Dear Thing (9 page)

With everything that had happened, Claire had forgotten about Georgette, and how she knew about Claire’s sudden departure from the baby shower. The Latin teacher was part-time, and Claire’s path hadn’t crossed with hers. Georgette had evidently forgotten too, but now she would be talking at break time. There were going to be curious glances in the staff room, and discreet enquiries about how she was doing. Claire needed to be prepared.

But what was she going to say?
Yes, I was upset because we lost the pregnancy, but it’s all hunky-dory now because Ben’s friend has offered to have a baby for us?

St Dominick’s was a lovely school. That was exactly what everyone called it: lovely. The grounds were lovely, the boarding houses were lovely, the students were lovely, the staff were lovely, the parents were lovely. Although it had stopped being a Catholic school some years ago, the prospectus still emphasized the caring atmosphere, the ethos of compassion. In Claire’s experience, that compassion was often founded on quick-spreading gossip.

It had been the same, she supposed, when she’d been at school herself. She dimly remembered whispered bulletins, secretive notes. The difference was, they’d been children then, and none of the gossip had been about
her
.

One of her Year Nine students sat in the corner of the classroom, his spiky-haired head bent over a sheet of composition paper. It was the same pose he’d held through the entire last lesson. He looked up as Claire entered and headed for the desk where she’d left her laptop. ‘Aren’t you taking a break, Max?’ she asked, falling into her default pleasant tone. As much as she might complain to herself about how everyone in the school was in each other’s pockets, she loved the music and she loved the students. It was a good job. It was
lovely
.

‘I wanted to keep working on this,’ Max said.

‘That’s fine, though I’d have thought you’d want to see your friends after the holiday?’

He shrugged and scribbled on the paper.

‘Did you have a good Easter?’

Max shrugged again. ‘Boring,’ he said, addressing the table rather than her. She could see he was writing musical notes on the staves – he’d already written half a sheet full – but he was too hunched over for her to be able to read it. His class-work, thus far, had been rather desultory, so she was pleased he was making an effort on this assignment. Composition was something that most children found very difficult.

‘Do you mind if I use the computer in here while you’re working?’

He grunted. His body language was the classic adolescent ‘stay away’, so she settled herself in front of her laptop and logged in, tilting the screen away from Max’s line of vision.

There was so much information, so many support groups, so many discussion forums. From the internet, you’d never guess that most people managed to have children without any help whatsoever. She found her ovulation charts, and sent a blank one to the printer to make several copies for Romily.

The look of surprise on Romily’s face when Claire had mentioned kits and tests. As if she hardly believed that such things existed. The two of them lived in different worlds.

If they went through with this, the baby would be genetically half Romily’s. It might look just like her, though theoretically that wouldn’t lead to too many questions; Ben had dark hair too, and dark eyes. Romily was intelligent and healthy. Posie, her child, was intelligent and healthy. What more could Claire possibly ask for?

It seemed, though, with every attempt to have a child, she
and Ben became more and more removed from the natural, normal way to have children. Making love hadn’t worked, so they’d tried the charts, the temperature-taking, the ovulation kits. Then the clomiphene to stimulate egg production. Then the IVF, with her body at the mercy of drugs and instruments. And now they were involving a whole other person.

‘Everyone asks the same thing,’ Max said.

She stopped on her way to the printer. ‘Pardon?’

‘How are you? How was your holiday? They don’t want a real answer. They just want to tell you about the amazing things
they
did.’

‘Let’s have an agreement,’ said Claire. ‘I won’t tell you about my holiday if you won’t tell me about yours.’

He didn’t smile, but he stopped frowning a little. ‘Yeah. I can live with that.’

‘Do we need to stop off at the chemist?’ Ben asked her. ‘Or do you have some ovulation kits left?’

‘I think I might have one.’ She knew she did; she could picture it on her side of the bathroom cabinet. ‘I printed off the charts at work.’

‘We don’t have to drop the stuff off today,’ Ben said. ‘We can take a little longer to think. There’s no hurry.’

But he was so excited. Since they’d talked it over with Romily at Legoland, he’d been like a boy waiting for Christmas. So optimistic, so happy that they were giving it another go.

‘No, we can go today if she’s expecting us. Besides, it’s bound to take ages before anything happens.’

