The Case of the Missing Boyfriend (45 page)

Once the waiter has retreated, I sip my soup and prompt her again. ‘So?’

‘This is very buttery. It’s good, but very buttery.’

‘Yes. So?’

‘I’m quite scared of you actually,’ she says. ‘Isn’t that strange?’

‘Scared of me?’

‘Yes. I feel like a child. I suppose I know you’re going to shout at me and get all irate, and I just don’t know if . . .’

‘Oh, Mum!’ I say, reaching to touch her hand, a hand she instantly withdraws. ‘I won’t. I’m just concerned about you, that’s all.’ I make a note to myself that I now really must not get irate.

‘Well you know what it’s about, I expect,’ she says.

‘Saddam,’ I say. ‘Adam.’

‘Yes.’

‘Is everything OK?’

‘Perfect,’ she says. ‘Better than ever.’

‘Then it’s about what . . . marriage again?’

Mum slurps her soup and then clears her throat. ‘Well yes. It’s the only practical solution to the problem.’

‘But you don’t marry someone as a practical—’

‘But I want to as well. I know you don’t believe that, but I do.’

‘Actually I do believe it,’ I say. ‘I’m just not sure that it’s—’

‘And he does too. And I know you think that he just sees me as a ticket, as a passport or something and I’m not stupid, I think that maybe that’s part of it too – probably, in fact. But I don’t care. It suits me.’

‘Right.’

‘So the question is, do we do a big proper wedding in spring, in, say March? Or a quick registry office thing with just the two of us in November.’

‘This November? I mean, it’s November
next week
,’ I point out.

‘Yes. But in December I’m off to Agadir for the winter. So it’ll be too late.’

I frown. ‘But if you’re off to Agadir then there’s no hurry anyway. There’s no problem to be solved, is there?’

‘So you think do it properly, in March.’

‘Mum, seriously . . . I don’t want to . . .’

‘No go on,’ she says.

‘Well . . . Look . . . I don’t . . . I’m not . . . particularly thrilled about it, you know that.’

‘Yes.’

‘But if you
are
going to get married, I can’t see how you
can
have a big wedding anyway. For one, he’s Muslim, isn’t he?’

‘Yes. Oh, I don’t mean a
church
wedding. I just mean with a guest list, and a reception afterwards.’

I realise that by providing me with two options, Mum has effectively circumvented any discussion about the desirability of the marriage itself. And I know her well enough to know that this will have been an entirely choreographed move.

‘Look . . . Are you
sure
you want to marry him?’

‘Please don’t . . .’ she says.

I point the palms of my hands at her in a gesture of submission. ‘Hey, I’m just asking the question,’ I say. ‘It’s a question that needs to be asked.’

‘OK, then yes. I am.’

‘Why? Other than the visa business.’

‘Because I don’t want to lose him.’

‘Why don’t you want to lose him?’

‘Because . . . because I’ve been rattling around on my own for twenty years, and because, to use your words, it hasn’t been working for me.’

‘Right.’

‘Adam makes me happy,’ she says with a shrug. ‘And I didn’t think that could happen again . . . not really.’

‘Right,’ I say.

‘And we can’t live together unless we get married. And I’m worried that if we don’t he’ll . . . you know . . .’

‘Leave you? Find someone else?’

‘Well, yes. Unless I move to Morocco permanently. But I don’t want to do that.’

‘
I
don’t want you to do that.’

By the end of lunch, by gently pointing out that the only people Mum could invite to a wedding would all also be friends of Dad’s, and that, human nature being what it is, most of them would be fairly uncomfortable about her new choice of partner, and by reminding her how chronically shy Saddam is, I have convinced her not only that a small private wedding is the way to go, but that there’s no reason why it can’t wait until spring.

But just as when I was a child I would cry for an ice cream for half an hour, and Mum would finally give in and say I could have a boiled sweet, and then proceed to produce one from her pocket, I can’t help but feel that I have been hoodwinked. I can’t help but feel that my negotiated compromise is exactly what she planned all along. She’s clever that way, my mum.

Nothing Gay About It

Before I have even closed the door of the surgery behind me, the secretary exclaims, ‘Oh, CC Kelly. Oh God! I was supposed to phone you.’

