Stuart’s sister Melanie has just announced she’s pregnant with IVF twins, due in January. The news has sent Stuart’s mother into a fluffy whirl of grandmotherhood, over in Worcester. She’s started knitting, and has cancelled her book group, ready to babysit so Mel can go back to work. Gina’s tried to ignore the comments like ‘Wouldn’t it be nice to have cousins of a similar age?’ until now because, deep inside, there’s an unsettling blankness about her and Stuart’s kids.
Janet, it goes without saying, is ‘very pleased’ and extremely jealous.
Oh, God, thinks Gina, as the second hand of the big clock ticks on above them. It wasn’t that she actively didn’t want to have children with Stuart, just that till now she’d been happy to leave it to chance. If it happened, it happened. He wasn’t the man she’d imagined as the father of her children, but logically she knew he wouldn’t make a bad one. He’d be great at the playing-football part for a start. It felt rude to write it off altogether. But she couldn’t see baby Horsfields in her mind’s eye, didn’t quite believe they were part of her life’s script, as university had been or getting her job.
Having a baby with Stuart will fix her in this person she is now. And that’s not a bad thing, Gina reminds herself.
‘We’ll do everything we can to give you a baby,’ Mr Mancini assures them. ‘We work closely with Oncology and, without wanting to get your hopes up, our success rates are currently second in the country. But we need your decision about embryos soon, so as not to delay the start of your treatment.’ He raises his eyebrows and his pen, as if it’s a given.
Gina can’t find the right words. Luckily Stuart’s there straight away, asking about dates, time frames. More drugs.
She can’t think straight. Mr Mancini is asking a more intimate question of her and Stuart than the registrar did at their wedding. The registrar was only asking if she’d be his legal partner; Mr Mancini is asking if she’ll create a human life with this man.
In fact he’s not even asking. He’s assuming Gina wants to. Because why wouldn’t she? She’s married to Stuart.
Gina’s mind churns. The idea of freezing a moment like this is surely more complicated that it seems. What if Stuart leaves her? What if she leaves him? What if the chemotherapy sends her into an early menopause and Stuart leaves her and she marries someone else and her only chance of a child with that person is a half-Stuart baby?
The walls of the room are closing in on her, trapping her in this space, the parameters of her life rushing up at her. She doesn’t want to feel so selfish, and scared, and alone, but she does. This isn’t the life she’s meant to have. She’s being forced through the wrong door.
And Gina can’t ignore the truth flashing in her head, so clearly she’s amazed that Stuart and the doctor can’t see it.
Gina doesn’t want to lose her chance to be a mother, but she doesn’t want to have a baby with Stuart. They get on OK, but they don’t love each other like she and Kit loved each other, and that’s not enough for a child; she knows that now, with all the brutal clarity of someone with no time to kid herself. It wouldn’t be fair.
What if someone else is out there who will wake up the dormant broodiness in her? She can’t be the sort of monster who has no maternal feelings. Can she?
Freeze an egg, says a clear voice in her head. Freeze an egg, not an embryo.
‘But what are my survival chances?’ she asks, desperate for a more noble cloak to throw over the less noble feelings she’s harbouring. Stuart is a really nice man. ‘I don’t want to get through the cancer, and have a baby, then discover it’s come back and I’ll be leaving the baby without a mother.’
‘Don’t think like that,’ says Stuart. ‘It’s not going to happen. Anyway, the baby would have me. This isn’t just about you.’ He glances at Gina’s shocked face. ‘Sorry, that didn’t come out right.’
‘He’s right,’ says Mr Mancini. ‘Don’t think like that. Address the concerns, certainly, but think positively – you’re young, you’re fit, you’ve got a great support network.’ He nods towards Stuart, who nods back respectfully.
Gina looks at Stuart, seeing him properly for the first time in weeks. He’s strong and stubborn, loyal and not afraid to ask questions. Her mum thinks he’s actually too good for her. The trouble is, beneath all the busy show of married coupledom, the dinners, the football weekends and the pub, Gina’s not convinced Stuart loves her either. He just hates to admit he’s wrong.
And wouldn’t a man who really loved her be more worried about the delay to her treatment? About the risk of putting a woman with oestrogen receptor positive cancer cells through IVF?
