‘It’s an exhibition, with stands and stuff, for people who are considering having children.’
‘Ri-i-ight . . . ’
‘You know, lesbians and single women and gay men – people who want to adopt or foster – alternative parents, if you will. And I wanted to go with Sofia so, well, we could find
out about the options.’
‘Ah. So you think Sofia’s running away from that.’
‘Possibly, yes. Probably, in fact.’ Lou has a flush of anger. How dare Sofia jeopardize this day of all days? This show is important to her. Sofia knew that.
‘Are you really recovered enough to go?’
‘I’m fine. Honestly.’
‘It sounds a lot to take on.’
‘Sofia was going to drive us so I didn’t have to walk much.’ As fast as it hit her, fury dissipates, gives way to disappointment.
‘Can’t you go another time?’
‘It only happens once a year, and there are all sorts of exhibitors there: fertility clinics, fostering agencies . . . ’
‘Where is it exactly?’
‘Covent Garden.’
Another pause. ‘What time?’
‘It starts at 10.30. But it’s on for the whole day.’
‘Fuck it.’
‘Sorry?’
‘Can you get yourself dressed OK?’
‘Yes. It takes me a while, but—’
‘Right. I’ll take you. Give me forty-five minutes and I’ll be round.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘Of course I’m sure. We’ll go in my car. Be ready at quarter past, I’ll toot outside, save me parking – your road is a nightmare. But don’t rush. I
don’t want you doing yourself an injury coming down the stairs.’
‘Thank you.’ Lou feels like crying.
* * *
‘So where is it, did you say?’
Cath swivels her smartphone so the map tallies with the direction they are walking. ‘This should be Drury Lane . . . Then it must be first left.’ She looks up. ‘Yes. Now, the
Assembly Rooms are number 61–65.’
‘Over there.’ Rich points. ‘I can see the sign.’
‘Great. We’re on time.’
‘Clever old us,’ says Rich.
‘Where’s our programme?’ Cath rummages in her handbag. ‘So, the talk I want to go to is at eleven . . . We’ve got a few minutes for a coffee. Let’s see if we
can find one inside, shall we?’
Rich nods, but in the lobby they are brought to a halt by a woman with a clipboard.
‘Homes Show or Alternative Parenting?’ she asks. There are two queues, one short, heading off to the left; another snaking all the way up the stairs and onto the next landing.
‘Alternative Parenting,’ says Cath.
‘That’s this one.’ The woman waves her arm at the snake.
‘But we’ve got tickets.’
‘Still got to queue, I’m afraid.’
‘Bollocks,’ murmurs Rich, joining the back of it.
‘Tell you what, you wait here, and I’ll see if I can get us a coffee. I think we passed a place on our way.’ And before Rich can ask what he should do if he gets to the front
of the queue before she returns, Cath has gone.
While he waits in line, Rich assesses the people around him. There are a lot of women, he notices. In fact, there are hardly any men. He sees that one guy waving to catch the attention of
another is wearing a
Stonewall: Working for Equality
T-shirt and puts two and two together.
He glances behind him; there’s a woman with sleek hair in a bob. She is wearing crimson lipstick and her eye makeup is quite pronounced. She is with another woman dressed in jeans and a
parka. They are chatting intimately, so must be a couple.
He feels a touch uncomfortable: he and Cath seem to be the only straight people here.
* * *
‘I’m the only straight woman here,’ Anna is muttering.
‘Hold on . . . ’ Lou is sending another text to Sofia.
Where are you? I’m worried. Please call me. I’m at the show
. Then she looks up, scans the queue.
‘Actually, I reckon you’re right. Ha – now you know what it feels like.’
‘Fair point. So, what’s first?’
‘There’s this talk at eleven.’ Lou pulls the programme from her pocket; she’s folded it to the right page. ‘I definitely want to go to that.’
Anna peers over her shoulder. ‘Mm, sounds interesting . . . ’
At that moment someone coughs behind them. Lou turns, sees a slightly plump woman with wispy brown hair and an anxious expression.
‘Sorry,’ says the woman and nods in explanation at the two coffees she is carrying. ‘Can I squeeze through?’
‘Oh, sure.’ Lou and Anna part to make room. Lou is careful to protect her tummy, in case she gets jolted.