I push the door shut, and cross the marble floor to her desk. ‘Hello,’ I say. ‘I’m sorry?’

‘Hello. Oh please don’t have a go at me, I’m having such a bad day. But I was meant to call you, wasn’t I? You wanted to see Doctor James.’

‘Yes.’

‘She’s off sick, I’m afraid. I should have phoned. God Vic . . . Doctor Ynchausty is so gonna . . .’

And then the door to Victor’s office opens. ‘Yes? I’m going to what?’ he asks.

‘I’m so sorry, doctor,’ she says. She sounds like she might cry. ‘I was supposed to reschedule Ms Kelly to see Doctor James, and I did, but now you’re standing in, and . . .’

‘Well,’ Victor says, clearly irritated. He looks at me and shrugs and forces a smile. ‘Actually I only need to go through the blood tests with you anyway. What do you think?’

I shrug and nod. ‘Yeah. Might as well. Now I’m here.’

‘I’m really sorry,’ the secretary says as Victor ushers me into his office.

‘It’s fine,’ I say, giving her a sly wink.

I take a seat in front of his desk and Victor closes the door. ‘She is bloody useless though,’ he says.

‘Oh it’s fine,’ I say.

‘But it has all been very hectic. Moira has the flu and . . .’

‘Swine flu?’ I say.

‘Ah, you heard about that.’

‘Yes,’ I say. ‘Actually, thinking about that, I think I’d rather see
you.
’

‘Flattery indeed,’ Victor says taking his seat. ‘So how have you been? I hear you were at the funeral.’

‘Yes,’ I say. ‘Well . . . Miserable with it all.’

‘Yes it’s awful. I never would have imagined he’d . . . Anyway. I missed it . . . the funeral that is. Things have been such a mess here . . . there are only two of us, so . . .’

‘Sure.’

‘But I made the wake.’

‘Oh!’ I say, surprised. ‘How was it?’

‘Fine. Sad. And happy. Wakes are strange.’

‘They are. And Darren’s mum?’

‘Fine. Upset.’

‘Sure,’ I say, a little shocked that she didn’t turn Victor away with the rest of us.

‘She can seem very hard . . . but she’s just suffering,’ Victor says. ‘She has a lot on her plate. More than you could know.’

‘Right,’ I say. ‘You knew him well then? Darren?’

‘Oh yes, forever. Since we were kids. He was pretty much the first friend I made when we moved over here.’

‘Right.’

‘And the funeral? How was that?’

I think about it and decide to lie. There’s no point adding any extra pain if he wasn’t there to witness it. ‘Nice,’ I say. ‘Well, obviously not
nice
. . . It was . . .’

‘Appropriate?’ Victor says, fingering a chrome cube paperweight. ‘Yes, I suppose so.’

‘Anyway, enough, huh?’

‘Yes.’

‘I have to force myself to think about other things, otherwise . . .’ ‘I’m the same.’

‘So . . . Onto happier things. Your results,’ he says, unfolding three pages pulled from a folder. ‘These are all fine.’

‘Everything’s normal?’

‘Yes.’

‘So no explanation for the irregularity . . .’

‘None. I would guess it’s just a blip. Have you been feeling stressed? Or run down? Or depressed?’

‘A little.’

‘Well that’s probably it.’

‘So I’m not menopausal.’

‘No, as far as we can see, not at all.’

‘Good. Well, that’s a relief anyway.’

‘Yes. I’m sure.’ Victor slides one of the pages towards me across the desk and points at one of the figures. ‘You see that: AMH?’

‘Yes.’

‘Well, it’s more and more accepted that it’s a pretty good indicator . . . it drops off considerably a few years before the final period.’

‘And mine’s fine?’

‘Yes, absolutely normal.’

‘So I have a few years.’

‘Yes. Well, probably. I have to tell you that it’s a little controversial to use it as an indicator. Because it’s quite recent science. And because it’s not one hundred per cent, as an indicator.’

‘I see.’

‘But generally speaking, yes. Generally speaking that would seem to indicate that you have at least five years fertility before you.’

‘Five years.’ I can barely contain my grin.

