Chapter Four

‘I DON’T KNOW WHY you’re worrying, yaar,’ sighs Nicole, easing a column of chocolate hair over her shoulder. ‘Dylan’s gay. He’ll never be approved.’

I stop tipping my chair, and watch my colleague drink her first iced coffee of Monday morning. Such breaks are rare. We work hard, as headhunters, recruiting to fill senior corporate vacancies. It’s not exactly rocket science, but I’ve got the knack of helping people fit together. Pity I had no joy with my parents.

I’ve decided this morning to confide in Nicole – hence the caffeine break. Nicole and I are the only female partners in the firm. We wear linen trouser suits and hide our laptops in grosgrain handbags, which sit at our feet like spaniels.

‘What do you mean, approved ?’

‘Well, adoption agencies are very picky.’ Nicole’s voice, as much as her sentiment, soothes me. Her New Delhi lilt always sounds intelligent and precise; it makes me believe her implicitly. ‘They prefer you to be under thirty. Which Dylan, like us, is not. And married, which Dylan could claim to be, but only to a higher being.’ Nicole sips her drink through beautiful, cushioned lips. ‘And you must be deemed sensible, na, which Dylan most definitely hasn’t been since he tried to become treasurer of the College Boat Club—’

‘Only because he fancied the cox. Dylan couldn’t move through water if you sewed on an outboard motor. But he’s a vicar.’

‘Absolutely. And you have to be straight.’

‘Seriously?’

Nicole sets her drink down on my desk blotter and proceeds to finger-comb her hair. ‘Actually, I’m not sure about that one. He could go abroad, where the rules aren’t so strict.’

I choke on a mouthful of coffee. ‘You mean, he might get a child from overseas?’

‘Absolutely!’ laughs Nicole, picking up her cup again and noisily sucking a mixture of chilled milk and air through the straw. ‘But stop being so xenophobic, yaar? We foreigners aren’t quite as awful as you might think. And Dylan’s bound to make you godmother. How many would that make in your portfolio?’

‘Six, at last count.’

Nicole pouts her approval. ‘How on earth do you tell them apart?’

‘It’s all on a spreadsheet.’

‘Achha? A spreadsheet.’ We both laugh – Nicole because she assumes I’m joking, and me because I know I’m not.

‘Of course, it doesn’t just feature godchildren. It records all the kids of people I know. Look.’ I click my mouse and, when I’ve located the right file, swivel the screen to Nicole. I list out the columns: ‘Date of birth, full name (including Hebrew alternatives where appropriate), eye colour, presents bought, presents requested, hobbies, allergies—’

‘Ye-gods!’ says Nicole, in that slangy, old-fashioned Hinglish of hers that I adore. ‘Boys’ names in blue, girls’ in red?’

‘And duplicates are underlined.’

‘Don’t you get bored of being so anal?’

My skin prickles. I have to remind myself that Nicole is my friend. ‘Don’t all godmothers do this?’

‘Dominic was made a godfather once, but he can’t remember who to.’

‘Oh, right. You and Dominic still—?’

‘On and off, yaar. Can’t remember why, but there we are. Probably something to do with the fact that he doesn’t keep banging on about having kids.’

I smile. With that defiant, if suspiciously un-English, ‘e’ (Nicole’s parents spent their honeymoon in the former French colony of Pondicherry), Nicole was apparently often overheard as a child voicing a desire to grow up to be an expensive toy. A First in Psychology and a successful career appear not to have dimmed such ambition.

*

During the morning, my mood seesaws. Interviewing candidates, or phoning them to tell them they’ve got the job, are absorbing tasks. Also, my dad rings, to let me know that he and Audrey got home safely this morning. We chat, although I steer clear of mentioning Dylan’s announcement. But, between one task and the next, panic flares up like toothache in a cavity. Dylan is planning to have children. How could he! And, how could he – in the sense of how will it happen? I grip the sides of my desk until my knuckles are tinged with white.

My friends fall into two camps: not gay and straight, as Matt once scientifically observed, but child-ful and child-free. On the one side, I’m aware of an ever-increasing regiment of wailing, overtired creatures, whose self-obsessed behaviour is acted out in the name of their demanding offspring. On the other side stand Matt and me.

Our outriders are Dylan and Nicole, flanked by Jenny and Clive, who, despite being the first of my college gang to marry, have never seemed inclined to spawn. Which we all tease them about, since one would fear for children born to a father with such a droopy, unfashionable moustache and a mother who has a penchant for bright, voluminous knitwear. Clive is a skinny management consultant. There is something of the angle-poise about him. Jenny is not skinny. She has an amazing singing voice, mellifluous with a rasp to it, honey dripping over the honeycomb. But she is one of life’s mice; and I have always been privately intrigued, given her size, how easily someone as talented as Jenny can recede into the background. Perhaps that’s why she favours such raucous jumpers.

That Dylan is now switching sides constitutes, in my humble opinion, an act of extraordinary selfishness and betrayal.

*

‘So, yaar, what have you bought the twins?’ asks Nicole, extracting a pack of moist tissues from her bag and wiping her manicured fingers before tackling her sandwich. (We regret to inform you of the temporary closure today of the staff canteen due to staff training.)

‘They asked for guitars,’ I reply, as I prise open a tub of salad and select the one cherry tomato. We have both had our respective client lunches cancelled and are relishing the freedom of eating without cutlery. ‘Serena and Harry will kill me.’

Nicole shakes her head. ‘Serena won’t. With five daughters in the house, another hundred decibels won’t make that much difference. And Harry won’t notice – he’s a teacher. He’s congenitally oblivious to group disruption. Nicole dabs at the corners of her mouth. ‘Now, ask me what I’ve bought them. I have bought’, she continues excitedly, ‘a bead kit for Eloise to braid her hair, and glittery playing cards for Esme. And, unlike you, I’m not even their godmother. I am so kind!’ she laughs. ‘Those children will remember my presents for the rest of their lives.’

‘Don’t be daft. Do you remember what your godparents gave you when you were five?’

‘Not much need for godparents, given that several generations of my dad’s family all lived together in the same compound in Delhi.’

I struggle to imagine what having lots of relations around must feel like. Both my sets of grandparents died in the war, neither my dad nor my mother has siblings, and by the time I was four my parents had lost touch with the couple they’d made my godparents.

‘But that’s not the point,’ continues Nicole. ‘These girls will remember me—’

‘—when they’re in therapy with Matt,’ I laugh, ‘whingeing about the stereotypical presents they got as kids. We scar them for life! We buy them the presents we wish we’d had as children. And, when they grow up, they’ll do exactly the same.’

‘At least we give presents and bother to show up for parties, na. Remember last year? Very bad form to forget a godchild’s birthday. Still, Ed was single back then. I wonder if he’ll make it to the party this afternoon in person, or simply delegate to the lovely Louisa.’

I stop chewing. ‘Ed won’t be at the party.’ I fork my salad leaves lazily, whilst Nicole prods my arm, demanding clarification. ‘You and I are collecting Louisa en route.’

‘So he’s coming on later?’

‘Ed’s left Louisa.’

‘Achha! When? How?’

‘Last week. On a plane. With his new woman.’

‘Ye-gods! Typical Ed. He’s so fickle.’

‘And Louisa’s so pregnant.’

Nicole’s beautiful brown eyes widen. ‘So that’s why we haven’t seen them for months!’

We pick at our meal in silence, although my appetite, at least, has dwindled. It seems the only thing to do.