Before You Go Page 20

  ‘Me?’

  ‘Well, only if you feel up to it.’

  ‘Yeah, OK. I’d love to. And let’s face it, I can’t do a worse job than you’ve been doing.’

  ‘Good point well made, my friend.’

  Jane always chooses someone gorgeous, but they usually turn out to be boring or self-obsessed or skint, or all three. I know I can find her someone better. And if nothing else, it feels great to be thinking about something other than me and my weird second life.

  Jane grabs her laptop from the kitchen counter and plonks herself back next to me on the sofa. The dating website loads and she clicks on the new messages. We read them together, rolling our eyes and giggling. Then she passes the computer to me and lets me scroll through some of the men on here. I read their profiles in amazement.

  I love taxidermy, I hope you do too. He was surrounded by stuffed animals. Ew.

  I’m in prison for fraud. A real catch.

  I’m a naturist and spend most of my time naked. If you also prefer to be unencumbered by clothes then you’re the girl for me! I laugh out loud.

  ‘What? Let me see.’ Jane’s trying to see the screen but I hold it away from her.

  ‘No, I’m choosing, you have to be patient.’

  ‘But you’re taking ages.’

  ‘Do you want me to find you the man of your dreams, or not?’

  ‘Yes, but quickly.’

  I giggle, and carry on reading.

  A few minutes later I stop. ‘Got it. This is the man for you.’

  Jane peers at the picture and wrinkles her nose. ‘But . . . he’s skinny.’

  ‘He is not skinny, he’s just not built like a brick shithouse – and you have to read his profile before you decide you don’t like him. Anyway,’ I add, ‘you said I could pick someone for you to go on a date with, so you have to at least give it a go.’

  Sighing dramatically, Jane grabs the laptop and reads the profile of ‘Jamie, thirty-eight, from London.’ He’s slim, and is wearing glasses. But he looks sweet, and he sounds fun.

  When she’s finished reading she looks at me. ‘OK, I’ll ask him for a date,’ she says. ‘But I’m not promising to fall in love with him.’

  I roll my eyes. ‘Give the guy a chance,’ I say, and grab the laptop back and type out a message to Jamie, then press Send. ‘Right, done,’ I announce, clicking the mouse with a flourish. ‘No backing out now.’

  ‘OK, OK. Bloody nag. Wish I’d never suggested it.’

  ‘Want to make a bet that not only do you like him, but that you go on a second date?’

  ‘You’re on,’ she says, and we shake hands firmly. I hope I get to find out how it goes.

  And as I say my goodbyes a few minutes later and get ready to head back to see Ed and face the music at the fertility clinic, I realize how happy I am for the first time in ages. It feels so good to have spent some time with Jane, talking about something other than babies. It’s made me feel normal, and it’s felt great to be so close to my best friend again.

  I vow to do it more often.

  Ed clutches my hand tightly as we sit side by side on the bus on the way to the fertility clinic that afternoon, in silence. My whole body is rigid, tense, as I stare blindly out of the window; the sky is dark grey and getting darker, threatening snow. I hope it’s not a sign.

  There’s a low chatter around me, people getting on with their everyday lives. I envy them the normality. But I’m willing to bet there are people on this bus who would swap with me in a heartbeat if it meant they got the chance to see a lost loved one again. I tighten my grip on Ed’s hand even more, and he squeezes back.

  I don’t know whether the results we get today will be the same as last time. Last time we were left heartbroken when we were told the treatment hadn’t worked.

  And while my head is telling me that today won’t be any different, my heart is telling me something else entirely: that maybe, just maybe, I’ve made a difference. Maybe, this time, I might be pregnant.

  I shiver suddenly and am almost flung from my seat as the bus comes to a sudden stop with a squeal of brakes.

  ‘Shit.’ Ed clutches the pole next to him, his knuckles white. ‘Come on, this is our stop anyway.’ He stands and grabs my hand and I follow him from the bus, into the freezing air and on into the warmth of the hospital.

  Five minutes later we’re perched on hard plastic chairs, waiting to see the consultant. The days and weeks and months of pain and heartache have all led up to this moment, this brief appointment in this faceless brick building in the middle of London. It’s all about what happens in that room in a few moments’ time. That’s what will decide our fate, decide what is to come.

  And it’s no easier the second time around.

  I squeeze Ed’s hand and he turns to look at me and smiles thinly. He looks as terrified as I am, and my heart surges with pain for him.

  ‘You OK?’

  He nods briefly. ‘Scared.’

  ‘Me too.’

