Surfacing from an uncharacteristically deep sleep, I open my eyes into a twilight zone, into the shadowland between drowsing and waking. Though my lids and limbs feel sluggish and my responses dull, I am instantly assaulted by two very different sensations, both of which send shockwaves through my system. Encompassing me is a heaviness, as though life itself has been becalmed, and the other, a raw ache rapping at the pit of my stomach.
I lie motionless, stiff as a board, on my back, staring at the ceiling, attempting to deny this pain which has the nagging quality of a pre-menstrual cramp. I want to close it out, to be attentive only to the bursts of middle-of-the-night London traffic. I lift my hand and brush it gingerly against my stomach. Although heartened by my belly’s crescent fullness, I am unable to rid myself of the fear that all is not well. Should I rise, make hot tea, take an aspirin? Or should I relax, breathe deeply and try to sleep again? I close my eyes, hankering for Michel, pining for him to be here alongside me, relieved that I am not filming in the morning and that I can sleep late if I choose to. I roll over on my hip to ease the discomfort but this does not alleviate it. On the contrary, the sensations are worsened; or perhaps they are exaggerated by my focus on them. I grow scared, worrying for the wellbeing of the minuscule female foetus growing with faith inside me.
Supine again, I keep my eyes firmly shut and move my hand from side to side across the rounded flesh, massaging it, intent on creating a pain-free zone down there, to transmit waves of serenity, of security to the tiny girl agitating within me. It seems to work; the pain eases and I drift off, swimming in and out of wakefulness, until, some time later, something alerts me to the fact that my thighs are damp; damp with a sticky warmth that freaks me, sending distress signals up and down the length of my body. I turn fast and put on the bedside light, pressing my other hand tight against the source of this wetness.
Drawing my arm out from beneath the bedding, I stare in horror at my palm, my fingers and my wrist. Sickened, I throw off the cover as though it were on fire and gaze down upon my lower regions, all of which are blotched in haemorrhaging blood. The sight of it, claret-dark and viscous, scares and nauseates me just as violence scares and revolts me. I kick the duvet away and lift myself, breathlessly, to a sitting position, noticing the clock, which shows something after 3am. I don’t know what to do. I feel panicked and uncertain and alone and unwilling to face up to what this must mean.
I have to call someone, do something, take action, but who, what? Michel is in Australia. Even if I telephoned him – it is mid-afternoon in Sydney – what could he do? Why alarm him? I lift myself unsteadily to my feet and stagger down the stairs to the lavatory. I feel the blood escaping, slipping down my inner thighs. I am heaving in dry gulps as though I were choking although I know that I am not. It is fear, shock, confusion, as well as a passionate, a desperate need for this not to be happening. Clots as well as steady trickles of blood are slipping out of me. The ease with which they fall belies the gravity of my situation. I am losing my baby. Am I? Am I really losing our precious little girl?
The pains are shooting up my back and pressing vice-like against my stomach. I am dizzy and weak, seated on the loo, chest slumped against my knees, head hanging towards my feet like a vomiting drunk; I have no ability to move, no strength; the pain has me in its grip. But I know that I must take some action.
Eventually I crawl to the telephone and dial the number of Chris, a fellow actor and a loyal friend.
‘What time is it?’ he slurs sleepily.
‘Come over,’ I whisper. ‘Please. Come now.’ He lives nearby; he has keys. Thank God he has keys.
‘What? Are you all right?’ He doesn’t wait for a coherent reply but accepts my stuttering negatives and assures me that he is on his way.
I drag a towelling robe from a hook on the back of the bathroom door, wrap it like a sarong around my lower torso and slump to the carpet in the living room, curled up like the foetus which is tearing itself out of me, because I have no strength to climb the stairs again. I am trembling and cold and frightened and the blood is still raining out of me. The pain clenches in fits and starts. Perhaps it’s not too late. Perhaps this is not as serious as … but I know that it is. I have miscarried before; nothing quite as dramatic as this, but I recognise the signs. Above all, that dull ache throbbing round the base of my spine, digging into the lower half of me.
