart from my own two magnificent specimens, of course, who somehow, God knows how, have managed to grow up as just about the most attractive, most charming children I know. In spite of the influence of that bastard their father. Oops! Sorry – as you were – strike out that last phrase, please.

  ‘All I mean is you’re not to cut yourself off from poor old me just because you’re feeling frightfully clever at the moment. Getting pregnant is one of the easiest things in the world, old girl. Just because it wasn’t like that for you doesn’t give you the right to feel self-satisfied or unduly proud of yourself. Happy, yes. Glowing, definitely. But smug and superior, no. At least not while I’m around.’

  Juliet was staring at her, the faint hint of knowing smugness in her eyes in no way diminished by this speech. She sighed slightly, then leant on her elbows and rested her chin on her folded hands.

  ‘I can’t decide. Whether or not to tell you,’ she said.

  As Michael walked into Anthony Northfield’s office on the second floor of the clinic, the young doctor rose and walked round the desk to shake hands and to usher Michael into one of two upright chairs in front of it, taking the other himself. Michael looked hard at Anthony’s face, seeking an immediate clue as to the reason for the visit, but finding only the friendly but inscrutable smile of the concerned professional. Aware peripherally of the framed abstract prints on the cream walk, the neat black laptop open on the bare white desk, the sleek stainless steel light fittings and minimal furnishings, Michael felt out of place, sensing the streamlined efficiency of an office in the City, but missing the rôle he would normally take in such surroundings. If this had been a meeting about insurance, pensions or premiums he would have found the atmosphere helpful and positive, but to be here in his capacity as a patient – or, more exactly, husband of a patient – made him feel very vulnerable. His total dependence on this building and its inhabitants for the future happiness of himself and Juliet placed him on the defensive, and he realised how much more comfortable he had been in the old-fashioned surroundings of Professor Hewlett’s room next door, where the large mahogany desk and faded, comfortable armchairs had reassured rather than confronted.

  ‘Is she all right?’ he asked as he sat down.

  ‘Yes, Mr Evans,’ answered Anthony, sounding relieved that the conversation had been opened. ‘Yes, as I said, she’s fine. I think what we have is more of an emotional problem. Your wife, as you know, has been through a lengthy ordeal – the years of not getting pregnant were very taxing for her – I am sure it has been difficult for you both. Professor Hewlett and indeed all of us here have explained to you, the process of IVF in itself can be extremely debilitating and we quite oft
en see some rather distressing effects on temperament.’

  Michael was beginning to relax. He had become so used to Juliet’s moods over the years, and particularly over recent months, that it hadn’t until now struck him that, to outsiders, they could be really quite startling. It was suddenly quite clear to him that she had been rude, difficult or obstructive with some of the doctors or nurses, or even just more emotionally demanding than their usual patients. He geared himself up to start explaining how little these moods really meant and how apologetic Juliet would be once she realised the trouble or distress she had been causing.

  But Anthony went on. ‘There is something I believe I ought to bring to your attention. It isn’t easy for me to discuss this with you, but I feel now that I must. I’m afraid your wife appears to have convinced herself of an emotional – or perhaps I should say of a romantic – attachment that has no basis in reality.’

  Michael had read of hairs creeping on the backs of necks but he had never before knowingly experienced the phenomenon in the way he did now. It felt as if each individual hair was slowly lifting itself from its horizontal position to stand to frozen attention in the moment’s silence that fell between the two men.

  ‘I’m sorry, I don’t quite understand . . .’ he began.

  Anthony cleared his throat. He knew he wasn’t handling this as well as he had wanted to; when he had rehearsed it in his mind earlier, the projected scene of the confrontation had been brisker, shorter and far easier than the reality in which he now found himself. Insecurity was making him hesitant and tentative. Why was he finding this so difficult? As he had told himself over and over again during the afternoon, this wasn’t his first experience of emotional problems with patients, but for some reason this time it felt threatening, serious and almost sinister. He tried to assume a confidence he didn’t feel as he continued.

