Simon bought Maggie a dog when he proposed. “In case it doesn’t work, you’ll always have Bobo.” He meant IVF, or perhaps Maggie, or perhaps Maggie’s womb. In the months since, she’d considered all three. They’d met at The National Gallery.
Maggie sneezed in front of The Annunciation, a stranger in a duffel coat said, “bless you,” and she laughed because that’s what she wanted. He took her to lunch then to bed, where her inability to conceive was momentarily ideal, and under straightened sheets she told him of an ectopic pregnancy, an exploded fallopian tube and the loss of the other because the surgeon hadn’t known his left from his right. Simon held her tight. He was separated from his wife, they shared a house but only just. Different bedrooms for a year, not a hint of sex for almost ten; it was dead in the water, a seventeen-year blight, he was dying until he met Maggie.
Maggie taught sculpture at an art school in Cheam and made pottery in her sitting room, newspaper on the floor, animals massaged from clay kept damp in old paint tubs, fired at school, and given away as presents she never saw displayed. It was fine until her flatmate moved out, she couldn’t pay the rent and Simon said he couldn’t live without her. Within a week of proposing he’d moved into her ground floor flat where Bobo already fouled the high- walled yard.
At the kitchen table, still cramped by the surprise of his presence, she said, “I haven’t any money.” Bobo rested his head on her lap. She twined her fingers through the curls of his coat.
Simon said, “I’ll pay for everything. The clinic says we have a good chance.”
“I know what the clinic says.” The clinic had felt like their fifth date. “Shouldn’t we wait a bit?”
Simon stood up, taking his tea with him. “IVF is a long business. We may as well start now.”
He didn’t think it necessary to go with her to the second appointment. He’d chosen the clinic, checked it out, that seemed to be enough so Maggie took the bus alone and sat amongst couples in the patterned waiting room of sheen seat covers and leaflets screaming infertility. She was glad Simon wasn’t with her, he’d been a distraction last time. He’d worn a hat and looked out of the window.
Dr Cable was kind and serious. Poker straight grey bob like a schoolgirl in shock, she handed Maggie a pile of forms. “You’ll need to fill these in. Your signature here,” she pointed, “and here. The bottom one’s a psychological assessment.”
Maggie looked for a pen in her bag. Dr Cable handed her one from the desk.
“How thorough do they want me to be?” She was on the list of ailments. “I mean, this, depression. Do they mean,”
Dr Cable cut her off, “They mean hospitalised. You’re not on medication, and have you ever been? I think we covered that last time.” She looked at her notes. Last time she’d gone on about how healthy Maggie looked.
Maggie ticked, No for Bi-polar, Schizophrenia, and Suicidal Tendencies, and wished there was a category for Panic brought on by marrying a man she didn’t know. On the bus home the course of drugs rested on her lap like an overstuffed goody bag from a party she hadn’t enjoyed.
The pills inspiring menopause were followed by injections inducing teenage tantrums and the harvest when, laden like a peach tree, her calves adjusted in stirrups after tasteless sex in a cubicle because Simon wanted to invest it with meaning, her crop was collected. The precise analysis of how they were doing reminded her of choosing fruit. She was told she could freeze the ones she didn’t use and pumped with the hormones of a pregnant woman to receive the eight-celled embryo.
Dr Cable said, “You’re doing great,” and slid her palm into Maggie’s hand.
During the two-week wait disappointment loomed, a surrogate ghost, mugging her audacity to think she could succeed at anything. Why did Simon want a child with her when he could have found a woman with a complete set of tubes? He reminded her it was Maggie he fell in love with. Why did he want a child at all? She’d changed her mind, she was happy with the dog. He said it was the drugs talking and they’d get through it together. When she threw a pint of water across the room he cleared it up and put his arms around her. The day before the two weeks was up he made supper and went to the late-night chemist to pick up a test. He said, as he put on his coat, “Why wait?”
Maggie was curled on the sofa, the television on, Bobo beside her. She didn’t care what images crossed the screen so long as they didn’t involve prams. She said, “Two weeks is tomorrow.”
He replied, “I’ll get a few. We can try tonight and tomorrow if we need to.”
Before he left he handed her a glass of water with which to top up her bladder. The flat ticked with familiar rhythms, Bobo snuffled his nose under her hand, the possible life in her belly quaked and shuddered. Already, her thoughts were weapons flung uncontrollably. She leaned into Bobo, he replied with a sigh, while the measure of her worth walked back through the night toward her.