‘But beware . . . these things can be wrong. So the advice, if you want to have a baby, is obviously . . .’

‘Don’t hang around forever.’

‘Exactly. Because all of this hocus-pocus just comes down to probability in the end. You’re playing poker here and every year that goes by, the risk of your being called out increases. This shows that the
probability
that it will happen tomorrow is low. But it’s not impossible. And the odds clearly aren’t improving.’

‘OK, well, that’s clear, at least. Thanks.’

‘Have you advanced in your project?’

‘My project? Oh! Not really.’

‘Do you have a donor lined up? Because if not, I can give you some addresses.’

‘I . . .’

‘Perhaps you don’t want to discuss that with me. That’s fine, of course. I’ve done my bit here really, so . . .’

‘No, it’s fine. I have an idea, who I’m going to ask. But I haven’t . . .’

‘You know it’s not quite as simple as sticking the stuff in a turkey baster.’

‘I haven’t really looked into it that much yet.’

‘There are many things you need to think about and discuss, if not with me then with someone else.’

‘Yes.’

‘There are legal implications – without a disclaimer, for instance, you could go after the father for child support for instance . . . so
that
all needs to be clear.’

‘Yes, I know that.’

‘And there are health implications . . . screening for genetic diseases, and sexually transmissible diseases like hepatitis, syphilis and HIV.’

‘Of course . . . Look . . . I
don’t
really want to discuss it. If that’s all right. It does feel a bit weird. Because, well, I know you, and you know people
I
know and . . .’

‘Yes. Of course. Well. Look. I know this is delicate of course. So tell me to butt out if . . .’

‘Yes.’

I think but don’t say,
Yes, butt out.

‘It’s just that, well . . . it’s not Mark, is it?’

‘I’m sorry?’

‘Actually don’t tell me. But if you were thinking about asking Mark, then please don’t.’

‘I . . .’ But the conversation is so bizarre that words fail me.

‘It’s just that he can’t. I know that. And I shouldn’t tell you this, so of course it’s in the strictest confidence. But he can’t. Someone already asked him, a while back, and he was terribly upset that he couldn’t. And he’s so upset about Darren at the moment . . . it just wouldn’t be . . .’

‘Well it wasn’t Mark,’ I lie. ‘It’s someone you don’t know, so . . .’

‘Oh good. Then I’m sorry. And please forget I ever said anything. I don’t know why I thought . . . I’m sorry.’

‘It’s fine.’

‘And please don’t say anything to Mark.’

‘No, of course.’

‘Good. Thanks.’

‘So . . . I suppose I don’t need another appointment, do I? Seeing as everything is normal.’

‘No, sadly you don’t.’

‘Sadly?’

‘Oh, I just mean, with Darren gone, I’m not likely to bump into you again, am I?’

‘No,’ I say. ‘Maybe through Mark?’

Victor wrinkles his nose. ‘No, Darren was my, you know, contact with that little group.’

‘OK,’ I say.

‘So if you ever want to talk, or salsa a little . . .’

‘Right.’

‘You have my number.’

‘I do.’

‘Good, well . . .’

‘OK then.’ I cough and stand. ‘I pay the secretary, right?’

Victor wrinkles his nose. ‘Um, no charge for this one. The lab will probably mail you a bill though for the blood work.’

‘Right.’

‘Well, good luck then.’

‘Yes, thanks.’

Out on the street I’m feeling a swirl of conflicting emotions amidst a cacophony of different thoughts.

I’m stunningly relieved that everything’s OK, and, provisos apart, that I have maybe five years in which I can still conceive. And I’m worried about Mark, for the obvious reason he wouldn’t be able to donate sperm is HIV, but could he really be positive without my knowing? I suppose the answer is that of
course
he could, and of course he wouldn’t tell me. So I’m a little shocked to learn that despite having lived next door to him for five years and despite having worked with him for seven, I really don’t know him at all. But then, perhaps, like Darren announcing his imminent suicide, Mark
has
told me. Perhaps I just don’t listen.

And then I think about the bizarre tension as I left Victor’s office. It was almost like a date, almost like the lingering goodbye on a doorstep when you’re waiting to be invited to stay the night.