By the time they finished at the chemist’s rush hour was in full swing and it was difficult finding a place to park in the centre of town; however, Ben managed to squeeze in between two vans on the next road over from Romily’s flat.
He took the box and the plastic bag and Claire walked with him around the block, though his footsteps were so rapid that she had to hurry to keep up. He went down the steps to the basement flat in front of her in the same characteristic way he went down the stairs in their house: quickly, almost skipping every other step, making a syncopated rhythm. He didn’t have to knock before Romily opened the door.

‘Hey,’ she greeted Ben, and then she saw Claire behind him and her smile froze a little. ‘Hi!’

‘We’ve brought round the tests and charts,’ Claire said – unnecessarily, because of course Ben had already arranged this with Romily, but she felt, somehow, as if she needed an explanation to be here. She’d never been inside the flat before. When she and Ben picked Posie up, Claire tended to wait in the car, with its engine running.

She followed Ben inside. She’d assumed, more or less, that Romily’s flat would be chaotic and jumbled, like Romily herself. The door opened straight into the front room. A sofa and armchair were squeezed into the limited space, and books lined the walls, stacked in piles along the skirting boards. The walls were painted apple green, probably in an attempt to brighten up the flat, and although they were mostly bare, two framed canvases smeared with blue and orange hung over the sofa. Claire recognized Posie’s work. Ben immediately put the box and bag on the coffee table and sat, with the ease of familiarity, in the armchair.

‘This is nice,’ Claire said, trying to hide the implication that she hadn’t expected it to be.

‘Ah. Thanks.’ Claire followed Romily’s gaze as it settled on the worn carpet and then glanced over two dying potted plants on the windowsill. ‘Well, it does all right for me and Pose. Cup of tea?’

‘That would be lovely.’

Romily scooped up Posie’s crumpled school uniform from the sofa and kicked a pair of stray trainers aside on her way to the kitchenette, which was fitted into an alcove in the front room. Posie appeared in the doorway and ran to Ben to give him a hug, and then Claire.

‘I didn’t know you were coming over,’ she said happily. ‘Come to my room, I need to show you my base camp.’

Claire stroked the thick yellow fringe back from Posie’s eyes. ‘All right.’

‘I’ll come, peanut,’ said Ben. ‘Claire needs to have a cup of tea, she just finished work.’

‘ ’Kay. I’m in Peru today.’ The child paused in tugging Ben’s hand towards her room. ‘Romily, can I have a honey sandwich?’

‘Don’t you think it’s best not to tempt the killer bees?’ said Romily.

‘Peanut butter, then.’

‘Two seconds.’

Posie scampered off, pulling Ben along with her. ‘She’s eaten every meal possible in that tent,’ Romily said, switching on the kettle. ‘God knows what the sheets look like by now.’

Claire settled onto the sofa, dislodging a pile of unopened post which had been perching on the arm. She stacked it onto the coffee table, neatly, beside the box they’d brought. It had not escaped her notice that Ben was leaving her alone with Romily whenever he got the chance. It was because she’d mentioned that she didn’t know Romily very well.

‘How do you take your tea?’ Romily asked.

‘White, no sugar.’

Romily opened a cupboard. ‘I think I have some biscuits –
no, Posie must have eaten them. Would you like a peanut-butter sandwich as well? I do have honey if you prefer.’

‘That’s okay.’

‘Do you mind if I do? I forgot to have lunch today.’

‘Not at all.’

‘Ben, want a sandwich?’ Romily called. The ‘no’ came back muffled, as if he was already in the tent.

Claire watched as Romily smeared peanut butter on four pieces of white bread and stuck them together on two plates. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d bought shop-made sliced white bread, let alone eaten it.

Romily cut each sandwich in half with the same knife she’d used to spread the peanut butter, squishing the filling out of the sides. ‘Pose!’ she called, starting on the tea. She looked carefully into two mugs and rejected them before settling on two mismatched flowered ones. Posie flitted into the room, collected her sandwich, and disappeared again.

‘Won’t it spoil her dinner?’ Claire asked.

‘Oh God no. Nothing spoils her dinner. It’s like having a wild animal in the house, sometimes. As long as you keep it well-fed, it doesn’t show its claws.’