Simon woke her with a kiss. “I had to go all the way to the 24-hour Tesco. The chemist was shut.” She looked at her phone. It was ten past two in the morning. There was a bottle of champagne on the table beside the plastic bag. It stared at her until she got up, pushing off the blanket, waking Bobo who tried to follow her but she shut the bathroom door and straddled the loo hopelessly, peeing everywhere.
They looked at the damp stick together. Two blue lines. Unmistakable. Simon hugged her.
She said, “How will we have time to get married before I show?” His divorce was moving at a snail’s pace.
He said, “It doesn’t matter. We can marry anytime.”
*
She was in her third term. The nausea had passed, her body had decided its heaviness and her energy was amassed into a concentrated ball from which it threw out rampages of order. She folded newly ironed shirts and carried them to the bedroom, Bobo at her heels. She’d given up work, Simon paid for everything, he’d turned the spare room into his office. She loved hearing him rustling about as she passed the door, and the peace which rippled the surface of their home, the clockwork system of caresses, her belly at breakfast, his back at night, allowed her to be happy.
At the table, mashed potato on a fork, Simon said, “I’ve got a week's work in Cardiff.”
She replied, “I’ll be fine.”
On Monday she scrubbed the house, starting with the kitchen. On Tuesday, she went to the spa, using tokens her mother had sent her for Christmas. On Wednesday she failed to buy a buggy and cried quickly in Mothercare while Bobo waited in the rain. On Thursday she ordered muslins and Babygro’s online. On Friday she opened the door to Simon’s study. It was neat. No cups of coffee half drunk. The waste paper basket was empty. The desk was cleared of papers and laptop. A pen was placed on top of a pile of scrap paper, cut to size and stapled, a ruler beside it. There was nothing for her to do but it felt nice in that room, as if she was with him. She lay on her back, her feet up on the sofa, feeling relief in her legs. Bobo trotted after her and sniffed her head. A corner pleat of the sofa cover was dented in. As she hooked it out, her finger caught on something. She rolled onto her side, reached into the dark crevice between the stuffing and the floor, and drew out a photograph. It was of Simon, younger, shinier, in morning suit, grinning, his cheek pressed firmly against that of Dr Cable whose hair, hanging straight beneath a swept back bridal vail, was yet to turn grey.
She threw up, exhaustively, her head bent into the porcelain bowl. When she looked at the photograph again it was the same. There, the serious eyes that had bent over Maggie with support as her embryo was implanted. There the ungenerous mouth that had broken into fullness when Maggie and Simon shared the news. Unmistakable. The clinic was the best in London. Simon had said so on countless occasions and perhaps it was Maggie who was being weird, not understanding. She’d never met his ex-wife, but this was Dr Cable in bridal gown smiling beside a younger Simon and she’d sat across her desk to Maggie and said nothing. And neither had he. Perhaps they were being sensitive. Perhaps they were more grown up than Maggie and in some very grown-up modern way they both wanted the best for each other. She hadn’t met anyone from his life; she’d joked that he kept her in a box marked, Private. His father was dead, he had no brothers or sisters and his mother suffered frailty in Wales. He’d said his friends needed time to adjust, many were still loyal to Louise, and Maggie had understood at the time that this meant he was serious. She’d been the same, keeping him in a box marked, Mine, afraid that if she shared her success she’d be bound to share her failure. Her parents had swooped, flapping hot air, making her feel incapable, Simon had been out the first time, scant the second, and called away on sudden business the third until they’d given up, taken it personally and archly asked if they might meet him at the wedding. Her sister had shouted congratulations from Burnham Market, noting that it was a little rushed, while her friends had trodden lightly. She knew they understood her as hopeless, that they loved, and rolled their eyes, said they were happy and privately, We’ll see. She’d preferred to keep them away.
These thoughts took her through to Friday lunchtime. She’d say she didn’t mind who his ex-wife was and press the point of her maturity on all matters in general. She’d be perfect for him and get this matter over with. She couldn’t afford waves. A storm. She needed calm. There was a simple explanation and she was sticking with it, whatever it was, until he came home, when he’d hold her and not get angry that she’d sneaked into his study and pulled out a photograph she was never supposed to see.
A walk with Bobo and Escape To The Country got her to Friday night. She’d tucked the photograph so far beneath the collapsing sofa that she doubted either of them would reach it again. Simon dropped his bag in the hall and kissed her quickly.
Supper in front of the TV, she’d roasted a chicken.
“Delicious,” he ate with his fingers. Gravy dripped down his wrist. He licked it. “Are you all right? Has the baby been giving you trouble?”
Like a bad neighbour, or a hernia. She shook her head.
“Don’t tell me you’ve been speaking to your mother. You said you’d keep away from her till this was over.”
“Over?” She hadn’t touched her food. Her head swam towards him and away. She felt the baby kick.
