‘Just had some bad news,’ gulped Rachel.
‘Sit down.’ Natalie shepherded her back into the kitchen and pushed her into a chair. ‘Oh my God, you’ve gone white. Do you need tea? A whisky?’
Rachel laid her head down on her arms and let the pain in her heart spread to the rest of her body.
The irony of it made her sick. Oliver was going to be divorced. Free. As simple as that – and he was doing it to be with someone else. Someone he’d just met! All those years she’d never asked about marriage because she’d believed his sob story about hating to hurt his kids by leaving – gone, like the worthless stacks of old newspapers she’d chucked out from the utility room.
She’d never be thirty again, never have that time again – when her bare legs didn’t need tights and she could drink all night – to find someone better. And this year she’d be forty.
‘Is it about your ex?’ asked Natalie, hovering anxiously. ‘Megan said you’d had some horrible experience . . .’
For a moment, Rachel considered which bits of the truth she could shave off, and not lie outright, but then she realised that it was over. She didn’t have to apologise to Kath, or feel bad, because Kath was pitying her. She was the only one who’d managed to come away with nothing.
What she had to risk now, though, was the warm new atmosphere there’d been round the table, when Natalie had started to confide in her. But what was the point? Friendships couldn’t be based on secrets. She’d only be worrying when Natalie would find out.
Rachel lifted her head and summoned up what little self-respect she had left. ‘That was my ex’s wife. She came to tell me that he’s left her and me for some blonde airhead.’
Natalie’s green eyes clouded. ‘What? Wife?’
‘I know. I don’t deserve any sympathy, but—’ Rachel gulped again as a fresh realisation hit her. Maybe this Tara was pregnant.
In that moment, she realised just how hard she’d suppressed the idea of carrying Oliver’s baby, as the bitterness sprang up like an oil strike. Oh no. That would be too cruel. Too unfair.
‘Get it off your chest,’ said Natalie. ‘Come on.’
Rachel braced herself. ‘I was with Oliver for ten years,’ she said. ‘On and off. We worked together, and it started off as an office romance, but it was more than that. I thought he loved me, but . . .’ Rachel stopped. She could hear the lies she’d told herself blaring out of her own words, and couldn’t bear to hear them any more. She didn’t sound smart or independent, she sounded like a total fool. ‘Anyway, I finished it, and now his wife’s come to tell me she’s divorcing him, because he’s gone off with another woman. He’s cheated us both. I’ve been . . .’ she shuddered, ‘so stupid.’
There. It was out. And Natalie just looked sorry, not disgusted. Her kind face scrunched up with sympathy.
‘Oh, Rachel. I don’t know what to say.’ She reached out and stroked her hand. ‘I’m so sorry.’
‘You shouldn’t feel sorry for me. I don’t deserve it.’
‘You do. Whatever the ins and outs were, you loved someone and they’ve let you down. I’m not a judgy person,’ said Natalie. ‘I know there’s never a black or white answer to stuff like this. But you’re a beautiful woman, with a great sense of humour and . . . and so much going for you. Was that really the best you could do? A man who let you dangle around for ten years while he had it both ways? I can’t believe he was the only man you could have dated.’
Rachel shook her head, as big sobs gripped her ribcage. ‘He was the one I loved. And don’t tell me what a cliché that is, because I know.’
‘But it’s over now,’ said Natalie. ‘That’s in the past. You’re free to meet the right guy now, someone who can give you what you want.’ She made it sound so matter-of-fact, another project that could be arranged and achieved. ‘I know Longhampton’s not exactly a hot spot for talent, but there are some nice guys here. Come out to the pub quiz, with me and Johnny. You know Bill already – Lulu’s new dad – the doctor and my book group girls, if you don’t mind getting competitive about ‘Friends’ trivia. Is that a smile, or what?’
Rachel had to acknowledge it was. Just a watery one.
Natalie smiled back and squeezed her hand. ‘My mum always told me that you should look at your problems as if you were advising your best friend, and not be so hard on yourself. Like, when I beat myself up for not getting pregnant yet, I say, no, if it was a mate I’d tell her to give it time. Not to take it as a personal failure, but just one of those things.’
