‘So you haven’t told him anything?’
Vicky’s tone was incredulous. Lucy shook her head, feeling irritable and tearful all of a sudden. And all of a sudden wishing she had stuck to her guns and told Vic she’d prefer to get her results alone. It would be almost comical if it wasn’t so awful. Sitting here, in the waiting area of the packed gynae clinic only a week after sitting in the ante-natal one with her friend. Just a corridor and a whole world away.
‘No, of course not,’ she said now, feeling guilty for sounding snappy. ‘There’s nothing to tell him yet, is there?’
‘No, but … you know. About your periods and that …’
‘No, Vic. I haven’t.’
‘Alright, mate,’ Vicky said, putting an arm around her shoulder. Which act of tenderness – almost maternal tenderness – just made it worse.
Lucy had never been one for horoscopes or fate or other such spiritual nonsense. There was a girl at the solicitors – an articled clerk, so no doubt pretty clever – who read her stars in the paper daily, and, since she’d begun there, Lucy’s too. And Lucy (wondering how someone who had letters after her name could take any notice of such nonsense) would smile politely and agree that it would be nice to ‘come into some money’, or ‘see a welcome shift in a special relationship’, or whatever other guff was in the paper that day. And yet this morning – she’d taken the afternoon off for her appointment – astrology had warned her to be ‘braced for bad news’.
‘Though your natural Sagittarian optimism will help you overcome any obstacles,’ Marie had continued brightly, before dumping the paper and returning to her work.
Lucy had picked it up and re-read it, trying to see it for the rubbish it was. And yet, was it?
It had been such a strange and disconcerting few weeks. Vicky pregnant. Vicky pregnant. Vicky going to have a baby. As her mam had commented when she’d told her the astonishing news, it seemed only yesterday that the pair of them were babies themselves. ‘Running round the garden in your pants and vests,’ her mam had finished. She’d sighed then. ‘Where did all those years go?’
And it did feel exactly like that, despite everything. Despite the fact that they’d both been with their boyfriends for ages. Despite the fact that they’d both been having sex. God, was it really so astonishing that Vic should fall pregnant? That was the way nature had designed humans, wasn’t it? To have sex and make babies while they were young and fit and fertile. Well, at least in Vicky’s case, anyway.
‘I’m so jealous,’ Vic had wailed to her when she explained about the GP having put her on the pill.
‘You know, Vic,’ Lucy had said, feeling chippy about it all. ‘There’s nothing stopping you from going to the family planning clinic, you know.’
‘Er, how about my mam?’
‘Vic, you’re sixteen. She doesn’t even need to know.’
‘Yeah, but you think I’d manage to keep it from her? Not a chance, mate. She’s like bloody Sherlock!’
Which struck Lucy as a bit of a ridiculous thing for Vicky to say, since her mam could barely rouse herself enough to get off the sofa, much less start ferreting around in her daughter’s sex life. No, the truth was much simpler: she just hadn’t got around to it. That and the business of being brought up Catholic. And the ‘fact’ – if fact it was, and Lucy’s doctor had said it wasn’t anything like a given – that if you went on the pill you immediately put a stone on, and might get a thrombosis as well.
But it was that stone – that was the main thing. Lucy knew how Paddy’s mind worked. He monitored Vicky’s size like it was a project he was micro-managing. If she put on so much as an ounce he’d be on at her that she was letting herself go.
Oh, the irony. Vic would be putting on a lot more than that now. But would she be able to, ever?
So, no, she hadn’t yet told Jimmy – not least because another piece in the miserable jigsaw that had revealed this potential picture had been that when she’d told him about Vic’s pregnancy, that same evening, round at his, the enormity of everything she might now deny him had all become so painfully clear.
‘Christ,’ he’d said, shaking his head. ‘Poor fucking baby.’
And just as Lucy had been about to leap loyally to her friend’s defence, Jimmy had gone on to clarify that he wasn’t being arsey – simply that it wasn’t exactly the best start in life, was it? What with Vic being sixteen, and her mum being rubbish, and the kid’s father being one Paddy-fucking-tosser-Allen, currently residing at Her Majesty’s pleasure.
‘She won’t get rid of it,’ Lucy told him, ‘and I told her she shouldn’t either. God willing’ – like any God would have had anything to do with it – ‘she’ll see Paddy for what he is now, and finish with him. Who knows? It might happen anyway. For all that he thinks he owns her, I wouldn’t be surprised if he drops her like a brick once she tells him she’s up the duff.’
But Jimmy didn’t want to even speculate about what Paddy might or might not do – didn’t know, didn’t care, didn’t want to waste his breath. ‘Far as I’m concerned,’ he said, ‘that twat is history.’
He’d then added ‘or will be’, but didn’t explain further, because he was much more interested in Lucy and how she seemed. ‘You’re all emotional, aren’t you?’ he’d teased. ‘Christ, don’t tell me you’re feeling broody.’
And that might have been fine – specially when they kissed and they cuddled, and, his dad working that night, soon went a good deal further – except that, afterwards, he’d whispered, ‘Just think, Luce, one day we’ll be at this lark properly – making our own babies. Christ, that’s something to think about, isn’t it?’