‘I’m not getting any younger, Gina,’ he says, in as light a tone as any of them can manage at an emergency fertility appointment in a cancer ward. ‘I read a report saying that sperm quality declines after thirty-five too.’
‘Then maybe you should freeze your sperm instead,’ she says, trying to match his tone. ‘I’ll freeze mine, you freeze yours.’
It comes out wrong. She catches the exact moment Stuart understands what she’s really saying, and it feels more painful than the fine needle biopsy they did on her tumour. It feels like a thin, sharp pain, punching into her chest.
Gina knows she’s just punctured her marriage. No surgery in the world can fix this. She swallows, then looks across the desk at Mr Mancini and says, ‘I think . . . I think I want to get the chemo started.’
If Gina hadn’t been seeing Naomi for their regular coffee on Saturday morning, she might have phoned her to tell her Stuart’s news. But instead she sat up until the light drained from the room, letting the new reality take shape and settle in her mind. What could Naomi do, anyway? she thought. Nothing. Rage now wouldn’t help.
Buzz sat with her, and she felt comforted by his silent, unjudgemental company. Worse things happened, she thought, watching the slow rise of his chest. Buzz was proof of that.
In the morning, before Buzz’s pre-breakfast walk, Gina was tidying the flat ready for Naomi to drop round prior to their secret visit to the shed-maker, when her phone beeped with a text:
Jason called into work – have got Willow. Can we meet in town? Sorry! Nxxxx
Gina normally loved seeing Willow, who had inherited her mother’s chestnut hair and cheeky smile, and Willow adored her auntie Gee back. ‘Eena’ had been one of her first words, a memory that could reduce Gina to tears if she thought about it during a bout of PMT. This weekend, though, having to feel Willow’s hot little hands reach for hers, and to catch Naomi’s glances of maternal adoration would be tough, but Gina knew she had to get through it.
‘Oh, nuts,’ she said, and when Buzz looked up, she didn’t even feel marvel at his ‘really?’ expression. Gina had long since abandoned her embarrassment about talking to the dog. She already talked to herself. Asking herself, ‘Do I want this?’ focused her decision-making with the never-ending wardrobe boxes, and the sound of her voice made the flat seem less empty. Buzz never seemed to mind.
‘We’ll have to be quick with the walk,’ she informed him, and reached for the collar and lead.
The high street was quiet when she locked the front door behind her, and she and Buzz set off towards the canal, strolling along the leafy towpath, down by her offices to the Victorian iron bridge, and all the way back up, past strings of ducklings, joggers, other people with dogs who smiled and said hello as they passed. It was a longer walk than the thirty minutes Rachel had recommended, but Gina wanted to tire Buzz out; she couldn’t take him to lunch, but she’d never left him alone in her flat before. She hoped he would sleep if he was worn out, not lie there worrying about when she was coming back. If she was coming back.
Maybe it was the first touches of spring in the air, or the different route, but Gina noticed that Buzz seemed to enjoy his walk a little more than normal: his steps were featherlight, he didn’t shrink back as much when other dogs approached and he even sniffed a few times at the pocket she kept the treats in. And Gina didn’t feel pa
nicky without Rachel by her side to reassure her about her dog-walking: like Buzz, she felt relaxed enough to notice more, too – the paw prints in the muddy patches along the canal, and the matt china blue of the sky that would be exactly the right colour for the Rowntrees’ dining room.
They got home just as the Saturday shoppers were starting to crowd the pavements, and Gina grabbed her things, ready to dash out to meet Naomi. ‘Be back soon,’ she said briskly. ‘Basket, please. There’s a Bonio.’
Buzz eyed her, then slunk to the basket, his tail firmly whipped between his legs. He curled up, resigned, and she had to turn on her heel quickly and leave before she had second thoughts.
She was halfway down the street when his sad pointy face haunted her so much that she had to go back for him. There maybe wouldn’t be many more Saturdays together.
‘We’re late now,’ Gina muttered to Buzz, as they hurried through the Saturday-morning strollers in the park. She was texting Naomi Is it OK 2 bring dog? xxx when she heard someone shouting her name.
‘Gina? Gina!’
