The Two Week Wait (24 page)

‘I’m not allowed anything to eat or drink prior to the procedure,’ Lou reminds him.

‘Oh no, nor you are. Dumb of me, sorry.’ Concentrate, Adam tells himself. The last thing we want is an accident on our way to London, and the junction onto Marine Drive is tricky.
Once they’re on the main road, he says, ‘So how are you doing otherwise?’

‘Nervous.’ Lou turns to him. ‘And excited, I guess . . . ’ She bites her lip. ‘I’m crossing my fingers today is successful. How about you?’

‘Same,’ he nods. They stop at the lights by the Pavilion; the turrets and domes glow powder-pink in the morning light. Being here brings back their initial conversations about having
a baby: he drove home this way after dinner. The fears that he had then have largely abated. He’s not gone around shouting about it, but lately he’s been feeling increasingly elated at
the prospect of becoming a father.

Lou turns to him. ‘You are sure we’re doing the right thing, aren’t you?’

He can feel her check his expression. She does sound really anxious, he thinks. Perhaps she’s concerned he won’t pull his weight, yet helping her with the injections and spending
time with her has deepened his commitment. ‘Don’t worry, of course we are.’ He smiles at her.

‘It’s just . . . ’ She coughs, awkwardly. ‘We still don’t know each other that well, do we?’

‘I suppose . . . ’ They’ve spoken of this over the last few weeks already, but it’s understandable she might want more reassurance. Or perhaps she is so hormonal she has
forgotten their previous conversations. ‘But there are hundreds of people who know each other less than we do when they get pregnant, and they manage,’ he points out. ‘Often they
make a surprisingly good job of parenting.’

‘I’m not sure I want to set my standards against some irresponsible teenager,’ she says. Her vehemence takes him aback. Although maybe she’s referring to the kids she
works with, or their parents. She’s bound to be passionate about ill-planned pregnancies when she is witness to long-term distress in their wake.

‘I hardly think you need worry that I’m an irresponsible teenager.’

She shrugs. ‘I suppose.’ He notes a strange tone to her voice.

She is quiet for several moments, frowning. The atmosphere inside the vehicle grows uneasy.

Then Adam realizes what Lou might be trying to say; it hits him in the solar plexus, and it’s all he can do not to swerve the car. Is it possible she’s considering cutting him out?
He panics, struggling to stay focused on the road.

It would be as I feared, he thinks. I couldn’t bear that. Not now, at this stage.

Don’t be silly, Adam, he argues with himself. Lou’s not like that – it’s not in keeping with the woman you’ve got to know. And Howie’s assured you she’s
one of life’s good people, too.

Then again, she has just been saying they’re comparative strangers . . .

Adam’s thoughts tumble as he tries to assess the implications. If she has decided she doesn’t want to go through this with him, she might still have other options. In spite of
everything she has said about needing – and wanting – to do this fast, she could probably find another donor quite easily. She may even be able to switch to using an anonymous donor at
the clinic, if she wants, almost straight away. They might encourage her to do that – they’d make more money, it’s often less complicated medically, and it’s certainly less
of a legal minefield.

Good grief. I really am expendable, thinks Adam. I hadn’t reckoned on anything changing, let alone at this eleventh hour. But Howie also said she was tough underneath; perhaps I’m
seeing evidence of it.

He veers off the roundabout onto the A23, panic rising.

There are no such ready alternatives for me, he thinks. Who else am I going to find to co-parent with? A proposal like Lou’s comes along once in a lifetime, if ever. I’ll be back
where I was: with offers of playing a loose uncle to a child I father for a lesbian couple, or using a surrogate to go it alone . . .

He’s put so much time and energy into this already – not just helping Lou, but getting himself in the right headspace again. After all these weeks of building up his hopes, the
possibility of not being a dad is devastating.

He swallows, considering what to say, how best to handle the situation. He doesn’t want to pressurize Lou, but it’s almost impossible to keep the desperation from his voice.

‘Are you having doubts . . . ?’ he ventures. He can hardly bear to hear her answer.

She nods. ‘I guess, a few.’

He tries to sound less mortified than he feels. ‘I think I understand . . . We wouldn’t be human if we didn’t have concerns, would we?’

‘Wouldn’t we?’

He can sense her looking at his profile again. He feels his face flush with worry. ‘If you want to look for another donor or something, I suppose that’s OK . . . ’

‘Oh.’ She seems taken aback. ‘Really?’