And she’d agreed that it was, because she’d been thinking it all the time lately, and when he went on – in that drowsy after-sex way he often did – about when they were married and how many kids they’d have, and how much it mattered to him to have a family, she’d felt as if her heart might break in two.
But Lucy didn’t know. She didn’t actually, conclusively know that she had something wrong with her that meant she couldn’t have kids. It was probable, yes, and the doctor, like the horoscope, had told her to be braced for it, but even when she’d gone for the ultrasound and hormone tests, she was already expecting it. She’d read enough, knew enough, felt enough to know. Coming here today was just the confirmation.
A nurse came out and called her name and Vicky squeezed her shoulder before releasing her. Bright, blooming Vicky, with her small but present bump. Who, despite the fact that she hadn’t dared tell Paddy yet, even though she’d been to visit him twice now, still exuded this aura of calm and equanimity, as if happy to be left in fate’s hands now. That’s what baby hormones did: they took you over.
Vicky offered to go in with her, but Lucy shook her head. ‘They might, you know, want to examine me,’ she lied, and Vicky nodded, obviously believing her.
‘Good luck, mate,’ she said. ‘You wait, it’ll be good news.’
But, then again, what else would she say?
The doctor – a woman in perhaps her thirties, with a long, swishy ponytail – indicated that Lucy should sit down. ‘So,’ she said, scanning a sheaf of papers in front of her, ‘how are you today, Lucy? Okay?’
Lucy didn’t know how to answer, since the answer should be so obvious. How the fuck could she possibly be okay? But she understood that this was just the usual exchange of niceties, and her job was to nod and say ‘Fine, thank you’ politely, so that, pleasantries dispensed with, they could get on.
And the doctor didn’t waste any time. As if by a pre-arranged signal, her whole demeanour changed, to one Lucy knew she’d remember for years to come. That stern-but-sympathetic face, just on the right side of stern, so that she didn’t dissolve into tears then and there.
‘You have polycystic ovaries,’ the doctor explained, her hands clasped in her lap, her eyes not leaving Lucy’s as she spoke. ‘As your GP has probably explained to you might well be the case, we now know they’re the reason for the symptoms you’ve been experiencing – the irregular periods, the hair thinning, the skin problems and so on …’
And on she went, talking slowly, but still too fast – there being just way too much information – for Lucy to take it all in. All but one thing, which sat there like a stone in her stomach. That no, PCOS (what they called it) couldn’t be treated. Just managed. They would now help her manage her symptoms, like she had been left in charge of a particularly badly behaved child and couldn’t possibly control it by herself. And that, no, she’d be highly unlikely to be able to conceive naturally.
‘Which is not to say that you won’t be able to conceive at all,’ the doctor told her. ‘There are all sorts of medical interventions that can increase your chances. Certain drugs, new procedures. You’ve heard of IVF, I assume? It’s a field that is developing all the time.’
But Lucy didn’t want to be in a field full of medical interventions. She wanted to be normal. She wanted to have babies. She didn’t want to be one of the statistics you saw in the papers. One of those wretched women – those desperate ‘six rounds of failed IVF’ women. ‘But is it likely?’ she asked the doctor, feeling young and frustrated but, most of all, defective.
‘The odds,’ the doctor told her, ‘are improving all the time.’ And then she went back to explaining how they’d start ‘managing’ her condition. Like Paddy-fucking-tosser Allen managed Vicky’s weight. Or used to. How could life be so bloody unfair?
‘Oh, God, mate, I don’t know what to say,’ Vicky said, crying along with Lucy as they trudged back to the bus stop. ‘Isn’t there anything they can do? Isn’t there an operation or something they can do to sort them out?’
Lucy shook her head. ‘It’s not curable.’
‘But you said they said you might still be able to have a kid, right? You know, by drugs and that? So there’s still some hope, isn’t there?’
‘Some,’ Lucy conceded. They. What was this ‘they’? Like there was some committee standing in judgement?
‘So you’ve got to look on the bright side,’ Vicky went on. ‘Miracles happen, Luce, they do …’
And then she started on about some woman her mam knew who spent years trying to have a baby and then, just as they were about to sign adoption papers, suddenly got pregnant. ‘Just like that,’ she was saying, ‘after, like, six or seven years.’
Vicky was sniffing away tears as she spoke, tears that Lucy knew were genuine. Genuine love between mates, and understandable frustration. And, understandably, Vicky was only doing what anyone else would. Trying to find a positive. Conjure up a solution. But six or seven bloody years? That was really going to cheer her day up, wasn’t it?
Try as she might, Lucy could not help the rage building inside her. What had Vic got to fucking cry about? She was having a baby. No effort involved. No particular desire to have one, either. Yet here was one, growing in her belly, even as they stood there.
And by that bastard who didn’t deserve a fucking dog, let alone a child! Thinking of Paddy – that bastard Paddy – made her rage all the more. And even Vicky – the best mate, who she would stand by, like a rock, through the whole sorry palaver – didn’t have the wherewithal to wipe her own arse half the time, and yet she would soon be changing nappies. It was all so unfair.
