Tom and I are in one of those situations where you feel like you’re playing a part, saying your lines, doing an impression of yourself.
‘So, depending on your postcode, you would be entitled to either one, two or three rounds of IVF,’ says the consultant, matter-of-fact, flicking between sheets of paper. ‘We’ll check that in a minute.’
I’m thinking about my twenties, all those nights out, drinking buckets of wine, laughing, and how this is a different world.
Those people couldn’t know me now; couldn’t know this. Unless they were going through things like this, too? Was everyone dealing with real events and we were all just glossing over it with flippant jokes in too-loud bars? How did I not realise that was what the world really was?
‘But for now, we will try a drug called Clomid. It might just help to kick-start things for you.’
But I’m already thinking about my bank account and how much is in it, and how much IVF it could buy if this Clomid doesn’t work and we need more rounds than the NHS can give us. It couldn’t buy much IVF. I’m thinking about Anais and her free, accidental baby. I’m thinking about conversations I had with my parents when I was nineteen and I brazenly told them I didn’t want kids. I’m thinking about years of contraceptive pills and what a fucking waste of time they were.
I’m thinking about fifteen things at once, anything but this, and I need to focus. The consultant is handing me a prescription but I can’t make out the words.
‘I’ll make you an appointment for a few months’ time,’ she says. ‘Then if the Clomid hasn’t worked, we can talk about what comes next.’
I’m drowning. A few months’ time? If nothing’s worked by then, surely I’ll have sunk without trace.
But Tom is being our rational arm, literally with his hand held out. He’s shaking the consultant’s hand, thanking her and ushering me out into a blast of cold air. I’m shocked by it and it takes me a second to remember that it’s February.
When we have picked up the prescription, we go to a coffee shop.
‘Well,’ says Tom, being Tom. ‘That was positive.’
I’m silent with the shock and it takes me five minutes to respond.
‘What if we can’t have kids?’ I say, holding my hot chocolate with two hands but not drinking. I’m shaking with hunger but nauseous.
Tom downs his espresso.
‘There’s no reason why we can’t,’ he says. ‘The doctor said that. It’s just that we are struggling to get pregnant again naturally, but with Clomid, or if that doesn’t work, these two rounds of IVF …’
My brain is everywhere again. I’m thinking of famous couples who are in their forties without kids, friends of my parents who have lots of dogs but no children. I had assumed it was a lifestyle choice, but is this what happened to them? Is that sometimes where this path concludes?
‘With all of that we stand a better chance,’ I say. ‘But for some people it just never works. And we only get two chances of IVF. What if neither works? Then what?’
‘You’re doing that thing again,’ says Tom. ‘You’ve even quoted it at me. You’re catastrophising.’
‘I can’t see Anais,’ I say suddenly, panicked. ‘I cannot see Anais. I can’t go to her catch-up dinner.’
Everyone else, again.
What does everyone else matter here?
And yet they do, don’t they, they always do.
An Instagram post with a scan picture matters, even though it could be sent from a home of misery and rage.
A ‘baby on board’ badge on the tube matters, even though it could have come after ten rounds of IVF and many more miscarriages than I have had.
I don’t know how to live among all of that.
Pretending? Acting? Hiding? Acknowledging? I don’t know which verbs to choose. I don’t know how this works.
Tom looks at me and I’m back in the room; back in our conversation.
‘Forget about the dinner with Anais. You’re leaping. We can ditch the dinner.’
But then my mind is running away again.
Was it easier before social media? Or did envy poison anyway? It just came at you via a different route.
Tom has taken hold of my shoulders and I think, honestly, at this moment, I believe, he is breathing for me.
‘One step at a time,’ he says.
I catch a woman in the corner looking over at me from her laptop with pain au raisin crumbs on her chin and I have the same feeling that I had about Harriet the other day: it’s okay for you. It’s so absolutely okay for you.
I don’t have the energy to get up and walk out and Tom, my partner, almost has to carry me. I have no choice but to believe him when it comes to Rachel. There is no space in my head to doubt Tom right now. No space to deal with anything else. No potential to deal with this alone. No possibility, at this moment, of being able to carry myself.