The No-Kids Club (13 page)

‘Clare?’ Nicholas’s voice broke into her reverie. For a second, she’d almost forgotten he was returning. ‘Oh, Mary, you’re still here. Is there a problem with the car?’

‘No, no.’ Mary smiled, slowly standing. ‘I was just having a chat with Clare. Lovely to speak to you, dear. I’d better go now before I fall asleep on my feet.’

She was almost to the door when she turned to face Clare. ‘Have a think about what I’ve said. Before it’s too late.’

‘I will,’ Clare responded, although her stance on the subject was engraved in concrete. And what did Mary mean, ‘before it’s too late’? For goodness’ sake, Clare was only thirty-nine. Okay, so that might be pushing it a little when it came to fertility, but she wasn’t exactly menopausal just yet.

The two of them watched as Mary glided out the door.

‘What was all that about?’ Nicholas asked, eyes twinkling. ‘Trying to bring you around to babies?’

Clare laughed. ‘She’s trying! I’m afraid she’s got a long way to go.’ The grief in the older woman’s eyes flashed through her mind, and Clare shook her head. She couldn’t blame Mary for wanting to stop others from experiencing her pain of childlessness. But as Clare had said earlier, not every woman—or man—should have a child.

Enough of all this, she told herself. Time to focus on something else. Christ, she’d never thought so much about pregnancy or kids until starting this club.

‘You wouldn’t believe all the tweets, texts, and emails streaming in since the segment aired!’ Nicholas poured himself a glass of water. ‘There are loads of people interested in joining the club.’

‘That’s great,’ Clare said, thankful she hadn’t put off potential members. ‘You ready for lunch?’ Her stomach rumbled with an odd combination of hunger and protestation.

‘I’m so sorry, but I’m afraid something’s just come up.’ Nicholas sighed. ‘I’ll have to take a rain check from the rain check.’

Clare laughed, despite her dismay. Their dinner in Camden seemed ages ago, and she’d been looking forward to spending more time with him. ‘No problem,’ she said. ‘I’ll get changed and I’ll see you later.’

‘Thanks for being such a good sport about all of this.’ Nicholas waved a hand at her attire. ‘You look great, but I know it’s not your usual style.’

‘It’s fine.’ Clare leaned in and kissed him on the cheek.

‘I’ll call you next week to arrange something,’ Nicholas said. ‘Thanks again for today.’

Clare lifted a hand as she walked out the door, wondering if he actually would ring. For a second, she missed the easygoing security and warmth of Edward. He was always there, solid and dependable, whenever she’d wanted.

Flexibility was critical for two busy people, Clare told herself. They’d find a way to cash in that rain check sooner or later. She hurried to Wardrobe, anxious now to get home. With all this talk of children, the urge to banish the uncertainty from her mind was unbearable. Then, she’d have a huge glass of wine regardless of what her stomach told her, and finally, she’d be able to relax.

Any other alternative didn’t bear thinking about.

Anna turned down the television, draining the last of her coffee. Well, that had been a shocker! She’d only just snapped on
Wake Up London
when Clare’s voice boomed from the telly. Setting the sputtering iron down on the board, Anna’s eyebrows had risen even further at Clare’s outfit: far from her normal casual get-up, her clothes were practically painted on her and her face was slathered with make-up.

Anna plopped onto the sofa, leaving a huge pile of shirts to be done. A sour-faced presenter was reading out tweets and texts from viewers who’d watched Clare’s segment. ‘Kids have brought so much joy to my life,’ one text said. ‘I can’t imagine life without them,’ another read. ‘What do those people do with all their time?’

Anna shook her head. Iron their husband’s shirts? Ever since Michael’s weekend away, life had felt emptier than ever. She’d hoped her husband might return from his trip happier and full of energy. Instead, he’d come through the door and kissed her quickly, then flopped on the sofa, drifting off to sleep while Anna made dinner. After spending the weekend alone, Anna had been dying for a chat and cuddle, but she hadn’t even been able to rouse him to come to the table. And ever since, it had been more of the same. The vague feeling of dissatisfaction was growing every day.

Her brow furrowed as a thought crossed her mind: would their lives be any different if they did have kids? Not likely—in fact, there’d probably be even more monotony and early nights. No, children weren’t the answer, of that she was sure.

Sighing, she got to her feet and picked up the iron. Her words to Poppy about marriage being a partnership came to mind again. Lately, it felt less of a partnership and more of a one-woman show. Michael loved her, of that she had no doubt. But what she really needed was an affirmation he cared about their relationship; something small to see he could still make an effort. That wasn’t too much to ask, was it? True, she usually jumped on things before he even moved, but maybe she needed to give him a chance.