It was Nick. She almost didn’t recognise him out of the Magistrate’s House – it was like seeing someone from television in real life.
He wasn’t wearing the usual checked shirt and painting jeans either. Presumably he was on his way somewhere smarter because he was dressed in dark new jeans and a soft cord jacket, with a grey shirt underneath, his dark hair freshly washed and brushed out of his eyes, the silver streaks at the temples catching the sun.
Gina waved, and he walked over, smiling at Buzz as he approached.
‘He’s fine,’ she murmured to Buzz, feeling him lean into her leg anxiously. ‘He’s fine. He’s a friend. Be calm. Nice and calm.’
‘Careful,’ she said to Nick, as he came closer. ‘He’s not great with men he doesn’t know.’
‘Wise chap. He’s a he, then? I didn’t know you had a dog. Hello. Hello, there!’ Nick let Buzz sniff his hand, and carried on talking as Buzz tentatively investigated his messenger bag and jacket. ‘What’s he called?’
‘Buzz. He’s not really mine. I’m looking after him until the rescue find a space for him.’
‘He looks like he’s your dog.’
‘I think he prefers anyone to his last owner,’ said Gina.
Nick straightened. ‘Are you on your way home or have you just got here? If (b), would you like a coffee? I was just about to get one from the stand.’
Gina’s phone buzzed. Naomi.
Dog OK if we can meet in park? Willow a bit whingey, don’t want to risk café. Will be about an hour. Don’t ask. Toilet related. Nxxxx
She glanced up. Nick was gesturing towards the mobile coffee stand by the gate.
‘It’s (b),’ she said. ‘And yes, thanks, coffee would be great.’
‘And Sir?’
‘Sir will probably try to eat whatever you’re eating.’
Buzz leaned against her legs, a solid weight Gina had started to enjoy, and they watched Nick stride off towards the mobile coffee stand at the entrance to the park.
I wonder why I feel I know him from somewhere, she wondered. Is he like someone, or did I meet him once and not realise? Some party in London? Their worlds didn’t seem to overlap in any way.
Whatever it was, there was something about Nick that made her feel unusually relaxed in his company. Maybe, Gina decided, it was because she didn’t know him at all.
Nick returned with coffee and muffins, and they began to walk the longer lap around the park, looping up into Coneygreen Woods at the far end, where grey squirrels ran up the trees and small dogs stood at the bottom and barked at them. They stopped at a high point overlooking the park and the town beyond and sat down at the bench dedicated to ‘our dear friends, Max and Sam’, who were either a devoted married couple or a pair of Labradors, it wasn’t clear.
‘You didn’t go back to London this weekend, then?’ Gina asked, peeling the top off her coffee.
‘Decided not to in the end. I had some editing to finish here, more pack shots for Charlie’s website, and I’ve got a lot of series-linked telly to catch up on.’
‘And there was the plaster. Admit it. It’s like bubble-wrap. Once you start . . .’
‘You’ve got me. Lorcan’s letting me knock some walls down. He’s coming round later with his sledgehammer.’ Nick split a muffin and offered her half. When she shook her head, he gave half of her half to Buzz, who swallowed it in one. ‘What are your plans for the weekend? Oh, no, wait – you were seeing your ex last night. How did that go? Did he notice your nails?’
‘No, he did not notice my nails,’ said Gina. ‘He was too busy telling me all about how he’s going to be a dad.’
‘What?’ Nick paused, his muffin halfway to his mouth.
‘His new girlfriend’s pregnant. Didn’t say when, or how, but I’m not daft. There’s been an overlap somewhere.’
‘Wow. Was that a shock?’
‘Thinking about it, probably no. All his mates at football have got kids, and Stuart doesn’t like to feel he’s missing out, getting left behind. He’ll be a good dad, I’m sure.’ Gina shrugged. Saying it aloud to Nick, like saying things aloud to Buzz, took some of the sting out. ‘I can see him playing football with one. That was what he always used to focus on, the idea of playing football with his kids.’
Buzz nudged at Nick’s pocket with his greying snout, and Nick slipped him another small piece of the muffin he was eating. Gina wondered if Nick knew just what an honour it was for Buzz to be stealing food from him.
‘What if it’s not a boy?’ he asked.