Chris finds me there on the floor. He fights back his distress at the sight of me. ‘I’m taking you to hospital,’ he says manfully.
I manage to convey my wish to be seen by my own gynaecologist. Chris goes in search of my address book, finds the number and telephones the specialist’s home. Richard listens, instructs him on where to take me, details of how to get there and what to do in the meantime. Then Chris rings for a cab because he wants to be with me, to be able to hold me instead of having to drive; to care for me, and I am so grateful.
Dawn is rising bruised mauve and tangerine-sharp beyond the city’s granite-grey high-rises. This part of London seems unfamiliar to me. I cannot recall ever having been here before. Curled, blanketed figures are dead to the world on the pavement, overturned bottles at their sides, as the cab swings in through the open iron gates of the hospital, and stops.
‘We’re here,’ my friend whispers, leaning across me to open the door.
The damp, chilly weather bites into my senses. I hear the echo of my shuffling feet. I am weak, close to fainting and still bleeding. The morning light lours. It is close to 5am as Chris guides me through into Emergency. I see only two ambulance-drivers, deep in conversation, smoking, drinking coffee out of brown plastic cups and then, waiting by the reception desk, I spy Richard, still in his overcoat. The expression on my specialist’s face prepares me for what is to come. With the help of my friend, who then discreetly disappears, he leads me through to a scrubbed, sulphurous-smelling cubicle, slips off his coat and switches on a monitor while I am disrobing myself of whatever ill-assorted clothes I have managed to cover myself in. Once I am horizontal on the trolley-bed, he begins to trace the ultrasonic scanner across my stomach. I shiver as it contacts my skin, recalling that curiously smooth, ice-cream cold sensation. The last time one of these instruments touched my flesh and X-rayed the inner contours of my body, reading me as nothing else has ever read me, it reported life within. That was barely two weeks ago. The gynaecologist at my side now is the same man who performed that earlier sketching of the inner me. On that occasion he was pointing out the silhouette of the tiny girl growing inside me. ‘See here?’ Richard had said then. ‘Those white lines are the arms, and there is the head. And here, see, it’s a girl.’
This morning, it is a different scenario. He does not turn his clean-cut face towards me but frowns, concentrating hard on the screen, which I cannot see. ‘There’s nothing there,’ he says eventually.
Stupidly, and because I choose to, I take his words to mean that the machine is not functioning, or that there is no problem, until he turns his grave blue eyes upon me. ‘There’s no heartbeat, Carol, no life left. Nothing to save.’
I screw up my face and close my lids so tight I see lemony shapes dancing in the blackness of my mind. I feel dampness burning the contours of my eyes and my throat is constricting as though swelling from within. I want to beg him to look again. ‘Nothing at all?’ I plead.
‘I’m sorry. You have miscarried.’
I cannot utter another sound. Seventeen weeks of joy, of anticipation, ejected. Why?
‘Stress, overwork or nature’s natural selection process.’ He does not seem to know. ‘A great many more women than you would think suffer similar losses. I doubt there was anything you could have done to save it,’ he tells me. Kind though his words are, they do nothing to alleviate the pain of the loss.
‘I’m going to ask a nurse to get you ready. I’m taking you up to the operating theatre to clean you out. I want to make sure there’s no residue to become infected. And then, Carol, you will need to rest.’
‘I’m filming tomorrow,’ I mutter defiantly, angrily.
‘No, you won’t be strong enough for that. They will need to change the schedule.’
He rises, places a hand against my shoulder. ‘Try not to worry or upset yourself now. I’ll call the anaesthetist. Would you like to see your companion before we sedate you?’
I nod.
