Tell Me Something (Contemporary Romance)

by Adele Parks

  'The website claims that the herb might assist. There's a difference.' I know what she's doing. She's trying to blame the website for my raised hopes so that I don't feel like a fool or a failure. 'Are there any statistics to back up this claim?'

  'In one study forty-eight women, diagnosed with infertility, took agnus castus daily for three months; seven of them became pregnant during that time and twenty-five regained normal progesterone levels.'

  'Right.' She doesn't comment that the survey was conducted with an insubstantial number of women to be considered scientifically robust. She doesn't point out that forty-one of the candidates did not fall pregnant. Or that we have no idea about these women's case histories or records of fertility. She doesn't say that basically I'm clutching at straws; she doesn't have to.

  'Fancy a coffee?' she asks..

  'Have you got time?'

  'I can make time.'

  We quickly decide on a coffee house near Alison's office. As I put the phone down and grab my purse and Oyster Card I consider for a moment that it must be fantastic to be Alison. She is so important she can make her own agenda at work and just pop out to see her weepy mate whenever she likes, she just has to tell her PA to field her calls. Then I consider that until I go into the restaurant tonight I am my own boss and I don't even have calls to field. I must have the better deal.

  6

  Alison's office is just off High Street Kensington. On a good day that's a twenty-five-minute bus ride from our flat in Chiswick; when the traffic gods are feeling cranky it can take up to an hour. Luckily, while it's a week before Christmas, it's not snowing or raining and there are extra buses to accommodate Christmas shoppers. Even so I arrive after Alison. She's already ordered two cappuccinos and two large slices of cake; hers is carrot cake, mine is chocolate. She knows I always need chocolate when my period starts.

  'I'm sorry,' she says, as she pushes the gooey cake across the table towards me. The plate drags through someone else's coffee spillage.

  I thank her and try to ignore the fact that the cafe is heaving with new mums and young children. Groups of women, about my age or younger, sit flaunting their fertility; probably just to spite me. I must not cry. It would embarrass Alison. I blink furiously and try to bash back the tears and sadness. I can't help myself, I automatically make a tally; there are three toddlers, one baby sleeping in a pushchair, one baby hooked on to its mother's veiny boob and a pregnant woman. I'd put her at thirty-two weeks, as she's blooming. Alison follows my gaze. I see her shudder involuntarily. She just doesn't get it.

  'Maybe we should have gone somewhere else,' she says.

  'No point, it's the same everywhere,' I admit with a sigh. 'Mums and kids are teeming all over the place. Besides, it's not just women with bumps or babies that I envy. It's every woman who has ever produced. I envy the middle-aged ones who brag about their kids' A-level results and grandmothers who link arms with their grandson as they mooch across the road. Mothers are everywhere and they just go on and on.'

  Whereas I don't see a way of continuing. Don't cry. Just don't bloody cry, I silently and fiercely instruct myself.

  'Mums and babies don't frequent my kind of bar,' says Alison with a rueful grin. She means the type of place where people spill drinks down your back as they hassle to get to a seat.

  'I wish I was more like you,' I tell her as I bite into the cake. Chocolate oozes around my mouth and a large blob falls on to my lap. I don't care. I greedily cram more into my mouth. I want everything to be sweeter.

  'You mean you want to start fantasizing about having sex with Kylie Minogue?'

  I consider it for a fraction of a second, Kylie is such a good dresser she deserves that sort of respect. 'No, not that. I envy your serenity. You don't know how painful it is to long for something so badly.'

  Alison shoots me a warning look. I know I test even her patience. I guess it is a bit presumptuous assuming that she doesn't understand the meaning of longing. I know that she's coveted jobs or women in the past but my point is she's never wanted anything for six consecutive years. I try to joke off my previous comment.

  'Some women long for strong stomach muscles or thinner thighs; I just want a swelling belly and leaky boobs.' Alison doesn't interrupt, which is encouragement enough. I fiddle with the strap of my handbag and add, 'I just feel I'm missing out.'

  'How can you miss what you've never had?'

  'There's nothing easier. Did this have to happen just before Christmas?' I wail.