She paused, her face soft with sympathy. ‘And you should be the same. This, whoever he was, Mr Love Rat, wasn’t the right man. It just took you a long time to work it out but now . . .’ Natalie shook her hand. ‘Now you’re like the dogs in there. Waiting for the forever man to turn up and choose you.’
Rachel gurgled. ‘Thanks!’
‘Well, one of the nicer dogs. One that won’t be here very long. In fact, from what Megan’s let slip, there might even be a certain vet making house calls already, hey?’
Natalie looked up under Rachel’s fringe to check her face, and the child-like gesture made Rachel feel wobbly with gratitude.
She understood now why the bedraggled strays wagged their tails so pathetically, the first night they were brought in and shown some affection. Rachel had an address book to rival the Yellow Pages, but she’d never been able to relax completely with any of her friends, for fear of letting something slip. Even her best friend didn’t know the complete truth – but then Ali was married, and made it clear that she didn’t want to know too much. For all their envy of her untethered life, she had the feeling they were just waiting for her to reap the whirlwind.
But Natalie, so secure with her lovely husband that she could feel sorry for the Other Woman, was telling her it didn’t matter. That she could have a fresh start here. And even more touching, that she’d help her make it.
‘Thank you,’ said Rachel, and slid her hand over the table to hold Natalie’s.
‘My pleasure,’ said Natalie.
18
It took a lot to get Johnny prised out of bed before nine on a Saturday morning, but Bertie’s breathless arrival on their pillow at seven had done an excellent job of waking both him and Natalie up.
‘How does he get up there, with such short legs?’ Natalie wondered aloud, as Bertie delivered effusive morning licks.
‘He’s using that mini trampoline you got from QVC. Can’t you train him to make a cup of tea?’ Johnny complained, pretending to be cross from beneath three stones of Basset-y wrinkles. ‘Instead of just drinking out of any mugs left lying around?’
‘Give me a chance – I haven’t managed to train you to pick the mugs up, have I?’ said Natalie. She threw back the covers, cocooning Bertie with his master – a situation Bertie responded to by closing his eyes in delight and rolling onto his back. ‘You’ve got five minutes and then we should get going – we need to drop him off at the kennels with Rachel before we go to the clinic.’
‘The clinic?’
Natalie turned on the shower in their en suite. How could Johnny forget stuff like this? She tried to make her voice sound casual, and failed. ‘We’re getting the results. Of the tests.’
‘Oh.’ There was a snuffle from the duvet. ‘Nat, let’s not make this into a big deal . . .’
‘I’m not! It was Dr Carthy who told us to come in as soon as we could. Together.’ She pulled off her t-shirt and stepped into the shower, not wanting Johnny to see her anxious face. ‘Five minutes, Johnny.’
There was another, lower aroooo from the bedroom.
‘You’re with Dr Carthy, in room six. I’ve squeezed you in,’ said Lauren with a wink. ‘Must be important news. D’you want to take a seat?’
Natalie made herself look round the crowded waiting room at the bright posters for ante-natal groups and Stop Smoking clinics, but her brain couldn’t stop running through the reasons Dr Carthy wanted to see them so soon.
Maybe she was a
lready pregnant. Maybe her bloods had shown it, against the odds. It happened like that in magazines. As soon as you signed up for fertility treatment, or bought a really expensive pair of jeans, you got up the duff.
She cast a sideways glance at Johnny, who was skipping through a year-old copy of Top Gear magazine, as if they were waiting for a bus, not waiting to hear the verdict on their future family plans.
She wondered if everyone else could tell what they were in for. Johnny and Natalie Hodge. Can’t make a baby. Aren’t having enough sex. Aren’t having the right kind of sex. Aren’t talking about what’s going to happen if there’s more of a problem than just getting the dates right.
Natalie stared at a poster for baby vaccinations and felt her stomach churn. Johnny was always going on about what a natural ‘mum’ she’d turned out to be for Bertie. But what if nurturing wasn’t enough? What if she physically couldn’t complete the happy family he had in his head? If gory childbirth put men off sex, what on earth was IVF going to do to his rose-tinted visions of Natalie Hodge, Supermother?
