The Two Week Wait (19 page)

‘Great. We got on really well. I’m due there for supper in a few minutes, as a matter of fact.’

‘That’s wonderful!’

‘She seems very nice,’ says Adam.

‘She is,’ Howie nods.

‘But I was thinking, it’s a huge decision . . . ’

‘Of course.’

‘So I guess I should do my homework.’

‘Very wise.’

‘And you know what happened to me before. I’ve heard other stories too, lesbian mothers cutting the man out once they get a partner, you can imagine . . . ’ Adam frowns, trying
to work out how to phrase this. ‘So, before we go any further, I thought . . . um, perhaps you could tell me . . . Is there anything more about Lou I should know?’

‘Lou? Goodness!’ Howie hesitates, then says, ‘Seriously, I’m very fond of her.’ Then he sighs. ‘It’s a shame she’s had such a tough time
lately.’

‘Yes, so I gather.’ Suddenly Adam worries: I hope she’s not having a baby to try and buoy her spirits, fill a hole in her life. That would be a mistake . . .

‘And she’s dealt with it all pretty well. She’s surprisingly tough underneath, I reckon.’

Ah, thinks Adam. Is Howie implying that deep down, Lou is hard? That’s exactly what worries me. If so, she’d have few qualms about using then dropping me.

‘I love her to bits, you understand.’

‘Sure, sure.’ Oh no, thinks Adam. Here it comes . . .

‘So, if you’re asking me whether I think this is a good idea . . . ’

Of course I’m asking you! thinks Adam. He wishes Howie would spit it out.

Howie’s face breaks into a smile. ‘Then, yes, my friend, I do. Lou’s one of life’s good people, I reckon. Obviously I can’t read the future, but if you really want
my opinion, you could do a lot worse.’

Phew, thinks Adam. I hope to God he’s right.

*  *  *

‘Ooh, this is lovely,’ says Adam, stepping into Lou’s studio.

He’s breathless from climbing the stairs, Lou notices. He can’t be very fit.

Adam looks round, appraising, pauses at the collection of framed photos on the windowsill, peers closer. Funny he’s homed in on those, I’d do the same, thinks Lou. He points at a
black-and-white shot. ‘This your mum and dad?’

‘Yup.’ Lou crouches to rummage in the fridge.

‘Fantastic wedding dress your mum’s got on,’ he observes. His tone seems ironic.

‘Isn’t it?’ says Lou. She bristles slightly, however: it’s one thing for me to criticize my mother, she thinks, another for someone else to. I don’t know him that
well yet and Howie was right – Adam is hardly the king of style.

Then he says, ‘Your dad looks great, though. Very dapper,’ and Lou forgives him. ‘Were you close? From what you said the other day, I got that impression.’

‘Yes,’ she says. She tries to sneak another look at Adam’s appearance. He could really do with a shave, and his clothes are ever so crumpled. She pictures him through
Howie’s eyes. I can see that he’s not that fanciable, she concludes. What if my baby ends up looking like him? Immediately she feels guilty. That’s not what we’re about
anyway, she reminds herself. She softens. Adam’s got a
nice
face; maybe he’s just tired. He seems to work very hard. No, she decides, the conversation with Howie has left a bad
taste in my mouth. It felt uncomfortably close to bitching, even at the time, and now Adam is here in person, I’d rather be honest. ‘I suppose it’s because my Dad and I were close
I’d prefer not to go into this alone. I loved him.’ She shrugs. It’s hard to put how much she misses him into words.

Adam nods.

‘If we had a kid, I hope you’d have as much fun with him or her as my dad and I did,’ she says impulsively.

‘That’s a sweet thing to say,’ Adam smiles. She can feel him looking at her, evaluating. Suddenly he says, ‘Can I do anything?’

Maybe he’s uncomfortable that she’s preparing the meal single-handed, but Lou truly doesn’t mind, keen to show off her culinary skills. She used to enjoy cooking for Sofia; she
misses it, and if this works out with Adam they’ll both end up cooking for their child. ‘No, just chill, I’m fine.’ She tips sliced vegetables into a frying pan. ‘You
OK with frittata?’

‘Yum.’ Adam takes a seat on her sofa, leans round so he can chat while she is in the kitchen area. ‘By the way, I’ve checked it out at the sperm bank, my samples are all
still fine to use.’

‘That’s great!’