He didn’t leave her alone the whole weekend. He was kindness personified. He brought her tea and lunch on a tray. He placed everything within reach and massaged her swollen ankles.
On Monday he said, “Are you sure you’re ok? I could take the day off.”
She said, “It’s probably the hormones.”
When he left she went to his study. She smelt the same dust as she pressed her cheek to the floor but she couldn’t find it. Her fingers, then the ruler from his desk, picked out nothing.
That evening he said, “You’re going to need money for that wedding dress.” His gentleness leaned deep into the air around her. “I’ve put £15,000 into your account.”
A pile of catalogues on the bedside table. Women in white smiled at her. “How do you know my account number?” She spoke uncontrollably.
“Maggie,” he looked hurt, sat beside her, askew on the edge of the bed. “What is this?”
Her face hot, she spoke quickly, “I wasn’t planning to spend so much.”
He said, “You gave me your account details when I moved in, remember?”
Of course she remembered. He’d been managerial about it. He’d put money into her account every month. He rubbed her toes. “Perhaps we should have a party. You and Bobo, you’re alone here all day and we haven’t announced it properly, have we? It’ll be fun.” He went to the bathroom. She listened to him cleaning his teeth. The baby tumbled and turned, making sleep impossible. Bobo whined to go out, and the thought of her wardrobe, dresses creased and ill-fitting, made her cry.
The day of the party it rained. Their guests rushed to leave brollies and shake off wet coats, the small sitting room of her ground floor flat became quickly crowded with people she’d never met. And Dr Cable.
“What’s she doing here?” she caught Simon’s sleeve as he weaved about the room offering red or white.
“Maggie,” he admonished, as if that was all that was needed.
Her mother turned up and took command of the nibbles. Maggie sat collapsed, attended by the faithful Bobo, his grey curly coat entwined in her fingers, his bloodshot eyes reaching for hers. None of her own friends came. She hadn’t told them. If they weren’t there she could pretend it wasn’t real. There was fussing everywhere. They knelt beside her, Simon’s friends, in ones and twos, or leant kindly as if they meant well.
A woman with short-cropped blonde hair and large earrings pulled up a chair. “I just want to say it’s marvellous what you’re doing.”
Maggie rested her hand on Bobo’s head. All afternoon, people had been saying that. It’s marvellous what you’re doing.
“Poor Lou,” continued the woman. “She had the worst time of it. It was like watching a car crash over and over. We all thought, if anyone can do it, it’s her but,” she shook her head. “They tried for so long.”
“I thought she didn’t want children,” said Maggie. That’s what Simon had told her.
“Louise?” Deep brown startled eyes. She leaned toward Maggie. “It was all she ever wanted. We all thought it was too late, I remember her saying there’s a shelf life to embryos.”
“Five years,” said Maggie.
“That’s it!” Chimed the woman as if relieved the conversation had got going. “Five years. But perhaps there’s been a change in the law or something,” she trailed off, looked hopefully across the room to where Dr Louise Cable stood chatting with Maggie’s mother.
Maggie wanted to get up but she couldn’t. The woman said something about fetching a sandwich and left with a pat on Maggie’s shoulder. There was chatter and laughter in spirals swinging towards her. Her mother had the expression of Maggie’s failures to date, she kept looking, and looking away.
Simon swooped in. “You look pale. Is there anything you need?”
To wake up a year ago, thought Maggie.
Led to bed by her mother, Maggie closed her eyes. Bobo jumped up beside her and curled into the crook of her legs.
Her mother said, “Really, Maggie, I do feel a dupe, you could have told me, I mean some would call it a service though goodness knows, lending your womb to complete strangers is stretching it but there was no need to make up such a cloak and daggers story, your fiancée. No wonder you kept us at bay. I suppose we might have had something to say if you’d told us, I hear they’re paying you handsomely so at least you can stop living hand to mouth.” She tucked Maggie in rapidly. “And he bought you that dog so at least you’ll have him.”
When she woke the flat was quiet. Simon and his ex-wife who was still his wife, who was Louise, who was Dr Cable stood by the window, their forms in silhouette to Maggie who saw them before they saw her. They talked quietly, their arms around each other. She tried not to move but they noticed her anyway, her hands curling over the duvet, Bobo shifting his weight.
“You’ve done so well,” said Louise.
“And you’ll always have the dog,” added Simon.
Bobo rolled onto his back, his eyes on Maggie as her stomach lurched, the baby turned and Louise and Simon smiled.
A lovely story, but sad. I assume in that pile of forms was a surrogate agreement.
Horrifying and devastating. Oh, and typically brilliant!