The Longing Page 13

  Juliet knew someone was ill, but couldn’t make out if it was herself or the baby. The face was still close to her, but seemed less unfriendly now, and she decided to appeal to it one last time. ‘Can you help me? The baby needs changing and I don’t think I feel very well. Could you put the light on and ask Michael to get me something to drink?’

  Something was rustling in her ear now and she tried to turn to see what it was, but could only make out the pink blur of the baby’s head. ‘What is it?’ she said to the sleeping infant, ‘what do you want? Are you hungry? Is that you moving?’

  The tiny form looked very still, and suddenly she heard the rustling again, but this time on her other side. It was a thick, warm sort of noise, and Juliet thought if she turned her head suddenly she might be able to catch whatever it was before it stopped again; but when she looked round there was nothing but the empty floor of the room, stretching from the unfocused foreground away to the dimness of the walls in the distance.

  ‘It’s something that you’re doing, isn’t it?’ she whispered to the face that she felt sure was still hovering somewhere above her. ‘I don’t understand. I don’t feel well. Stop the noise, please, I don’t like it.’

  Chapter Twelve

  So the interminable round of tests and injections began again. Juliet and Michael settled back into their everyday work routine, dovetailing it with clinic visits, shopping and a minimum of socialising. The dog incident was never referred to again, although Michael felt sure he occasionally saw a flicker of reproach in Juliet’s eyes when he caught her looking at him. But as her mood appeared to be one of quiet, positive satisfaction, he left well alone and referred to the treatment only when absolutely necessary. There was no discussion at all as they neared the time for egg collection, but Michael felt a dreary anticipation at the thought of facing the walls of the small room where his ejaculatory prowess would once more be on trial. Juliet had taken to coming straight home from work most days, no longer wanting to stray into the tantalising shops which had given her such unjustified but thrilling feelings a few weeks before, and too bound up in her inner thoughts to be distracted by anything external. It was more important than ever that this cycle of fertilisation was successful and, coupled with the secret knowledge that had to be contained just a little longer, she could think of nothing else. She still looked in on Harriet occasionally, but even her friend, with whom she was usually more relaxed than anyone else, found her less talkative and more serious than she remembered her being for a long time.

  ‘Come on, darling, don’t let them get you down!’ Harriet beamed at her, as she poured tea for each of them. Juliet had arrived on her doorstep after an absence of several days, and Harriet immediately registered the mood her friend was in, sensing that to talk about anything other than the clinic, the injections or the latest scan, would be out of the question. Gossip about past acquaintances or bitching about Lauren or her ex would have to wait. When Juliet was like this she could think about nothing but herself, and Harriet willingly accepted her rôle as absorber of her friend’s self-centred obsession, remembering clearly how, when the situation had been the reverse in the months after Peter had left her, Juliet had listened uncomplainingly to hour after hour of her own woes.

  ‘You’ve only had one go, for pity’s sake, let the old eggs have a chance. God, if you can produce five so easily, you must have thousands more brilliant ones just longing to be given a go. Chin up, old girl, no one said it was going to be easy. Remember, you’re absolutely no worse off than you were when you started all this stuff. In fact, if anything I should think it’s better now, because you know all the routine and so on, and you’re bound to be more relaxed, don’t you think? That must be good, surely?’

  ‘Yes, I suppose so,’ said Juliet. ‘Although, no, I don’t really think so – I only said that to try to agree with you, come to think of it. I don’t actually believe that at all. It’s supposed not to make any difference whether you’re relaxed or not. One minute everyone’s telling me nothing I can do will make any difference and I mustn’t blame myself if things go wrong and all that, and then you’re all saying that me being relaxed is going to be a help. You can’t have it both ways, you know.’

  ‘No, I suppose not. Sorry, Jules, I’m only trying to help. You really mustn’t get so down you know, it doesn’t do any good.’

  ‘I’m not exactly “down”. It’s far more complicated than that.’ She picked up the steaming mug and took a sip of the comforting liquid, noting as she put it down again the inscription ‘Father’s Tea’ on the side. She raised an eyebrow at Harriet over the kitchen table.