I wake into a world in which my head is throbbing in a thick and muzzy way, where the base of my spine is as rigid as an iron rod and my innards feel raw, as though my interior flesh and organs have been scraped with a paint-scraper. I moan involuntarily, blinking out the glaring light of consciousness, toss my head from side to side to rid myself of the pain and then close my eyes again, sinking back into the secure cave of darkness, drawn back down into a deep, drugged sleep.
I open heavy eyes. Figures are leaning over me; white masked faces leaning over me. Slender, chirpy young women and men in midsummer leaf-green uniforms. I think I hear white leather clogs echoing along corridors. I must be on a trolley being wheeled. No, I am static and in a bed. Sheets and covers and pillows are being tucked in around me. People are fussing over me. My head is spinning; my mind is turning corners. And I have a desperate thirst.
‘Thirsty.’
‘Here, drink this.’ A glass of water is pressed against my parched lips. A cold hand slips behind the base of my skull, raising me up. I suck and draw and dribble clumsily, lacking control, and then, head resting once more against the newly plumped pillows, I disappear, plunging yet again down the rabbit warren corridors of my damaged self.
When I eventually regain consciousness, Richard is standing over me. ‘Hello, there.’ He takes my wrist, feeling for my pulse. ‘It all went smoothly,’ he says. His smile is kind, and professional.
‘Was there …?’
‘It’s all gone. We’ve cleaned you up. Nothing to worry about.’
A wave of grief presses hard against me, rolling titanically through my guts. In that split second, I have no desire to live.
‘There were no signs of infection. How are you feeling?’
I cannot begin to explain, which is what I reply.
Someone, a woman in white, enters the room and takes my temperature. Richard watches on, lingering at my bedside.
‘I want you to rest. You are going to need plenty of rest.’
‘What time is it?’ I drawl, as if it matters.
He glances at his watch. Half past three.
‘In the afternoon or the morning?’
‘The afternoon.’
I try to recall how I arrived here and where exactly I am, grappling with images of recent events. ‘I’m filming tomorrow. I have to be in Birmingham tonight.’
‘That’s out of the question. You have lost a fair amount of blood and your system is in shock. I will only agree to discharge you if there is someone at home to take care of you. Otherwise, I really would prefer you to stay here tonight.’
I telephone. Chris returns. He drives me back to the flat. He makes hot tea while I lie on the sofa refusing to climb the stairs to the bedroom. I don’t want to be alone up there, don’t want to return to that threatening space. Not yet.
‘Have you said anything to Michel?’ he asks, when he appears with a cup of Earl Grey sweetened with two spoonfuls of the Provençal honey I brought with me from France. I think of the beekeepers back home, life back home, our precious, funny little olive farm, and I smile. A tear threatens. I feel emotional and unsteady but determine not to give in to it.
He plays the machine. A young man, Peter, from the Birmingham location has left me my call. According to his garbled news, they have lost a day due to bad weather. My new call is on set at 6am the day after tomorrow. This requires me to be in Birmingham late tomorrow afternoon. Their loss has gained me one day for myself.
‘You’ll have to tell them,’ Chris says. His tone is unintentionally nagging, almost bullying. It is his manner, I have found, when he is faced with unfamiliar problems and he is concerned. Here he is, my pal and a gay man, attempting to cope with a situation which is well outside the realm of his own experience. ‘When did you last talk to him?’
‘Who?’ I close my eyes, brushing a hand across my forehead, trying to recall. Time and the whole sequence of events are in a warp.
Yesterday – or was it the day before? – I was in Birmingham, standing alongside a fellow actor, my co-lead, posing for a photographer who was on set to shoot location stills for the BBC publicity department.
‘Big smile, Carol. That’s it. And, Den, eyes this way, please. That’s it, and again. Great! Thanks, guys.’ And I was beaming, laughing in a carefree way, savouring the knowledge that there were three of us in the photographs, not two, and no one knew it but me. Considering the health risks, I was tempted to ask Den to put out his cigarette, but I decided to remain silent. He would have been amenable but I preferred not to give the game away. Den is one of a breed of working-class theatre actors who has found success in television; he is short, stocky, intense and talented but ego-driven and a heavy drinker. One of the lads, and not an obvious confidant for me. Still, he is a father and a warm-hearted guy, and I may need to confide in him now. Was it really only yesterday evening that I arrived back in London?
