How Was It For You? Page 3

  They chased hard for jobs in London, then rented somewhere as expensive as they could now afford to begin their ‘real’ jobs in the ‘real’ world. The world which owned them not from nine till six, as they’d imagined – ‘we can still paint in the evenings’ – but from 7 a.m. till the moment they fell into bed. Way too tired to ever lift the lid on the boxes and tubes of dried-out, hardened watercolours and acrylics. There had once been so much romance: a marriage proposal by poem, a candlelit wedding . . . where had it gone?

  Somewhere in the back of a wardrobe, unlooked at for years, was the book Dave had made her as a wedding present. It was full of the paintings, drawings and stories which detailed how they’d met, how they’d fallen in love and the way he hoped their life together would be. They never even mentioned the book now, because the reality of their marriage was turning out so dismally different.

  An added irritant for Pamela was the happy perfection of her parents’ marriage. They had never admitted to ‘difficulties’ of any kind, so she had never asked them for advice. Anyway, they always assumed that Pamela and Dave were fine and they devoted their energy to Pamela’s younger brother, Ted, and his on-off-up-down-hot-cold relationship with Liz, the mother of his two children.

  ‘You know, Ted and Liz remind me a lot of Simon and me at that age,’ her mother had told her recently. Simon. She never referred to her husband as ‘your dad’.

  ‘They have that “zing” . . . that special buzz.’

  Oh yes, Pamela knew all about that buzz. The buzz which had begun so many years ago when daring American trainee art teacher Helen had set eyes on dashing English entrepreneur, flash-wheeled Simon.

  Buzz . . . buzz . . . buzz: the lock on her parents’ bedroom door, Christmas presents of see-through nighties, antique copies of the Kama Sutra . . . Helen, 61 next year, usually wore stockings, suspenders and silk underwear. Her father sported a trim goatee, which her mother, her mother, claimed to find ‘very pleasure-enhancing’!

  The two had taken Pamela out for a candlelit dinner on her 12th birthday to talk her through more sex ed than she’d ever wanted. They’d insisted boyfriends stay over. In general, much as she loved them, and she really did, she’d found them the most embarrassing parents in the world and it was hardly surprising that she preferred romance, poems and soulmates.

  ‘You and Dave are different,’ her mother had added, sipping at her tall glass of lime and soda, smoothing the sleeves of her silky kaftan.‘You two are much more . . . fraternal.’

  Pamela hadn’t liked the sound of that at all. Fraternal? Yuck! What was that supposed to mean? They were passionless best friends? Ouch.

  But where was the zing? she couldn’t help wondering as she watched her husband wheezing in his sleep.

  Had the zing well and truly zung?

  No. No, she told herself. It was just all this stress – work, the IVF. If only they could just get pregnant, get on with all the plans they’d made for themselves and their children, things would be like they once were.

  She decided it was time to get up and make a pot of revolting decaffeinated Earl Grey tea.

  When Dave finally appeared in the kitchen, she had already showered, dressed and breakfasted. She’d put on a wash and made her work calls. His hair was on end, his chin razor-scraped and he had on a T-shirt and sagging at the knee chinos.

  ‘Can’t you wear a shirt? You look so much nicer in shirts,’ she wheedled.

  ‘But I’m more comfortable in this,’ he said defiantly.‘I’ll put a jacket on top.’

  ‘Oh all right.’ She was only too aware that they hadn’t even said good morning yet and already there were the makings of a fresh row in the air.

  ‘You look lovely,’ he told her. Diversion tactics. As if that excused him from looking like a mess. He kissed her forehead and started hunting about for bowl, spoon and cereal boxes.

  ‘Are you nervous?’ he asked as he sat down at the table beside her.

  ‘A bit.’ She ching-chinged her nails against her third cup of tea.‘I just want it to work. We’ve tried so hard . . . we’re trying so hard. Don’t we deserve a bit of a break by now?’

  Dave stroked her arm. There was nothing left to say that they hadn’t already said to each other.

  We’ll get there . . . You never know, this could be the one . . . We’ll work something out . . . Where there’s a will, there’s a way.