She swished the iron down a sleeve, nodding as an idea hit. Their anniversary was a week from tomorrow, and although she’d a list of possible shows and concerts, along with the number to a great new restaurant in the Shard, she’d yet to book anything. This year, she’d sit back and let Michael plan the annual celebration of their matrimony.

A smile crossed her face as she attacked a particularly troublesome collar. She couldn’t wait to see what he came up with.

CHAPTER NINETEEN

C
lare sank back against the leather seat of the car as it jostled through daytime traffic from the studio towards Chelsea. It was only eleven, but every inch of her throbbed with fatigue and her brain felt full of static. The closer she got to home, the larger her fear grew, as if just by taking the test she was acknowledging the possibility she could indeed be pregnant.

Don’t be ridiculous, Clare chided herself as the car lurched down busy Piccadilly. The test was a way to ease her fears and put an end to the wondering—nothing else. She envisioned her future self laughing and shaking her head at the negative result, pouring a glass of wine, then luxuriously napping with the knowledge that life would go on unchanged. But then a competing image filtered into her mind: crouching on the cold toilet seat, staring in horror as the stick slowly displayed the sign she was pregnant.

Clare tried to push it away, but the vision was now implanted in her brain. Taking a deep breath, she forced herself to face the scenario head-on. Okay, so what if she
was
pregnant? What next? She was thirty-nine, single, with an extremely busy and demanding job—and apart from that, she was not mother material, no matter what Mary said about bonding through care. The solution was obvious.

‘Can you let me out here?’ she asked the cabbie as they turned onto the street where the chemist was located, just a few doors down from her flat. She quickly paid the driver, then tumbled into the cool morning mist.

Pushing open the door to the chemist, she blinked against the harsh neon light. Where on earth did they keep the pregnancy tests? She’d been here a million times and never once noticed. She’d never imagined there’d be a need!

‘Good morning.’ Mr Rabinovich, the owner of the shop, greeted her with his customary smile, and her heart sank. Oh, Lord. Why hadn’t she thought to go to some anonymous place in Soho? For a brief instant, she considered heading down to King’s Road to see what she could find there, but exhaustion and impatience got the better of her. Mr Rabinovich must have seen everything by now; surely he was more professional than to comment.

But when she finally located the dusty tests in a dim corner and brought one to the counter, he proved her wrong.

‘Well, well.’ His thick eyebrows rose above his specs as she handed him the test. ‘So you might be expecting! How exciting, my dear.’ He ran his eyes over her face. ‘About time, I’d say. You don’t want to leave it too long! Mrs R was pregnant with our first at seventeen.’ He nodded approvingly.

There was so much wrong with what he’d just said, Clare didn’t even know where to begin. She forced the corners of her mouth up, hoping it looked more like a smile than grimace. Nosy old man!

‘Good luck,’ he said as they waited for her debit card to go through. ‘Let me know how it turns out.’

As if
, Clare thought as she took the bag from him. Funny how people assumed if you were a certain age, pregnancy was something to celebrate. Right now, it felt like she was holding a ticking time bomb, set to explode her future. She took another deep breath, reminding herself the possibility was very slim and she’d cope with whatever the outcome was.

Forcing herself not to run home, she let herself in slowly and methodically as usual. Finally, when she’d kicked off her shoes and tied back her hair, Clare grabbed the plastic bag from the kitchen table and removed the packet, helpfully containing two tests in case she didn’t believe the first. Fingers crossed she wouldn’t
need bot
h.

With shaking hands, she removed the plastic and peeled back the foil package of one stick, then scanned the directions. One line was fine; two was disastrous. Okay, now she just needed to pee on the bloody thing, and that would be that. She padded to the loo, tipped up the toilet seat, and tried to position herself so she’d hit the target. Thank goodness she’d had all that coffee and water earlier! Her bladder was full to busting.

Right, snap on the cap and wait two minutes. She positioned the stick on the sink counter, willing herself not to look until the two minutes were up. God, she really was being ridiculous, wasn’t she? In—she glanced at the clock—just one more minute, she could look back and laugh.

Ready! Clare pulled herself up off the toilet seat and walked the few short steps to the counter. Holding her breath, she slowly leaned over the stick, almost afraid to look.

She blinked, then shook her head.

There was one line, yes. And right beside it—as clear and undeniable as the first—was another.

She was pregnant.

‘Hiya, Pops.’ Oliver grinned cheekily as he slid into a chair at a café in the City, just steps from the gleaming skyscraper where he worked.