  We fall into silence again. The clock on the wall opposite ticks on endlessly and the silence stretches until the only thing it can do is break.

  And then it does.

  The wooden door is flung open and a familiar face – familiar to me, at least; not yet to Ed – peers round it.

  ‘Edward and Zoe Williams?’ he says, smiling warmly as we stand and follow him through the door. My legs feel wobbly as we walk into the room where I’ve spent many tense hours discussing options, shouting and crying, and I have to struggle to blink back the tears. The warm-yellow walls, the pot plants on the desk, the comfortable faux-leather armchairs in front of the wooden desk: it’s all in complete contrast to the rest of the sterile clinic, and the first time I saw it I was filled with hope. How could anything bad possibly happen here?

  I shiver and sit on the chair and turn to face the consultant, Mr Sherringham. He’s already sitting down, papers spread out on the desk in front of him, wiggling a pen between his thumb and fingertip. He smiles again, and I return it with a stiff, unconvincing smile. Ed’s face stays blank. Mr Sherringham leans forward and peers at the papers in front of him.

  ‘Hello, I’m Mr Sherringham.’ He coughs then holds out his hand and shakes ours warmly, one by one. We’re both quivering. Mr Sherringham glances back down at the papers in front of him, then looks at me, then at Ed. ‘OK, I’m not going to keep you in suspense any longer because I know how important this is to you. I have your results here and I’m afraid it’s not good news. You’re not pregnant.’

  He stops speaking and the silence that fills the room presses down on me until it feels as though my head is going to explode. I want to scream but it won’t come out. I hold my hand gently against my belly.

  Nothing has changed. So why does it hurt even more this time?

  I can’t do this any more. All the pain of the last few years comes flooding out; the pain of Ed dying, of the endless rows, of losing my friends and family to the all-consuming nightmare of fertility treatment. Of losing myself. The tears feel as though they’ll never stop.

  Ed kneels down and wraps his arms around me, and for a few minutes it’s as though we’re the only two people in the room. He’s crying too and our tears mingle and fall onto my lap, soaking through my jeans. The consultant stays quiet, letting us have these few moments to take in the news.

  Finally, though, he coughs gently and Ed pulls away. The sobs have subsided but my breathing is ragged, a sudden shaking of my chest taking me by surprise every few breaths. We both sit and look at Mr Sherringham.

  ‘I know how hard this is for you both,’ he says. His voice is soft, kind, which somehow makes it harder. ‘But it’s not the end of the road. There are still plenty more things we can try. We still have plenty of time.’

  His words are meant well but I feel angry. Because I know there isn’t plenty of time, not for us.

  ‘It is the end of the road. We’re never going to have a baby, it’s going to ruin my life. It’s going to ruin both our lives.
I—’ I stop, overwhelmed by tears again. Mr Sherringham hands me a box of tissues from his desk and I pull some out gratefully, pressing them to my swollen eyes. I daren’t look at Ed.

  ‘I’m sorry. I just – was hoping for more positive news.’ I wipe my nose and scrunch the tissue up in my fist.

  ‘I know, and so was I. We all were. I’m so sorry this hasn’t worked out for you this time. But I promise you I will do everything in my power to make sure that we get you the baby you long for.’

  ‘But . . . why has this happened?’ I ask.

  He shrugs. ‘I really can’t say for sure. We all knew, starting this, that there was only a small chance of success. I know that doesn’t make it any easier, but it doesn’t mean it can’t happen next time, or the time after that. We just have to take it a day at a time and find the best solution for you. And that’s what I’m here for.’

  He pauses, then starts again, a little uncomfortable this time.

  ‘You do know that any treatment you choose to have from this point you will have to pay for?’

  I glance at Ed and he nods tightly.

  ‘We’ll pay for whatever we need to.’

  I think about the thousands of pounds we’ll spend in the following few years and the problems it causes, and I want to shout out, ‘No, let’s save our money and forget it.’ Instead I just nod in agreement.

  ‘OK, so shall we talk about what happens next?’ Mr Sherringham says.

  ‘Yes please,’ Ed says. He looks at me and I give a small nod.

  But my mind is racing, wondering. Nothing has changed so far, at least not as far as I can see. But perhaps this could be my moment to do something; my chance to save years of heartache, to save our marriage. What if – and I can hardly believe I’m thinking this after everything we’ve been through – I put my foot down right now and say I’ve had enough; that I don’t want to keep trying for a baby any more? Would it make a difference?

  I have no idea.

  I feel dizzy and I focus on the clock above Mr Sherringham’s head, on the second hand, ticking steadily on and on. Ed and Mr Sherringham are discussing our options but I’m hardly listening to a word. All I can think about is that time is running out. That this could be my last chance.

