The Two Week Wait (40 page)

Instead she lies with her face close to his, studies him. His head is bigger than she expected, but maybe it seems that way because his limbs are so scrunched up, and he has a rash of tiny white
spots on his wrists. What a miracle he is: a bundle of potential, a giant question mark wrapped up in a blanket. She can’t wait to share news of his birth with the friends she’s made on
the forum – they’ve been such a source of support to her. She wonders what profound effect her baby will have on her life – and Adam’s. She’s amazed that he appears
totally alert: his eyes are open, and though she knows his vision is blurry, he seems to be staring straight at her.

‘Hello,’ she whispers.

And maybe it’s wishful thinking, or hormonal euphoria, but she could swear she sees her father in that instant, looking out through the windows of her baby’s soul.

*  *  *

Next morning, Cath wakes very early. The sun is shining through the curtains; a slash of light lands on the bed. Bessie the cat is basking in its warmth on the duvet.

Rich is still asleep. She doesn’t want to disturb him before he has to get up for work, so she rises surreptitiously, goes to the window, pulls the curtains apart just a few inches. Mike
is right: the garden is pleasingly ordered, the shrubs cut back, the ivy under control, the lawn freshly mown.

At least I achieved something over the last year, she thinks. Mania has its benefits.

She gazes up, as if the clouds might be able to provide an answer from on high to their dilemma. Then she hears Sukey’s voice – Sukey, of all people – deriding her so many
months ago.

‘Have you ever practised acceptance?’
she’d said.

Maybe Cath is mellowing, or changing. Whichever, at that second her sister-in-law’s words resonate. She has given over so much of her life to treatment – nearly four years. And much
of that time she was fighting: fighting cancer, fighting infertility. Has she really got it in her to fight any more?

Again her eyes fall on the garden. There by the back wall is the shed. She pictures the carefully ordered tools and garden furniture inside, and her pots, lined up on shelves. She can envisage
the ghostly vases, the cups etched with leaves and flowers, the translucent plates, the teapots, the jugs, the cobweb bowls. It’s as if they are beckoning, issuing an invitation.

And she gets a sense – gradually at first, then with more certainty – that there could be more to her future beyond having babies. She could give to the world, perhaps, find her
place on the planet, in another way.

It won’t be the same as having a child; nothing could be a substitute for that. She’d be a fool to think anything could. But she’s had so little control over her own body over
the last few years, and this last depression has reminded her how fragile she is. It might be better to wrest back control, to take her life once again into her own hands, but in a calmer, less
impatient fashion.

Yes, she thinks it would.

And then she could even – if they were up for it – accept her family’s support.

She checks the time. It’s too early to ring her mother; she’ll only alarm her. And although Mike might be awake, he’ll be busy with the children; it’s not the right
opportunity to share these thoughts with him.

Just then, as if he knows instinctively that she is eager to speak, Rich stirs, opens his eyes, focusing directly on her. ‘Hello, love.’ His voice is bleary.

‘I’ve been thinking.’

‘Mm?’

‘Ten thousand pounds . . . That’s what another round of IVF would cost here, and I’m really not sure about going abroad.’

Rich eases himself up to a sitting position, props a pillow as support. ‘I understand that.’

‘It’s too much money.’ She shakes her head. ‘When the odds are so poor.’

‘I remember you saying you could never put a price on a baby,’ he reminds her.

‘That was before we’d been through everything we’ve been through . . . Supposing we spend another ten grand and end up exactly where we are now? Do we spend another ten . . .
and another? When do we stop? We can’t forget the money equation completely. No.’ She is decisive. ‘It’s too big a gamble. I’m really not happy spending it again with
so few guarantees.’

‘We haven’t got the money anyway.’

‘I meant if we took it, or borrowed it or whatever, from my parents and Mike. If you’re happier with a loan – and I think I would be – I’ve been thinking, maybe we
could borrow it to spend on something else.’

‘Oh?’ His tone is sceptical.