  ‘This is not really that unusual, Mr Evans, and normally I might not have said anything. But the fact is your wife has developed an attachment to a very strong degree indeed. And I want to make absolutely sure there’s no room for any possible misunderstanding.’ How stupidly he had put that. There might never have been any possibility of ‘misunderstanding’ if he hadn’t planted the idea of it in this man’s head.

  ‘I still don’t quite see.’

  ‘Mrs Evans is suffering from a mild delusion, no doubt induced by the traumatic effects of her emotional tension over a long period of time.’

  ‘Yes?’ Michael was beginning to feel irritated by the purposefully cryptic nature of the doctor’s conversation.

  ‘Well, to be blunt, Mr Evans, your wife is convinced that I have an emotional attachment to her.’

  ‘Really? Well that’s not too serious is it? I expect she just wants to feel that—’

  ‘No, sorry, I’m still not making myself clear . . . She telephoned me this afternoon – I have to say I’ve been aware of something like this brewing for a while, but I didn’t realise just how far it had gone. It is very clear to me now that she is extremely confused. The fantasies she talked of indicate that she is under a severe misapprehension. It puts me in a rather awkward position, but I felt it important to have a chat with you. Your wife is utterly convinced that I have been communicating messages to her for several weeks and that there is some sort of relationship between us. As you can see, I had to bring this out in the open before you heard it from her yourself, and came to any unfortunate conclusions.’

  Anthony was almost smiling, covering the turbulence that was churning inside with an assumed nonchalance.

  You smug bastard, thought Michael. You smug, conceited, self-satisfied bastard. All you’re worried about is yourself. That’s what all this is about. Juliet said something stupid on the phone, you’ve got the wrong end of the stick and now you’re frightened you’ve said something that she’ll repeat to me and you’ll get into trouble.

  ‘Don’t worry, Dr Northfield, I understand completely,’ he said calmly. But, he thought, I would just like to know whether you feel perhaps you’ve in some way contributed to the situation. Whether maybe you’ve been flirting with my wife, for instance? Whether your bedside manner got just that little bit too intimate? Whether one of the procedures became a little too enjoyable? A mental picture of Northfield in his blue coat with his arm between Juliet’s naked, straddled legs suddenly flashed into his mind, and Michael almost gasped.

  ‘I would like to assure you, Mr Evans, that I have never at any stage said or done anything that could possibly justify your wife feeling that I have anything other than a purely professional interest in her.’ Anthony half wondered why the hell he had just said that, when there was no suggestion of anything of the kind, but he fixed the smile back on his face and ploughed on: ‘I do stress again, Mr Evans, that this is not uncommon. But you’ll obviously appreciate that I think it much better that I should not take part in any further treatment or discussion with her, should it be necessary. If all goes well, there shouldn’t—’

  ‘What did she say to you?’

  ‘When?’

  ‘On the telephone, you said she called you this afternoon.’

  ‘She said something to the effect that she thought that—’

  ‘No – exactly. I want to know exactly what she said.’

  Anthony sighed and looked down at his hands, which were clasped together in his lap. The smile had faded and he looked serious and weary. Michael almost felt sorry for him.

  ‘She said she received all the messages I was sending her and that it was time I stopped pretending. That she knew how I felt about her from the way I looked at her and the things I said, and that she felt the same way. That she was ready to recognise my love for her publicly. She was going to come round straightaway and talk about our future together.’

  After a short pause Anthony lifted his head and looked straight into Michael’s eyes for a moment, then he took a deep breath and said, almost gently, ‘And a lot more along the same lines. I just couldn’t seem to reach her rationally at all. I wouldn’t have mentioned this to you if I thought it would just go away, Mr Evans. As you can imagine, I’d obviously rather not have had to bring it up at all.’

  Michael could feel how red his face had become, flushed with a mixture of anger and humiliation, and with the effort of combating the infuriating desire to cry. The only person with whom he could consider discussing such a personal and embarrassing problem was the one that was the cause of it, and he suddenly felt completely alone. His contact with his parents over the years since his move to London had been intermittent and almost formal in its politely restrained warmth – a matter of telephone calls, occasional Christmas visits and factual, newsy letters – and there was no one else he could turn to in a moment such as this.