‘Carol, are you listening to me?’ Chris insists. ‘Have you spoken to Michel?’
Did Michel and I talk before I went to sleep yesterday? Was it yesterday? Yes, I think we did.
‘I shan’t call him now,’ I answer. Chris brings over the telephone and, instead, I dial Birmingham, asking to speak to Laurence, the first assistant. He is responsible for drawing up the schedules; he keeps the show on course and is the right hand of the director during the weeks of principal photography. Denise, the production assistant, informs me that he is not at the base right now but is travelling somewhere between the location and the studios. She promises to have him ring me back. I thank her and emphasise the fact that it is rather urgent. Laurence returns my call almost before I have replaced the phone.
‘Carol? Laurence here. Is there a problem?’ I can hear the tension in his voice. The logistics, the smooth running of the shoot, rest on his shoulders. In the background his radio mike is crackling, transmitting the cries and orders from the shooting base.
‘Cut!’ ‘Check the gate!’
‘I’ve been taken ill.’
‘What?’
‘I mean I can film, if I have to, but I was wondering if there is any chance that …’
Chris heads back into the room from the kitchen, teatowel over his shoulder, waving wildly at me, signalling that I must not offer to go.
‘Carol, there’s no way I can change the schedule. Not unless it’s a case of life and death. We’re already over a day behind and the forecast for the rest of the week is rain, rain and more bloody rain.’
‘Hair in the gate!’
‘Oh, shit, I don’t believe it! Hang on, Carol.’ I hear him fiddling with the radio. ‘Tim, Tim, can you hear me? What’s going on over there with the stock? That’s the third fucking hair in the gate this afternoon! Tim, Tim, can you … Carol, I’m going to have to call you back. Stay where you are, OK?’
‘Laurence, I’d like to speak to Paddy. Please could you ask him to call me when he has a break?’
‘He’s … Yeah, OK, I’ll give him your message. I have to go. Tim, Tim?’ And the line goes dead.
Chris is hovering at my side. I don’t look up. ‘I’ve asked the director, Paddy, to call me, but it does sound rather tense up there, and I feel sure that I’ll have to go,’ I explain. ‘I won’t need to leave till lunchtime tomorrow, so … I’ll be fine by then.’
‘No!’ he all but yells at me.
‘Please, don’t shout.’
‘Well, tell them the truth! It’s only a telly film, Carol. They can change the shooting schedule if they have to.’ But he doesn’t believe his own words. An actor himself, he knows that when the cameras roll, for those involved during those few intense weeks the film takes on a paramountcy, an aggrandised significance, that outstrips life or, in this case, death.
When Paddy returns my call, which, surprisingly, he does rapidly, he sounds frazzled and as though the very last thing he needs is a problem with the leading actress. ‘What is it, darling?’ he demands wearily.
‘I’ve … lost … a baby, Paddy.’ I am met with silence, and so I hurry on. ‘I had a miscarriage in the early hours of this morning and … and I was wondering if …’
I hear him drag on his cigarette, the deep tiredness in the exhalation of his breath and the unspoken accusation: why didn’t you tell me when I cast you that you were pregnant?
‘All right, I’ll speak to Laurence. But the weather forecast is lousy. We’ll have to shoot interiors for the rest of the week, and that means you, I’m afraid, darling. In any case John, who’s arriving tomorrow, is only contracted to us for the second half of this week. He has another shoot to go on to and I’ve got to release him on time. It was always going to be tight fitting in his dates, and now, with this bloody weather and the damaged film stock … I’ll ask Laurence. I am sure that he will say the same, but we’ll see what we can do. He’ll call you later.’ And again the line goes dead. By now I am regretting that I ever mentioned anything.
