by Zoë Jenny
Even though she regarded Sadie as one of her closest friends and trusted her a great deal, Sadie’s sexiness, her sheer lust for life, meant that she was a natural enemy to the very convention of marriage. Sadie had in fact called herself unsuited to any sort of marital agreement. “I am married to life,” she had said. “People need concepts like marriage to weather the storm of life, only to get shattered and disillusioned. Life doesn’t follow rules and contracts; it never does.”
However, Claire didn’t think of her as a cynic, which made it even more difficult to dismiss her opinion. She had much too much warmth for that. Claire was the first to defend Sadie, but nevertheless harboured the faintest suspicion – and she hated herself for the thought and tried to reject it as paranoia – that Sadie was the kind of woman who had the ability to destroy an otherwise happy couple.
Sometimes Claire wondered what it was exactly that attracted her to Anthony. After all, he spent his days in an environment completely alien to her – in a world of numbers and projections. He seemed to follow a clear path and as a result was much more grounded than her. Until she had met him she was just floating around, rootless like a particle in a vast ocean forever moving, carried only by the unpredictibale current of life. Perhaps it was just the right timing and she was finally ready and willing to let someone take her on his way. After all those years of wandering around, being with Anthony felt like resting on a island and for the first time she as able to take a deep breath.
Anthony broke her thoughts by waving at the waiter to order more wine.
“I’d much rather have a house in Tuscany; I could never live in France,” Christine said.
“As it stands, we are not buying a house anywhere,” Sam replied. “We just came back from a huge holiday...”
“I told her all I want is a little farm and a vineyard in California.” David was talking about the girl from Santa Barbara again.
He showed photos of her on his BlackBerry. Claire had seen the pictures before. David had met this girl two years ago on a trip to California and was still talking about it like it was yesterday.
Mandy was vegetarian of course, clean and pretty. His dream woman.
“But you haven’t seen her for ages. It’s a fantasy. She’s probably married by now and has a kid.”
“We are e-mailing,” David said defensively. Claire realised that the girl wasn’t a fantasy for him. He lived with her, even if only in his mind.
“We talked on Skype recently,” he added, looking down as if he had been whipped.
When Claire went to the toilet an hour later she could see the lipstick had crumbled in the corners of her mouth, her tongue blue from the red wine. While she was wiping her lips with a wet tissue she realised that for the last few hours she had actually forgotten what day it was. No one had mentioned that it was a year after the attacks, though maybe they just didn’t want to spoil Anthony’s birthday.
Coming back from the toilet, she looked at them from a distance. There they were, a bunch of joyous people, celebrating a birthday on a summer evening. And why shouldn’t they? The scene was so innocent and happy, and it was good to see Anthony enjoying himself. When she returned to the table they were laughing hard about something; apparently she had just missed the punchline of a joke. The waiter then appeared with a ramshackle chocolate cake, a burning candle in it.
As they sang Happy Birthday, Sadie stood up, moving her hands as if conducting an orchestra. Paolo got up, put a hand around her waist and, to a song on the radio with a catchy samba rhythm, did a few moves. A true performer, Claire thought, instinctively rubbing her knee. She knew how it felt to be the centre of attention, presenting a perfectly trained body. She could tell immediately Paolo was a natural – he had the enviable ease of the South American, the rhythm ingrained in his bones. She knew he would ask her when he sat down and, putting his hand over her shoulder in a manly protective way, he turned to her.
“Sadie told me you are a dancer too?”
“Oh gosh no, not anymore anyway,” Claire pointed quickly at her left knee. “I had a very bad cruciate ligament injury. It happened ages ago, but the meniscus is ruined. I’m teaching swimming lessons to children now.”
She saw that he was pitying her, thinking of how many years of training she must have gone through, and so she added: “We are hoping to have children soon, so maybe it’s better anyway. I couldn’t possibly have a dance career now.”
She heard her own words sound unconvincing, but Paolo nodded sympathetically. “Of course not, of course not,” and after a pause, “It’s so difficult to sustain a living.”
He went on tell her about his DVD, a self-teaching course, which was selling well. She could understand why Sadie liked him. Apart from his looks, he had obviously come a long way. She was sure he had broken many hearts over the years, and Claire imagined all of the girls lined up who had waited for him after class, young and pretty. Easy prey. Against them, Sadie was a solid rock.
“A good catch,” Anthony said later, referring to Paolo as they walked back home.
“He seems a nice guy,” Claire agreed. “We should invite them over for dinner soon.”
“You mean before they break up in a few weeks’ time.” Anthony laughed.
Claire’s hand was nestled in the back of his trouser pocket; she could feel the muscle of his buttocks moving. Their steps on the empty street made a hollow sound. It was a warm night, the moon cut perfectly in half.
“Soon the moon will be full again,” Anthony said. There was something deeply comforting about a moon that was going to be full, Claire thought. It meant there was a rhythm and interplay they could do nothing about; it was just there, eternally, a bigger cycle that was following its own set of rules.
She felt tipsy when she got up the stairs to the bedroom. Naked, she sank into the white sheets, her body warm and saturated. She thought of her body as an egg; something very fragile that was now protected.