She must be pleased I’m making it easy for her, he thinks. But why be difficult? It’s not in his nature to force people into doing things they don’t want to, let alone
something as major as this. ‘Mm,’ he nods, disappointed beyond words.

Again they say nothing. The stretch of motorway yawns in front of them. Again he glances across at her. She is continuing to frown.

‘Er . . . don’t
you
want to do this, then?’ she says.

This conversation is increasingly bizarre. Unless he’s misreading her – and it is hard when he can’t see her face for more than a split second at a time – she sounds
perturbed at the prospect he might not be keen.

They are approaching a service station; the junction is a few hundred yards ahead.

This is ridiculous, he thinks, suddenly enraged. If she doesn’t want me to be involved after all, then really, I am not prepared to drive her into London. I’m not a bloody
chauffeur.

He indicates, pulls onto the slip road, turns into the garage forecourt, stops the car and swivels to face her.

‘What’s the problem?’ he says, unable to conceal his anger and upset. ‘Don’t you want me to father the child?’

*  *  *

Cath is standing in the porch, keys in hand.

‘Come on,’ she shrieks.

‘Keep your hair on,’ says Rich, coming down the stairs. ‘My appointment isn’t till eleven.’

‘It’s ten to nine!’

‘Love’ – he pulls on his jacket – ‘it takes just over an hour into town. I’ll be ever so early.’

‘I don’t want you to be late to give a sperm sample,’ says Cath.

Hmm, thinks Rich. Waiting has never been his wife’s strong point, but now is probably not the time to say this. She’s so pent-up with apprehension about the morning ahead, if
he’s not careful she’ll explode at him, and he’s finding it hard not to feel pretty tense himself.

*  *  *

Lou stares at Adam, aghast. ‘Of course I do.’

‘So what is it, then?’ He appears furious.

‘It’s me,’ she says. ‘It’s me.’

‘
You?
’

‘Yes.’ She finds herself crying. How can she begin to explain? He still hardly knows her.

‘Here.’ Adam passes her a tissue.

Lou is not one to weep easily, but she seems to have mislaid the lid to her emotions. She blows her nose and looks around, struck by the ludicrousness of their situation. They’re in a
Texaco garage; beside them cars whizz past on the dual carriageway, hurtling northwards. Before them is a shop; by the automatic doors are a couple of buckets of bedraggled flowers, a stand of
newspapers flapping in the breeze, several bags of barbecue fuel. At a pump nearby a man in a lilac shirt and suit trousers is refuelling his Jaguar for the commute to work. He sees Lou’s
tears and turns away, embarrassed.

She sniffs and tries to work out what to say. Adam seems to have misconstrued her: she’d best come out with it. ‘I’m worried about being a mum.’ She thinks of the photo
on her windowsill, her parents with their separate root systems. ‘What if I’m crap at it?’

‘Oh,’ he says.

‘My mother is a nightmare,’ she admits, then feels bad for being so harsh. ‘Or at least, she wasn’t a very easy mother for, well . . . someone like me.’

‘That doesn’t mean you won’t be any good at it,’ says Adam. Lou can sense his anger dissipating. His cheeks return to their usual colour. ‘Quite the opposite,
perhaps.’

She gives him a half smile. He’s got such a kind face, she thinks, not for the first time. But we are a very odd couple. Far odder, in terms of convention, than my parents, and look what a
mess they made of things. She can picture them now; her mother’s lips a thin line of silent disapproval, her father umming and erring, often understanding Lou better, yet unwilling to risk a
scene by arguing on her behalf. In many ways it’s what they
didn’t
say that hurt: her mother’s raised eyebrows at what Lou chose to wear, the glares directed at her father
if he was too soft on her, the dismissive shrugs when Lou would try and explain something she felt passionate about.

Adam pours himself a beaker of tea, takes a sip. ‘Don’t you remember saying you wanted to rectify some of your parents’ mistakes?’

‘Did I?’

‘Well, maybe you didn’t say that exactly, but it was along those lines. The first time we chatted in the pub. Anyway, if it’s any consolation, I worry too. I guess everyone
does. I remember my sister saying worry is the default position of every parent.’

‘We haven’t even got that far,’ says Lou. Nonetheless, he is helping her feel better.

‘From what you’ve told me, your mum does sound a rather difficult woman, but that doesn’t mean you’ll get the same things wrong she did. And she can’t have got
everything wrong. You’re pretty OK, if you ask me.’