Chris persuades me to sleep, and it is while I am sleeping that the message comes through: I must return to work. The alternative seems to be that the shoot stops and it – me – becomes an insurance claim. I persuade both Chris and myself that I am fine, that by tomorrow I will have rested and will be raring to go. Now my friend tries to talk me into telephoning Richard, which I adamantly refuse to do.
‘And you still haven’t spoken to Michel. He has to know, Carol.’
This does it, this breaks me. It takes me out of the realm of the functional, dealing with my professional life, into the fragile, more vulnerable world of what has been taken away, what is no longer the future, our future, and the fact that Michel does not know yet. He is going about his Australian day – possibly getting out of bed as I think these thoughts, which makes it the ideal moment to speak to him – cherishing the knowledge that he is soon going to be father to his third daughter, and our first child. Outside, in the grimy city, evening is beginning to fall. I hear the horns of frayed drivers attempting to motor home, to make it beyond the grill and fumes, the roars and disappointments of the city. And I am suddenly exhausted. How I long to return to Appassionata, to hide myself away, to lick my wounds, lose myself in that landscape, shelter beneath olive trees. I assure my friend that he has done everything and more and that now I shall sleep.
‘I can kip down here on the sofa if you like,’ he offers.
I shake my head and stand up to see him out. The room spins but I manage to keep steady as I wrap my arms around him. ‘You’re a real pal,’ I whisper. ‘Thank you.’
‘Call Michel,’ he states. I nod into his woollen-sweatered shoulder. ‘And if you need me, you know where I am. I wish you wouldn’t go …’
‘Sssh,’ I say. ‘Thank you for being here.’ And he leaves me with a tender kiss on my forehead.
Before falling into bed I telephone Michel. His frame of mind is upbeat and energetic; things are going very well. He has negotiated a couple of very good sales, and one of the networks has watched the promo reel he sent on ahead of the animation film he has been working on with Serge and they have expressed a commitment as co-production partners. ‘They love it,’ he says. ‘I’ve been running to and fro from their studios over on the north shore to their bank in the city and back to Elizabeth Bay. The weather is wonderful. A real balmy Sydney morning. Hard to believe it’s early winter here. The only thing missing is you.’ I listen to his positive mood and decide against mentioning anything of what has happened. There is nothing he can do. The knowledge will only cause him pain; he will begin to worry about me instead of paying attention to his work and, though I hate to deceive him, I cannot bear to trouble or frustrate him. We say ‘Goodnight,’ and ‘Have a great day,’ and I set the alarm so that I will be up in time to pack my travelling bag.
When I arrive in Birmingham it is evening; a howling wet evening. The chill wind burns blisteringly sharp against my skin as I hurry from taxi to hotel, where a teenage receptionist hands me my key.
‘Is there a call sheet waiting?’ I ask her.
She checks the message-box and shakes her head.
‘Do you know if they’ve wrapped?’
‘Wrapped?’ she repeats, having not comprehended the question.
‘Are the others back from the set yet?’
‘I haven’t seen anyone.’
‘Has Mr Dunmore checked in yet?’
She fingers through a guest list and confirms that there is a reservation for a Mr Dunmore but that, as far as she knows, he has not checked in and that, in any case, he is not due in today.
Puzzled, I nod my thanks and take the lift to my room, where I set down my luggage, draw the curtains to darkness and curl up on the spacious bed. When I wake it is after nine. I rise and go to the door feeling certain that the third assistant will have slipped my call sheet under it. There is nothing. Concerned, I call reception. No call sheet has been left for me. Laurence is not staying at this hotel so I ring his mobile. He is in the production office somewhere across town. They wrapped late and he is still working.
‘I haven’t received my call yet for the morning,’ I tell him.