‘I’ve had an idea. Something I feel more certain of, something that might make me happy. Or happi
er
, at any rate.’ He frowns. Cath will have to take this slowly.
‘The shed.’ She gestures through the pane. ‘It’s pretty big.’

‘But what’s that got to do with anything?’

‘When I was little, in the Dales, my pottery teacher had a studio out the back of her house. And taking the boys to Pontefract . . . it set me thinking. I thought we might do the same . .
. maybe.’ She checks to see he is keeping pace. He seems to be. ‘Convert it, I mean. I think it might be better if we used the money for that – or some of it, anyway . . . That
building is pretty sturdy; the walls are concrete. We could adapt it somehow, and buy a kiln.’

‘Ri-ight.’ Rich nods, very slowly.

‘I could teach people to pot,’ she continues. ‘Kids mainly, I’m thinking. As far as I know there’s nothing like that round here.’

‘Give up the gallery?’

‘Possibly, eventually. Though not till I’m up and running properly. I wouldn’t want to put us under that kind of financial pressure while your work is up in the air too. It
wouldn’t be fair. It would take time.’

‘Sounds like an interesting idea.’ He smiles.

‘Do you think so?’ Cath thinks of the train of toddlers on the ski slopes, how the sight of them learning a new skill touched her. She can hear children scampering through the house,
headed out to the garden, excited. She can imagine their palms as they work the clay, the slip on their fingers helping to shape and mould it. How she’d like to see them, eyes wide as they
carry freshly fired handiwork from the kiln, glazes transformed by heat from dull and muted to the brightest of shades!

She stops. She mustn’t get ahead of herself again. It’s been her downfall before, getting too hopeful. She’s tried to push events, control biology, force timings – and
look where it got her. To the brink of insanity, although, thankfully, back again. And perhaps that’s what acceptance means, for them, for her: accepting that what has gone is gone, and
allowing life to take its natural course, trusting the way forward to be something that emerges slowly, gently.

There is Bessie, asleep in her favourite place, at the bottom of the bed. She could learn from her. ‘There’s no need to rush,’ she says, more to herself than her husband.

After all the pressures they’ve been through, counting the minutes and hours and days, it’ll be a relief not to worry about biology and its clocks, or to have to wait in limbo until
someone else gives them news or a directive. This is their decision – and theirs alone. They can take it as fast or as slowly as they want.

‘It sounds a great plan,’ Rich reiterates. ‘Mike said the other day that you were a natural—’ But he chokes before the words are fully out, and then, unexpectedly,
starts to cry.

‘Oh honey,’ says Cath. He so rarely weeps; she’s only seen him tearful two or three times before. She’s been so wrapped up in her own grief she’s not thought enough
of him. She returns to the bed, sits down beside him. The mattress dips and creaks under her weight. Bessie stirs and stretches, comes to join them, wanting attention.

Rich sniffs, and strokes the cat absent-mindedly. ‘Sorry. Stupid of me. Crying.’

‘It’s not stupid.’ She looks at him. His lovely, lopsided mouth is downturned. To see him this way causes her distress, too. She mustn’t trample over his wishes.
‘Do
you
want me to try again?’

He shakes his head. ‘No.’

‘Are you sure?’

‘I’m sure.’ He gulps, and returns her gaze, steady. ‘I’m OK, it’s OK, honestly. I really do think the pottery is a good idea. You’d be a great teacher;
you’ve so much enthusiasm, so much talent and passion. And I think you’re right. We can’t go through it again. You can’t, and I can’t either. It’s tearing our
lives apart, all this giving of ourselves to hospitals and clinics . . . I’m sick of them. I just want to be able to enjoy our time together, me and you.’

‘So why are you crying, then?’

‘I’m crying for what we’re giving up,’ he says.

c/o Dr Hassan

The Marylebone Fertility Clinic

London W1V 2PF

June 10th

Dear Friend,

You don’t know me – we have never met, and we will always be unknown to one another. But we travelled a journey together, and it is for this reason I am writing.
If this reaches you, I hope you don’t mind that I have got in touch – I asked Dr Hassan from the clinic to check if you would like to receive this letter, and if you said yes, he agreed
to pass it on.