  ‘Yes, yes, I know,’ said Harriet. ‘I should have thrown it out ages ago. The likelihood of the father drinking his tea out of it in this case is about nil. But why the hell should I give it back to him to sip tea from with his beloved in their love nest? I bought it as a Father’s Day present from one of the kids. Father’s Day indeed! Don’t make me laugh.’

  It was almost a relief to see Harriet climbing back on to her bitter bandwagon, and Juliet smiled reassuringly at her over the rim of the offending mug. ‘Never mind, Hattie, at least you didn’t give me a Mother’s cup – that might have been less than tactful under the circs.’

  ‘What? Oh, yes, I see what you mean. What’s on mine?’

  As she turned her mug they both saw at once the legend, ‘Don’t Worry – It Might Never Happen!’

  ‘Yes, well. It depends on your point of view, doesn’t it?’ sighed Juliet. ‘That’s exactly what I’m worried about. That it’s never going to happen, I mean. Why can’t your stupid mug say, “Don’t worry – it might happen”?’

  ‘Because, you clot, it means “Don’t worry – it might never happen that your stupid egg doesn’t get fertilised”.’

  ‘No, no, I’m not having all this double negative stuff! I’m absolutely clear that the mug has a message for me. It means, “Don’t worry – it might never happen that you get pregnant”.’

  ‘Listen, you pathetic misinterpreting idiot, I’ve always had a much more instinctive understanding of the nuances of the English language than you, and I’m telling you that you’re misjudging the message on this mug. In any case it isn’t a message for you at all; it’s for me. It sits on the hook on the bottom shelf of the dresser ready to cheer me up whenever I begin to harbour unpositive thoughts. What it actually means of course is, “Don’t worry – it might never happen that Lauren Stuart takes her clothes off again tonight, reveals her perfect size thirty-four tits, gets into bed with the man who professed undying love for you and fucks him stupid.” As it happens, the mug is wrong, but I take comfort from its positive and completely unbiased opinion.’

  ‘Ah,’ said Juliet, ‘I see we’re hack to Lauren.’

  ‘Yes,’ sighed Harriet, ‘it all comes back to Lauren, I’m afraid. She’s one of God’s creatures to whom everything comes back. Other people’s husbands, children, money – she has a special magnetic device that draws things to her. Frightfully clever girl, our Lauren.’

  There was a short pause, then, after another sip of her tea, Juliet whispered across to her friend: ‘Shut up, Hattie. Just shut up.’

  Harriet smiled, smacked her lips open and threw her head back, then nodded two or three times before answering. ‘Yes. OK, yes. I’ll shut up.’

  They both looked at each other for a moment, then Juliet started to laugh. ‘Why do you always get that funny look in your nose when you’re upset?’ she asked.

  ‘What do you mean?’ said Harriet. ‘I told you your English was terrible, how can you get a funny look in your nose – it’s not physically possible. You could get a funny look to your nose, I suppose, but not in it.’

  ‘Well, you do,’ said Juliet, ‘it goes all flared and twisty, especially when you talk about you-know-who. Obsessive, my girl, that’s what you are. We always swore we’d never get that wound up about men, didn’t we? Look at you – you’re doing just what we promised we wouldn’t. Pathetic. Here’s me can�
�t think about anything except babies and here’s you can’t think about anything but your wrecked marriage. Honestly, Hat – shouldn’t we be beyond all this? Those poor sods who chained themselves to railings and threw themselves in front of galloping horses or whatever must be turning in their graves.

  Aren’t we supposed to be more concerned with self-image and empowerment or whatever that ghastly word is? We didn’t do all that heavy work on Pythagoras and calculus to end up moaning about babies and husbands. Where’s our pride? Remember how we were then, Hat, remember how you were going to be Prime Minister and I was going to run the stock exchange. Dear God, what have we come to?’

  ‘But we didn’t know, did we?’

  ‘Know what?’

