by Hodge, Sibel
They both screwed up their faces. ‘Awwwwww, we want to play with Aunty Gina.’
Lavinia clapped her hands together briskly (like mother like daughter). ‘Off you go, before you make a mess in here,’ she said to them.
‘OK, I promise to play Monopoly with you after dinner.’ I winked at them and they gave me an excited thumbs-up before disappearing.
It was the same every time I saw them. Jayne and Wayne were both barristers with a thriving practice in London, and never seemed to have any time for their children. An endless round of live-in au pairs looked after them most of the time.
‘Gina!’ Dad entered the room with an apron round his waist that said Top Chef on it. He loved to cook, and I’d bought if for him for Christmas last year, although if I were married to Lavinia, I’d spend most of the time away from her in the kitchen, too. It was Dad’s little haven since she never even made so much as a cup of tea. He crushed me in a hug. ‘How are you? Any news on the baby front?’ He pulled back, searching my face for good news.
I shook my head, determined for once not to get upset about it.
‘Jayne got pregnant instantly both times,’ Lavinia butted in. ‘Didn’t you?’ She glanced over at Jayne who nodded with a smug smile on her face. ‘I must say it runs in the family.’ Lavinia propped herself on the edge of the sofa that had perfectly arranged and plumped cushions, smoothing her tight black pencil skirt over her knee. ‘All our side are incredibly fertile.’
I fought the urge to growl at her. Or worse, batter her over the head with…I searched the room for battering equipment…the Monopoly board would do for starters.
Jayne guffawed. ‘I just had to look at Wayne and I got pregnant. Both times.’
Yeah, hilarious!
‘Oh, well.’ Lavinia waved her hand. ‘If you just stop worrying about it and relax, it will happen.’
OK, I think I let out a slight growl at that.
Dad pulled me tighter in a supportive embrace. At least he seemed to get it. ‘Dinner will be ready in five minutes.’ He thankfully changed the subject before dashing off back to the kitchen because something smelt of burning.
‘Oh, I do hope you don’t burn the roast potatoes again,’ Lavinia called after Dad.
‘I like them crispy,’ I said, coming to Dad’s defence.
‘Cripsy? They were cremated.’ Lavinia sighed. ‘Where’s Karl? He hasn’t left you, has he?’ she asked me. ‘One of my friends ended up a neurotic mess when she was trying to have a baby. She split up with her husband because of it. I hope you’re not moping around, getting all moody. That would be enough to put anyone off.’
I narrowed my eyes at her but she carried on anyway.
‘I bet you’re neglecting Karl. You need to make sure your house is always clean and tidy,’ she said, glancing around her perfect show house, with not even a stray cauldron lying around, a satisfied smile on her face. ‘You’re a bit lacking in the housework department, after all. And talk to him about his work. Karl’s career is very important to him. You don’t want him to feel neglected because of all this baby business.’ The way she said “baby business” came out sounding like a swear word.
I tried to drown out her “Life According to Lavinia” speech, but she was still droning on.
‘You need to cook him some decent meals, too. The way to man’s heart is through his stomach.’ She gave me a condescending look, seeming to forget that she did no cooking whatsoever.
‘Actually, I think the way to a man’s heart is a bit lower than his stomach,’ I said.
‘Lavinia, can you get the door while I dish up?’ Dad’s voice rang out from the kitchen.
Lavinia sprang up from the seat like a cougar ready to pounce and marched to the front door to let Karl in, thankfully saving me from yet another rant.
‘Where are the boys?’ Karl asked Jayne and Wayne (he-he!) after he’d said his hellos.
‘Outside so they don’t disturb us,’ Jayne said, flicking through a House & Home magazine. ‘Honestly, I don’t know why you want children. They’re so demanding. You never get any time for yourself anymore. I’d love a moment’s peace.’
Wayne nodded at his wife. ‘It’s not easy juggling high profile criminal cases and having kids.’
‘You’re right, darling.’ She patted his hand.
