In truth, beneath his calm exterior, he has spent much of the last two years terrified. Terrified of losing her, terrified of hearing the words ‘there’s nothing more we can
do’, terrified of mishandling the situation or asking the wrong questions, terrified of saying inappropriate things to her family, terrified of letting Cath down. Moreover, he’s had to
adjust his vision of the future completely. Before her illness, he thought he knew where his life was going. He didn’t have a very precise map, but the route forward was there, in pencil to
allow for the odd bit of rubbing out and redrawing, in his mind’s eye. Maybe they’d move further from the city centre of Leeds, to Ilkley or Guiseley – somewhere closer to the
Dales. He’d like more time for exercise, and a new car. Ideally his job in the music industry would evolve: he’d prefer more security, money and responsibility, though compared to some
of his friends, he wasn’t doing badly. But one thing he was clear about, because Cath was already ‘getting on a bit’, as she put it, when they met: children were in the picture.
Soon.
Then came the cancer.
Initially they’d been existing day to day, getting over each hurdle as it arose: the operation, the chemotherapy, the susceptibility to infection, the hair loss. Then, post-treatment, they
faced the new reality; he’s permitted himself to look further ahead, but the vista has changed. No longer does he assume with naive certainty he’ll grow old with Cath, nor does he think
– as he did when they first discovered she was ill – that she might die at any minute: he simply does not know. His job has got more precarious; he’s seen colleagues laid off,
he’s had to travel more, work longer hours. So he’s reined in his expectations; the view is not as panoramic as it once was. It’s mistier, more lightly pencilled. And children, if
he is to stay with Cath (and there have been moments, fleetingly, when he has wondered if he’s got it in him to do so), are no longer a part of it. Are they?
Rich isn’t as fast at processing information as his wife. He might be a swifter skier, but mentally, she’s a hare to his tortoise and lately he’s been so focused on putting her
needs first, it’s underlined this difference between them. Occasionally he gets frustrated with himself, but she says it’s what balances them out: she needs him to ground her, and he
believes her – if they were both as stubborn and impulsive as Cath, their relationship would probably explode. Nonetheless, sometimes he needs to take time out, to work out where he
stands.
Lying awake isn’t helping, and he wants to be alert tomorrow; he has been relishing discovering his skills on the snow again. Maybe getting up will stop his mind churning. Carefully, he
eases himself out of bed, pads to the bathroom, closes the door, pulls the string of the light.
It takes a few seconds for his pupils to adjust. He scrunches his eyelids together, slowly opens them, looks at himself in the mirror.
His hair is standing up in crazy tufts. He is bleary, needs a shave. Otherwise, he appears just the same as always.
‘I feel like a freak,’ says Lou.
‘Why?’ asks Anna.
Lou drops her voice; there’s a man sitting across the aisle. ‘This horrible lump: I went and had my scan yesterday, and apparently it’s a cyst.’
‘What sort of cyst?’
‘A tumour – a fibroid. I’d never even heard of them before.’
‘I have,’ says Anna. ‘They’re quite common when you get into your forties. I’ve got a couple myself.’
‘Really?’
‘Mm. They’re tiny, so the doctor said it’s best to leave them alone, unless they’re causing me a problem. And they’re not. They’re harmless.’
‘Oh.’ That makes Lou feel slightly better. ‘But mine’s enormous.’
Just then Sofia arrives with coffees wedged into a cardboard tray.
‘Hello, Anna,’ she says, sliding into the seat they’ve been saving opposite.
They’re on the 07:44 to London, heading to work. This is their morning ritual. Anna is the best timekeeper and lives nearest the station, so she boards first and reserves a table, third
carriage from the front. Lou and Sofia cycle from Kemptown: they lock up their bikes, Lou hurries to join Anna so other commuters don’t get miffed by her hogging seats, and Sofia buys coffees
from the man-with-a-van on the forecourt.
‘I was just telling Anna about yesterday,’ says Lou, her voice still hushed.
‘The hospital?’
Lou nods.
‘It is good news, do you agree?’ Sofia says to Anna.
‘I suppose it is.’
‘At least it is not malignant.’
Lou flushes, irritated: Sofia sounds blasé. Doesn’t she appreciate how upset I am? Lou thinks. Maybe she’s avoiding making too much fuss lest it alarm me further.