‘Isn’t it?’ Adam beams. ‘My guess is it’ll take a few weeks, but all the same, that’s got to be better than waiting over six months.’

‘Quite.’ Adam seems a proper grown-up, Lou concludes. Responsible, forward-thinking. I mean, honestly, Howie, she argues with her friend in his absence. So what if he’s no oil
painting? It’s not as if you’re exactly Adonis. And if our baby’s a bit plain, does it matter? Do I mind
that
much? Not really. As long as it’s happy and healthy,
that’s the main thing.

*  *  *

Well I never, thinks Adam, clicking up his seatbelt and turning on the car headlights. What a strange forty-eight hours it’s turned out to be.

Normally he’d listen to the radio, but after chatting much of the evening he needs silence to gather his thoughts. Adam is not religious and personally has little time for talk of God, or
higher powers, or reincarnation, though he strives to respect those who do. Even the notion of karma seems to him an over-optimistic way of looking at the world. Nevertheless, tonight he feels
almost blessed by fate, if not quite.

So much of what Lou has been saying makes sense to Adam that he finds himself smiling again as he drives down Marine Parade. ‘We mustn’t change childcare arrangements too often once
a baby is born,’ she’d said, so they’d agreed to have a proper legal and binding agreement going into this from the start. And when he’d asked what might happen if she had a
relationship in the future, she’d said, ‘If either one of us does, we’re the child’s parents, and we’ll always be the primary carers,’ and inside he’d
clapped for joy. Insofar as he can tell, she sounds genuinely keen for him to be involved. That they live so close, and that neither has plans to move, will help.

I’ll have to give up a lot, he thinks, sparked by the sight of the Pavilion. The oriental turrets and domes glow orange and extraordinary in the floodlights, homage to pleasure and
decadence. Supper at a friend’s like I’ve just had may be out of the question, never mind a full blow-out.

Still, he’s already realized that if he has a child, a vast canyon will yawn between himself and a significant number of his playful, fun-loving friends. And he’s not the party
animal he used to be; he was never as much of a tart as, say, Howie, and his experience with Norman left him scarred and hurt, so casual sex has less appeal than it did.

And won’t Lou and a baby take up my time anyway? he thinks. He wonders about his work, who will look after a child during the day. They need to talk much more about that. Currently Adam is
committed to very long hours; he can’t see that changing immediately.

Although I could cut down, he muses. He has had a vexing sense that his crazy timetable is to safeguard himself from admitting he’s lonely. But reduced hours would mean less money, which
might be hard. He had been hoping to buy a new car – the one he’s got is perfectly respectable, but he’d been investigating getting a soft top, something swish and eye-catching,
as a reward to himself. That would hardly be appropriate for a man ferrying around a toddler . . .

Then he remembers Mrs Malhotra watching, powerless, as her husband faded away. Earlier that afternoon he was back with them to increase Mr Malhotra’s morphine dose. The old man has
declined, may not live to see another day.

These hurdles are mere practicalities, they must be resolvable, surely, thinks Adam. Yes, I could carry on going out, sometimes have a few too many. Yes, I could slave eight till eight till I
drop. Yes, I could buy a convertible. But ultimately, life is about people, lived experiences, not hedonism or money or possessions – and nothing is as fundamental as the desire to procreate.
Something, call it serendipity if not fate, has put Lou my way. And whilst there will be another chance to buy a fancy car, there will not be another chance like this to have a baby.

A July morning and Cath is at work, sitting on a metal chair by the staircase. There are spots allocated to attendants around the museum, but this, to Cath’s mind, is the
most stimulating, and she looks forward to being assigned it on her rota. Much of her job she finds dull, but here she can watch people coming and going round the Victorian collection to her right
– she tries to guess which paintings they’ll home in on as they pass her, and see if she is correct when they get there. She can admire a couple of her favourite pieces: a few feet away
a life-size bronze woman arches and stretches as she wakes; down the hall is an imposing man made of bricks. But mainly she enjoys being in the path of visitors coming in the entrance to her left;
it’s where she has most interaction with the public. Some of her more antisocial colleagues prefer to be tucked away: she likes to answer questions, share her enthusiasm about the works of
art, and chat. She can direct people to the first floor to see some of the most popular pieces – the Henry Moore, Francis Bacon and Paul Nash. And the Stanley Spencer oils are on the
staircase itself, so she can debate them with passers-by.