Karl and I exchanged a disbelieving look. Then I glanced out of the French doors into the garden and watched Rupert and Quentin tearing around, pretending to be planes, grinning from ear to ear and making engine noises. Why didn’t their parents know how lucky they were? They had two precious, healthy boys who, despite their disinterested mum and dad, were turning out to be thoughtful, happy, and contented.
Normally I’d just let them get on with their ridiculous, selfish drivel, and maybe it was the caffeine and chocolate withdrawal kicking in, but I felt a hot angry flush crawling up my neck. ‘So why did you have them, then, Jayne?’ I demanded. ‘I mean, I know they must’ve upset your busy work routine and social life and all that, so why bother?’
She carried on flicking through the magazine, oblivious to the edge in my tone. ‘Do you know, I do ask myself that sometimes. When you have them, it’s like you’re trapped. No more relaxing holidays in the sun, no more quiet Sunday mornings with the papers. No more time to yourself without someone calling “Mum” every two minutes. It’s exhausting!’
I stared at her for a second, not quite believing what she’d said. Then I turned on my heels and stormed into the steamy hot kitchen before I exploded and said something I’d regret.
Dinner wasn’t much better, although luckily Dad steered the conversation away from babies and children. That was Dad – always the peacemaker.
Afterwards, Karl and I disappeared into the garden to play with the boys, and Dad brought out a green tea for me and a glass of non-alcoholic beer he’d found in the back of the cupboard for Karl.
Karl’s eyes lit up. ‘Beer!’
‘Yes, but it’s only pretend beer,’ I said.
Karl took a huge gulp. ‘I don’t care. I can almost imagine it’s the real thing.’ He set it down on the patio table and I walked with Dad to a bench at the end of the garden where we could watch him playing football with Rupert and Quentin.
Dad sat down next to me and squeezed my hand. ‘I know they can be a bit difficult sometimes, but they mean well,’ he said, referring to the Lavinia tribe.
I seriously doubted it but I was too worn out to say anything.
‘Your mum had trouble conceiving you, too,’ he said.
My head whipped around to face him. ‘Did she? I didn’t know that. What happened?’
He smiled at me. ‘You took two years to arrive. She had three miscarriages but the doctors couldn’t find anything wrong with either of us.’ He shrugged. ‘It just took a bit of time, that’s all. Try not to worry, love. I’m sure it will happen soon.’ He patted my hand.
70-Mile-an-Hour-Sperm
‘You need to have a wank now before you go to work,’ I said to Karl as he had breakfast the next morning.
‘Well, that will be a welcome change,’ he said. ‘One minute you’re telling me I can’t masturbate, now you’re telling me I can.’
‘Too much ejaculation around our fertile time can reduce the sperm quality so we need to keep your sperm for the essential days, but this is essential masturbation so you can break the previous no-wanking rule.’ I thrust a small sample bottle I’d got from the doctors into his hand.
He took it, chewing thoughtfully on his toast. ‘Why have you got your coat on?’
‘The sperm only stays viable for up to two hours before it starts to deteriorate. As soon as you do it I need to rush up to the hospital so they can test it.’
‘But we only live half an hour away from it.’
‘What if there’s a car accident, or I get car-jacked?’ I said. I was sure he let out a small sigh but I carried on. ‘What? It could happen! It happens all the time in South Africa.’
‘We’re not in b
loody South Africa!’ he said, and this time I definitely heard a sound. Something like a cross between a snort and a cough. ‘What, do you think there’s a female gang of pregnant wannabes lurking out there stealing sperm?’
I ignored his sarcastic outburst. ‘And it’s rush hour,’ I said. ‘Do you want a hand?’
‘Well, you standing there in your coat, tapping your foot, isn’t exactly going to do it for me, is it? It’s pretty hard to relax when I feel like I’m under pressure to perform all the time. I’m not a stud horse.’
OK, so maybe I was being an ickle tiny bit impatient, but all he had to do was ejaculate in a cup and that was his job done. How easy was that? He’d been masturbating probably since he was about twelve, what was the big deal? I had to go through all those other tests and possible hormone-induced hysteria, and the thought of what they might find was stressing me out. How selfish of him to get annoyed about having a bloody orgasm.
‘Well, do it yourself, then,’ I huffed.