‘Oh, hi, Carol. There’s no call sheet for you because you’re not working tomorrow. We’ve had a hell of day and lost another four hours. We’ve been landed with faulty stock. I don’t know how many duff gates we’ve had since yesterday. Paddy is blowing his top.’
‘Am I on standby, or …’
‘No, you’re free. We definitely won’t get to you.’
‘May I go back to London?’
‘No, I’d rather you stayed. The schedule’s all up in the air. You just never know.’
But John’s not here, I am thinking, and the greater proportion of my remaining scenes are with him. Still, I decide not to argue the point.
And so the following day I rest in my room. And the next day, and the day after that. It is now the end of the week and I haven’t seen a soul in days. If I had returned to London, even to Appassionata, no one would have noticed. Time drags and there is nothing to do but go back over my script time and time again, take the lift to reception, poke my head into the bar and scan the dimly lit interior for other bored actors, or walk the drizzling streets of Birmingham. I promise myself matinée visits to the local cinema to cheer myself up but find myself sleeping the afternoons away, waking after harrowing dreams. I grow depressed. Very depressed. My mood is bleak and empty and my life feels directionless, pointless even. I call Richard, who says that mood swings are to be expected; they are nothing to be concerned about. Even so, he insists that I make an appointment to see him before I fly back to France and I agree to call him when I return to London. I still haven’t broken the news to Michel and now I feel unable to do so. I decide that it must wait until we are together again. But the withholding is weighing heavily on me, exacerbating my negative frame of mind.
Finally, I am called to the set, where I learn that during my absence there appears to have been a ‘minor’ change of the artistic interpretation of the nature of my role.
The character I am playing is an adulteress. She is a glamorous and enigmatic figure as well as being a capricious wife who is betraying her husband (played by Den) with one of their neighbours. This morning we are scheduled to shoot the love scene between the neighbour (played by John) and myself in the ‘kitchen set, John’s house’. I doubt that any woman who has recently miscarried a much-longed for baby feels good about herself or her body – there are many insecurities, both physical and psychological – and I have not even begun to address these issues rising within me. To act out the motions of lovemaking in front of a camera not five feet away at a moment when you are as vulnerable as this calls for technique, skills, tricks. Actors are schooled at revealing their secret hearts, albeit wrapped in the flimsy mask of character, but there are times when you ask yourself whether you are capable of getting out there and performing.
This morning I need to create the illusion of wellbeing, or as the French so succinctly describe it, être bien dans la peau, and an actor’s trick I frequently use when a situation requires it is to pick a song and sing or hum it to myself over and over, to try to call up a particular frame of mind, a mood, to replicate an emotional state. So here I am, alone in my dressing room, staring blindly at my well-thumbed script, bottling up a swell of negative emotions, humming ‘These Foolish Things’, attempting to recreate from memory Oscar Peterson’s mellow rendition of this melody. It is a tune that never fails to make me feel feminine, sentimental and in the mood for love or, at least, a little cheek-to-cheek affection. Alas, not this morning. This morning my libido has gone underground.
A knock on the door is followed instantly by the bustling entrance of Tina, my dresser, with an armful of costumes: freshly washed tights and a black nylon negligée and matching housecoat, complete with bows and frills, pressed and ready on coathangers. ‘The black nightwear is not mine,’ I say casually to this young girl, whose job it is to look after me and see to my costumes and requirements.
‘Yes it is,’ Tina states emphatically. Confused, I request a brief word with the costume designer.
It appears a new twist has been thought up during my days away. So explains the designer to me when she appears in my dressing room.
‘Which is?’
‘Are neighbour and wife really at it? Or does the affair exist only in the distorted mind of the husband?’ Much of the plot hangs around this question, it now seems, and, in order to underline the torment of the character of the leading actor (Den), the director has decided that he wants to overplay the love scene between myself and the neighbour to ‘draw out the eroticism, not to say bestiality’, to play up the torturous pictures in the head of the husband. ‘Paddy came up with the idea a couple of days ago, didn’t he mention it?’