“Thank you,” Anthony whispered into her ear, his hand running down her spine.
Lying back to back, their feet locked, she closed her eyes, already half-asleep.
She couldn’t remember whether it was the light or the flapping that made her wake up only an hour later. A helicopter was hovering almost directly over their house.
“What’s that?” Claire said, rubbing her eyes.
“They must be looking for someone,” Anthony answered in a slumberous voice. “Just go back to sleep.”
The helicopter flew north but came back only a minute later. It seemed to be flying in circles over Islington. She got up and looked behind the curtain down on to the street. She saw her scooter parked on the other side. The houses opposite, the cars, everything was immersed in the dim light of the streetlamp, unreal like an old black and white photograph. Only the flapping of the helicopter violently disturbed the placid scene, tearing it apart. It was Anthony’s voice that finally released her from standing there, staring at the empty street, just as she realised it was fear, cold nameless fear, that was stirring in her chest.
*
Miss Zelda’s voice came from the far corner of the room.
“Imagine your body is transparent,” she said.
Claire didn’t know how long she had been lying on the bed. They were alone; it was dark. She saw her own body gradually sink deeper and deeper, her limbs weightless, floating in a timeless space. The pain in her head had gone. She imagined in her brain a mass of blood vessels, painfully pulsating, the place of fears and nightmares. Now her head felt light and clear, like a room full of clutter that in one fell swoop had suddenly been tidied up. She opened her eyes, surprised to see the woman standing right next to her. She looked at her moonshaped face, a red-lipped smile hovering over her.
“Very good Claire. Well done,” Miss Zelda said, taking her pulse. “Take your time.”
However, Claire sat up immediately. She was wide awake and she realised exactly where she was. A wooden replica of a Buddha figure was sitting on a small des
k. Miss Zelda put out the scented candle with two fingers before she switched on the light.
Claire jumped off the bed and slipped into her flipflops. The walls were covered with pictures of babies. Babies in cots, babies wrapped in pink and baby blue blankets, lying in the arms of their smiling mothers. There must have been at least a hundred pictures. She wondered whether all these woman were former patients who had been lying on that very bed, being hypnotised just like she was. When she had started she had found the photos of all the happy mothers intimidating, but now she just looked into familiar faces as if they were cheering her on, encouraging her not to give up just yet.
Walking down Harley Street, Claire felt taller, as if the voice of the therapist had straightened her spine. The sun appeared from behind a cloud for just a few moments before it disappeared again. Claire imagined being someone else, someone with no purpose and no goal, walking down a street in a big city with no name, enjoying the warmness of the sun on her face. Suddenly, a strange freedom embraced her, a state of complete oblivion and the notion that happiness was nothing more than to forget oneself. Maybe Anthony was right and and the relaxation would help; maybe somehow, in some magical way, it would put things in place and make them work properly.
Claire went to Pauls in Marylebone High Street. She had a one-and-a-half hour gap before the next swimming lesson. It had become a ritual to go to Pauls after the hypnosis session. As soon as she sat down and ordered her Earl Grey tea with milk, two women with prams came in. One had a double buggy, cleverly designed with one seat stacked over another. She had twins, who were sleeping. When the women were seated, the second mother lifted her top and began to breastfeed her baby. Her naked, melon-sized breast hung out, blunt and white. She made no attempt to cover her breast – it was just there in the room for everyone to see.
Claire stirred her tea. It was difficult not to look. It had always made her slightly uncomfortable seeing women breastfeeding in public spaces; it was like passionately kissing couples, or men peeing on park trees. Why had some people the urge to exhibit intimate acts for everyone to see? For some time now she had noticed that wherever she went, in restaurants, cafes or shops, there would soon appear a horde of mothers with their brood, rubbing her nose in what she didn’t have. This time, though, she wasn’t all that envious. The baby puked, straight into the gap between its mothers breasts as if into a sick bag.
However, unperturbed, the mother just said, “In and out,” as she wiped her breasts with a tissue. “It just goes in and comes back out again.”
Claire wondered how old they were. Trying to guess their age was something she did almost automatically now when she saw mothers with their babies. To her relief they both looked older then her, probably in their early forties. She suspected that the twins were not conceived naturally. It had become a normal sight, women in their forties with twins and triplets, roaming the streets of London. They were raising the first generation of IVF children. Maybe she would have to become one of them. But Miss Zelda had told her, “Try everything else before you go down that route.”
It had sounded as if it were the most desperate thing a couple could do, something that could stigmatise and even traumatise them forever. “I don’t think you will need to do such an invasive treatment just yet,” she had said, tapping her shoulder like a well-meaning friend, “you are still young.” These comforting words enveloped her like a warming blanket. It was always a great relief to listen to Miss Zelda, and maybe it was true. Her body was still toned from the years of ballet training. In the gym she could easily outperform most twenty-year-olds, something she was quietly proud of. She was aware of the way she walked, in a upright posture with that gracious sway in her hips and the feet at a slight outward angle that revealed the dancer in her.
