‘How
do
you find it, bringing up Molly and Luke on your own?’
Karen tips some cooking oil into a tray and spreads it around with a wrapper she’s saved from a pack of butter. How efficient, Lou thinks.
‘Tough.’ Karen looks directly at her. ‘Bloody tough. And I’m lucky. They’re good kids on the whole. But Luke’s developed this habit of being rude to me
– I think it’s because he misses his dad, and he’s angry – you’ll probably know more about that than me. He finds social situations difficult and he seems to have
problems with empathy. Only yesterday he said, “You look really old and fat in that, Mum,” and I had to explain it wasn’t the ideal way of getting me on side or the kind of
comment I liked to hear – even if it is true.’ Karen laughs, but Lou can sense she is smarting. ‘So today he snuggles up to me and says, “You look really young and I like
everything you wear.” ’ She smiles. ‘I told him we might work on something in between.’
‘Here you are, these are done.’ Lou passes Karen the saucepan of potatoes. Karen puts them on the stove.
‘I mean obviously it’s different for me, because I did have a partner . . . ’ Karen’s voice fades again. ‘So I – I mean we – are grieving as well. But
still, it is a lot to undertake on your own, and I only work three days, down here in Brighton. My job’s not that stressful, either, but you’ve more responsibility, and the commute. I
don’t think I could manage all that, personally.’
And Karen’s very capable, thinks Lou. She gets to her feet, hunting for a bin to deposit the potato peelings. ‘Would you like to meet someone else?’
‘Here,’ says Karen, opening a large ceramic pot on the countertop. ‘I save it for compost at the allotment. But another man? Seriously, no. No way. Oh, I know Anna thinks I
should do online dating or something—’
‘I didn’t know she’d spoken to you about it.’
‘She hasn’t directly, but I’ve known Anna since we were in our teens. I know when she’s plugging something. She might be a copywriter and good at persuading people, but I
can see through her “this is such
fun
, Karen” sales pitch – she’s not very subtle. And I can tell you, I’m not about to do it.’ She puts the tray of fish
fingers into the oven and bangs the door with force. ‘Sorry,’ she says at once. ‘That was a bit mean. I’m grateful to Anna, truly I am. It’s just she and I are
different – she’s better at putting herself out there, she’s more passionate, she moves faster than me.’
‘She did seem to get over Steve quite quickly,’ observes Lou.
‘Probably because he treated her like shit. Excuse my language, but Christ I’m glad to see her shot of him! I liked him, don’t get me wrong – sober, at any rate –
but not as a partner for my friend. Did you hear he’s back drinking again? No surprises there. It’s such a shame . . . He had a lot going for him. Anyway, I can’t forget Simon
that fast, I really can’t. I loved him. We were together twenty years.’
‘I don’t think she wants you to forget him.’ Lou can see both sides: Karen wanting to be allowed to grieve, Anna being keen to help her move on.
‘I’m glad you understand. Anyway, I’m digressing. What I was trying to say is, naturally the children miss their dad, but it’s more than that. I know I might sound
awfully traditional, but I do think they suffer from not having a man about, too. Though I refuse to go out and get myself a partner just for the sake of it – that would be all
wrong.’
Lou pauses for thought. Many of the kids she counsels have fathers who are either absent or inadequate or both, and whilst she wouldn’t want to make sweeping judgements about their very
diverse circumstances, all too often she sees the effects this has on the children. Truancy, drug-taking, self-harm, depression – Luke’s tactlessness is a blip compared to the distress
Lou sees on a daily basis. The last thing she wants is to create another unhappy child. Her relationship with her own mother is far from easy, so she knows what it feels like to be left wanting.
How much worse it would have been without her dad. She wants to get it right.
‘It’s good to talk to you about it,’ she says.
‘It’s one of the things I miss most about Simon – having him to talk to about the children,’ says Karen. ‘I don’t know what I’d do without people like
you – and Anna. But just simple things like this – sharing the cooking – I don’t get to do with someone else any more.’
Again Lou thinks of Sofia, packing up her stuff, leaving her life. ‘It’s not how I’d have chosen to do any of this. But maybe there’s a way I don’t need to do it
completely alone, even if I haven’t got a partner.’
