to Helen, it’s probably nothing. You know what these doctors are like, always protecting their own backs. That’s what insurance is for!’
Insurance, David thinks, loosening his tie. That’s nicely ironic.
‘My blood pressure and cholesterol are sky high, apparently. He’s given me some tablets, but he took an armful of blood for more tests and gave me a stern warning about lifestyle choices. You know the sort of rubbish they talk, less food, less alcohol, less stress. Hell, David, they’re the things I live for, so I’m not telling Helen and neither must you.’
David nods, but he’s meandered again. Ten-pin bowling, he’s thinking. He and Antonia went bowling on Saturday afternoon and then stayed in the complex to eat burger and fries. He’s nearly forty and he’d never been bowling before – and how Antonia had laughed. Like a girl. A beguiling girl he didn’t know.
‘And then there’s Rupert,’ Charlie continues, pouring more wine into David’s empty glass. ‘Helen thinks it’s normal to experiment, to misbehave, to be downright rude at times. But if anything is causing my blood pressure to reach boiling point, it’s him. We’ve got to meet the headmaster next weekend to convince the school why he shouldn’t be expelled before he sits his Michaelmas exams. My questions to him will be “Where the hell do the pupils get the drugs from? Why doesn’t the school do something about that?”’
David studies Charlie’s face. It has changed from a grey sweaty white to a livid red, all the way down to his thick neck, housed in a too-tight white collar.
Now is definitely not the time to confess, he thinks. It’ll just have to wait.
‘We’ve decided to go through with IVF again,’ Sophie says suddenly, pulling out the elastic band with some difficulty and then dragging her bitten nails through the thick mass of her hair.
Antonia raises her eyebrows but makes no comment. Nothing from Sophie’s lips surprises her any more and it’s best to allow her friend to spill it all out before making any remark. There are many occasions when Antonia is economical with the truth, or when she evades an answer by changing the subject, but Sophie can never hold anything in for long. As a child she was alarmingly honest about everything and everybody, her mum and her youngest brother targeted the most. ‘Your breath smells, Uncle Frank. That dress makes you look fat, Mum. You know Dad loves me more than you, don’t you, Harry? Does Grandpa have a foreskin?’ That was just family: girls and boys at school were easy meat. An older girl once cornered her in the corridor. ‘Do you know what a complete and utter cruel bitch you are?’ she asked. ‘No I’m not,’ Sophie replied fearlessly. ‘I’m just honest. If you don’t like it, get out of my way.’
Antonia never got out of Sophie’s way. Sometimes she dearly wishes she had. ‘You’re mixed race, Antonia. Or black if you like. So why don’t you just admit it? There’s nothing wrong with it.’ Honest or cruel, Antonia has yet to decide.
‘Don’t look at me like that, Toni,’ she now commands. ‘I know what you’re thinking, but Sami wants us to try one last time. You know what he’s like about family. Mother Martha had five kids and so she expects to have a hundred and twenty grandchildren or something. And if I’m up for all the prodding and poking, those bloody hormone injections …’
Antonia takes a breath. The real reason for Sophie’s infertility is the one secret she has managed to keep. It has to be said.
‘Sophie, why would you want to go through it again when you’re pretty sure it won’t work? Why put yourself through it? You hate hospitals! And it’s hardly fair to Sami, you’re giving him false hope.’
‘Oh shut up, Antonia.’
Sophie stands and paces, her hands on her hips and her eyes ferocious. ‘You really take your saintliness to extremes at times. Is there a Saint Antonia? Is that why you chose the bloody stupid name? Besides, you’re the one with the problem if you really think having a baby is a fate worse than death. Most normal women want a child, it’s what nature expects and I’m no different. You’re the bloody freak, not me.’
It’s ridiculous, Antonia knows, at thirty years old, but on these occasions she still wants to cry. Instead she stands, walks to the sink and turns on the tap. Sophie will never change; her best line of defence is to attack and the assault is invariably below the belt. But when it comes to babies, she doesn’t care whether Sophie thinks she’s unnatural or odd. She doesn’t have and never has had any desire to procreate. There are enough unhappy people in the world without adding to their number. David understands. She told him from the start she didn’t want children and he accepted it at face value, saying it was fine and that he’d have the snip. He’s never broached the subject again and never asked why.
David, oh, David. The thought of Friday night catches her breath again. He accepts her as she is, he doesn’t ask questions, analyse or dig too deep like her former boyfriends. He doesn’t want to control her, thank God. He’s steady and reliable. Isn’t he?
She feels Sophie’s breath on her neck, then a hand on her back and the inevitable flutter somewhere deep in her stomach.
‘I fancy a drink, Toni. Shall we open a bottle?’
Sophie kisses her cheek, then steps away to the glass-fronted wine fridge, crouching down to select a bottle.
‘This looks expensive,’ she says when she stands. ‘Come on, darling, don’t sulk, who knows what might happen?’ She places her chin on Antonia’s shoulder and softly blows a curl from her face. ‘You will be there to hold my hand, won’t you? All the way?’
‘You know I will,’ Antonia replies.
There’s a tremor in David’s large hand which he tries to ignore as he struggles to insert the tiny key into the lock of his bottom desk drawer. He extracts the yellow file and stares at its cover where his secretary has written ‘Indemnity and Claims’ in red marker pen.
He blows out his cheeks. Red for danger.
He glances at his closed office door before taking a deep breath. Then he opens the file quickly, like ripping off a plaster. As though that will make a difference. As though speed will alter the fact that the renewal date for the firm’s insurance has passed, undeniably passed, and he hasn’t done anything about it.
‘Goodness me, the renewal date has passed. The practice has no insurance in place. If there are any claims for poor legal advice or mistakes, the partners will be personally liable! How did that happen?’ He tries feigning surprise to himself, but it doesn’t wash, even in his mildly inebriated state. As the partner in charge of indemnity and claims, he’s always known about the date, roughly known, at least. But he’s put it on the furthermost back burner of his mind. Because. Because he knows.
He’d opened a savings account with a great rate of interest a year back. A deposit account for the firm and for the partners, but with himself as the sole signatory.
‘What shall we call it, David?’ the bank manager had asked over a long lunch.
‘Insurance,’ he replied.
‘But of course!’ the manager laughed.
He paid in the huge premium up front. It was a great plan. There’d be less whingeing about the cost of ever-increasing insurance premiums from the partners when renewal came. A nice little nest egg of interest to put towards the following year’s premium, too. It made sense. Charlie agreed. ‘I knew you were the man for the job, David. Excellent work.’ The other partners concurred and he enjoyed the rare praise.
He stares at the renewal notice in the file and then circles the premium figure with a pencil, whistling softly. Nearly a hundred thousand pounds and it has to be paid now. In a litigious society the firm must be covered for negligence claims. Claims for cock-ups, in short. He nods, his mind racing with thoughts of what to do. Cheque lost in the post? Yes. A backdated letter for the file? Absolutely. But the thing is to get it paid. PDQ. But there’s a problem, a huge heart-thrashing problem. Even though he hasn’t been able to bring himself to look