Their names appeared on the digital display: Johnny Hodge, Natalie Hodge, Room Six. And an arrow.
‘Ah, that’s us.’ Johnny dropped the magazine back onto the table, oblivious to her tension. He even grinned at Lauren as they went through.
Dr Carthy was sitting at his desk when Johnny breezed in with a cheery hello, and he motioned to the pair of chairs next to him. Natalie took the one nearest, so Johnny would have room to cross his long legs.
‘Hello, Natalie! Johnny!’ the doctor said, shuffling through their files. Natalie had been seeing Dr Carthy since she was about twelve, which made this even more awkward. It was like discussing her periods with her dad.
‘Now, I’ve asked you to come in because I’ve got the results of your tests,’ he began.
‘But I’ve only done one blood test,’ Natalie pointed out. ‘My day twenty-one test – I haven’t done the day five one. Was it the internal scan? I thought I could feel something like fibroids maybe, on my uterus? I’ve been reading something on the internet about . . .’
She trailed off, seeing his lack of response. ‘I know,’ she apologised. ‘The internet’s a dangerous thing.’
Dr Carthy coughed. ‘No, I’m glad you’ve been getting to grips with what’s a very complex topic. You’d be amazed how little some people know about their own bodies. Actually, your ultrasound came back very healthy, Natalie – no polycystic ovaries, no endometriosis, nothing.’ He went through his papers and took out a sheet. ‘I’m afraid we’re going to have to get another sample from Johnny, though.’
‘Another sample? Why?’ Natalie was confused. Next to her, she felt Johnny straighten in his chair.
‘Well, the results have come back with rather a low count, which might just be a blip – one in ten tests does come back with abnormal levels and then turns out to be fine.’
‘Abnormal?’ said Johnny, his voice a strangled echo.
Dr Carthy looked up at the pair of them and Natalie was horrified to see that ‘better deliver this news fast’ look in his eyes. ‘A standard sperm count is about twenty million per millilitre. Yours was quite a bit less than that. We need to do another test to be sure, but even if it is the case, there are various options we can consider.’ He opened up a new screen on his computer. ‘Better to get the ball rolling sooner rather than later.’
Natalie started to prepare herself for those complications, but Johnny was still reeling.
‘That can’t be right. I’ve never had a day’s sickness in my life,’ he protested. ‘I don’t smoke, or drink . . . much. And I do loads of exercise.’ Again, his nervous laugh. ‘I do rugby coaching! I mean, I cycle to work sometimes. Is that it? Because I can stop.’
Dr Carthy was properly sympathetic now. ‘Low sperm count’s not always caused by outside factors, though you can cut back on caffeine, wear looser underpants, see if that helps. Now.’ He looked at his notes. ‘There can also be genetic reasons – I’ll take a blood sample, so we can rule out a few hormonal possibilities, and I can refer you to a urologist at the hospital for a karyotype profile. Let me book you in for a second test.’
As the keyboard clattered, Johnny turned to Natalie, bewildered by the turn of events, and she felt sorry for him. After the cervical smears and chlamydia tests she’d already had done, Natalie was used to this feeling of falling into the NHS system like a ball in the lottery machine, her reproductive system reduced to a series of symptoms. Johnny wasn’t. He said nothing, but ‘what’s going on?’ was written all over his face.
She wished she had something to tell him, something positive, but she’d only scanned the male infertility sites. She’d been so sure it was her, holding things up, that she hadn’t really absorbed the details of male problems.
‘Is this right?’ he whispered, as if he trusted her expertise more than Dr Carthy’s.
Johnny’s boyish, scared expression was so heartbreaking that Natalie almost wished the scans had showed up fibroids or blocked tubes. She was geared up for things not working, whereas Johnny . . . it was so much harder for Johnny. His ego was crumbling in front of her.
‘Might there still be ovulation issues?’ she asked Dr Carthy. ‘I mean, you haven’t finished testing me.’
He glanced up. ‘Well, it’s unlikely. You did one of those over-the-counter egg reserves tests, didn’t you? They’re not perfect, but if that came back fine, as you said, then it’s unlikely to have changed.’