‘Hi.’ Poppy leaned over to kiss his cheek, marvelling again at how, despite similar features, he was so different from Alistair. Freshly shaven with hair neatly trimmed and sporting a black suit and paisley silk tie (Hermès’, probably, since Alistair said Oliver wore nothing else), he was worlds away from Alistair’s comfortable wardrobe. Their mum always joked that Alistair looked like he’d crawled rumpled from bed, while Oliver wouldn’t even sleep on sheets that weren’t ironed.

And the differences didn’t stop at wardrobe. Ambitious and driven, Oliver had launched himself straight to the top of London’s financial world, named as one of the UK’s star market traders in his first year. Alistair, on the other hand, was content to work in a small practice as a physiotherapist, never aspiring to his own business. The differences meant that although the two brothers weren’t on bad terms, they weren’t close. She and Oliver had always got on, though, and without any siblings of her own, she considered him a brother.

Even so, this was a big ask. And as much as she hated keeping secrets from Alistair, if he discovered what she was doing, he wouldn’t be happy. But there was no reason he had to find out, she reassured herself. And once she had the IVF and they held their own child in their arms, everything else would fade away.

‘So.’ Oliver met her eyes. ‘What did you want to see me about? Everything okay with Al?’

Poppy grinned—he knew Alistair hated that nickname. ‘Oh, yes. Everything’s fine. It’s just . . . ’ Her voice trailed off, and she cleared her throat. ‘Well, I was wondering if I could borrow some money.’ She shifted awkwardly. ‘For, um, a gift for Alistair.’ It
was
a gift, she told herself to cover the discomfort at keeping secret the real reason for the funds. Alistair was a private sort of person, and although she was sure his family wondered at their lack of kids, they’d never in a million years dream of asking. The less she told Oliver, the better.

‘Well, of course, Pops. You know I’m always here for you.’ Oliver leaned back in the chair. ‘So what’s the occasion? I haven’t missed a birthday or anniversary, have I?’

Poppy bit her lip. ‘No, no. It’s just, er, one of those things. Something I’ve wanted to get him for a very long time.’ That much was true, anyway.

‘What is it?’ Oliver cocked his head. ‘Al’s always going on about non-material things and being happy with what you have. I’d love to hear what my brother’s been longing for!’

Oh, bollocks. Maybe she should have thought this through more. Poppy’s mind whirled as she struggled to think of a large item requiring thousands of pounds. ‘A fridge,’ she said lamely, jumping on the first thing that came into her head. Internally, she rolled her eyes. A bloody
fridge
? Surely she could have done better than that.

Oliver raised an eyebrow. ‘Really? What, like one of those fancy Smeg ones with a freezer and all that?’

Poppy nodded. ‘Exactly.’ She crossed her fingers Oliver wouldn’t remember his brother crowing how they’d bought a second-hand Smeg off Gumtree for a bargain price just last month.

‘I’ve been thinking about getting one myself. But I eat out so much, I don’t even have enough food to fill my mini-fridge,’ Oliver said. ‘I’m happy to help. Whatever you need, just let me know.’

A whoosh of relief washed over her. ‘Oh, that’s fantastic. Thank you! I hated to ask, but of course I’ll pay you back as soon as I can. I just need a couple thousand. I should be able to save it up within the next few months.’

Oliver waved a hand as he got out his cheque book. ‘No
worries
. Like I said, I’m happy to help.’ He looked up at her. ‘What if Al finds out, though? He usually treats my money as the root of
all evil
.’

Poppy felt a flush creeping over her face. ‘Er, well, there’s no reason he needs to find out, is there? I mean, I’ll pay you back quickly.’

Oliver met her eyes, pausing as his hand hovered over the cheque. ‘Well, okay, if you’re sure.’

Poppy nodded. Everything would work out all right, she told herself again, pushing aside the flash of fear that shot through her. It had to, because she couldn’t bear to think of the alternative.

Oliver wrote out the cheque, then carefully tore it out and handed it over. ‘There you are. You know, I’m really pleased you felt comfortable enough to ask. I’ve told Alistair loads of times that I’m always here if he needs money, but I think he’s too proud to take anything from his little brother. And don’t worry—this is strictly between you and me.’

Thank goodness, Poppy thought as she tucked the cheque into the back pocket of her jeans for safekeeping. She felt terrible lying about what she needed the money for, but it was bad enough she’d asked Oliver, let alone sharing the issues she and Alistair had been having.

Onwards and upwards, she told herself, shoving away
discomfort
at her deception. Alistair hadn’t wanted stress or strain—
emotionally
or financially. And whatever she was doing, she was doing for him.