Her Sister's Child Page 13

  But the little plastic stick callously foils her plans. Her eyes fill with tears as she stares down at the two words, devastated.

  NOT PREGNANT

  24

  Marian

  Because it’s Saturday, Tom gets up before Marian and brings her a cup of tea in bed. Then, just as he does every Saturday morning, he goes out to buy The Times and Guardian and pick up fresh bread from the local bakery and deli items for lunch.

  As he returns, Marian has just come out of the shower and is towelling her damp hair. ‘Shall I put some coffee on?’ she asks. They usually have coffee when he comes back with the papers. Frequently they have pastries too; one of many reasons her waistbands are all too tight.

  ‘I was going to head out,’ he says vaguely, not meeting her eye.

  ‘Head out?’ she queries, sounding shriller than she intended. He’s been doing this quite a lot recently; disappearing for a few hours at weekends for no apparent reason. Since the negative pregnancy test, it’s been worse.

  ‘I need to run a couple of errands. We need a new extension cable for the lawn mower.’

  ‘Can’t you do that after coffee?’ Marian insists, tipping grounds into the coffee pot and reaching for mugs. ‘We need to talk about what we do next.’

  ‘What we do next?’ Tom asks, though from the way he avoids eye contact Marian is convinced he knows what she means.

  ‘About treatment. About having another try at ICSI.’

  Tom is already shaking his head. ‘No,’ he says, firmly. ‘I don’t want to go through that again. Not when you found it so gruelling, and the chances of it working are so small…’ He takes the mug of coffee Marian has handed him and gulps it quickly. ‘And before you ask, no, I don’t think we should try donor insemination. I’m sorry, but I don’t want you giving birth to another man’s child.’

  He colours slightly underneath his weekend stubble, as though he’s said something unacceptable, but there’s a defiance in his eyes that Marian has never seen there before.

  ‘There’s still adoption,’ Marian says, plaintively. ‘Then the baby wouldn’t be related to either of us, so we’d be in the same position. We really need to talk about that as an option, surely? That’s all that we have left if we’re going to be parents.’ She’s on the edge of tears, sniffing slightly as she reaches into the pocket of her threadbare dressing gown for a tissue. The dream of her, Tom and a child biologically related to them both – a blissful family unit – has been snatched abruptly away. She’s clinging on to whatever straws are left. It’s a miserable prospect.

  Tom softens slightly. ‘Okay,’ he says grudgingly, giving her shoulder a quick squeeze, before placing his half-drunk mug of coffee in the sink. ‘But later. I really need to get going.’

  As she dries her hair and puts on a load of washing, Marian turns over in her mind what she and Tom have just discussed. It didn’t take them very far, especially when she raised the subject of adoption. She can feel him pulling away from her, and as he does so, the golden ideal of motherhood – so vital to her for so many years – recedes into the distance. She feels weighed down, heavy and hopeless.

  Once the washing is churning in the machine, Marian checks the contents of the fridge. There’s the bread Tom bought earlier, plus some ham and antipasti, and she can make a scratch salad. They can have a proper talk over a civilised weekend lunch. She sends her husband a text.

  What time will you be back? Have got lunch here. X

  Her phone pings almost immediately, but when she checks it, the text is not from Tom. It’s from Farzeen.

  Doing bit of shopping in Muswell Hill, wondered if u fancied meeting for a coffee? F x

  Marian ignores it for a while, deciding she should make time with Tom a priority. Also, she doesn’t need her nose rubbing in the fact that Farzeen is happily pregnant. But Tom doesn’t reply to her text, and when she tries phoning him, her call goes straight to voicemail.

  She texts Farzeen back as she heads for the door, grabbing her bag and pulling on a cardigan over her baggy jeans and shapeless T-shirt.

  Meet me @ Hilltop Café. Walking down now. M.

  Farzeen is waiting for her when she arrives. She’s had her glossy hair cut short into a sharp jaw-length bob. Her slenderness only seems to accentuate how pregnant she is. It’s several weeks since Marian has seen her and her bump has ‘popped’, pushing out against her chic grey shift dress. She’s sipping on a herbal tea, but stands up to embrace Marian. ‘You look well,’ she says, untruthfully. They both know Marian looks a mess.