* * *
Hello there, I’m new to this forum too. A little over two years ago I went to the doctor because I couldn’t get pregnant. I was desperate to have
a child, but as at first I thought it was because of my age, it took a while for me to go. When I did I found out the real reason why: I had cancerous tumours on both ovaries. I had to have them
removed, then chemotherapy and there was no possibility of freezing my eggs due to the progression of the cancer. As you can imagine, it was an extremely dark time. I was very scared, for months
afterwards I was very down and anxious – I would never have got through it without my husband. He’s so patient and kind, I’m very lucky. How he puts up with me sometimes
I’ll never know.
Finally, I’ve been told that I appear free of it, and now I only need to be checked every six months, so we are hoping to try for a baby again. I’ve had a scan of
my uterus at my local hospital – they were able to save that, thank God – it seems in quite good shape considering. I live in Leeds but there aren’t the same facilities here, so
in the morning we’re off to find out about the egg-sharing programme at a clinic in London. We’ve just got the money sorted, and though I know I shouldn’t be too hopeful as there
are so many hurdles, still I’m very excited. I’m 42 now so using a donor is my only hope. CathM
‘You’ve been on that thing all evening,’ observes Rich, coming back into the kitchen.
Cath yawns, stretches.
‘Let’s head to bed,’ he says. ‘Big day tomorrow.’
As if she needed reminding.
Cath glances at her watch. The consultant is running late and Rich is due at a meeting that afternoon; she doesn’t want them to have to rush.
Over the last two years she has spent hours in waiting rooms; each has its own unique atmosphere. There’s her GP’s surgery in Headingley, with its scruffy plastic seating, dog-eared
magazines and large collection of bashed and broken toys. There’s the Oncology Institute at St James’s Hospital, a multimillion-pound NHS showpiece with a vast glass atrium and waiting
areas full of posters proudly declaring that everyone is ‘aiming higher fighting cancer’ which grated awfully when Cath was feeling at her lowest. And now there’s this: with its
careful fan of promotional brochures, well-tended potted plants and smart water cooler, it falls aesthetically somewhere between the two. Perhaps the people who run the clinic have decided that
being too showy would only underline the exorbitant fees.
She looks around. Whereas her local surgery is packed with students and mothers with small children, here the age range is narrow (she’d hazard thirty to forty-five) and everyone appears
pretty well heeled. But what unites them most strongly is that they all look as uncomfortable as she and Rich are. The woman opposite is studiously avoiding eye contact by picking at a loose thread
on her jacket; a couple are holding hands so tightly it must hurt; beside them a man in uniform repeatedly checks his mobile.
It’s as if none of us wants to admit we’re actually here, she observes. But at least she isn’t surrounded by huge pregnant-bellied women, as she was when she went for an
ultrasound at Leeds General a week ago. She’d found that very hard.
Surely infertility is nothing to be ashamed of, she thinks. We’re all in this together. Perhaps I should strike up a conversation. It only needs one of us and I’d feel much better if
I could chat. But of course, this is London: strangers don’t talk to one another. Maybe they all pour out their feelings anonymously online, as I have.
She checks the time again. Still the large white door remains resolutely closed.
Cath listens. Is that crying she can hear?
Is this fate, telling me to reconsider? she wonders. Maybe it’s a sign that taking eggs from someone else and fertilizing them in a lab is an unnatural way of creating life. But I
can’t stop, not now. It’s something I want so strongly, I don’t care how unnatural it is. And anyway, isn’t it
natural
to want to be a mum?
At last the door opens and a young woman emerges. She looks perfectly OK. Behind her is Dr Hassan. His hair is not as smooth and neat as when he gave his talk, and he is wearing a white coat
over his shirt and trousers rather than a suit, but it’s good to see a familiar face.
‘Richard and Catherine Morris?’ he says.
* * *
Lou is waiting in the Kemptown Bookshop cafe, preparing for another tricky conversation. Her friend soon arrives, panting up the stairs.
‘Mm, that looks good.’ Howie peers through his little round glasses at her bagel and latte. ‘Can I get you anything else?’
‘I’m fine.’
He takes off his jacket, removes his woolly hat to reveal the dome of his bald head, and goes to the counter to place his order. As he returns to the table, he looks round at the shelves.
‘Ooh, remind me to get something for my hols while we’re here.’ He is a voracious reader, and talks fast too. ‘I thought your day off was Friday, how come you can meet
today? It’s usually only us freelancers who get to do coffee in the week.’