‘In that case he’ll be the sort of father who won’t let his daughter out of his sight until he’s seen the boyfriend’s bank statement and driving licence.’
‘You’re making your ex sound like a real prize. Look on the bright side. At least you won’t have to spend the next ten years standing on the side of a pitch in the pouring rain while he does his competitive-dad act.’
Gina managed a small smile. ‘True.’ She knew how it would go, and she wouldn’t have to deal with it. Stuart with breast-feeding guides, Stuart with checklists at parents’ meetings. Stuart interviewing boyfriends. That was someone else’s future now.
‘I think what’s weird,’ she said slowly, ‘is the idea that he’s going to become someone totally different. A dad. Someone’s dad. And I won’t know him.’
‘I dunno. Did you meet his dad? That’s who he’ll be. I think what parenthood really does is fast-track you into being your own mum or dad. I hear plenty of my friends go on about how it’s totally altered their perception of their own place in the world, but give them a few years and they’re surprisingly familiar . . .’
Gina bit her lip. Nick had unwittingly hit one of her own sore points: what traits of her real dad would any child of hers have inherited? Would a baby have made Janet unbutton some of those memories? Would being a parent herself have made her understand her own parents’ blank relationship better?
‘It’s true.’ Nick was staring out over the park below. ‘I mean, Amanda – she’s convinced that if she can just crowbar another baby into her life in the next twelve months, suddenly she’ll be happy to walk away from her twenty-hour days and turn into some cheese-making super-homeschooler. I just don’t think it’s that easy.’
Gina had started to sip her scalding coffee but that sudden revelation made her stop. ‘Another baby? I didn’t realise you had children.’ She kicked herself immediately. Babies were minefields. They could be at school. They could be grown-up. Amanda and Nick could have lost a child.
‘Sorry,’ she added, ‘none of my business.’
‘What? Oh, no, don’t be. Amanda has a daughter with her first husband, Kevin, in New York. Vanessa’s at school there. It’s tricky. She went through a phase of not wanting to see Amanda. I try to stay out of it.’
‘You’re not into kids?’ Gina tried to angle the question tactfully; she knew herself how pointed it could feel.
‘No, I like
them. I just don’t feel it’s helpful for me to get in the middle of Amanda and Kevin. It’s tricky. Two lawyers, you know? And a teenager.’ He pulled a wry face and held up a spare hand. ‘Shouty.’
Gina tried to imagine Amanda with a half-American teen daughter, and a former husband. She could see it more easily than the country Amanda with a baby on her hip. The family house in the countryside was starting to look more rational now: first find your nursery, redecorate it, relocate to the country, like a salmon going back upstream to spawn.
‘So is that why she’s so keen to get things moving here?’ she said. ‘House renovation first, then baby? Again, none of my business but it helps to know these things.’
‘Well.’ Nick shrugged and carried on staring out over the park below. ‘Not officially. It’s part of the plan, yes, but I’m not quite convinced that Amanda’s reasons for having another child are exactly what she thinks they are.’ He seemed to be choosing his words very carefully. ‘I can’t see her giving up everything she’s fought so hard for at work.’
‘Would you be the one to stay at home and do the childcare?’ Gina felt as if Nick was almost leading her to ask questions, as if he needed to say things aloud to hear what he thought too. ‘You can both work from home, can’t you? Sort of.’
‘Probably. I don’t know. I wouldn’t mind. I’m just uncomfortable with the level of scheduling. It’s a human life you’re talking about. I don’t think you can plan it like a house renovation. You can’t assume things. Amanda was young when she had Vanessa, only twenty-two, so obviously she wants to do things differently this time round, but she’s thinking about it too much, and not enough. You’ve got to accept that you’re not completely in charge any more.’
‘You have to schedule everything,’ Gina pointed out. ‘Once you’re over thirty-five.’
‘It’s not just that. It’s . . . expecting everything is schedule-able.’
Gina glanced at Nick to check his expression and was surprised to see him looking pensive, his grey eyes cast down at the path, the soft lower lip jutted out in thought. He’d shaved: the line of his jaw was smooth, not speckled with salt-and-pepper stubble as it often was at the house. She could imagine him now in the Groucho Club, or on a magazine shoot.