  ‘So do you,’ says Marian, pulling back so that her flabby belly doesn’t make contact with Farzeen’s neat, hard little baby bump. She goes to the counter and fetches a latte, and sits down again.

  ‘Well, this is an unexpected pleasure.’ She eyes Farzeen a little warily. They normally only socialise as a four, when their partners are present.

  ‘I’ve been thinking of you and wondering how it was going.’ Farzeen sips her tea with a dainty movement. ‘You know, with the IVF and everything.’

  ‘Oh, well, you know, early days…’ Marian launches into a summary of their treatment so far, making the picture rosier and their chances of conception better than in reality. ‘And of course there’s always the possibility of adoption, which is something we’re considering.’

  ‘I suppose in your job you’d know quite a bit about the ins and outs. I expect it comes in handy.’

  ‘Exactly,’ says Marian, forcing a smile and dipping her free biscotti in her latte.

  ‘The thing is…’ Farzeen purses her lips, looking troubled. ‘The reason I’ve asked to meet you is… not that it’s not great to see you anyway…’ She gives a self-conscious smile. ‘It’s just there’s something I need to talk to you about.’

  Marian feels colour flooding to her cheeks as though she’s done something wrong, which is ridiculous because of course she hasn’t.

  ‘Go on,’ she says, her voice faint.

  ‘The thing is…’ Farzeen repeats, then pauses, lowering her hands to her pregnant abdomen and holding it protectively, before letting her words out in a rush. ‘There’s a rumour that Tom is having an affair. With someone at Cavendish.’ Avoiding Marian’s eye, she colours slightly before continuing: ‘Actually, it’s more than a rumour. Tom confided in Gareth. Told him that that he’s seeing someone.’

  ‘Vanessa Rowley,’ Marian says. The name hangs there between them.

  Farzeen is surprised. ‘You know about this?’

  ‘Sort of. I suspected there was… something.’

  Farzeen reaches for her hand and squeezes it. ‘You poor thing, I’m so sorry. Gareth didn’t want me to say anything, but I was adamant that you had a right to know. And quickly, given the fertility thing.’

  Marian widens her eyes slightly. ‘Fertility thing?’ She’s pretty sure what Farzeen means but is determined not to show it. Not to capitulate. She closes her eyes for a second, and the image of a rosy, chubby baby recedes even further.

  ‘Obviously, now you know what’s going on, you might not feel the same about continuing with the attempt to conceive. Or adopt.’

  ‘Why not?’

  Farzeen’s smooth golden skin flushes faintly pink. ‘Well, because surely it would be wrong, in the circumstances, for you and Tom to become parents. In such an… unstable… setting.’ She checks herself. ‘I’m sorry, maybe I’m speaking out of turn. I don’t mean to judge, but… well, parenthood is a big deal.’ Her hand reflexively cradles her bump. ‘I just thought you needed all the facts, that’s all. Whatever you decide to do.’

  Marian forces a smile. ‘Thanks, Farzeen, but I’m quite sure this thing with Vanessa is just a fling. Nothing serious. It will burn itself out.’

  ‘Yes. Of course, I expect you’re right.’ Farzeen doesn’t sound convinced. ‘Let’s hope so.’

  Marian stands up. ‘Now, if you don’t mind, I’d better get going. Tom’s expecting me,’ she lies.

  Outside the café she leans against t
he wall and closes her eyes. Her mind is churning, trapped in that painful place between anger and hurt. This is not going to derail me, she tells herself over and over. I can afford not to care about Vanessa Rowley, as long as she doesn’t stop me becoming a mother.

  Tom eventually returns halfway through the afternoon, brisk and cheerful but avoiding any meaningful interaction. He sets himself a list of domestic chores – cutting the grass, clearing the guttering, fixing a sagging shelf – and devotes the rest of the weekend to accomplishing them. Marian watches him from the sidelines in silent agony, arranging her features in a smile whenever Tom looks in her direction.

  At work on Monday, she makes herself do something which, if she is entirely honest with herself, she has been procrastinating over for some weeks. She’s going to pay a home visit to Lizzie Armitage.