When she had married Anthony two years ago she had expected to get pregnant within six months. After all, that was what happened to the average, normal couple and there was nothing that had suggested they were anything other than that: normal.
After a year had passed, they went to a fertility clinic and all the tests turned out to be fine. “There is absolutely nothing wrong with you,” the doctor had said. “There are no detectable medical reasons why you couldn’t have a baby.” They went home in a state of confusion.
At first she was just mildly disappointed when she saw the spots of blood in her knickers, but with the period recurring month after month she couldn’t hide her frustration. It felt like a punishment, only she didn’t know what for.
“You are only 33. We have plenty of time,” Anthony said, trying to calm her down when she came out the bathroom, cursing and close to tears. But in the last few months Claire had sensed his growing disappointment. When they made love, his grasp was now impatient. Once she caught a glimpse of his face in the bathroom mirror. His expression was wild, almost angry.
The pillow talk, usually filled with laughter, had also slowly changed. When they lay in bed, staring at the ceiling, the tone of their voices got gradually lower as if they were ducking into the darkness of the night. They went over it again and again and, more often than not, their conversation ended in a row.
“But why doesn’t it work if there isn’t anything wrong?” she asked. “Maybe they missed something.”
And then he said it. “It’s all in your head, Claire.”
She detected the hint of accusation in his voice. “What do you mean? Is it all my fault?” she said, looking at him.
“I didn’t say that.”
“You did.” Her voice was trembling.
“All I want is for you to relax,” he said, tapping the duvet apologetically. “Just forget what I said.”
But Claire couldn’t forget it. In fact she was thinking about his remark all night, turning from one side to the other. With only a few words he had planted a poisonous seed. It’s in your head. Her head. Something was wrong with her.
Shortly after that they had an appointment with Miss Zelda, a well-known fertility guru in Harley Street. They had seen the brochures, pastel-coloured and clean. She looked like a secretary from an Eighties’ film, with her high heels and a wide green patentleather belt. Gently touching Claire’s stomach, she said, “I can see it for you two. You will have a baby, believe me.”
Her optimism was infectious. A diet plan was created. Claire would come in every week for alternating acupuncture and hypnosis sessions. Both of them were put on vitamin pills. Claire had to smile when she recalled Anthony’s reaction, looking suspiciously at the bottle with the white tablets.
“It’s to increase your sperm quality,” Miss Zelda had said with a smile. “If you start taking it now, your next batch in three months will be excellent.”
Claire was prescribed some Chinese herbs. She had to mix the gloopy greenish powder with water and drink it every morning. It tasted like glue. She forced it down although she always felt sick afterwards.
Claire finished her tea. She wondered what the woman with the twins went through to get her two bundles of bliss. On the way out the twins started to cry, both at the same time. They seemed to be spurring each other on, getting louder and louder as if in competition. Their cries filled the room and for a moment she wasn’t jealous of the mothers, but relieved to be free to go.
She drove fast, skillfully zig-zagging around the lined-up cars and buses of Marylebone Road towards King’s Cross. Someone was hooting at her but she didn’t care; she was in a rush. A part of Pentonville Road was cordoned off, as happened so often these days. Police cars, men in orange vests, police tape everywhere. Only last week when she came back home from work she saw two houses on City Road taped off, dozens of policemen going in and out of houses.
Claire drove through some back streets, going even faster now. She didn’t want to be late, especially as Mrs Ross always seemed to be in a hurry.
They were already waiting for her in front of the gym.
“So sorry, the traffic –”
She started to apologise, but Mrs Ross shook her h
ead. “Don’t worry, I’ll see you in an hour,” she said, kissing Nora swiftly on her forhead and leaving. She was always dressed as if she was off to some glamorous event. Claire wondered what she was up to for the next hour, but of course that was none of her business.
“Are you up for a swim?” Claire asked in an encouraging tone, but Nora only nodded reluctantly.
Claire prefered one-to-one lessons, because the children who came to her privately did so because they had usually failed to learn to swim in a group. Nora was one of the most difficult children she had ever had to deal with – she was so afraid of water it would take a great deal of work before she would gain the confidence and to swim.
She took Nora’s hand with a firm grip and went with her to the locker room. As soon as the musty smell of chlorine and damp swimming trunks hit her, she knew she was at work.
At this time of day the pool was almost empty. There were two swimmers in the fast lane and a couple of children splashing around.
“Do you remember the game we played last time?” she asked.
Nora shook her head, pressing her arm against her body as if to protect herself. She was clearly not in the mood for a swimming lesson.
Claire saw the woman instantly, triumphantly carrying her huge bump, the blue swimming costume stretched over her pregnant belly. Standing at the edge of the pool with her pale thin arms and legs, she reminded Claire of an octopus; there was something grotesque about it. The woman climbed down the pool ladder, carefully gliding into the water, and swam on her back with long elegant strokes.
Claire couldn’t help but follow her belly, a little blue island floating up and and down the pool. She thought of the embryo in there, that was swimming too, in amniotic fluid. Nora had been there, in Mrs Ross’s belly, not all that long ago and now she was here standing in front of her with her big brown eyes full of fear, shivering and trembling, seven-years-old and already a neurotic mess.