‘Still, I feel like a freak.’
‘How big is it, then?’ asks Anna.
‘About the size of a grapefruit.’
‘Blimey.’
‘Exactly. I’m a freak.’
‘You are not a freak,’ says Sofia.
‘If you’re a freak, I’m a freak,’ says Anna.
Lou laughs. ‘I guess.’
The train is filling up; a woman asks to sit beside Sofia. The three of them huddle across the table.
‘Anyway, they say I ought to consider having it removed.’ She lowers her tone still further.
‘Why?’
‘Because it’s so big, and it may well get even bigger. Who knows, if it’s grown to the size of a grapefruit already, it’ll be a blooming watermelon next . . . ’ Lou
shivers. ‘Then it’ll be trickier to operate on – and I’m told it’s not that easy as it is – but also if I want to have children, it could make it difficult to
get pregnant.’ The man across the aisle straightens out his broadsheet with a flick of his wrists. Lou could swear he is eavesdropping. She whispers, ‘It’s right in the middle of
my womb.’
‘I see,’ says Anna. ‘So, you want children then?’
Lou glances up at Sofia. The subject is not one they’ve ever discussed in detail. She thought they had plenty of time to think about babies. They’ve been together less than a year,
are in the first flush of love.
‘I think so. And if I want to have them, I should have surgery, and then, apparently . . . ’ She pauses, aware this will be news to Sofia. ‘I read online last night that I
– um, well, we – shouldn’t hang about.’
‘And how about you, Sofia?’ asks Anna. Once more, that disarming frankness.
Sofia hesitates, and Lou holds her breath while she waits for her answer.
Finally she says, ‘To be honest, I don’t think I do.’
* * *
It must be coincidence, but when Sofia gets off the train at East Croydon, everywhere she looks there are mothers and babies. At the newsagent where she picks up
Design
Week,
there’s a woman with a pushchair at the counter. In the queue at M&S, as she waits to buy a sandwich for her lunch, there’s a customer with a tiny newborn in a papoose
strapped to her chest. There are even two women taking up the entire breadth of the pavement with their brood of thigh-high offspring, chatting in the street she cuts through to the office.
It’s as if they have been put here to make me feel bad, she thinks.
Sofia is doing her best to support Lou, but it’s so hard. She knows how tense Lou is about cancer; losing her father was devastating. Nevertheless, the conversation on the train alarmed
her. Becoming a parent is not something she’s had to focus on before, and it all seems very strange and very sudden.
Before this, Sofia thinks, if Lou had asked how I felt about having a baby, I would have said it was not something I was going to do: not now, certainly; probably not ever. I don’t see it
as likely to happen – and lots of my gay friends feel the same, the men especially. It is not how we imagine ourselves. Perhaps if I was straight and had stayed in Spain, I could have fallen
into having children . . .
But it was largely to escape from those pressures that brought Sofia to England in the first place. Finding a sperm donor, arranging insemination, answering everyone’s questions . . . The
childcare issues, the bullying a kid might experience at school, the financial burden . . . She shudders.
It is a massive commitment.
It’s not as if I don’t see myself with Lou long term though, she reasons to herself. I love her – I wouldn’t be looking at buying a flat with her if I didn’t. But I
want to go to parties, travel, play – yes, with Lou. And until all this, I’d assumed she felt the same . . .
Given we tend to discuss so much, I suppose it’s surprising the subject hasn’t come up; we’ve moved fast in other respects. But cohabiting can be undone, having a child
can’t. Maybe deep down I’ve been wary of uncovering such a difference between us. And now it seems there’s no room for being blurry; apparently we have to decide one way or the
other, soon.
Maybe
I
could have a baby? she wonders, as she waits at a pedestrian crossing. But at once she rejects the idea. She can’t countenance taking months out of her job when she’s
just been promoted, and she can hardly promise Lou that she will do so for sure in the future.
What a mess: rarely has Sofia felt so guilty and inadequate. When she pushes open the door to the office there’s a blast of warm air, the sound of phones and chatting, the smell of toast.
Work beckons. For the time being, at least, she can lose herself in that.
* * *
‘You OK?’ asks Anna. ‘You’ve gone very pensive.’
Lou is leaning against the train window, watching the gardens of south London whoosh by. ‘Mm. I was thinking.’