She had no right to rage at her friend. None at all. But she knew if she were to achieve the seemingly impossible, she would have to put some distance between them.
‘Look,’ she said, seeing the bus approaching in the distance. ‘You get back. I’m not going to go home, not for a bit. I’m going to walk to Jimmy’s. He should be just about home by the time I get there—’
‘Luce, I’m not leaving you. Come on, let’s go back to yours and have a cuppa. You can see him later.’
‘No, I need the walk …’
‘Then I’ll walk with you. I’m not leaving you, Luce, I’m not.’
The bus was almost upon them now. Lucy felt a powerful urge to run. ‘Really, Vic …’
‘No, Luce.’ Her voice was sharp. ‘I’m not leaving you in this state.’
And she was in a state, even if she didn’t quite acknowledge it. She could tell by the concerned expression on the face of the woman who’d now emerged from the bus shelter.
But she had to get away, and, as soon as the idea formed in her head, it wasn’t so hard to say the words that were needed. Perhaps they had to come out in any case.
‘Vic, just fucking get on the bus, will you? Look, I’m sorry, but you’re the last person I want to be with right now.’
Then she turned tail and stalked off as fast as she could, so she wouldn’t have to see the expression on Vicky’s face.
By the time she caught up with Jimmy – it was a good hour’s walk to his house, even using all the shortcuts – she had managed to regain sufficient composure that there was no concern in his face, just surprise. And pleasure, which made her wretchedness even more profound.
He’d obviously beaten her home by mere minutes because he was still in his work overalls. And must have been wondering why she was at his when she would normally have still been at work. She hadn’t told him about her appointment at the hospital, just as she hadn’t told him about the last one, on the basis that if it turned out there was little to worry about, there would be no point in dragging it all out. Besides, some things were not for a lad’s ears, not really; that, as her mam had once told her, boyfriends and husbands shouldn’t be privy to.
But as soon as he smiled at her, went ‘Hiyah, babes, this is a nice surprise’, went to kiss her, it felt like the dam she’d so carefully erected had been exploded into pieces. She fell against him, the sob she’d been holding back all the way there escaping from her throat on a massive outbreath, like a tsunami of emotion.
He crushed her to him, going, ‘What, babe? What the fuck’s up? What’s happened?’ But for an age she couldn’t speak, only press tight against him, inhaling the cocktail of strange chemical smells on his overalls – sharp plumbing-related smells that were as familiar and dear to her as the shape of his nose, or the precise way his hair felt, or his laugh.
But finally, after he’d shuffled her into the front room, and sat down with her on the sofa, she managed to spew it all out.
Jimmy listened in silence, his expression changing as she spoke, one minute sad, another angry, another full of compassion, and locked as she was into the explaining of all her misery, she was alert to any expression that might confirm her worst fear. To any hint, however tiny, that once he had taken everything in, Jimmy would realise that he was with the wrong girl. He wanted a family so badly; to create the one his mother had taken away from him. And however much hope the doctors tried to instil in her, one she knew it was odds-on she could not provide, she wasn’t stupid. A future without Jimmy seemed such a terrifying place. But she wasn’t stupid – not about happy-ever afters. He might think – be completely convinced, even – that they could just make the best of it, now, but she knew better. It would eat at them. It was eating at her now.
‘So look, babe,’ she finished. ‘I’ve been thinking about it all the way here. And, you know, if you wanted to finish with me, it’s okay. Honestly.’ She clasped his hands, trying to effect a lightness she’d could never feel. ‘I wouldn’t …’ she could hardly get the words out, she felt so scared. ‘I wouldn’t, I would never, ever hate you.’
Jimmy stared at her for a moment. Then pulled his hands away from hers. Then almost seemed to explode up from the sofa.
‘Christ, Lucy – I can’t believe I just heard you say that!’
She stood up too, shocked by the anger in his voice.
‘But I wouldn’t,’ she said. ‘Really, Jimmy. I just don’t want to ruin your life, that’s all. I can’t bear it …’
‘You can’t bear it! Christ, Lucy,’ he said again. ‘I don’t know what to say to you. Really. I fucking don’t. You really think I’d do that? That I’m the sort of shit who’d just fuck off and leave you over something like that?’
‘No, Jimmy – I just—’
‘Then why the hell would you even say something like that? I just can’t believe you’d think I’d do that. I …’
He ploughed a hand through his blond curls, which were dulled by dust and dirt. And she realised why he’d stopped speaking. Because he couldn’t speak.
He cleared his throat noisily and pulled her back into his arms. ‘What kind of man do you think I am? I fucking love you, Luce. How can you say that? I fucking love you, you fucking idiot!’
‘And I love you. I just …’
He kissed the top of her head. Almost roughly. Almost angrily. Could a person be kissed in anger? But that’s how it felt. Like her mam had done that time when she’d lost her in the park, and when she’d finally found her, and was so cross and choked. Just like that.
‘Then just don’t,’ he said. ‘Fuck.’
And Lucy felt safe again.