Speechless, I shake my head.
‘This black number’s a bit in-your-face, I know, darling. Not quite the character we’ve been drawing with the other outfits, but you mustn’t be concerned. It is sexy, in its way. You’ll look fabulous in it. I’ve been watching the rushes; you’re glowing. You’re pregnant, aren’t you?’
My heart feels as though it has just been knifed.
‘Is that why your husband turned up with those roses? I’ve been telling everyone. How romantic can you get? No one’s ever done such a thing for me.’
I am choking back the tears which threaten to send rivulets of black mascara streaming down my face.
‘Don’t be upset about the cozzie. You look a bit tired, darling, are you OK? It’s all that hanging about in that bloody awful hotel. What a dump that place is. Have you eaten there? Don’t, and don’t worry. Sue in make-up’ll soon put you right. Do you want me to fetch Paddy?’
I consider this, and then before I can give a decision, or even gather words from out of my choked emotions, there is another knock on my dressing-room door.
‘Who is it?’ It’s the designer asking. She can clearly see that I am utterly devastated, and though amazed that a costume should reduce anyone to such misery, she decides to speak up for me.
‘It’s John.’
The actor playing my supposed lover, the neighbour in the piece, is a pal, though we haven’t seen one another for donkey’s years. We were at drama school together, along with Chris, and then, eighteen months or so later, we were both offered a year’s contract at the same provincial repertory theatre. Far from London, in a distant unknown northern city, we shared a flat together. It was a rambling, Victorian space which neither of us could afford, but we had great fun together. So, although we have not actually set eyes on one another for the best part of fifteen years, there is a bond between us that goes back to those special days of studentship and actor internship when we were soft at the edges, when one is so open to new friendships, when life promises dreams for the taking, and we were intent on stardom.
‘Come in,’ I manage.
The door opens and in walks a successful, well-fleshed-out forty-something man, equally handsome, equally prepossessing, with those honey-warm eyes, but long ago gone is that shy, soft-voiced juvenile with his floppy scarves, shoulder-length hair and well-worn sneakers. We fall into one another’s arms, hugging tightly, shouting exuberantly. As actors do.
The designer exits discreetly, saying she’ll catch up with me before we shoot.
‘Has he told you what he wants?’ John asks when we finally disengage. I shrug, dreading what’s to come. ‘He wants, and I quote, “raw lust, bestiality, darling”.’ John begins to giggle.
I try not to expose the insecurities welling within me. I know that I am not called upon to actually desire John, which I don’t, nor have I ever, though I adore him and find him gorgeous, but it would spice up and authenticate the scene we are about to be expected to perform in front of the camera if I felt good about myself and capable of exuding a little passion.
John laughs at my downturned face.
I try to disguise the troubles flipping through my mind. ‘He’s chosen a costume. I wasn’t even here …’
‘Hey,’ says John, wrapping a firm arm about my shoulder. ‘I’ve never known something as trivial as a cozzie get you down. If it’s “raw lust” he wants, honey, you and I can provide it. You’re not to fret.’ And with that he brushes a light kiss against my hair and disappears from my dressing room, leaving me alone in a very empty and unexpectedly alien environment.
When the third assistant’s knock on the door comes, panic rises. I fear that I cannot step outside the hidden harbour of that space, let alone reveal this outfit before approximately forty predominantly male crew members. Beneath a floor-length dressing gown of my own is the horrendous and deeply unflattering negligée. But the job demands it. I take a deep, deep breath, and out I go.
Once on the set, there is a tense wait while some technical problem is addressed. Sue, my make-up artist, is tinkering with my hair and chattering away while I stew silently, desperate to fall upon a solution which will not cause a fuss. I catch sight of Paddy pacing up and down, glowering at his watch and casting malevolent glances in the general direction of the electrics lads, who appear to be responsible for whatever has caused this latest delay. Alone on a chair, in an unlit corner, behind our fulminating director, sits John, browsing through a newspaper.
