‘It took a while to talk Bridget round,’ he said. ‘She wasn’t sure. She said you shouldn’t buy a baby, that she went over all of this with the counsellor. But I said you weren’t buying anything. You were just showing her appreciation for all the hard work involved.’
‘Exactly,’ Gemma agreed, phone tucked under her chin. She looked down at the breakfast bar. Lucinda’s bracelet sat there. She needed to call her and say they were accepting Nick ‘The Miser’ Crex’s offer. She picked the bracelet up and slipped it over her hand as she asked, ‘Why can’t Bridget talk to me herself?’
‘You know what she’s like. All sensitive.’ He continued. ‘And then there’s this question of if we couldn’t have a baby of our own. I admit, that was my fault. She mentioned to me that she’d had that discussion with the counsellor and I went sort of apeshit. I’m Italian, you see. Family means everything to me.’
‘I know. You said. Catholic and all that. Every sperm is sacred.’
Massy ignored her sarcastic tone. ‘You saw the shithole we’re living in. I want more than that for my kids. If you could guarantee us twenty-seven and a half grand by close of play today, I’ll see Bridget makes it to the clinic on Wednesday.’
Gemma’s heart was racing, but she spoke very slowly. ‘I’m not sure I can get you that in cash. Not by the end of the day. But I can set the wheels in motion.’
‘You can do a CHAPS transfer in one day. Ask your bank how. I’ll give you my account details. I want to know the money’s in my account by the end of the day.’
‘Shouldn’t it be in Bridget’s account?’ Gemma was surprised at how clued up Massy was.
He sighed. ‘Do you really think Bridget would have a bank account? She honestly still keeps it all under the mattress.’
‘You’ll get it,’ she said.
She wasn’t as confident as she sounded. There was three grand in the joint account and £530 in her own personal account. She started rifling through Alex’s files, desperately scanning folders entitled ‘Pensions’, ‘Investments’, files which – she realized with a shock – she had never even touched before. That was men’s business. What was wrong with her? How could she seriously be contemplating motherhood when she had no idea how much cash she and her husband had? Gemma felt disgust at herself, disgust for the past few years she’d spent window-shopping and lying on a bed having someone fiddle with her toes when she could have been mastering such matters.
She had no idea how to liquidate a pension. Or cash in an ISA. She was sure even trying to do so would spark a flurry of calls to Alex’s chambers. She looked around the room, totting up the value of the furniture in there. The fucking zebra-skin sofa had cost three and a half grand. What on earth had they been thinking of? It wasn’t even that comfortable, it was a nightmare to clean and it represented nearly a fifth of the total she had to find – the equivalent of a baby’s thigh and knee.
The telly – another two grand because Alex had insisted on HDTV. The kitchen? Now that was worth twenty-five grand but she could hardly dismantle the Italian marble surfaces herself and get them on eBay by tonight.
She examined her jewellery, her clothes, her shoes. Thousands upon thousands of pounds that she’d spunked away – a bit like Alex’s pointless ejaculations – on Nine West and Jigsaw, the odd thing from Nicole Farhi and a lot more from Zara. All that clobber must have been worth at least twenty-five grand, but there was no way it would fetch that much second-hand. Why hadn’t she foreseen this moment and started saving years ago, putting every tenner earmarked for bubble bath into a ‘bribing Bridget account’? Money had always seemed so abstract, moving frictionlessly from account to account, without you being able to touch it or see it. But its consequences were anything but abstract. They dictated the most concrete details of her life.
Gemma stared at her hands. She’d been gnawing her cuticles again. Stared at her ring finger. The band of platinum dotted with discreet diamonds, and on top of it a multifaceted rock that Gibraltar had nothing on, surrounded by sapphires. Alex’s grandmother’s. The family heirloom.
Would he notice its brief absence? Unlikely. Alex was usually so absorbed in his work, he wouldn’t notice if she walked around in a dirty tea towel with a pair of his boxers on her head. And if, by any fluky chance, he did, she could say she’d taken it to have it polished. He wouldn’t question that.
Sitting at the computer, Gemma googled ‘pawnbrokers hatton garden’.