  ‘It’s easy to think you don’t need all that men and children stuff before you know. Before you know that later on that’s all you’ll want in the world, I mean. I don’t have to tell you, Jules. It’s all very fine pretending that your job is important and all that, that you’re happy to feel independent and earning your own money, and that you and Michael share the washing-up, but you know perfectly well what you want more than anything else in the world, and what your whole life feels as if it’s been leading up to from the word go. Don’t you?’

  Juliet looked down at her hand and sat silently for a moment, bending and stretching her fingers and watching the way the skin moved over the knuckles, the skeletal white of the bone showing through the flesh as she pulled them into a fist. It reminded her of the shiny end of a jointed chicken leg.

  ‘Of course I do.’

  ‘Hello? Is that Dr Northfield? . . . Oh, yes, good, it’s Mrs Evans here . . . I was just wondering if I could pop in and see you for a moment, I’m coming in again tomorrow for another scan and I wondered if . . . oh, I see . . . won’t you? Oh well, in that case perhaps I could take up just a bit of your time now, if you don’t mind. You see I’m due for egg removal very shortly and I wondered if it would be you who would be – oh . . . well, of course, I realise that, it’s only that, as you know I did get rather nervous last time and – yes, yes I know . . . yes, of course he’ll be there too, or will you be using some of the frozen sp—Oh I see, yes. Well, then of course he’ll be there too, but then that’s hardly the point in the circumstances, is it? I felt sure you wanted to see me yourself this time, so we could have a talk . . . I do know all about it, you see. Oh, all right then. All right, thank you . . . yes, thank you very much. I hope so too . . . I will, thanks, goodbye.’

  Anthony Northfield put down the receiver after his conversation with Juliet feeling slightly uneasy. Like all the doctors at the clinic, he was well used to patients becoming emotionally dependent on him during their treatment, but there was something in this particular woman’s tone that made him wish he didn’t have to deal with her himself, and that he could pass her on to one of his colleagues. He knew, however, the strong feelings that Professor Hewlett had about keeping the patients happy, and that even if he tried to wriggle out of this one, it would only take a call or letter from her to Hewlett’s office for Anthony to be summoned and instructed to humour her and try wherever possible to be the doctor to treat her if she so wished. He pictured Andrea answering the phone at home in the evening, the time when Hewlett inevitably called with any problem that needed tactful discussion outside the hectic and closeted atmosphere of the clinic. He saw her face, frowning as she passed the phone to him, then watching him as he spoke to Hewlett. And he felt a small clench at the base of his belly at the thought of even a tiny threat to his life with her.

  He tried to think what it was in the call that had bothered him; he was not immune to flattery, and normally quite enjoyed the attentions of those patients that obviously found the combination of youthful good looks, blue uniform and stethoscope mildly stimulating, but this time he knew something had been said that niggled at the back of his mind and wouldn’t quite come out into the open.

  ‘Oh well,’ he sighed out loud, ‘no doubt it’ll all be all right if we can just get her up the spout.’

  He pressed the handsfree button on his telephone and dialled an extension. After a couple of rings Sister Bentham’s crisp voice answered over the speaker.

  ‘Oh, sister,’ said Anthony, ‘how’s Mrs Evans doing’. How long to egg collection do you think’. And what’s her emotional state like?’

  ‘Fairly stable, I think, doctor, although as you know she does tend to get a little tense. She has another scan on . . . just a minute, I think it’s—’

  ‘Tomorrow. She told me that.’

  ‘. . . Yes, tomorrow evening after work, so we’ll know more then, although I think she’s pretty near. Anything I can help with, doctor?’

  ‘No, not really, sister. It’s just that Mrs Evans particularly wants me to do her egg collection, so I’m trying to sort out roughly when it might be so I can be around.’

  ‘Another smitten one, doctor?’

  Anthony could hear the smile in the older woman’s voice, and realised she expected him to come back with one of his usual roguishly amusing replies.

  Instead there was a slightly awkward pause, and after a moment she continued, ‘Righto, doctor, I’ll tell Janet, too, so that she can keep an eye and try to fit it in with your

  ‘Fine, thank you, sister.’

