and ‘hostile environment’ had been carelessly tossed on to the table as explanations.
‘Hostile environment’ – have you ever heard such a thoughtless, cruel term? It made me want to scream. It was an onslaught to my womanhood and everything I felt I should be capable of, but what was the point? Everyone would just think I was crazy or hormonal. Or both.
And so it had begun. Three bouts of IUI – intrauterine insemination – that hadn’t worked and, due to my age – thirty-seven, ancient in baby-making terms – we had started IVF immediately afterwards. Hormone injections, accompanied by the dreadful side effects everyone talked about, multiple ultrasound scans to check the size and maturity of my eggs and injections to ‘ripen’ my eggs. The best ones (Luke liked to call these the ‘Eggs Benedict’ of my offerings) were mixed with his sperm (spun, washed and carefully selected, Luke would comment in amusement, as if describing a washing cycle) and these were then hopefully fertilised before being placed back inside my body.
Smear tests had nothing on IVF treatment, I thought ruefully. I’d spent more time with my legs in the air and my parts on show than I cared to admit. Ultimately, all dignity and modesty had been annihilated. My womb had been discussed and scrutinised in such intimate detail over the past few years I almost felt I should give it a nickname. Luke had a choice few, all unsuitable for general consumption, but they made me laugh.
Speak, I pleaded with the consultant mutely. Tell us it’s all right. I pulled at an unravelling thread on my trousers, feeling an affinity with it. We had missed out on the magical moments most parents surely revelled in, such as the deliciously important task of choosing names. (For the record: Jude for a boy, Bryony for a girl.) But such a thing had fallen by the wayside, as had daring to have a preference when it came to the sex of a baby. A preference? Pure self-indulgence. Healthy, that was all that mattered. Just … healthy.
I bit my lip. Recently, instead of flattering talk about what incredible parents we would be, friends and family had mentioned egg donation and surrogacy and, astonishingly, buying a dog. Yes, obviously, we should forget about babies and get a chihuahua. Dee … even Dee, had even suggested giving up. Giving up. It had caused the only major row we had ever had, and it had taken a while to forgive her.
It was difficult for me to explain, but I yearned to carry Luke’s baby. I had this inner ache that I felt only our own child could fill. Luke understood, I thought, although I did have a sense deep down that he might have been more than happy to discuss other options, should we have needed to. I couldn’t think that way, though. I had to believe that this would work.
The consultant finally sat back. ‘Well, everything looks healthy this time round,’ she remarked rather cheerily. ‘Obviously we’re not out of the woods yet and you’ve had quite a journey, but this is the furthest you’ve come, so there is every chance that this pregnancy will develop as it should. Fourteen weeks … this is fantastic.’
The consultant’s gaze softened. ‘Regular scans and check-ups, of course. But that’s all part of the process, as I’m sure you’re aware. Here you are – another set of scan photographs for you to keep. Lovely ones. Look at this one of the baby’s feet.’
I took the photos. I was shaking.
‘Really? Everything looks all right?’ Luke’s elation was evident; his heart on his sleeve, as ever. He crushed my hand accidentally and I loved him for it. My own euphoria tended to be rather more contained these days – a casualty of the process – but Luke was endearingly positive.
The consultant gestured to the test results in the file. ‘It does. The baby is healthy, the heartbeat is strong and all of your tests came back with great results.’
‘A perfectly good oven, as it turns out. I bloody knew it.’ Luke snaked an arm around my neck and spoke into my ear. ‘I told you that old guy didn’t know what he was talking about, Luce. I knew it; I just knew it.’
I burst into tears. An aged, male consultant had once breezily described my womb as a ‘broken oven’ some years back and I had never quite got over it.
‘Let’s just get through the next couple of months, shall we?’ The consultant’s professional demeanour was firmly back in place. She headed for the door. ‘Good luck, both of you, and I’ll see you again soon.’
Was that ‘good luck’ because we needed it, or was she just wishing us well? I caught myself. Would the ball of tears in the back of my throat, caught like a frozen waterfall, ever thaw? I just wanted to feel normal. I wanted to be able to glance at doll-sized babygrows pegged on a washing line without dissolving into tears. I wanted to be able to hand a lonely-looking teddy bear I’d found on the supermarket floor back to its owner without biting my lip until it bled. The sweet scent of downy peach fuzz on the head of a friend’s newborn as I cradled a tiny body? Instant hysteria. Snot, heaving chest … the works. Cue awkwardness all round and cautious comments about it being my turn soon. Yes. My turn.
I traced a finger along the baby picture, outlining its perfectly formed leg. Perhaps this baby wanted us as much as we wanted him or her. As we walked into the heavy summer air, Luke placed a tender hand on the swell of my stomach.
‘Didn’t I tell you to trust me? Didn’t I say it would all work out eventually? We just had to wait for the right baby to come along.’ He was thrilled. ‘This one is special … this one wants us to be her parents. His parents. Whatever.’
‘God, I hope so.’ I touched his face. ‘I’ve been a nightmare, haven’t I? Absolutely barmy.’
Luke caught my hand and held it. ‘Not barmy. Clinically insane. Make that certifiable – joking!’ He doubled over at the bicep punch I threw him, his expression sobering. ‘You want this badly, that’s all. We both want this badly. This one wants to stay in your perfect, perfect oven. This is it, Lucy. This is it.’
I held Luke’s hand against my stomach. A baby of our own – part me, part him. After eight years of trying and after eight, sad little boxes in a cupboard, a baby of our own. At last.
Sitting alone in the florists, Patricia found herself staring down at her notepad. She should be making a funeral wreath for tomorrow morning, but she had been putting it off. It was getting dark outside and Gino, busy putting the chairs inside Café Amore for the night, noticed her from across the street and waved.
Patricia slowly held a hand up in response. She felt weary. And desperately alone. True, she was on her own – in the physical sense – having sent Lucy home hours ago to plan an elaborate anniversary dinner (although with Lucy’s track record, Patricia privately felt more than one evening’s practise might be in order), but still. She felt alone in all senses of the word. Isolated, forlorn, solitary. It was unnerving after all this time to be knocked sideways by this familiar, suffocating feeling, Patricia thought. She steadied her hands on her notepad.
She had felt so disconnected since Bernard’s death. Even after all this time. It was as if she felt set apart from other people much of the time, unable to fully get involved in her surroundings … or involved in life, in fact.
It was Luke and Lucy’s fifth wedding anniversary on Sunday. Their fifth. Five years without a … Patricia forced the thought away and focused on Lucy. She loved Lucy. Not in a ‘you’re-the-daughter-I-never-had’ way, of course, because she had Nell, but there was a genuine closeness between them. Wasn’t there? Sometimes Patricia wondered if she had prevented a real connection from growing. She didn’t mean to be aloof, but she found it hard to be openly affectionate. Patricia wasn’t really sure why. Was that because she had lost Bernard? Had the lack of physical contact made her cold towards others? It was possible, she supposed.
Working together helped;