  'Well, there's always next month. New year, new start. Everyone hates January, it's a miserable month; nothing but debt and diets. You can spend the entire month in bed making babies.'

  I can't be cheered. It's not that easy. Alison reaches for my hand and gives it a little pat. 'Kath, at work, miscarried.'

  She's telling me this to make me feel if not better, at least not alone. She wants me to know that there are hundreds – no thousands – of women out there in the same or similar boats to mine but she doesn't know that I've even sunk so low as to loathe women who are lucky enough to have miscarried; how sick is that? My reasoning is at least they know they can conceive. I'm brutal, debased. I should be sad for this Kath, who I've only met once, and all the other women like her. I should empathize with their acute grief but my desperation has driven me past the ability to be decent.

  I manage to mutter, 'I'm sorry to hear that,' but then I feel compelled to turn the conversation back to me.

  'I feel I'm letting everyone down.'

  'Roberto?'

  'Certainly.' I shudder.

  Now here's the thing, the one thing I haven't managed to confide in a soul, not even Alison. I dwell on the issue of my childlessness incessantly. I continually consider possible methods of conceiving, anything from IVF to sex on a pagan burial site in the light of a full moon. I spend hours fantasizing about giving birth, naming, dressing, feeding the child. I have my day-dreams developed to such a detailed level that I can imagine her room in college and his first car. But when it comes to Roberto, my mind goes blank. I cannot think about him and the baby, or rather the lack of baby. I cannot think what I'm depriving him of. It's just too hideous. The doctor said my juices repelled his sperm. Thinking about his valiant, battling sperm and my hideous murdering juices leaves me struggling for breath. I try to push the thought away but it's too late, a tear slaps down on to my crumb-filled plate. I'm like a leaky ship.

  'You can't go on like this,' says Alison crossly. You can't spend the next fifteen years of your life living round twenty-eight-day cycles, punctuated with nothing other than peeing on sticks and weeping into your coffee. Something has to change.'

  I know. I sniff and nod, not risking words that would surely be accompanied by a torrent of tears. I know she's right. But knowing something is sometimes harder than not knowing.

  7

  'I've been fired,' says Roberto the moment he walks through the door.

  I am trying to dash out of the same door and I'm already fifteen minutes late for work. I'm meant to be helping out in the kitchen tonight before I start on the tables. The sous chef (a grandiose tide for dogsbody) resigned yesterday, in a blur of knives and insults. We have three office parties booked in for their Christmas do. It's going to be manic. People are depending on me. I can't be late.

  I sink on to the nearest chair.

  'What?'

  'Well, fired, redundant, let up. What is it you English say when you don't want to say what you mean?'

  'Let go?'

  'Yes, that's it. Regrettable, valued employee, etc., etc. Reasonable package but there's the door. Effective from immediately.'

  'The week before Christmas!'

  'Quite a gift, hey?'

  'Why?'

  'It wasn't just me. Nothing personal. Mark, Ella, Drew. A whole gang in production and someone in accounts too. We've lost three major clients in ten days.'

  Roberto works (or, I suppose, rather more accurately, worked) in a trendy advertising company. It's all glass w
alls, unisex loos and flat-screen TVs in the reception. I'm too intimidated to visit often, let alone socialize with his colleagues, so I have to confess I'm not exactly certain how it all works. I know he's in the account management department. And I know that he's not the guy who comes up with the idea, or the guy that writes the ad, or the guy that films it, so I suppose he does the other bit. He calls it the client interface bit, i.e. he is paid to make the client happy and encourage said client to spend money. It's a serious blow to the agency's revenue if three clients have withdrawn their business in a short space of time; I can see that question marks will have hovered over the account management department's performance.

  It would be disloyal to say so. Instead, I rush to hug him. He accepts the hug for a brief moment, then brushes me away and heads towards the fridge.

  'I need a drink.'

  Roberto's job is not what my parents consider a serious job and it's not what anyone would consider a well-paid job. Or at least it wasn't until last month, when Roberto was promoted from an account manager (paid a pittance, treated like dirt) to an account director (paid a wedge, treated to lunch). It was only three short weeks ago that he came home with champagne and a bonus to celebrate. I curse the fickle nature of the industry. Mark, Ella and Drew are all account directors too. I see that they have all become too expensive to save.