  The early July day is sultry and humid, and Marian’s back and armpits are sticky with sweat as she climbs the four flights to Lizzie’s flat: the lift, as ever, is broken. She knocks on the door several times, and is about to turn away when the door is pulled open a crack.

  ‘Who is it?’ croaks Lizzie.

  ‘It’s Marian Glynn. Can I come in?’

  Lizzie yanks the door back then stumbles towards the lounge. Marian can tell instantly from the swaying gait that she has been drinking. The curtains are drawn over closed windows, making the room both dark and swelteringly hot. It’s only when her eyes become accustomed to the gloom that Marian realises what she’s seeing. Lizzie is not only drunk, but pregnant. Heavily pregnant, making her condition unmistakable.

  ‘Goodness, Lizzie… how long have you… when are you due?’

  Marian visited a few months earlier, but Lizzie had been on the sofa, her mid-section covered with a duvet and her condition disguised.

  Lizzie shrugs. ‘Dunno. Whenever, I guess.’

  ‘Any day, from the look of you… Have you seen your GP? Or a midwife?’

  Lizzie shakes her head, her eyes unfocussed.

  ‘Lizzie, it’s important you register your pregnancy. The baby’s health needs to be checked, and there’s money you’re entitled to – there will be extra benefits, and there’s a pregnancy grant for you to buy what you need.’ She fishes in her bag and starts to pull out forms. ‘Let’s make a start on the paperwork now, and I’ll arrange for you to be seen on the Whittington maternity unit as soon as possible. You and the baby need to be checked over.’

  ‘No.’ Lizzie shakes her head vigorously. ‘No. Don’t want you telling anyone. They’ll take it away from me if they know. The baby.’

  ‘You know I can’t keep a secret like that; I’ll lose my job. How about your mother? Will she be able to help?’

  ‘She won’t want anything to do with it. In fact she’ll probably want it taken off me… Please, Marian!’ Lizzie pleads. ‘You’ve always been good to me. I trust you like a friend. Don’t let them take her.’

  ‘I’ll do what I can, I promise. But you have to stay off the drink.’ Marian lowers herself onto the edge of the squalid sofa, her sweaty thighs sticking to the fabric. Lizzie drops down beside her and closes her eyes. ‘Lizzie, I need you to focus… who knows about your pregnancy?’

  ‘No one. Just Macca, but he’s not bothered. And my kid sister.’

  ‘You mean Paula?’

  ‘Yeah. She’s helped with getting stuff ready.’ She jerks her head in the direction of the bedroom. Marian goes to look, and finds a flimsy Moses basket, lined with broderie anglaise and trimmed with white ribbons. It’s placed in a corner and stacked neatly with nappies and baby clothes. It wasn’t Lizzie who did this, Marian is sure of that, it was young Paula. A labour of love. Marian picks up a small white babygro and marvels at its size, feeling tears prick her eyes as she imagines the soft, perfect baby skin inside it. She goes back into the living room. Lizzie is stretched out on the sofa, barely conscious.

  ‘Lizzie!’ Marian holds out the forms. ‘I’ll fill these in for you and make a start on getting you the proper care. Okay?’

  There’s no response.

  Marian leaves her, her clammy thighs chafing uncomfortably as she hurries down the stairs. She goes to the back of the building where the communal wheelie bins are housed, their stench attracting flies.

  And there, with no one looking, she rips up the request for a pregnancy booking appointment and throws it into the bin.

  So now no one will know about Lizzie’s imminent arrival. No one but her and Paula – and Macca, that waste of space. As she walks away, Marian tries telling herself that she is merely doing what Lizzie wants. She’s keeping the pregnancy secret, ensuring she can give birth without the intervention of the authorities. But even as she tells herself this, another thought is planted at the back of her mind, taking root and growing despite the knowledge that it is wrong. Because she knows full well this baby can’t be left with Lizzie. It simply wouldn’t be safe. This child needs help, needs someone who can offer that safety. Someone Lizzie trusts.

  And if the child’s life was at stake, then giving that help wouldn’t be wrong, would it? Quite the opposite: it would be the right thing to do.