The woman hands the man in front of them one of the drinks and he smiles at her. ‘Thanks, love.’
His hair is greying at the temples; he has the sort of face that Lou instinctively warms to. There is an intimacy to the way he looks at the woman.
She leans in close to Anna. ‘Well, you were wrong,’ she whispers and jerks her head towards the couple.
* * *
Sofia has been vaguely aware she is not in her usual bed all night. The mattress is lumpy and narrow and she has almost no room to move. When she wakes more fully, she realizes
why: she’s in a sleeping bag, on a sofa. But whose? There’s a bamboo blind opposite, letting in far too much light – it makes her head hurt. The carpet is covered in ghastly
orange and brown swirls – if she’d seen it before, she knows she’d have remembered. On the table next to her is an ashtray, overflowing with cigarette butts. Ugh. She heaves
herself up onto her elbows to push it away. Her throat is parched; she badly needs some water.
Then she remembers.
Malene.
Oh no . . . They were dancing in the club when Malene asked her back to her flat, Sofia recalls that, though where they are in relation to Soho now she has no idea. It was late, and she was
drunk; presumably they got here in a taxi.
The rest is blank. She fervently hopes she didn’t sleep with her – that she’s not in Malene’s bed might be a good sign . . .
Gradually she pieces events together. She remembers kissing Malene, here on the sofa, the room spinning. Yes, she was so giddy, it was like being on the waltzer at the end of Brighton Pier. At
one point she actually thought she might vomit. She remembers that in the brighter light of the living room, Malene had terrible skin, and looked about nineteen. Then there was the smoker’s
breath – what a contrast to Lou . . . Sofia had had a pang of conscience, and backed off.
Still, now she’s stuck who knows where, and she has no clue what the time is.
Where’s her mobile?
Ah, here: by some miracle, it’s still in her breast pocket. She’s amazed she didn’t take off her denim jacket when she fell asleep. She must have been in a very bad way.
She tugs out the phone. It’s completely out of battery, and Sofia never carries her charger around.
Then she sees a familiar thin white wire trailing from a socket to the table with the ashtray. What luck – Malene must have an iPhone too.
The mobile will take several minutes to acquire a basic charge. She’ll get ready meanwhile. She feels bad enough about her behaviour already; the last thing she wants to do is hang
about.
* * *
‘Well I never,’ says Anna, as they step inside the hall of the show. ‘Marketing babies. What a weird world we live in.’ Everywhere there are pictures of
wondrous newborns, clear-skinned, bright-eyed and rosy-cheeked; there’s not a runny nose or cradle-capped scalp in sight. ‘All these billboards are a bit tactless, surely. I mean not
everyone can have a baby, can they?’
‘You’d be amazed what’s on offer,’ says Lou. ‘Many people will do anything to have a child.’
They are surrounded by the evidence: there are stands promoting every imaginable aspect of becoming a gay or ‘alternative’ parent. There’s the North London Lesbian Midwifery
Clinic, the Birmingham Sperm Bank, the Pink Adoption Agency, the Centre for Surrogate Parenting, not to mention umpteen family law specialists and lobby groups campaigning to stamp out homophobia.
There are products too – assisted conception kits so you can inseminate yourself at home, vitamins and minerals to help. You can even buy a blow-up birthing pool to take away the same
day.
It’s a lot to take in, and after weeks of barely seeing anyone, Lou finds it a shock to be amongst so many people. Her head is swimming.
Anna slips a protective arm around her. ‘Hey, how are you feeling? You’ve been standing quite a while.’
‘I’m OK.’
‘Hmm. You look a bit pale. Shall we go and find the room where they’re having the talk, so you can sit down?’
‘Good idea.’Lou allows Anna to guide her carefully through the throng.
* * *
‘That coffee’s gone straight through me,’ says Cath. ‘Find us a seat while I nip to the Ladies?’
Once again Rich does as he is bid, but as the conference room fills he feels increasingly uneasy; he must be outnumbered by women a hundred to one. He can only see one other guy, and he is busy
making notes in a pad so is probably a journalist. It brings home to him something that’s been playing on his mind; it’s one aspect of having a child that he and Cath haven’t
spoken of. It’s fundamental, yet he has no idea how to broach the subject.