‘I will!’ he stormed past me and disappeared up the stairs.
Twenty minutes later, as he sauntered down the stairs I rushed up to meet him, grabbing the test bottle like a relay sprinter handing over the baton, and shoving it down the front of my jeans.
‘What are you doing?’ He looked at me like I’d completely lost the plot.
‘It has to be kept at body temperature so I’m keeping it down here for safety.’ I shot out the door and slid behind the wheel of my sporty Volkswagen.
Ouch!
The plastic specimen pot jabbed me in the stomach. I readjusted it slightly and reversed out of the drive onto the main road, narrowly missing an oncoming bus.
OK, calm down, the hospital’s not that far. It won’t do to get killed by a bus on the way, the sensible part of my brain said.
Yes, but what if there’s an unexpected accident on the motorway and all the cars get diverted through town? It would be gridlock. What if the car breaks down? What if there are roadworks? the neurotic part of my brain shouted at me.
I listened to the neurotic part and chugged off down the road past the school where all the mothers had parked up to drop off their kids, blocking the road and causing a huge traffic jam.
Come on, come on! I tapped on the dashboard, inching my way through the few spaces that opened up in the road as cars coming from the opposite side pushed in.
I glanced at the clock on the dashboard. Fifteen minutes had passed. OK, still within time but, ‘Hurry up!’ I yelled at no one in particular.
Five minutes later, I managed to squeeze through a small gap, although it was touch and go whether I’d lose a wing mirror or not, and I made it to the end of the road that led to a dual carriageway. Rush hour traffic was in full swing and turning onto it proved to be a nightmare. No one would let me out, and the vehicles were speeding past as everyone was in Monday-morning-I’m-going-to-be-late-for-work panic mode.
After waiting exactly seven minutes and forty-five seconds (I couldn’t help checking the clock) I managed to pull out on to the road, but by then the traffic was backed up for miles.
At a pace that would’ve won the national snail-racing championship, I then covered a mile in half an hour.
Damn, damn, damn. I had one hour, eight minutes and fifteen seconds left to get to the hospital. The traffic was still backed up, and at this rate, I wouldn’t make it.
I shifted impatiently in my seat, glancing around frantically at the long queue of cars. I’d be stuck here forever, unless…I spied a farmer’s field to my left with a tractor bumping along a dusty track in the middle of it. If I could get through the field, it would cut out all this traffic and I’d still be in with a chance.
Right. Here we go.
I swerved the steering wheel to the left, drove through a metal gate onto the track, and headed down a grassy embankment. Gripping the steering wheel tight, I bounced over dried mud and rocks, leaving a trail of billowing dust behind me. I ignored the crashing sounds as they hit the underside of the car. No time to think about any possible damage now.
Up in the distance the tractor had stopped. As I got nearer to it, the farmer jumped out and shrugged at me, arms wide, in a “what-the-hell-are-you-doing-driving-in-my-field? gesture.
I wound the window down. ‘Sorry! It’s an emergency!’ I gave him my best smile and bumbled past, heading towards the exit gate and back onto a main road.
One quick acceleration up another embankment and I managed to join a roundabout, where most of the traffic that I’d just missed was turning off onto the motorway. I swung a left onto another dual carriageway, which was relatively traffic-free and floored the accelerator down the road, ignoring my increasing speedometer.
Then I heard a siren behind me, and saw a police car swinging out of a side turning in my rearview mirror.
‘Oh, great!’ Just what I needed.
The police car flashed its lights for me to pull over.
I stopped the car, rummaging around in the glove box for my documents. In my haste to find them, a long, slim, glittery pink lip gloss came flying out into the footwell.
By then, a middle-aged policeman with salt and pepper hair stood by my door, knocking on the window with a stern expression.
‘Just a sec!’ I said, momentarily abandoning the search so I could open my window. ‘Hello, officer, I’m just looking for my vehicle documents.’ I turned back to the dashboard and snared the slim wallet. Aha! I grabbed it, and as I pulled it out, my insurance, tax, driving licence, and MOT all came flying out the end of it, landing in a jumbled mess next to the lip gloss.