  Over the years, they’d tried out all the responses, all kinds of comfort. And now there was just silence.

  They knew the odds – small every time – and they knew the pain of it. Grieving for something that has never been. A little death died again week in, week out, month in, month out. Every pram passed in the street, every bundle in a papoose, every giggle overheard, all the tears they would never be needed to comfort.

  Without children, life was so grown-up. She saw the difference every time she went to visit Ted.

  His home was filled up with four-year-old Martha and two-year-old Jim, plastic toys, Lego, things that barked, quacked and squeaked. It was noisy, full of laughter, shouts and shrieks.

  Ted and his family spent weekends at the park, in the sandpit and swimming pool, whereas she and Dave did pubs, long lunches and the cinema. They read lots, whereas Ted claimed he didn’t even have time to watch TV any more.

  There was a big fork in the road. People with kids and people without. She and Dave were on the grown-up, calm, sophisticated road, but it was by mistake. They’d missed the turning. It was all wrong.

  All this churning about in her head as she searched the big white flat for the things she needed and prepared to set off for another ‘go’ at the hospital.

  Chapter Four

  ‘MR PENNES?’

  The clipboard the nurse was holding was shaking slightly, Pamela noticed.

  ‘Mr Pennez?’ the nurse tried again. But there was no response from the small gathering in the waiting room today.

  ‘Pinnez?’ she offered, a blush spreading across her cheeks.

  Silence, all heads turned expectantly now.

  ‘Oh . . . Penis?’ a heavily accented voice volunteered, loudly but with total nonchalance.‘Penis? That’s me.’

  The man, smartly dressed in a dark suit, sauntered over and followed the nurse through the double doors. Her shoulders were definitely shaking with suppressed laughter now.

  ‘Did he say . . .?’ Dave began, but Pamela silenced him with a dig in the ribs. If everyone else in the waiting room could cope with this without dissolving into giggles, so could she.

  ‘Maybe he’s the sperm donor,’ Dave whispered and then it was no use, Pamela was overwhelmed with the need to laugh.

  She jumped from her seat and rushed towards the toilet door. After she’d slammed it shut, she let go, honked with laughter, tears jumping from her eyes.

  She dabbed at her face with a dampened paper towel, aware that this was not normal behaviour. She was caught in the vaguely hysterical, emotional whirlpool between laughing and crying because this was so bizarre. In under an hour, she was going to be implanted with three embryos – half hers, half an anonymous donor’s. Maybe they were Mr Penis’s. She’d never know.

  It made her feel like a dairy cow. All those bony cow bottoms lined up in a row for the Artificial Insemination man. She’d seen the TV programmes.

  Of course she and Dave had talked it through over and over again and he’d insisted that it was fine, not going to be a problem at all. If there was a baby, it didn’t have to be biologically his, so long as it was emotionally his. So he’d said. He’d almost had to talk her into this. She was the one who worried that it was too weird . . . another man’s sperm. Dave was always so good at implantation time. Could make soothing, mildly funny jokes which took the edge off the medical procedure, all legs up in the air, probing and horrible.

  In the past, their eyes had held and they’d agreed, somehow, to try and think about making love, think about all the best times, not let the doctors get in the way of this trying to mak
e a baby.

  But would it be different this time? She was about to go through the most medicalized, sanitized version of having sex with someone else while her husband watched and held her hand.

  Dr Rosen patted the top of her head.

  ‘Just lie still now, try and relax. Think happy thoughts.’ His eyes creased, so behind his paper mask, he was smiling at her.

  Relax.

  Not.

  She tucked a finger up her sleeve so she could touch the wool dolly her niece had given to her as a lucky mascot for today and began her baby prayer. The one no-one else knew about, not even Dave.

  It was a grown-up version of the one she’d done at the dentist’s when she was small: ‘Dear God, if I don’t have any fillings, I promise I will brush my teeth twice a day and never eat sweets again. I promise.’

  It was ridiculous to pray, she argued with herself now, lying on the crinkly plastic-backed sheet over the hospital couch, willing these embryos to implant.