  What the hell was it that had worried him like this? Why did he have the instinctive feeling that he wanted to be shot of this Mrs Evans and let someone else deal with her? ‘Come on, old boy,’ he said to himself as he stood up from his desk, ‘you’re getting paranoid, that’s all. Too many neurotic, desperate women can send a chap a bit haywire. Press on and think of the knighthood, as my dear old dad used to say.’ He chuckled as he walked to the door and flipped off the light switch.

  Juliet was showing a prospective client round a flat in Eaton Square, her mind half involved with the details of lease, freeholder, vacant possession and ground rent, and half concentrated on the area of her ovaries, where cramping fullness was a constant reminder of the chemically induced swelling that once more pushed out the belly of her skirt beneath her sweater.

  ‘I think you’ll find this is extremely good value for the area,’ she was saying to her Iranian client. ‘I’m sure you know just what a demand there is for this particular street, and I haven’t had a flat as well situated as this on such a long lease for a very long time. It’s available immediately, as I explained to you this morning, and the seller is happy to discuss terms for the furniture and fittings if you’re interested. I think there’s a divorce involved, so it’s well worth your making a quick offer – I’m sure they’d be willing to consider any reasonable amount.’

  Mr Amjardi looked round the room and took in once more the thick cream carpet, distressed gold wooden chandelier and Adam-style marble fireplace. He glanced across at Juliet, who was looking suitably upmarket in her beige slub-silk skirt and loose white sweater, garnished at the neck with a cleverly tied scarf.

  ‘I like this very much,’ he said in his polite, accented voice. ‘I shall go and consider, Mrs Evans, and telephone you at your office, if I may.’

  Juliet knew this was the moment when she should use her experience and skill to net him. She could always sense a potentially fast buyer, and was aware that it probably required merely a small but firm effort on her part to secure a verbal offer on the spot. If she let him go now it was perfectly possible that he would come across one of the many other vacant flats in the area, and to lose him through a mere lack of trying would he absurd. This was her speciality, the homing in for the capture after the preliminary days or weeks of sifting through details to find the perfect tie-up of client and space. She knew this was right for him – she had felt it as soon as he walked in ahead of her and nodded quietly to himself, and now she mentally gathered herself up for the assault.

  But she felt so weary of it all. She couldn’t begin to retrieve from within herself the sense of excitement that she usually felt at such moments: the thought of clinching a deal seemed so
unimportant; the prospect of a bonus from a good sale so irrelevant. The conversation with Harriet came back to her, and although the actual words were confused and distant by now, the meaning of what they had both been trying to say came through clearly enough: none of this mattered. It never had and it never would. Only one thing mattered, and she must concentrate all her energies on it until her goal was achieved; everything else was mere play-acting and must be abandoned and pushed aside.

  ‘Yes, that’s fine, Mr Amjardi. Take your time and give me a ring when you’ve considered it properly. I’ll show you out.’

  As they walked down the white stucco steps, Mr Amjardi gave a small nod of the head and bade her goodbye. Juliet walked towards the car where the junior, Tony, was waiting (it was company policy not to let any of the female members of staff show unaccompanied men round a property without a colleague waiting outside) and opened the door on the passenger side.

  ‘Well?’ asked the keen young man, ‘did he bite?’

  ‘No, he didn’t,’ she admitted, ‘but he may very well in the near future. Now, back to the office, please, I want to get home early.’

  The car pulled out from the meter bay and accelerated into the darkness of the December afternoon.

  Anthony lay in bed with Andrea that night only half listening to her plans for a giant children’s pizza party. It annoyed him to be aware of a tiny hint of unease still fluttering almost imperceptibly at the back of his mind, like a tired moth. At this point in the evening he had forgotten which event in his busy day had originally inspired this frisson of discomfiture, and he tried to sift mentally through all the appointments, telephone calls and conversations of the past eight or ten hours in order to pin down the source of this irritating distraction.