  'Oh well, it's not the end of the world,' I comment. The end of the world is getting your period; nothing much else bothers me. I accept the glass of wine Roberto is proffering; it's clear that I can't go into work now, Roberto needs my support.

  Roberto shoots me an odd look. You are right, Elizabeth, it is not the end of the world but I am very disappointed.' He's clamping his mouth together and I can see the pulse in his neck flicker. He looks like he's swallowed a frog.

  'Well, it's not like we had time to get used to the salary, we're used to managing on not much.' And it's not like I'm pregnant or we have school fees to find.

  'I'm sick of managing and getting up,' snaps Roberto.

  'You mean getting by.' I correct Roberto automatically and then I consider he might mean getting up. I sometimes don't want to get up but, surely not; Roberto isn't the depressed type.

  'I'd like a car and a decent stereo. I'd like to live in a home with more than one bedroom.'

  I'm startled. I suppose it's true to say that when Roberto and I stopped discussing trying for a baby we gave up a number of other big conversations as well.

  'You want to move?'

  'Yes. I find it depressing that I can sit on the loo in the bathroom and touch all four of the walls.'

  Odd, the things men get up to in the bathroom. But then, I do most of my praying there. Each to their own.

  'We have never talked about moving because we have not the money, but since my promotion I started to think it was a possibility.'

  Roberto opens his laptop bag. There's no laptop in it. I suppose he had to hand that back. The bag is stuffed full of details of properties, some obviously collected from a handful of estate agents, others looking as though they've been printed off from a web page. It's funny to think that Roberto has been spending hours on the web pursuing his dreams, like me; but not like me.

  I pick up the top sheet. It's a small terraced cottage, typical of Chiswick. It has a pretty blue door and white shutters. But the sweet door opens out directly on to the street and I know I wouldn't be happy bringing a child up in that house. I say so and Roberto looks at me as though I ought to be committed.

  'It doesn't matter now because we can't afford this house. Or any house in London.' He flings the papers in the bin. I watch the lid swing to and fro.

  'You'll get another job.'

  'Not as an account director.'

  'As an account manager then.'

  'Elizabeth, I am thirty-four. You earn nuts. I cannot be a man that is the earner of bread on that salary. Men my age are running companies.'

  'Peanuts and bread earner,' I correct. 'Earner of bread just sounds funny.'

  I'm not sure if he hears me because he storms out of the room and slams the door behind him.

  8

  28 December

  'You're moving to Italy?'

  Alison sounds amazed, delighted and then wary in one sentence. Perhaps this is a record. I wonder if there are entries in The Guinness Book of Records about how many emotions a person can spin through in one sentence. How would you measure it? I think I'd have quite a chance at winning that, particularly when I'm hormonal; it would be nice to win something.

  'When?' she demands

  'Mid Jan.'

  'That soon! Whereabouts in Italy?'

  'Veganze, Roberto's home town. We're going to move in with Raffaella, Roberto's mother; at least to start with. We're going to help out with the family business.'

  Alison's eyebrows jump up above the crown of her head. 'You're kidding,' she yells. She's so surprised that she nearly knocks over her cocktail.

  'Not at all.' I try to sound calm and composed although I know exactly what Alison is going to say.

  'But Roberto hates his mother. It won't work.'

  Yup. Had that nailed. Wish I'd placed a bet. Of course, I anticipated Alison's reaction because mine was just the same when Roberto first suggested moving back to Italy to live and work with his family. I try to recall his argument so that I can play it back to Alison.

  'Hate is far too strong a word. OK, so they had a massive falling out when Roberto came to the UK. All families have rows. From what I understand Raffaella felt abandoned but now he's going back to Italy, so there's nothing for them to fight about any more.'

  'So it's "Come back all is forgiven" – the last six years of rancour are going to be swept under the carpet, just like that?' demands Alison with more than a hint of disbelief.

  'More or less,' I admit carefully.