‘The rest of the staff have an INSET day – I didn’t have to go in.’
‘Ah, I see. Great to see you anyway, doll. I wanted to say how sorry I was to hear about Sofia.’
‘Thanks.’ Lou swiftly changes the subject. ‘Though it’s not that I wanted to talk to you about.’
‘No? So what is it then?’ He clasps his hands, clearly excited to hear. ‘It sounded very intriguing, this being sworn to secrecy.’
Typical, thinks Lou. Howie loves to create drama. ‘That’s not what I said. It’s just personal, that’s all.’
‘Oh, right.’ He appears disappointed, and Lou hesitates. Howie is a dear friend and entertaining company, yet she’s unsure he’s cut out for what she’s about to
propose. But she doesn’t want to prejudge: in the end, who is she to decide?
‘I was wondering if you might . . . well, um . . . if anyone has ever asked you before, to . . . er . . . if you were interested in becoming a father.’
Howie’s mouth falls open. And stays open.
Lou has known him many years, but has never known him at a loss for words. She looks at him, raises her eyebrows, smiles encouragingly.
Eventually, he lets out a guffaw. ‘Are you serious?’
Lou is disappointed. It seems her instinct was right: the idea was a bad one. ‘Mm, yes, sort of . . . ’
‘Me? A father? You want me to give you some special Howie sperm?’
Put like that, the idea is hardly appealing. ‘Well . . . ’
‘Gosh.’ Howie sits back, winded.
He already knows about her break-up with Sofia, but not why, so she explains. ‘I was planning to use an anonymous donor, but changed my mind. Have you never considered it?’
Howie leans forward again. ‘A straight chum of mine asked a few years back – she was in her mid thirties and had got her knickers in a right twist, convinced she was going to be left
on the shelf for eternity. Luckily for her she met someone in the end, so luckily for me, I didn’t get to “read” ’ – he indicates quote marks in mid air –
‘for twenty minutes in a room looking at the underwear section of a Freeman’s catalogue.’
Lou laughs. ‘To be clear – it’s not just sperm I’m thinking of. Otherwise the anonymous route would be far less fraught. It’s quicker and there are fewer hurdles,
and I don’t have the luxury of time on my side. But I suppose . . . ’ She hesitates, trying to work out how best to express the essence of what’s she’s been mulling all
night. ‘I think it’s important my child has a dad.’ She frowns, unsure if Howie needs much detail, but she is springing this on him – she’s still acclimatizing herself
– and she wants to make sure they understand one another as best they can. ‘Perhaps because I was so close to my own father, and also, well, I see how important male role models are to
the kids I work with. Ideally, I want someone to co-parent.’
‘Ah.’ He pauses. ‘It would be a pretty massive test of a friendship.’
‘I appreciate that. It’s because I value our friendship I’m asking.’
Howie rubs his beard. ‘Seriously, doll, I’m flattered, but in all honesty, I think I’ll have to decline the invitation. It could have too many ramifications, don’t you
think? I do believe you’d be a great mum, but I’d be a lousy dad. It’s enough responsibility for me borrowing a book off someone, never mind “loaning” some sperm. The
fact you want the guy to play an active role seals it. I’m a funny old sod, and I’m pretty selfish, as you know.’
It’s a shame, but on reflection Lou already knew this was how he’d respond. As a freelance journalist, Howie works the hours he chooses and holidays when he likes. His peripatetic
life would be hard to let go, never mind integrate into any formal childcare agreement. And at least he can’t now get huffy that he
wasn’t
asked. Though she’s at a loss as
to where else to turn. She sips her coffee, perplexed.
‘Perhaps you can find someone online? There must be some sort of would-be-gay-dads’ group somewhere. You can hook up with just about anyone these days. I should know.’
That’s another reason for reservations, thinks Lou: Howie’s predilection for no-strings sex. But bringing up a child with a total stranger? She looks round at the men in the
bookshop. The middle-aged guy behind the counter of the cafe can make a decent latte, but he’s wearing a wedding ring. The elderly hippie peering at the shelves looks as if he still has a
problem engaging with the real world – he’s in sandals way before it’s warm enough to justify it. And the young lad next to them is reading
Nausea
; that says it all.