  She didn’t believe in God, did she? Not the one she’d learned about at church and school, anyway. She believed vaguely in something, thought of herself as ‘spiritual’ but ‘God’ was a convenient way to put it when she went through air turbulence or right now, when she needed to pray and plea-bargain.

  ‘God, please, please, let me get pregnant. Please. If I have a baby I promise, I’ll be the best mother ever. I’ll never get tired or angry or grumpy with this baby. I’ll never shout at it, or keep it up late, or feed it anything other than organic food. In fact, it will only wear those organic cotton clothes and biodegradable, bleach-free nappies and be so happy. Have the happiest childhood ever, the perfect childhood. Just please, please let me be pregnant. Please.’

  A kaleidoscope of images of her fantasy baby filled her mind. A baby in a bright red knitted cardigan, in a blue gnome hat, a baby pulling daisies from the lawn, drooling, trying to decide if they should be tasted. A baby sleeping heavy and warm in her arms. She could never picture a face, but saw the details – the closed eyelashes, tiny knuckles and nails. Lucky, lucky parents. Lucky, lucky.

  She wanted this so much.

  Two tears squeezed out from her eyes and slipped down into her ears. Dave gently brushed away the one hanging like a pearl from her earlobe. They were alone in the room now.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he said.‘I’d do anything to make this work. You know that, don’t you?’

  She nodded, not taking her eyes from the ceiling. She didn’t dare to look at him, couldn’t bear to see the pain in his face. It was almost too much to carry on under the weight of her own hurt. She couldn’t deal with his as well.

  They didn’t say much on the tube journey and then the walk home. Through the shopping mall, out on to the high street and along the quiet residential roads. They spoke about the weather, about food in the fridge for supper, but then he caught up her hand and squeezed it tightly.

  ‘Who knows, Pammy,’ he said.‘Maybe this will work. I really hope it does, for both of us. Maybe this will be the one.’

  But it wasn’t.

  She already knew she wasn’t pregnant before the bleeding started, but periods were increasingly hard to handle. When this one finally arrived she was already developing a bad head cold, so she switched off her phone, crawled back into bed and dared to hide from Sheila, work and the world.

  Head aching, nose streaming, she lay in bed and allowed herself to cry and cry until her eyes felt scratchily dry and uncomfortable to blink. Her head whirled with the ‘what ifs’. What if they had another go and it worked? What if it didn’t? What if they didn’t try again? What if they split up and she met someone who already had children? What if Dave did?

  What if she tried for one moment to stop thinking about all this?

  It was almost lunchtime when she surfaced from her bed and went down to the kitchen. She made a honey, hot water and lemon drink, then decided to slug some of Dave’s prized single malt whisky into it. Several sips down, she felt a little better and it occurred to her to phone Francesca from the support group.

  Fran worked from home, was due to have another try round about the same time, was probably sitting on her sofa right now either waiting to go in or worrying about the result, or even, like Pamela, trying to cope with the fallout of another failure.

  She rang the number and waited for the pickup without the other possibility entering her head.

  ‘Fran? Hello, it’s Pamela. How is it going?’

  ‘Oh, Pamela. Hello! How are you?’

  They didn’t spend long on the preliminaries. Fran immediately wanted to know about Pamela’s latest attempt. When Pamela told her the news, she sounded so sad and sympathetic, Pamela had to take a quick sip of toddy to steady herself.

  ‘How about you?’ Pamela asked.

  ‘Em . . .’ There was a long pause which Pamela took to be Fran bracing herself to share her own disappointment.

  ‘I’m not sure how to tell you this . . .’ came the hesitant voice at the other end.‘It’s very early, way too early to know what will happen . . .’

  ‘Oh my God,’ was Pamela’s breathy interruption.

  ‘I’m pregnant,’ Fran said but not in an enthusiastic, jubilant ‘congratulate me’ sort of way. Fran knew just how fragile a thing this was, as many of the women in the group had had miscarriages. She also knew exactly how awful it was for Pamela to hear right now.‘I’m so sorry,’ Fran added.

