The Two Week Wait (25 page)

‘How can you be so calm?’ she asks her husband.

‘I don’t know, love. But look, you really don’t have to come in. Why don’t you let me get it over with – go and have a look round the shops or something – and
I’ll meet you after?’

He has a point. They probably won’t welcome her being there – the receptionist may even have to send her away, given that anonymity is part of the protocol and she and her donor are
not supposed to meet one another. Anyway, Cath is far too twitchy to sit still. She is keen to distract herself. ‘OK . . . I’ll meet you in . . . what? An hour?’

‘Sounds about right. Where?’

She plucks the first place she can think of from the air. ‘Topshop?’ There’s a giant one on Oxford Circus. But Rich looks distinctly underwhelmed, and on second thoughts
she’s not in remotely the right mindset to look at clothes. ‘All right, in the cafe in John Lewis,’ she relents. ‘At midday.’

Presently she crosses the gardens of Cavendish Square, the grey facade of the department store rising ahead of her.

If I go in the rear entrance I can avoid the worst of the crowds, she thinks.

The gold-engraved signage beckons her in as if with a stately bow, and before she knows it Cath is surrounded by cosmetics and beauty serums. An assistant tries to assail her to test a new
perfume, but she keeps walking. Nor can she face the over-made-up women behind any of the counters. She’s all too conscious of what her husband is doing at the clinic a couple of blocks away,
and that’s not the only thing preying on her mind. It’s as if there’s an invisible thread connecting her to her donor; she could swear she can feel twinges in her abdomen, as if a
phantom surgeon is operating on her too.

Eventually she locates a guide to the layout of the store, and soon she is riding the up escalators. She glides past ladieswear and lingerie, up through bed linen and garden furniture to the
fourth floor.

Aah . . .
Haberdashery.

For Cath, even the word is reassuring. Here, surely, she can treat herself to something that won’t cost the earth.

She steps from metal onto carpet and tries to take it all in. There are countless rolls of ribbon: spotted, striped, tartan, satin, grosgrain and velvet. There are endless trimmings: lace,
sequins and appliqué; feathers, buttons and bows . . . There are neatly stacked shelves of yarn, sorted by hue and texture . . . And there are beads in every colour of the rainbow and almost
every shape under the sun.

Reels of cotton, strings for necklaces, glue, scissors and stencils – everything, everywhere is calling out to her: make me, assemble me, sew me. The sheer potential is overwhelming.

She picks up a basket and starts to move around the displays, impulsively plucking items that please her, like a magpie lining her nest.

*  *  *

Rich shuts his eyes, tries to imagine himself somewhere else entirely. It’s all very well asking him to ‘produce a sperm sample’ as the assistant put it, but
this small, stark room is hardly conducive. There’s a TV with a DVD player in the corner of the room; he knows from his previous trip to the clinic he’s expected to use it. But whilst
Rich doesn’t think of himself as overly romantic, conceiving a child with the help of another woman feels pretty unsavoury; a kind of vicarious infidelity. He thinks of other couples who can
fondly remember the special time or place where their offspring were conceived. Didn’t his own mother let slip he himself was the result of a particularly cold New Year’s Eve, which she
and his father welcomed in with a ‘cosy’ early night?

When he’s done, he seals his donation in a plastic cup, places it on a shelf and presses a bell. Presumably they wait a few minutes before collecting it so as to avoid an embarrassing
handover in the corridor.

Why don’t they let partners in there to help? he wonders as he makes his way back down Harley Street. If he were braver and were not in a hurry to be with Cath, he’d have suggested
it.

The one bit he’d have found interesting – seeing what the technicians did in the lab – he’s not permitted to be party to. Apparently the sperm are washed and spun at high
speed to help select the healthiest – he’d have liked to have seen how they did it. But the technician who’d briefed him was firm. ‘The eggs need a few hours to incubate and
mature,’ he’d said. ‘There really is no point hanging around.’

Presently, he pushes open the doors of the department store, where a heady smell of perfume greets him.

*  *  *

There’s a tap on the door.

‘Come in,’ says Lou.

It’s a nurse. ‘I’ve got you a cup of camomile tea and a biscuit, when you’re ready.’

Lou props herself up on her elbows. ‘Is, um . . . Adam here?’

‘Your friend?’

‘Yes.’

‘I’ll just fetch him.’