What if she were to get ill again? he worries. Has he got it in him to be a single father? Because should the worst happen, there is the distinct possibility that this – a world where
he’s constantly surrounded by women – might be his future. Parenthood is a huge commitment anyway; for him it could be gargantuan. He tries to imagine whether he could be the kind of
person – that strong, that wise, that unselfish – who could bring up a kid alone. What would happen about childcare? His job? Money?
He struggles to bring his focus back to the room. Before him is a panel of speakers; to their left, a podium. It all looks very formal and intimidating, and he’s not even sure why Cath was
keen to come to this particular talk. He slumps down in his chair, hoping to make himself less conspicuous.
Shortly his wife returns, sits down next to him, and the lights dim.
Oh well, he thinks, I guess it does no harm to get clued up about our options. Hopefully the answers will come in due course.
Next, a tall man with white hair, deep-brown skin and wearing a well-cut suit gets to his feet and goes to the stand.
‘Good morning,’ he says. ‘I am Dr Khalid Hassan. I am the Managing Director of the Marylebone Fertility Clinic, and it is an honour for me to join you today to tell you about a
very special form of IVF. It’s a subject close to my heart, a treatment with remarkable success rates which is helping many couples – both gay and straight – and indeed single
women’ – he smiles at the audience – ‘to have children.’
He flicks up a slide. A giant toddler now beams at Rich too.
‘Parenthood is the right of everyone,’ continues Dr Hassan. ‘And we have the technologies to achieve that dream.’
Is it? thinks Rich. I’m not sure I think of it as my right, not any more . . . And what if you’re sixty-five? Or a psychopath? But before he has time to analyse, he’s swept up
again. Dr Hassan’s voice is assured but gentle, his whole demeanour exuding avuncular geniality.
‘In particular, I’m here to speak to you about how two women can make babies together.’ The doctor chuckles.
Blimey, thinks Rich. Then wouldn’t that make me redundant? He’s finding it hard to keep pace already.
‘Yet these two women will never meet each other. At our clinic, we go to great lengths to ensure that. Though whilst they will never come face to face, they will arguably make more of a
difference to one another’s lives than any other single individual.’
What about me? protests Rich inwardly. I hope I make a difference to Cath. He can feel her beside him listening intently. I must get a handle on this for her sake, he says to himself.
The doctor says, ‘We will synchronize these two women’s cycles, and their pregnancies may well happen simultaneously. Their children will even be genetically linked.’
Another slide flicks up: two flowers, heads bent together, bloom in unison.
He leans in to the microphone. ‘As many of you will doubtless already know, for some women there is a shortage of ova – or eggs as we think of them – for use in IVF. And yet
many women undergoing treatment produce a surplus. So we’ve devised a programme designed to bring these two sets of women together. The name of this programme is
egg
sharing
.’
Aah, thinks Rich, catching up at last. So
that’s
why Cath was so keen on coming to this particular talk.
Slowly, Sofia opens the door to the auditorium. She winces as it squeaks – the presentation she recalls Lou wished to attend has already begun.
‘If you are under thirty-six and able to produce healthy eggs, you can donate some to a potential mother in need of them,’ the speaker is saying.
She tiptoes inside, feels people turn to stare and leans against the wall to make herself as thin as possible. She scans the rows of seats in front of her, but the lights are dimmed and
it’s hard to make out people’s faces.
The speaker continues, ‘In return, the clinic will provide basic IVF treatment, for free. You’ll also have the satisfaction of helping another woman become a mother.’
A woman with a clipboard swiftly pads over to Sofia, puts a finger to her lips and mouths, ‘Wait here.’
Sofia does as she is told. Given how bad she feels already, it seems fitting to be treated like a naughty child.
A diagram flashes up, illustrating connections between egg sharers, and the speaker continues. ‘But there are many other advantages to sharing eggs. Because of the shortage of eggs in this
country, many women and couples are forced to travel abroad to find donors. This can be expensive, time-consuming and stressful. Even though recent legislation means increased financial
compensation is now available to donors here in the UK, it’s only designed to cover expenses; you can’t pay a woman specifically to donate. And whilst many clinics overseas offering
donor eggs are perfectly reputable, some aren’t. Donors are often less thoroughly vetted, and because they have been paid large sums for their eggs, their motivations are compromised. They
may be less suited psychologically to dealing with the long-term implications.