‘Oh, God,’ I groaned. Why me? Why is this happening to me? ‘Er…sorry.’ I glanced up at him as he carefully studied every move I made.
‘In a hurry are you, madam?’
‘Well, kind of.’ I gave him a slight smile.
‘Do you know you were doing seventy in a fifty-mile-an-hour zone?’
‘Sorry, officer. I wasn’t aware of that,’ I fibbed. I know, lying to the police would probably send me straight to criminal hell but I needed to get a move on. ‘Can you just give me a ticket and I’ll be on my way?’
He shifted his weight to the balls of his feet and back again before raising an eyebrow. ‘Did I hear you correctly, madam? You actually want a ticket?’
‘Yes.’ And hurry up about it! I managed to retrieve the documents from the floor and pushed them through the window towards him. ‘I’d like a ticket, please,’ I said breathlessly, my eyes straying to the clock. I had an hour left.
He looked down at the documents but didn’t examine them. ‘No one has ever actually asked for a ticket before. In fact, most people will do anything not to get a ticket.’ His voice took on an incredibly suspicious tone.
‘Right, well, I’d love a ticket, please, officer. So if you could give me one I’d really appreciate it. Then I’ll get out of your hair and you can get onto much more important enforcement thingyish stuff.’
He narrowed his eyes at me. ‘Are you saying that speeding vehicles aren’t important?’
‘No!’ I cried. ‘Of course I wasn’t suggesting that at all, officer. They’re extremely important. Extremely,’ I added again for emphasis.
‘Do you know that most traffic accidents could be avoided if people adhered to the correct speed limit?
‘Er…yes, I’m sure you’re right. Could I have my ticket, please?’
‘He leaned closer, peering over me to the inside of the car. ‘Have you been drinking this morning, madam?’
‘What? Of course not! It’s only nine eighteen and fifteen seconds!’
‘Would you get out of the vehicle, please?’ He stepped back so I could swing the door open.
Oh, shit. How long was this going to take?
I got out and stood in front of him, silently willing him to get a move on.
‘Have you got any offensive weapons in the car?’
‘Pardon?’ I thought I’d misheard him. Did I look like the kind of person who carried around offensiv
e weapons?
He pointed at the lip gloss lying in the footwell. ‘What’s that?’
What did he think I was going to do with it? Assault someone with a deadly lip gloss? Glitter them to death? ‘That’s lip gloss.’
‘Let me see it.’ He eyed me warily.
I reached into the car to retrieve it.
‘Nice and slowly. I want to see your hands at all times.’ He manoeuvred around the front of the vehicle so he could see me through the windscreen. ‘We’ve had a spate of females assaulting people with pink screwdrivers, lately. You wouldn’t happen to know anything about that, would you?’ He narrowed his eyes at me.
‘Of course not! I’m a respectable beauty therapist!’ In super-slow motion I picked up the lip gloss and held it up, showing it to him through the window.
‘Unscrew it so I can see what’s inside.’ He glared at me like I was a potential screwdriver assaulter.
I obliged, unscrewing the lid and waving the little foam wand at him. ‘See? It’s just lip gloss.’
‘Hmm.’ He raised an eyebrow. ‘OK, out of the car, please.’
I got back out, maintaining my sloth-like speed in case any sudden movement could be interpreted wrongly and land me in handcuffs.
He leafed through my documents, taking his time, and I resisted the urge to tap my foot. Then he looked down at me, his eyes straying to the top of my jeans.
‘What are you concealing down there?’ His hand reached towards his belt, resting over his CS gas spray.
‘Nothing.’ My gaze shot to the top of my jeans. Where I’d been sitting down in the car, the white top of the specimen bottle had now wormed its way up and was visibly poking out of my waistband.
‘Nice and slowly, I want to see you remove that item. And I don’t want to see any sudden moves.’ He unclipped the CS gas and held it in his outstretched hand in easy squirting range.
‘Honestly, it’s nothing. Well, OK, it’s not nothing, obviously it’s something, but it’s not a weapon or anything, or drugs, or anything like that,’ I babbled. ‘Don’t spray me. I have to get to the hospital.’