She envisaged a dark, musty shop down an alleyway. A black cat purring on the sill of a rattly sash window. A dirty red carpet and an old man with a long white beard hobbling out of a back room crammed with dusty treasures. Instead, the pawnbrokers looked just like any other jewellers on Hatton Garden: bright, modern, with plate-glass windows displaying gold bracelets and Rolexes. Only the three discreet golden balls over the entrance hinted that you could sell as well as buy there. But still. Pawnbrokers. They were for little old ladies needing to pay the gas bill, not young women wanting to purchase the latest in fertility treatments.
Gemma pressed the bell and was buzzed in. An Asian man stepped out from behind the counter. He was in his late twenties, sharp-suited and smiling.
‘Good morning, madam.’
‘Good morning.’ She looked around nervously. Radio 1 was playing loudly. She could see nothing suitable for extracting a pound of flesh.
‘Can I help you?’
‘I want to pawn something,’ she said. It came out louder than she’d intended.
‘Come in the back room, madam,’ he said smoothly, only slightly spoiling the effect by yelling over his shoulder: ‘Oi, Sharmila. Come and mind the shop, will ya?’
In the back room, she took off the ring and placed it on the table in front of him.
‘You realize any loan will only be for about half the item’s value,’ the man – who’d introduced himself as Raf – said. ‘The interest rate is four per cent a month at the moment, it’s a six-month term, and if at the end you haven’t paid what’s owing, the item will be sold with any profits after our expenses and interest returned to you.’
‘Oh!’ Gemma said. This was comforting. ‘So even if I can’t pay you back the interest, I’ll still get some money back.’
‘It wouldn’t be much,’ Raf warned her, picking up the ring and studying it, a troubled expression on his face. ‘The interest would have eaten away most of it. But better than nothing, eh?’ He winked, then put a jeweller’s loupe to his eye and examined the ring. There was a long pause. It was like watching the Antiques Roadshow, when the old woman was about to learn the ugly old teapot from her attic was worth half a million. Gemma braced herself. Probably there’d be cash left over to cover ‘Stinge’ Crex’s shortfall.
‘Um. I don’t know how to tell you this.’
‘Yes?’ She leaned forward eagerly.
‘This ring… did you think it was…? Well, this ring’s a fake. It’s probably worth around thirty quid.’
‘What?’
‘I’m really sorry,’ Raf said. ‘It happens all the time. People lie about what gifts are worth.’
‘My husband didn’t lie! His grandmother told him. She was given it by the Rajah of somewhere-or-other Stan. When she was working in India.’ Did that sound racist? Gemma blushed, but Raf just laughed.
‘In the back room of the Rajah of somewhere’s curry house, more like. I’m sorry, love. I can give you forty quid for it, if that helps. As a favour because you seem like a nice lady.’
Gemma felt crushed. ‘Are you sure?’
‘I’m sorry. I’m not trying to rip you off. We’ve got government regulations all over us to make sure of that.’ She stood up, as Raf pointed at her right wrist. ‘But that bracelet you’re wearing. I could do something with that.’
Gemma looked down. Lucinda’s pearls, the double row, the diamond clasp.
‘That’s vintage Cartier. Didn’t you know?’
‘No. I…’
Raf laughed. ‘Good thing you’ve come to someone
as honest as me. Love, that bracelet’s probably worth more than these premises. I can give you thirty grand for it. Cash. The interest will be a killer, mind. So if you think you can’t pay it you might want to think again. Family heirloom, is it?’ He was punching numbers into a calculator. ‘Here. This is what you’d have to pay per month.’
‘But I could walk out of here with thirty grand?’ Gemma said slowly.
‘Absolutely.’
‘And if I can’t pay the interest, you’d sell the bracelet?’
‘That’s the way it works.’
Gemma began fiddling with the clasp. ‘Let’s go for it.’
33
For the next forty-eight hours Gemma barely slept. She was pretty certain everything was in place. After Raf had handed over the wodge of fifty-pound notes, she’d nervously driven across London to Massy’s Costa and passed him the plastic bag of cash.
On Wednesday, Alex visited the clinic alone for the sperm donation. Gemma lied and told him she was too stressed to accompany him, reminding him that he hadn’t been able to make it to any of the scans. Reluctantly, he agreed, calling three hours later from chambers to report that the selection of porn mags had been disappointing but still he’d done his duty. No, he hadn’t seen Bridget but they’d told him she’d arrived at her appointed time and all had gone well.