Whenever Claire had Posie to stay, she carefully avoided giving snacks too close to mealtimes, which she made sure were balanced and healthy, full of different colours and textures. The little girl loved Claire’s food and fell on it with an eagerness that always made Claire feel warm inside. From the looks of the kitchenette, Posie didn’t get home cooking very often.

Romily put the mugs and the sandwich on the coffee table. The sandwich plate went on top of the pile of post. ‘Your kid will probably have an all-organic, all-homemade diet,’ she said, licking peanut butter off the side of her hand.

This was so close to what Claire had been thinking that she immediately shook her head. ‘I might start out that way but I’m sure I won’t keep it up.’

‘You will. If anyone can, you can.’

Claire took a sip of her tea. It was too strong, made more the way Romily liked it than the way she did. She put the mug back down.

‘They say you should steer clear of peanut butter while you’re pregnant,’ she said. ‘If you’ve got a history of allergies.’

‘Which I don’t,’ said Romily, taking a big bite of her sandwich. ‘Has Ben?’

‘He hasn’t.’

Romily went on eating. Claire folded her hands on her lap. She could hear Ben and Posie playing in the bedroom. ‘When do you think we should tell Posie about what we’re trying to do?’ she said.

Romily finished chewing before she replied. ‘I’ll find the right time,’ she said and Claire heard the emphasis on the
I
.

Suddenly, for the first time since she had met Ben’s friend, she had a sense of Romily’s world, a whole world in which Claire herself played very little part, maybe even less than Romily played in Claire’s. The green-painted walls, all these books and the people who sent the unopened letters. Claire saw Posie fairly often, but Romily woke up with the little girl, put her to bed, was responsible for her every minute of every day. Knew about her allergies or not, knew, down deep, that her daughter belonged to
her
.

‘Of course,’ Claire said quickly. ‘I’m sorry. You will. I didn’t mean to imply—’

‘Let’s take it one thing at a time. I have to get pregnant first,’ said Romily, with her normal heartiness, and Claire was left wondering if she’d imagined the emphasis, the
setting of boundaries. ‘What’s all this stuff you’ve brought?’

Claire opened the bag. ‘I’ve got pre-natal vitamins – several kinds because I found one brand gave me indigestion. Some supplementary folic acid. I’ve got you a digital thermometer so you can do basal temperature readings, and some ovulation testing kits.’

‘Basal temperature readings.’

‘Your body temperature goes up slightly when you’re ovulating. If you take your temperature every morning before you get up, and you do a chart and plot your results on it, you can establish your normal temperature, and it should be quite clear when it spikes. You’re most fertile on the day or two beforehand. Here are some charts I did, for example.’ She found them in her folder and showed them to Romily.

‘Right.’

‘Of course, if your cycle is regular, you can predict better when you’ll ovulate, because it’s about halfway through.’

‘Okay.’

Claire paused. Could she ask if Romily’s cycle was regular, or not? Normally it would be too intrusive, but in their position …?

‘You can also tell by the consistency of your cervical mucus,’ she said instead. ‘It’s slippery when you’re ovulating. There are some pictures here.’

‘Right.’ Romily wiped her hands on her jeans and took the photographs Claire had printed out.

‘Of course sperm live for some time, so you’re fertile before you ovulate as well. Experts say that the best thing to do is to have sex every few days. But that’s not exactly possible in our situation.’ Claire laughed, and then stopped because she sounded silly.

‘I don’t want to spend more time with the Big Bird Baster than necessary.’

‘Well. You don’t have to use that, obviously. I bought some syringes.’

Romily poked in the bag and found them, as well as the specimen cups. ‘You’ve really thought of everything. Have you got pregnancy tests in here too?’

‘I didn’t— I don’t usually plan ahead that far. Not at this stage.’

Romily stopped chewing. ‘Oh. Okay. Of course not. I’m sorry.’

Claire looked at her for a moment. She was wearing jeans with holes in the knees, and a white button-up shirt that looked as if it had originally belonged to a man. She looked more like a twelve-year-old boy than a grown woman, and yet she was entirely certain of her own fertility. She made no sense to Claire at all.

The words burst out of her. ‘Romily, I appreciate what you’re doing so much but I think I need to ask, why are you doing this? Is it something you’ve just decided to do? It’s – I just ask because I need to know because I …’ She trailed off.