I was your egg donor. I gather you asked about my pregnancy and already know that I conceived, so I am writing to let you know that a few weeks ago I had a little boy. I understand that you
were unsuccessful in your attempts to conceive with my eggs, and I am so sad and sorry to hear that. Dr Hassan tells me he believes you have decided not to try again – which must have been a
very difficult decision to make, and I admire your bravery. Should you ever change your mind, I would be happy to donate my eggs to you again, without your needing to pay for my IVF. But I respect
your decision and in no way want to interfere with that, so unless I hear back from you through the clinic, I’ll assume that you don’t wish to pursue it.

The other reason that I wished to write is to thank you. My income is not vast, and for various medical reasons of my own I was advised to have a baby soon and to have IVF if I wanted to
maximize my chances of conception. Your incredible generosity made this possible.

I want you to know that I think of you often and I hope that whatever the future holds for you, you are happy. My little boy is called Frankie, after my father, and his middle name is
Matthew, which means ‘gift from God’. I’m not religious and neither is Frankie’s father – this name is in honour of you.

With deepest gratitude,

A Friend x

*  *  *

Lou is struggling to put Frankie into his pram in the hall when the doorbell rings.

Damn, she thinks, tempted to leave it. But through the glass she can see the blur of a blue shirt – it’s the postman. So she holds the baby close with one arm, and gingerly opens the
door with the other.

‘Parcel for Ms Louise Burgess,’ he says.

‘That’s me,’ she nods, and he hands her a large Jiffy bag.

I wonder what this is, she thinks, laying Frankie down.

She feels the package: something squashy – baby clothes, perhaps? Most of her friends have sent gifts and cards weeks ago; even Sofia sent a small bouquet when she heard the news. She
looks for a postmark – it says
London W1,
so is little help. She checks Frankie, who seems happy enough for a moment, gurgling away with his feet in the air, so she tears open the tape
and staples sealing the top of the parcel.

Inside are an envelope and a plastic bag. The envelope – she recognizes the logo – is from the clinic. She opens it, curiosity mounting. It contains a short typed covering letter
from Dr Hassan and a short handwritten note. Dr Hassan’s letter is mere detail; the note is what captures her.

From your recipient,
it says.
This is for Frankie, with love.

She tips open the bag. A tumble of fabric falls to the floor. She picks it up, shakes it out, and gasps.

It’s a beautiful pastel-coloured patchwork quilt.

A great big thank you to all those who were generous enough to help me with my research for this novel; who shared their knowledge and opened their hearts, and whose stories
were an inspiration. They include Rachel Beaumont, Gillian Aird, Carla Greco, Deborah and Nick Castle, Adrian Baker and John Staples, Rebecca and Vicky Hindley-Jones, Marina and Benoit Ruscoe, Bill
Graber and many more.

Another equally deeply felt thank you to the crack team at Sheil Land: my agents Vivien Green and Gaia Banks, along with Virginia Ascione. Then there are those at Picador: my publisher Paul
Baggaley, editor Francesca Main, Kris Doyle et al., plus Sam Humphreys, who believed in this book when it was no more than an idea.

Huge appreciation, too, for those good souls who read the manuscript ahead of publication and offered me invaluable feedback: Alison Boydell, Chris Chalmers, Alex Hyde, Nicola Lowit, Pam McLeod
and Clare Stratton. Plus a special mention for Jules Harvey and the folk at NWP Creative and Object Source who helped with the birth of the concept.

I must also thank those at the London Women’s Clinic, especially Dr Kamal Ahuja for his advice on the clinical aspects of egg sharing, and Emma Smith, who went through the book with a
fine-tooth comb. Any remaining inaccuracies are mine, not theirs.

Finally, thank you to my mum, Mary Rayner, and my other half, Tom Bicât, for their wisdom, forbearance, editorial support and encouragement. I could not have written this novel without
them.

Also by Sarah Rayner in Picador

One Moment, One Morning