  Truthfully, I have niggling doubts about the arrangement too but I so want to believe it might work. Me in Italy, at last! Roberto has made a large number of phone calls to his mother in the past week; every one of which has been very Latino and impassioned. There have been tears, yelling, reproaches, apologies and eventually laughter. Roberto assures me that Raffaella is ready to take back her prodigal son and to meet her stranger daughter-in-law. I'm sure it's all going to be fine. Wonderful.

  'I've always, always wanted to live in Italy,' I gush.

  'I know that was your motivation for marrying Roberto in the first place,' she replies with the horrendous, shocking frankness of a best friend who has always known everything and known it forever.

  'That wasn't the only reason I married Roberto. You make it sound like I'd have married any Italian,' I mumble huffily.

  'I didn't mean that. I know you couldn't keep your hands off one another; the attraction was obvious and instant. I'm just saying that dreaming about living in Italy might be quite a different thing from actually living there in his mother's house. This move is a big thing. You've only ever been to Italy once – when you were a teenager.'

  'Hmmm. Best holiday I ever had,' I say with as wide a grin as I can muster.

  I silently sip on my cocktail. Clearly, we both think moving to Italy might have its challenges. I'm trying to ignore as much, Alison seems hellbent on confronting the possibility. Unlike me, Alison insists on facts, plans and detail. She is the ultimate girl-scout and likes to always be prepared. I prefer to view life as one big adventure, full of surprises uncurling out in front of me. I hope Alison will start to talk about what she received for Christmas.

  'So what is Roberto's family business?' she asks.

  'They are in the wine trade.'

  'Really.' Alison is impressed. 'I never heard Roberto mention that. He doesn't even drink much or show much of an interest in wine beyond the price tag, so I'm surprised. How exciting.'

  'Isn't it?'

  I hope Alison doesn't ask me too much about the business. Frankly, I'm not that up on it at all. We've never discussed the business beyond the very first time when he told m
e his family were in the wine trade. Roberto suggested going back to Italy because at least he'd have work there. He mentioned that I could help out in the bar, so his family must have one of those bars on the vineyard where tourists can taste the produce. I imagine it's very quaint. I've already chosen a whole new peasant girl wardrobe for my new career.

  I look up and see that Alison's face is contorted with worry.

  'I thought you'd be pleased,' I say huffily. 'After all, it was you who said that something had to change in my life. You as good as said Roberto and I were in a rut. When he was made redundant we were forced to have a number of different conversations and it was clear that he had a series of things that he was dissatisfied with here in London. This is a great solution.'

  'Well, it's fantastic that you two are talking about the big things at last' She pauses, waiting for me to respond, but I ignore her heavy emphasis.

  'I'm looking forward to seeing Paolina again,' I say cheerily. 'I think we might become really good friends.'

  Roberto's sister Paolina has visited us on two or three occasions. She's extremely graceful and polite. Truthfully, she was rather over-keen on sightseeing for my liking. She wanted to visit every museum and gallery in London. I was happy enough to tramp for miles around the shops but after that I introduced her to my parents. Her passion for depressing old churches and willingness to sit through deathly boring recitals meant that they were more than glad to entertain her. They reported back that they were utterly impressed with her. I couldn't help but wonder if she was the daughter they wished they'd had.

  Paolina is exquisite to look at. She has the tiniest limbs I've ever seen. She's so delicate that whenever I stand next to her my average size body seems to take on elephantine proportions, which leaves two options, eat less or stand at the other side of the room. I opted to stand at the other side of the room during her visit. Roberto told me she loves food and eats whatever she wants. It would have been hard not to hate her until I discovered that this was absolutely not the case, just the kind of thing a devoted but rather unobservant brother might believe. If Paolina has a ferocious appetite she manages to effectively subdue it; she rations herself to portions fit for Thumbelina. Honestly, she can make an olive last ten to fifteen minutes. Natural skinny girls appal me. Starving to be thin is not for me. I think it's a ludicrous way to live, but at least if a skinny girl is suffering to be thin I sort of give her grudging respect and recognize some sort of justice in there somewhere. If Paolina had been naturally thin I doubt our relationship would have had a future; as it is she and I get along well enough. And well enough isn't such a giant leap from best friends, is it? We're sisters – well, almost. I imagine we'll become inseparable within days.