‘You’ll be all right.’
Lou wonders if she should admit what’s upsetting her. It’s just the two of them and Anna has confided in her often enough.
‘Is it what Sofia said about children?’
Lou nods.
‘She might come round.’
‘I thought we’d have quite a while before we had to think about it seriously.’
‘Finding that you don’t must be quite a shock.’
‘It is.’
‘For both of you. She’s probably still coming to terms with it.’
‘Though she sounded pretty adamant, didn’t she?’
‘It’s not surprising. She’s young. What is she – twenty-eight? Twenty-nine?’
‘Twenty-eight,’ says Lou.
‘I certainly didn’t think about having children at her age.’
‘So . . . Can I ask?’ Lou turns to face her friend. ‘What about you?’
‘Sorry?’
‘Did you ever want kids?’
Anna shrugs. ‘It just didn’t happen for me. That’s it, really.’
‘Do you mind?’
Anna fidgets with her empty coffee cup. ‘Um . . . A
bit,
I suppose. But I was never the kind of person who was so eager to have children I’d have gone and done it on my own
– like those single women who just feel a burning desire to be a mother no matter what. And somehow, none of the men I’ve been involved with seemed appropriate father
material.’
‘I can see Steve wasn’t.’
‘No,’ she laughs ruefully. ‘He was rather a child himself – imagine trying to get him to change nappies and things, drinking like he did. But as it is, I was forty by the
time I met Steve. The guy I was with before that wanted children, but I could never imagine us as a family, which is why we split up. I guess if I’d
really
wanted them, I would have
picked a man I could see myself being a parent with.’
‘But you’re so good with kids.’
‘Thank you. Though not as good as you.’
‘I’m not so sure.’
‘No, I’m only good with kids I like. I’m good with Molly and Luke because they’re Karen’s children and I love Karen and I’ve known them since they were born
and they’re adorable. But you – you’re good with kids who frankly, I couldn’t bear to be around. You work with the kind of kids who listen to music on their mobiles at full
pelt on the top deck of the bus just to annoy other people. I brush against them for ten minutes a day and that’s too much. You counsel them. I want to kill them.’
Lou laughs. ‘I suppose.’
‘You definitely
definitely
want them?’
The train is coming into Victoria – all around them people are shuffling papers into briefcases, putting away books and magazines, shutting down their laptops. The man across the aisle
gets to his feet, the woman opposite pulls on her coat. There’s no time to contemplate.
‘Yes.’ Lou goes with her gut. ‘I do.’
Lou is curled up on the sofa under a blanket when her mobile bleeps. A text:
Sorry. I forgot to tell you that I’ve a leaving drink tonight so I’m going out to Soho with colleagues. Please eat without me. Sx
Sofia could have told me before, she thinks.
Lou has been alone all day so was looking forward to some company, and she’s made a special effort with dinner: green curry with wild rice. Getting the ingredients wasn’t easy:
she’s still recuperating from her operation. She’s not supposed to drive or lift anything heavy, and she had to edge her way round the local shops like an old lady, wary she might get
knocked or jolted any moment. Now, without someone to share the experience, it’s hardly worth bothering to cook.
Damn Sofia! Lou throws her mobile to the far end of the sofa.
A few seconds later it is still blinking up at her. Perhaps I’m being oversensitive, she tells herself.
Maybe it’s hormones, and she has had major surgery; that she’s so physically and mentally vulnerable is probably inevitable. Certainly, her tummy is still sore and if she does
anything other than lie around watching telly or reading she gets exhausted. She also appears to cry very readily, neither of which she is used to. Lou usually expels emotions through exercise
– she’ll bash a tennis ball or pound the streets if she’s feeling angry or upset – so being forced to take it easy is doubly hard.
Sod sitting around waiting, she decides eventually. What I need is a blast of fresh air.
The flat is only yards from the seafront, but before she’s even reached the bottom of the stairs, she starts to feel the strain of getting there. A few paces later, she is obliged to stop
and rest against the wrought-iron railings of a B. & B., and at the end of her street she has to pause again before crossing the dual carriageway of Marine Parade.
It’s not fair, she thinks. It’s the weekend – I bet everyone’s having more fun than I am. Then she chides herself for being self-pitying and scans the prom to see who
else is out.