In an instant I decide to take the bull by the horns. I leave my seat and hurry across to him. Blurting out to him the bare bones, a potted version of my history over these last few days, I plead for his support and then, to emphasise my case, I untie my dressing gown and reveal the deeply vulgar outfit. John lifts both hands to his face to mask a grimace of theatrical horror.
‘Leave it to me,’ he whispers conspiratorially.
The upshot is that I am led away to shed the scantily clad look and change into a frock and high heels. The scene is then rehearsed in a closed set. With the lights and cameras ready to shoot, the enactment of our illicit passion for one another is played out on the kitchen table. I hate every second of it. Limbs entangled, we huff and puff like creatures in the zoo as we are obliged to exaggerate our carnal cries and heavy breathing. Still, only a moderate amount of flesh is exposed, far less than had been threatened, and John gallantly shields my vulnerability. After the scene has been completed from all of its various angles we are both wrapped, given the all-clear, and we leave the location together to be driven back to the hotel, where we order a bottle of good wine and settle down to catch up on long-lost friends and gossip. I can relax now, knowing that I have few scenes left to shoot and the worst is over.
Back in London, two things are uppermost in my mind: my appointment with Richard and then, once I have been assured that all is well, my safe and speedy return to Appassionata to await the homecoming of Michel and the breaking of news I have postponed too long. Richard agrees to see me at his clinic in Harley Street on the day I telephone. The examination is brief and straightforward. Afterwards, he leads me through to his capacious consulting room.
‘Well, the good news is that no infection has set in and you are healing nicely.’ He smiles, pausing to rest his hands on his desk; he glances at my file in front of him though I can see that he is not reading it but merely fiddling with it and shifting it a centimetre or two. His manner alarms me.
‘What caused the miscarriage?’ I ask ‘Was it the amniocentesis?’
He shakes his head. ‘No, I am quite certain that the amniocentesis was not responsible, or you would have aborted sooner. A foetal cardiac arrest is my belief. There are signs of intraventricular haemorrhage.’ He pauses again. A frown creases his forehead and I can see that he is weighing his words with care.
‘Is there something else?’
‘As I said, you are healing, but …’
This hangs in the air between us as he slowly shifts his gaze from the table to fix it on me.
‘But?’ I inhale, mouth dry, heart beating fast.
‘I suspect another pregnancy might be out of the question.’
‘We will wait,’ I butt in. ‘I know that Michel …’
His eyes, those blue-grey eyes set in a handsome, youthful, public-school face, remain concentrated on me. ‘It’s not a question of waiting. Yes, I would have advised a physical rest of, say, three to six months, but the case is slightly different here. You have a history of miscarrying. Still, until now, I have always held firmly to the belief that with rest and no pressure you would be able to carry a child through its term. I fear that may no longer be the situation. My belief is that it is not possible for you to carry a child the full term. You can conceive, that is not the difficulty, but any conceived foetus will sooner or later abort itself.’
I am stunned. The blow all but paralyses me, arresting my breath as though my life were hanging in the balance. In one clean swoop, dreams have been demolished. My head flops backwards and I exhale slowly, as though expelling from my mind, body, respiratory system the seed of such a prognosis. Eyes staring ceilingwards, determined against tears, against the rising hot anger, I resolutely examine the white cornicework, the central rose, and then I try to speak. I want to ask him if there is anything to be done, but my voice breaks mid-sentence; I bite back the swelling emotion, unable to continue. I am staring at a pair of clasped hands, mine, resting in my lap. A tear falls and wets my finger.
‘Before you leave – when are you going? – before you do, I’d like you to see two of my colleagues … Or you might want to consider adoption?’ He waits, and then, ‘I could put you in touch with a therapist who …’
I shake my head.
‘Well, I’ll organise the two appointments, and let’s wait to hear their diagnoses. Who knows, my colleagues may disagree. There is always the possibility that I am wrong.’