Shortly his auburn-topped head pops round the door. She is happy to see a friendly face. ‘Everything OK, Lady P.?’

He’s followed by Dr Hassan. ‘Well, that went very well,’ he beams.

‘How many eggs did you get?’ asks Adam.

‘We need to check them thoroughly first, but we’ll give you a ring this afternoon, Lou. It all looked pretty good in there to me, though – I’m sure we got enough.
Ah.’ His eyes crinkle with pleasure. ‘I see you’re eating your biscuit. Good.’

Funny how he can segue straight from my uterus to my diet, thinks Lou. Bodies must be bodies to doctors.

‘Now, you’re not doing anything silly like going back to the office, are you?’

‘I work in a school. We’re on holiday.’

‘I’m driving her back to Brighton,’ explains Adam.

‘Excellent. You should take it easy for the rest of the day.’

‘Will I have any side effects?’ asks Lou. She has a vague sense of something having happened inside her, no more than that.

‘It varies from woman to woman. Some get cramps; others very little pain at all. You’ll probably have a small amount of bleeding so we’ve put a pad on for you. If you’re
worried later, you can always give us a call.’

*  *  *

Rich is not surprised to see Cath with a huge plastic carrier bag before her on the coffee table – some kind of retail therapy was inevitable.

‘What did you buy?’

‘Things. I’ll show you in a sec.’ She leans forward, eager. ‘How did it go?’

‘Not much to report really. No different from the first time – a bit grim.’

Cath wrinkles her nose – he can tell she finds the whole idea distasteful. ‘Well, let’s hope you get as many little goers as before.’

Rich nods. He’s been too diplomatic to say so, given the circumstances, but he’s rather chuffed about his sperm’s motility. Apparently when they tested his initial sample all
those weeks previously, it was well above average. He pictured millions of microscopic tadpoles swimming eagerly to their destination, and felt a surge of masculine pride.

‘Did they say anything about our donor’s egg collection?’

‘Not yet, no. They’ll ring us this afternoon, apparently. So, c’mon, show me your wares.’ He is keen to distract her.

She tips the contents of the bag onto the table: it contains several smaller paper bags and he tries not to flinch at what she might have spent. He opens them one by one. Inside are several
different pieces of fabric, a packet of needles, a box of pins, a reel of thread, some weird white padding and a pair of pinking shears. He is flummoxed. Perhaps she is planning a spate of mending?
Given the state of their finances, that might not be such a bad idea.

‘I’m going to do some patchwork.’

‘Eh?’

‘I thought I’d make a little bedcover – you know, a quilt.’

‘Ri-ight . . . ’ Their home is full to bursting already, and he’s never known Cath be into sewing. She has an old machine in the loft but he’s never seen her use it.

She clasps her hands together. ‘Something we might use for the baby.’

He looks at her, eyes wide.

‘Or maybe not,’ she adds hurriedly. ‘If you think that’s tempting fate?’

But it’s too late. Once again Rich fears Cath is getting way ahead of herself.

*  *  *

Back in the passenger seat of Adam’s car, Lou turns on her mobile.

Someone’s left a voicemail. Maybe it’s Ian, the embryologist from the clinic? Though that would be awfully quick . . . But not if something has gone wrong – he’d ring at
once to report . . . Her heart starts to race.

However, it’s just Anna, wanting to know how the procedure has gone. Lou is still feeling too fragile to chat, so texts a reply. She copies in Karen – she may as well bring them both
up to speed. She presses send, and her message goes off with a satisfying
swoosh
, as if carried up and away by a winged messenger. Suddenly she thinks of her sister, Georgia; she’s
nearer, as the bird flies to London, than either of them. This isn’t right, she thinks, not telling her. Other than Karen, Georgia is the person I’m closest to who might understand what
I’m going through. She is my sister, and although we are very different, she’s had children, too. Maybe it would bring us together.

But if she tells Georgia, she’ll have to tell her mother. Georgia tells Irene everything. Don’t they both deserve to know she is donating her eggs? They are genetically linked, after
all . . . Yet Lou can’t cope with explaining the entire set-up, let alone having their feedback, now. She can imagine all too well what her mother might say . . .

If the egg harvesting then implantation is successful, in two weeks she’ll know if she’s pregnant; excitement about her having a baby may temper their reactions. Surely it makes
sense to hold off at least until then?

‘Oh my goodness, it’s the clinic.’ Lou grabs the phone. She’s stretched out on the sofa in her flat, supposedly relaxing.