  ‘So why are you telling me?’ he asked gruffly.

  Anthony answered immediately. ‘I think you should consider taking her to see a psychiatrist. It’s generally far better to tackle such things before they become entrenched, and I know a professional will be able to—’

  ‘Are you sure that’s really necessary? After all, she’s obviously in a very emotional condition and . . .’

  Anthony looked serious, and, for once, a little older than his years. ‘Yes, I’m sure, Mr Evans. I’m completely sure. I’ll give you the name of someone, and I do ask you to make an appointment as soon as possible. I think this is a matter of some urgency.’

  Chapter Seventeen

  Juliet had slipped into a semi-comatose feverish slumber; the still, cold form of the small baby lying silently beside her. The occasional car passed by the house, outlining the two human forms with an edging of thin bright white from the light of its headlamps which reflected intermittently off the ceiling of the darkened room. To the casual eye, ignoring the squalor and detritus of the filthy surroundings, they could have been a quietly sleeping mother and child; a peaceful twosome in loving unconsciousness simply needing the passage of night and the dawning of a new day to bring them to happy awareness and the normali
ty of everyday life. The emptiness of their bellies, the chill of their skin, the loneliness of their hearts: all would have been invisible to the onlooker, all hidden beneath the appearance of calm and restorative sleep.

  Even the dreaming had stopped. Juliet’s mind had subsided into deeper patterns than those that permitted the swirling thoughts and images of the hallucinations of sleep; and in a natural and unconscious attempt at self-preservation, Harry’s exhausted, hungry and thirsty body had switched off every function except those necessary for breathing and moving the blood around his tiny body.

  The rustling continued – or did it? The almost imperceptibly tiny movements of Juliet’s head against the material of her collar that had caused it still went on. But without her own ear awake to hear it and to magnify it into disproportionate audibility, did it still exist? Or had it disappeared along with the sensibility of the human instrument that had helped to produce it?

  ‘You see, Hat, something rather wonderful has happened, and I’m just trying to sort out my thoughts before I decide how to tackle it. There’s a young doctor at the clinic who fancies me—’

  ‘Oh yes? Some young smoothie, I’ll bet. Well, go on. I’m all ears. Has he propositioned you or what? Is there going to be a thrilling scandal? Come on, give me the juicy gossip.’

  But Juliet didn’t laugh at this in the way that Harriet had expected her to do. She still looked oddly removed, as if she were listening to her friend’s chatter with one ear, but keeping most of her attention turned inward, to some secret knowingness that gave her the only well-qualified interpretation of all that surrounded her. The look on her face reminded Harriet of a friend who had found Jesus at the age of forty-one, and with whom all rational and constructive conversation had subsequently had to be abandoned in the face of the terrifying, all-embracing certainty of her own opinions – which had swept aside the possibility of there being any other view. Or of other girlfriends who had ‘gone into counselling’ and who had, under enthusiastic instruction, contemplated their own navels to such an extent that everything they saw, read or heard thereafter was similarly viewed through a small redundant aperture. As soon as Harriet heard speak of people ‘finding their own space’, ‘feeling good about themselves’ or ‘becoming at peace in their own bodies’, she would run a mile, knowing that invariably such ‘inner journeys’ would end in disaster and that she, who had plenty of ‘baggage’ of her own to contend with, would be left to pick up the pieces. On first acquaintance she had spotted in Lauren, the usurper of her husband’s affections, the varnish of therapy-speak, and it drove her wild to see how her ex-husband, with whom she had laughed so many times at such things, was taken in by it. She had nearly hit him when he told her on one occasion that Lauren nourished his ‘inner child’, which, by implication, Harriet had been ignoring. Trying to explain that she had been a little busy nurturing the two outer children with their demands of food, washing and general dogsbodying had been useless, and evoked the same slightly pitying look of patient understanding that was now infecting Juliet.