Johnny’s head swivelled. ‘You did a home test?’
She nodded. ‘A few months ago. I just wanted to know.’
‘You didn’t tell me.’ He sounded hurt. Yesterday he’d have sounded tolerant, she thought. Yesterday he thought she was worrying too much, with her temperature charts and her green tea.
‘There wasn’t anything to tell. It was fine.’ Natalie bit her lip. How could she explain the top-of-the-roller-coaster moment when she’d turned over the little stick, then the rush of relief when it told her that her eggs weren’t the issue? Or the flutter of relief now that it still wasn’t?
‘You never said.’
‘I didn’t want you to think I was getting obsessive about it.’
Dr Carthy was an old-school doctor, not one of the newer GPs. She wasn’t sure he offered relationship counselling along with prescriptions. Even now he was assembling a selection of leaflets from a file in his drawer.
‘Things are moving on all the time,’ he said briskly. ‘And there’s always ISCI, IVF, DI, if it comes to that and you decide to go down that route.’
Natalie froze. ‘I don’t think—’
‘DI?’ asked Johnny. ‘I’m not as clued-up as my wife here.’
‘Donor insemination. It’s just the same as a woman using donor eggs, really. You use donor sperm instead.’
There was a painful pause.
‘No, it isn’t the same,’ said Johnny. ‘It’s not the same thing at all.’ He looked at Natalie and she recoiled from the naked humiliation in his face. ‘You’re not going to have some stranger’s baby, Nat. I’m sorry. I can’t.’
‘Johnny, this is a long way in the future and it certainly isn’t something you have to rush into,’ said Dr Carthy, gently. ‘Lots of couples have a tricky path to parenthood, but they get there, and you two are still very young, aren’t you, really? You just have to relax and make sure you’re getting all the help you need. Try booking a holiday – that’s what my daughter did. She’d been trying for two years, more or less given up, and—’
‘How the hell is a holiday going to help Johnny’s sperm count?’ demanded Natalie, unable to contain herself.
Dr Carthy had the grace to look embarrassed.
That was the trouble, thought Natalie. People who’ve never known real problems getting pregnant just love those fairy stories about relaxing and booking a holiday. Even bloody doctors.
She glanced over at Johnny, who was now staring out the window, shellshocked. He was only just starting to discover t
hat.
Outside the sun was still shining, but Natalie felt a chill that went straight through her coat.
She unlocked the car, but Johnny shook his head.
‘I don’t want to go up there just yet,’ he said. ‘I need to . . . I need to get my head around this.’
Natalie could understand that – Bill knew where they’d been, and could probably guess why. Not that he’d ask about the test results – male friendship rules forbade it – but Johnny’s face would give it all away.
She followed him as he set off down the high street, past the charity shops and mobile phone stores, his long legs covering the ground quickly. Natalie walked fast but she couldn’t keep up and eventually admitted to herself that the sight of Johnny’s broad back in his cord jacket was more comforting than his furrowed forehead.
When they reached the park, Johnny walked past all the benches to the secluded bandstand, where they’d all got pissed on Martini pinched from Bill’s mum’s drinks cabinet as sixth-formers. He sank onto the side, and put his head in his hands. Thick locks of blonde hair stuck out between his fingers.
Natalie hesitated, then sat down next to him, leaning into him with her head against his shoulder.
Eventually, he spoke, and his voice broke with emotion. ‘I’m so sorry.’
Natalie didn’t know what to say so she said nothing and reached out to take his hand, but he pulled it away.
‘No. It’s my fault. I’ve ruined everything. I wanted us to have a family. One boy, one girl. Then a surprise. I wanted to see you with our baby in your arms at the hospital, and to drive you home, and to look after you both. And I can’t do that. I can’t give you that.’
‘You can. Don’t be silly.’
‘Nat, this is the worst thing anyone has ever told me.’ He raised his head and she could see his eyes were red. ‘I never realised until now how much I wanted us to be a family. And now you might need some stranger to give us that. I just feel so . . . inadequate. I feel like someone’s cut my balls off.’ He gulped. ‘I suppose they might as well, for all the fucking good they are.’