  ‘Don’t be silly,’ Pamela managed.‘It’s very exciting. I’m so happy for you.’ She wished this was true, but all she felt was an overwhelming burn of jealousy.‘You’ve got a really good chance, Fran—’ She tried her hardest to sound pleased.‘It could happen.’

  ‘I know.’ Fran was almost whispering, as if talking out loud about this pregnancy might jinx it.‘Long way to go.’

  ‘Well, good luck, we’re all thinking of you.’ Pamela hoped Fran couldn’t hear the catch in her voice as she said this.‘Are you coming to the meeting next week?’

  ‘I don’t know . . . I might have something else on.’

  The meetings when someone pregnant attended had been so obviously painful that there was now a tacit agreement that during their often short-lived pregnancies, members stayed away.

  ‘Loads of luck – from us all,’ Pamela said.

  Fran thanked her and then said something about a ring at the door, which they both knew wasn’t true, but Pamela was grateful because she really wasn’t going to be able to stop herself crying out loud for another moment.

  She put the phone down and buried her face in the sofa cushions. There wasn’t going to be any change. That was the worst thing. She was faced with endless more of the same: more of not being pregnant, more ‘trying’, more rowing with Dave, more hating her boss, more of Dave hating his job. More . . . more . . . more of this unending rut.

  It was always Saturday mornings when the trouble started. Maybe because it was the first time in the week when they had time to be together, time to start talking. Monday to Friday was a blur of working late, and dinner could often pass relatively pleasantly, catching up with the day’s events. Then they could watch TV until they were almost asleep, crawl to the bathroom and into bed where they would kiss each other good night with exaggerated yawns. Then Dave would sleep and Pamela would begin her nightly worry vigil, working through the worries one by one until she fell into a sleep peppered with wakings, trips to the bathroom, even cups of camomile tea.

  But Saturday morning was when the tension surfaced, took in a big lungful of air and roared around the house.

  Dave would come down from bed after 11 a.m. to find her on the sofa in the already tidied sitting room, drinking tea, all ready to row with him. Well, that’s how it felt.

  Seemingly bland ‘What do you think we should do today?’ type questions and niggles about ‘Oh I can’t be bothered going there’ would escalate rapidly into: ‘You can never be bothered!’ . . .‘Why is that always such a chore for you?’

  And on to: ‘Fine, I’ll go on
my own, then. That’s probably what you wanted.’

  ‘Don’t know why we do things together anyway, we never enjoy it.’ Erupting in: ‘Especially sex.’

  ‘Sex! When did we last have sex? Oh guess what, I can’t remember.’

  ‘I’m going through some difficult things.’

  ‘Oh you are, are you? Just you. What the hell do you think I’m going through then?’

  Until someone stormed out and there was crying, shouting, things being thrown, fury hurtling about the flat. They could not go on like this. They both knew it. They were wearing each other out. Being at home was like being on high alert, all the time. Using the marital radar to pick out the nuances in the simplest of questions.

  ‘What shall we have for dinner tonight?’

  ‘Why are you asking me? I haven’t had a chance to shop. I thought you were getting something.’

  ‘Why didn’t you phone me? You can’t just assume I’ll get the food.’

  ‘I wasn’t assuming . . .’

  Too late . . . petty argument number 6,378 was already up off the ground and gathering speed.

  ‘You never . . .’

  ‘I’m always the one who . . .’

  ‘Why can’t we ever . . .’

  ‘This is such a waste of . . .’

  ‘I’ve had it up to here . . .’

  At the heart of it all was the increasingly unresolved way forward. She wanted to try more donor sperm IVF. He now wanted them to have a break from the medical merry-go-round and at least think about moving in a different direction. Consider adoption . . . consider alternative medicine . . . consider coming to terms with life without children.

  ‘The longer we keep doing IVF, the longer we’re putting everything else off,’ he would argue.‘We’re getting older and older. It’ll be too late to try anything else. We’ll be too old to adopt by the time we get to the top of the register.’

  ‘But we haven’t given the donor IVF a chance,’ she would plead.‘We’ve only done it once. You have to stack up the odds a bit better than that. Two more goes would be more realistic. We could be just months away from a baby if we sign up and do it again.’