‘But you’ll talk to her yourself, won’t you?’ he said.
‘Yes, but I wanted to leave it a while,’ Gemma lied. ‘She’s been under general anaesthetic, she needs to rest for now.’
‘OK. Did you speak to Lucinda?’
Gemma cringed. She’d find a way to pay back the money, she’d return the bracelet to Lucinda one day. It would just take a couple of months.
‘Yes. I said we’d accept the offer. And then I called the Drakes’ lady and said we were dropping ours. Naturally she went mental.’
‘Naturally,’ Alex agreed. ‘But chin up, Poochie. Right now my sperm’s mixing with Bridget’s egg.’
Phil was in the worst mood Karen had seen him in since he’d received the diagnosis. The Meehans had dropped their offer, saying they’d had no choice now their buyer had lowered his.
‘I can’t believe those arseholes are doing this to us,’ he yelled, as he got ready for bed. ‘How fucking dare they? Do they think we’re still living in the Eighties or something, all backstabbing and gazundering? Next thing we’ll know they’ll be turning up here in stonewashed jeans and playing Kajagoogoo on top volume.’
‘Darling, don’t get stressed, you know it’s bad for you,’ Karen said. She lay in bed, watching him. His pyjama trousers were too short for his long, skinny legs. Max’s legs were firm and muscular. Since Phil had chosen yoga over dinner, she’d been seeing Max as often as possible. When she was with him she was perfectly happy; the time they had seemed golden, separate, untouchable, like a butterfly suspended in amber. She still told herself firmly that it was just a fling, even though she knew it was much, much more. But why not? Why couldn’t she just be happy even for a short time?
‘I’ll fucking get stressed if I want to. You know what Chadlicote means to me. And now our margins are getting squeezed.’
‘Well,’ she said. ‘If it means that much to you, you’ll just have to take the hit.’
‘But the money’s hardly there. Not when we budget what we need for renovations.’
Karen worded it carefully. ‘What if I carried on working? Rented a flat. Stayed in London with the girls for a year or so. Saved every penny and then…’
For a moment, she thought he was going to buy it. But then he shook his head.
‘No. We have to be together. Otherwise this is all pointless.’ He smiled at her. ‘Thanks, though, darling. I appreciate the gesture.’
‘That’s OK,’ she said.
‘I’ll work something out,’ Phil said. ‘I am not having this taken away from me.’
Karen counted the hours until she’d see Max again.
Somehow the next two days passed. And then it was Friday morning. The day the clinic would call. Either ‘Come in, the embryos are good,’ or ‘Sorry, don’t bother, it won’t be worth your while.’
The phone rang at five minutes past nine.
‘Gemma, it’s Donna. I’m delighted to say it’s all systems go. We’re eight four-celled embryos, all grade one standard. The best possible result. Could you and Alex make it here for noon? And remember, drink as much water as possible. The transfer works best on a full bladder.’
Lucinda called Nick. ‘Want to meet?’ she asked.
‘OK,’ he said flatly.
Lucinda’s stomach shrivelled like a walnut. Nick had been so off with her lately. Automatically, she reached for her right wrist to twist her bracelet, then remembered she hadn’t been able to find it for a few days. She had a horrible feeling she had left it at the Meehans’ flat on Friday night. They’d had good sex then, but Nick had still been distant, refusing to stay the night, even though the Meehans wouldn’t be back until the following afternoon. Perhaps he was going back to Kylie? Either way Lucinda needed to know where she stood. She’d booked the holiday, now she’d see how he reacted to the news.
She spoke calmly. ‘Good. Gemma’s got reflexology this afternoon. So I’ll meet you at the flat at the usual time.’
‘OK,’ he said and hung up.
The room was very brightly lit. A chair with stirrups in front of it sat in the middle of the room like an instrument of torture. Monitors beeped. In a mask and gloves, Sian was almost unrecognizable.
‘Can’t believe this weather. You need to take your pants off, sit down, and then I’m afraid it’s stirrups time again. Did you see Relocation, Relocation last night? It was a repeat but such a good one…’
Gemma went behind the screen provided, pulled off her knickers and skirt, after a brief second’s hesitation, folded them and placed them on a hook. Her bladder was so full, she was seriously worried she’d wet herself. She climbed into the torture chair and pulled a sheet over her nether regions. Sian was talking to Alex.