The gallery is busy today: there’s a group of A-level students from Leeds Grammar – their teacher has brought them to mark the end of their exams – and despite being high
summer, it’s raining, which invariably means more shoppers in town. The museum is not far from either the lumpen Sixties-built Merrion Centre or the sheer glass-walled retail space of the
Light, so on damp days it attracts a more diverse cross section of the population than usual, seeking tea and the chance to dry off in the Tiled Hall cafe. Academics discussing university politics
and pensioners wheeling tartan trolleys of Morrisons’ groceries stand in line behind ladies dripping with ribbon-handled carrier bags from designer boutiques, all keenly awaiting a pot of
Yorkshire’s finest.

Cath’s jacket is draped over the back of her chair; presently she feels her phone vibrating in the pocket. She’s not supposed to have it turned on, let alone answer it, but
she’s been awaiting a certain call for three months – three
months
! – and with her mounting impatience has come an unwillingness to comply with the rules.

She sneaks a look. Oh my God! At last! It’s them!

Unfortunately: ‘Excuse me.’ A beanpole of a man bends to speak to her. ‘I was wondering if you might tell me where I can find
The Lady of Shallot
?’

The mobile is still buzzing, but she’ll have to leave it.

‘Upstairs and left,’ she states, then feels bad for being curt. ‘In Modern and Contemporary Art.’

‘It’s hardly modern,’ frowns the man.

‘I know.’ Normally Cath would love to exchange thoughts on the painting with him, but right now she has more pressing concerns. She smiles in a way she hopes communicates
I agree,
but please don’t engage me in conversation.
The man heads up the stairs two at a time, long-limbed and eager.

Seconds later a lone vibration indicates the caller has left a message. Cath tries to stay calm but she can’t hold off, she just can’t. She slips the phone surreptitiously from her
pocket, curses her hair for being so fine – she could do with a pre-Raphaelite curtain right now – and turns her head to the wall so she can listen unobtrusively.

‘Mrs Morris, I’m calling from the Marylebone Fertility Clinic,’ says a woman. Cath doesn’t recognize her voice, but she and Rich saw several members of staff when they
visited; they all sounded alike: southern. ‘If you could give us a call back when you have a moment, and ask for Mrs Donoghue in Embryology, I would appreciate it.’

Argh! Why couldn’t she be more specific? It’s nearly an hour until lunch – Cath is on a late shift, and she’s been living in limbo long enough. She glances left, right;
grabs her jacket. If anyone sees, she’ll say it was an emergency.

She hurries down the stone steps – slips in the wet and has to grab the handrail – and around the side of the building. She leans against the wall in the hopes of gaining some
shelter but giant raindrops plop directly on her from the roof. She hasn’t time to move; she holds her jacket over her head as a makeshift umbrella, and presses the button to return the
call.

*  *  *

Lou is midway through a session with a student when her phone rings.

Damn, she thinks, I forgot to turn it off after talking to Adam.

‘Sorry,’ she tells her student. He’s slouching before her in an armchair, legs folded, nonchalant. She reaches for the off button without even checking the number. Whoever it
is will have to leave a message.

*  *  *

It feels as if she has been on hold for aeons. At last there’s a click and Cath is connected.

‘Thanks for waiting, Mrs Morris. I’m sorry, I was on another call. You got my voicemail?’

‘Yes.’ Cath’s fingers are trembling so much she almost drops her mobile.

‘I was ringing with good news.’

Her heart is racing.

‘We had to wait to find the right person . . . ’ – Cath wishes Mrs Donoghue would speed up; she sounds like a faulty cassette tape – ‘so I’m sorry it’s
taken several weeks to get back to you . . . ’

Three months, Cath wants to yell.
Three months!

‘I gather you’ve rung to chase us a few times. Anyhow, I’m happy to let you know that now we have found a potential match for you. An egg donor, I mean.’

Cath hears herself gasp.

‘We’ve received the lady in question’s Welfare of the Child form, she has had all tests, and she’s CMV negative, like your husband.’

Cath can’t recall what that means, but it’s not her prime concern. ‘Who is she?’

‘You appreciate donors are anonymous.’

‘I know.’ But surely they can tell her something? Without any detail it doesn’t seem real. Again she feels the presence of this mirror woman, somewhere far away, maybe . . . Or
maybe not. She could be over there, crossing the Headrow, with a briefcase and umbrella . . . There, ponytail flying, running for the bus in her stilettos . . . There, walking with her other half
towards Cath and the museum . . .