‘Hello, Lou. This is Ian, your embryologist.’

‘Hang on. I’m going to put you on speaker. I want my friend to hear you too.’ Adam is in the armchair opposite. She puts the mobile on the coffee table between them.
‘Yes?’

‘Congratulations: we got twelve eggs.’

‘Twelve!’

‘Yup.’

Adam high-fives her.

‘That’s fantastic!’ Lou is so relieved she can barely get the words out.

‘We’re all delighted.’

‘Me too.’ She feels proud, vindicated and happy in one great big rush. Her body has come up trumps for them all. ‘That’s so brilliant!’ she repeats.

‘Yes, and you’ve an even number, which makes it simple regarding your recipient: we’ll just split them in two, six each, if you’re happy? It’s your legal right to
withdraw your consent at any time, so you have to be sure. Would you like a while to talk it over and call me back?’

‘No.’ Lou is adamant. Six is plenty – they can’t implant more than two anyway. ‘I’m fine. Please go ahead and let her know.’

‘If you’re sure? We’ll do our best to ensure the quality of the eggs is evenly divided too.’

Although the decision is hers, Lou raises her eyebrows at Adam to check he’s also happy. He nods, then coughs. ‘Er . . . ’ He leans towards the speaker. ‘It’s Adam
here, yes, we’re fine with that. Though can I ask – what about the sperm?’ Naturally he wants to know – and how could Lou not have asked? It’s equally important.

‘Your sample was fine,’ says Ian. ‘It has a slightly lower count than when it was initially frozen, but we’d expect that, and it’s still well within the viable
range. There is a good chance of success.’

Once he’s rung off, they sit back in their respective seats, shoulders drooping with depleted energy, like balloons after a party.

‘Phew,’ they say in unison.

After a while, Lou says, ‘What’s the time?’

‘Half five.’

‘It’s a bit early, but . . . do you know what I fancy?’

‘Not Scrabble again, please.’

‘A takeaway curry,’ says Lou. ‘I’m famished.’

*  *  *

Cath is on all fours on the carpet in Mike and Sukey’s living room, attempting to arrange forty-two squares of fabric into a pleasing patchwork design. She purchased a
selection of cotton lawns – floral, striped, spotted, checked, plain and paisley – in a similar pale colour palette. She has already cut them up using her new pinking shears while Rich
looked on, agog at her speed and dexterity, and is laying them out six squares one way, seven the other when—

Didlingding!

‘That’ll be them!’ she says before her mobile has finished the sequence of its ringtone. ‘Can you reach it?’

Rich stretches out for the phone. ‘Hello?’

‘Pass it over,’ she orders. Perhaps she is being a bit OTT, but honestly, sometimes he can be so slow! ‘Hello. It’s Cath Morris here. Is that the clinic?’

‘Yes,’ says a woman. ‘It’s Mrs Donoghue. We’ve spoken before, if you recall, and I met your husband earlier.’

‘Of course,’ says Cath.

‘I’m calling to let you know the results of the procedures we undertook this morning.’

‘Yes?’ She tries not to snap. Trusting everyone else to manage a process that affects her so profoundly is hard.

‘It’s good news all round. We collected twelve eggs from your donor.’

‘Twelve!’

Rich beams in delight and gives her a nudge. ‘Can you put them on speaker?’

Oops, she’s not been thinking of him. ‘I’m just putting you on speaker so my husband can hear.’

‘Sure,’ says Mrs Donoghue. ‘Ready?’

‘Yes.’

‘So your donor has given her consent to proceed with the transfer.’

‘Yippee!’ Cath jumps up and gives Rich a hug.

‘That’s wonderful,’ says Rich, when he can speak again.

‘We’ll divide the eggs evenly between you. And we’ll do that in terms of quality too.’

‘Thank you.’

‘Though I do have to remind you, your donor does reserve the right to pull out at any point right up to embryo transfer.’

‘Yes, we know.’

‘In terms of your sample, Mr Morris—’

‘Call me Rich,’ says Rich. It does seem daft to address him so formally, given the intimacy of the subject.

‘OK, Rich. Yes, well, in terms of your motility, it appears very good indeed. Even higher than previously. This time you had 120 million. That’s right at the top end of the
range.’

‘Told you to stop drinking,’ says Cath smugly.

Rich looks proud of himself.