‘They didn’t listen to a word Kirstie told them. And they were so fussy. It had to be a south-facing garden, four double bedrooms. I mean, people don’t know they’re born.’ Alex nodded politely, as Sian pulled on a pair of white gloves. Gemma stared at the wall of babies, to distract herself from the overwhelming need to pee. She was sure there were a couple of new photos since she’d last been in. Even now, so close, she still felt jealous of those lucky ones.
‘Was that baby here before?’ she asked, pointing at a chubby-faced blonde in a pink and white babygro.
Sian looked vague. ‘Um, I’d have to check. Possibly. We get a lot of baby photos as you can imagine. Of course you’ll be sending me yours.’ A strange buzzing sound filled the air and an electronic hatch in the wall opened. On the wall-mounted TV screen, Gemma saw a swarm of cells swimming around, magnified a thousand times. They were hypnotically, compellingly beautiful. The Meehans gaped.
‘Wow.’ Come on, come on, don’t dilly-dally or I’ll wet myself.
‘Wow, indeed,’ Sian grinned. Your sister is very fertile. Of course we’re only allowed to put in two embryos. Take it from me, you may want a baby but you don’t want triplets. Twins’d be… Oh, sorry, forget I said that.’
She picked up her giant syringe and sucked up the embryo. She turned round and headed towards Gemma. Come on, come on. She pulled back the sheet. Gemma exhaled as Sian inserted a cold speculum inside her. Don’t pee on her hand. She inserted the needle-like syringe.
‘Stop!’ yelled a voice at the door.
All heads turned. Bridget was standing there, eyes wild.
‘I don’t want you to do this,’ she said. ‘They paid for these eggs. Nobody told me. I didn’t want the money. And now Massy’s gone. He’s gone and taken it all. I want you to stop now!’
Sian put her hand to her throat, like a Victorian seeing a table leg.
‘Who let you in?’
‘I tried to stop her,’ said a h
arassed-looking Donna behind her. ‘I couldn’t.’
‘Is it too late?’ asked Bridget. Her hair was all over the place and her face was fuchsia.
‘Yes, it is,’ said Sian. ‘And it has been since you signed the eggs away. Now out of here.’ She clicked a gloved finger as if Bridget were a pesky fly.
‘Gemma!’
Gemma tried to rise above the fact that her legs were in stirrups and her lady bits were on display to everyone and that any moment her bladder was going to empty itself all over the bed.
‘It’s too late, Bridge. You’ve signed the papers.’
‘And anyway, the eggs have gone in now,’ said Sian. ‘Now out! Shoo,’ she added for good measure.
‘What do you mean we paid for them?’ Alex said. ‘We didn’t pay anything.’
‘Yes, you did. You paid Massy twenty-seven grand to talk me round. He told me and we had a row about it and I wanted to give the money back and now he’s gone.’
‘Oh, Bridge,’ said Gemma.
‘Did you pay Bridget?’ Alex asked.
‘Get her out of here,’ Sian screamed. ‘We are in the middle of a medical procedure.’
‘Did she pay you?’ Alex demanded of Bridget.
‘She paid Massy. And I told you, he’s taken it all.’
Gemma hauled herself on to her elbows, the pain in her stomach almost forgotten. ‘Look, Bridge. I’m really sorry. Sorry I paid him. Sorry he’s taken it. But this would’ve never happened if I’d trusted you a bit more. If I wasn’t so used to you messing me around. Not playing by the rules.’
‘Playing by the rules? What the fuck are you talking about? You’re the one who broke the rules, paying Massy.’
‘Yes,’ Alex chimed in.
‘I was paying you, not Massy. And what choice did I have? I wanted a baby so much and you were my only chance and you said yes and then you said no and…’ Fat, hot tears streamed down her face. ‘You always do this. Change your mind. Cheat.’
‘Cheat? What about you? You’re the one who realized you weren’t going to make it as a ballerina, so you “accidentally” slipped on the steps and sprained your foot. Nicely writing a get-out clause for yourself. Not having to admit to anyone you couldn’t actually hack it.’
Love Nest Page 29