‘Aw, thanks. They didn’t get it
all
wrong,’ she admits. ‘My mum’s trying, these days, and my dad . . . ’ She gulps, feeling an ache of longing for him
still to be alive. ‘He got lots of stuff right.’ She’s struck by how hard it is going through this without either of her parents’ support.

‘There you are then. Plus there’s another thing,’ Adam grins. ‘
My
mum is ace. So here goes: we can just reverse our role models, how very appropriate. I can follow
my mum’s example, you can follow your dad’s. We’re trying to avoid stereotypes after all.’

Lou watches the man in the lilac shirt as he walks past them to his car, still avoiding eye contact. She thinks of Irene again, of the gulf between them. ‘Do you really think I’ll be
a good mum?’

‘I think you’ll be bloody brilliant.’

‘How can you be sure?’

‘I can’t be
sure
,’ says Adam. ‘But I hope I’m a reasonable judge of people, and I wouldn’t be doing this with you if I didn’t think
so.’

Lou wipes her eyes. It’s good to hear him voice this.

‘For starters, if you weren’t a nice person you wouldn’t be donating your eggs.’

‘Thanks,’ she smiles.

‘And you . . . ’ Adam looks at her. ‘Are
you
OK with the idea of my being the father?’

‘Of course I am.’

‘Phew.’ He pats her knee and hands over the beaker. ‘So, pop this back. And now, Lady Penelope, if you don’t mind, Parker had better get back on the road, before
we’re late for our appointment.’

‘I’ll let the consultant know you’re here,’ says the receptionist.

Lou looks around the lobby. The couple sitting on the sofa are Chinese. Well, we’ll certainly know if they get all our samples muddled, Lou thinks. Then she scolds herself; she is being
paranoid.

Presently Dr Hassan joins them. ‘So, today’s the big day.’ His mauve-checked shirt looks crisp and pressed and his white hair just combed.

‘Yes.’ She and Adam speak in unison.

‘We need to prepare you for theatre,’ says Dr Hassan to Lou. He addresses Adam. ‘I take it you’re not coming in?’

‘I’m happy to if you want,’ Adam says to Lou. ‘But you said no?’

‘I’d really rather do it on my own, if you don’t mind,’ she says. He might have put needles in her tummy, but the operation is more intimate.

‘She’ll be in with us for a while,’ Dr Hassan continues. ‘And as we’re using your frozen sperm, I suggest you come back later.’

Once Adam has gone, Dr Hassan leads Lou into a private room with a single bed and closes the door. ‘After you,’ he says, gesturing to an armchair. He pulls up another opposite.

Lou says, ‘Adam is not my partner, you see.’

‘No, I remember,’ says Dr Hassan. ‘But each woman likes to play it differently with their donor, I’ve found.’ She can tell from his expression that an arrangement
like theirs is nothing unusual as far as he is concerned. ‘I’ll just run through the procedure with you. OK?’

Lou nods.

‘So, we’ll be giving you an intravenous anaesthetic in just over half an hour.’

‘Will I be able to feel anything?’

‘Not at all. Although it isn’t as strong as a general anaesthetic, so you’ll be awake for the procedure. We’ll be inserting an ultrasound probe into your vagina. We pass
a little needle through this directly into the ovarian follicles – these are the structures in the ovary which contain the eggs – ’ – Lou nods, she’s well versed in
these terms by now – ‘and the eggs will be gently sucked out.’

‘I seemed to have loads of follicles in the last scan – do you take eggs from them all?’

‘It’s usually possible to collect them from most of the larger ones. We’ll inspect them in the lab to get a preliminary idea of their maturity and let you know later
today.’

‘I see.’

As the doctor scrubs up, Lou makes a silent wish.
Please get lots. I want to make sure there are enough to give my recipient at least five.

*  *  *

‘What if she doesn’t produce enough eggs to share with us?’ says Cath, as they cross over the junction of Wigmore Street.

‘She will,’ says Rich. ‘They must have had a pretty good idea when they did her scans.’

They’re approaching the clinic; elegant Georgian frontages flank them on either side. On the threshold, Cath stops and looks up. Everything about the building is symmetrical: the
wrought-iron railings that line the black-and-white-tiled steps, the pillars on either side of the glossy red front door, the classical windows rising four floors above. Even the scarlet geraniums
and trailing ivy in the smart pewter window boxes are perfect echoes of one another. Apparently her donor will be having her eggs collected at some point today. Cath wonders if she is inside at
this very minute, behind one of the net curtains.