  Back at the office, Marian goes in search of Angela. She finds her sitting at her desk, eating a doughnut and drinking a Diet Coke, a desk fan fluttering the halo of tight curls around her hairline.

  ‘Vile, isn’t it,’ she says, with a sympathetic glance at the sweat patches under Marian’s arms. ‘This weather.’

  ‘Awful.’ Marian fans herself. ‘Ange, will you do me a big favour?’

  ‘Course I will,’ says Angela, through her doughnut. ‘Shoot.’

  ‘Well, you know…’ She becomes self-conscious. ‘You know that Tom and I have been trying to have a baby?’

  Angela nods.

  ‘We just did a round of IVF, and it didn’t work.’

  ‘Oh, you poor love. I’m so sorry.’

  Marian bites her lip, remembering the negative pregnancy test. ‘Thanks. I’m afraid we’ve been told the chances of it working in the future are nearly non-existent, so we’re looking at adoption. And I wondered if you wouldn’t mind coming round and doing a sort of mock interview with Tom and me. Putting us through the type of questions an adoption panel would ask. So we’re prepared.’ She blinks at her colleague earnestly, rubbing the sweat off the back of her neck.

  ‘Sure,’ says Angela, easily. ‘If you think it would help. But you do realise that in reality nothing’s going to happen for ages. Even when you’ve passed the official screening, you’re likely to have to wait a long time. Especially if it’s an infant you want.’

  Marian flushes slightly. ‘Yes, I do realise. I mean, I know the process inside out, but this is all new to Tom. This would be for his benefit, obviously. To help him get his head around what’s involved.’

  Angela shrugs. ‘Well, all right then, if you think it would help. The next couple of weeks are a bit chocka though – can it wait?’

  ‘No, not really,’ says Marian, firmly. ‘It can’t. It needs to be right away.’

  25

  Marian

  ‘Let’s go and wait in the garden. How about a cold drink?’

  Marian leads Angela outside, and fetches a tray with a jug of icy cold home-made lemonade and three glasses. It’s a hot midsummer’s evening, the sun still hovering in the sky, and several hours to go before it reaches the horizon and the air temperature starts to drop to more bearable levels.

  ‘I’m sure Tom will be back any minute,’ she tells Angela, smoothly, although she’s not sure at all. ‘He must have been held up at work.’

  As she speaks, she hears the sound of the front door being slammed.

  ‘Ah, there he is now.’

  Tom appears in the open French windows and does a double take of surprise.

  ‘Darling, you remember Angela Dixon, don’t you? From work. She’s here to do our pre-adoption interview.’

  Angela gives an awkward half-wave.

  Tom stares back blankly. ‘Our what?’

  �
�Remember, I told you!’ She shakes her head indulgently as though she’s told him about this appointment and he’s forgotten about it. ‘Angela’s going over some of our screening paperwork for us now, to try and speed things up. She’s very busy at the moment – aren’t you, Angela? – so she’s doing us a huge favour fitting us in so quickly. Most couples have to wait several months at least,’ she says, as though this explains the ambush.

  ‘But—’ Tom loosens his tie and tugs it off, tossing it over the back of a kitchen chair. ‘Marian, could I have a quick word, please?’ He looks in Angela’s direction. ‘Excuse us a minute, Angela.’

  Marian comes in from the garden. ‘What is all this?’ he hisses, keeping his voice low so that they can’t be overheard. ‘We haven’t decided on adoption, not yet. I told you I wanted time to think. We still need to talk about it properly.’

  ‘I know, but Angela could see how upset I was about the failed ICSI attempt, and she just wanted to help. This doesn’t commit us to anything, it just speeds up the paperwork in case it’s what we do want.’

  Marian doesn’t know if she sounds desperate, but that is exactly how she feels. For her incipient plan to work – and in her mind it would really only be adoption via a different route – she and Tom have to look like approved candidates.

  Tom scrunches up his face in that way he does when he’s annoyed, turning away from her.

  ‘Please,’ she begs. ‘At least we’ll be doing something positive towards becoming parents. And I need that so badly at the moment, I really do.’

  Tears prick her eyes, unprompted but genuine. Tom turns back towards her, and sees them.