  ‘No!’ It comes out as a shout, and I surprise even myself. Ed and Mr Sherringham stop dead, the hum of their conversation replaced by a tense, heavy silence. I can’t look at either of them so I continue to stare at the clock, the seconds ticking by monotonously.

  ‘What do you mean, no?’ Ed’s voice is sharp, shriller than usual.

  ‘I—’ What do I mean? ‘I just mean – I don’t think I can do this any more.’

  ‘Do what, Zoe?’ His voice has softened a little and I turn to face him, to look into his eyes, a paler, weaker blue than normal.

  ‘I don’t think I can go through endless rounds of this, Ed. It’s too much. It’s too painful, and it’s probably never going to work. I just think maybe we should stop.’

  He looks at me, silent for a moment. ‘But you promised, Zoe. This has been all you’ve wanted, we’ve wanted, for months now. You can’t give up after just one try.’ He looks at Mr Sherringham pleadingly, almost begging him for help.

  ‘Ed’s right, Zoe. This is just a blip. It doesn’t mean you won’t have a baby, it just means we’ve got to try a bit harder. It’s totally up to you, of course, but I suggest you two go away and have a chat about it, and we’ll talk again. How does that sound?’

  ‘Thank you. That sounds perfect. Zoe?’ Ed’s voice is cold again and I shiver.

  I don’t know what else to do. I’ve tried to stop this, to make a difference, but unless there’s a way of telling them that I know it’s never going to work, that this is going to tear us apart, how can I possibly explain what I mean? I can’t.

  The room starts to spin and I close my eyes, trying to shut it out. I lean forward, clutch my head between my hands and tip slowly forward. Then everything goes black.

  I get ready to open my eyes, expecting to see the doctor’s room with its dark, warm furniture, and Ed and Mr Sherringham staring at me, still waiting for my decision. I don’t want to do this.

  Finally, I flip my eyelids up, prepared.

  What I see takes me by surprise. I’m lying on a hard couch, staring at a white ceiling. There’s nothing remarkable about the ceiling. There’s a crack running from the small chandelier towards the door which peters out halfway between the two. It’s been painted over but I can still make it out through the layers of white emulsion. I flick my eyes towards the door and over the dark wood, down towards the floor, turning my head to take in more of the room.

  I don’t recognize it at all. I frown and turn my head slowly the other way; I almost fall off the couch. There’s a woman with her back to me in front of a window with its blind drawn, writing something on a piece of paper. She hasn’t seen me yet so I take the chance to study her more closely. Her curly, almost frizzy blonde hair spreads like a halo around her head, and every now and then her head bobs down towards the desk, making her hair sway gently. She’s wearing a starched white coat, and a pair of glasses are pushed onto the top of her head. Thick black tights and a pair of sturdy, chunky black shoes peek out from under her coat. I wonder who she is. I’m sure I’ve never seen her before and for a moment I wonder whether I’m back in the present and not reliving a day at all. But I shake that thought off before it even properly forms. I can’t be. I’m sure I’m in hospital in the present, and this definitely isn’t a hospital.

  So where the hell am I?

  I shift a little, trying to work out whether I should sit up. There’s a scratching feeling in my tummy, just above my belly button, and I wince. Hearing my intake of breath the woman turns round, pulling her glasses back down as she does so. She smiles.

  ‘How are you doing?’ she says, her voice soft.

  ‘Um, OK.’ My voice comes out thick and slurred, my tongue dry.

  She smiles again, revealing a slightly crooked front tooth. ‘You fell asleep so I was just writing some of your notes up.’ She indicates the pad in front of her, black pen scrawled across it in different columns. I can’t make any of it out.

  ‘The needles will be coming out in about – ’ she glances at her wrist – ‘five, six minutes. Are you still OK?’

  I nod, as realization dawns. I’m having acupuncture.

  She turns back to her desk and I let my head fall back into place again, staring at the crack in the ceiling, trying to get my thoughts under control.

  Everything is so confusing: this is something new, a day I’ve never experienced before. I’ve never had acupuncture; did I take Jane’s advice and give it a try? Very possibly. Which means something has changed! My heart soars.

  I can’t explain why I’m here and not back in the consultant’s room, but I don’t care any more, because this is proof that I’m doing the right thing; that changing things can make a difference.

  Which means I can still save Ed.

  ‘Right, let’s get these out of you.’ The woman – I wish I knew her name – walks to the foot of the couch and I feel a pinch in my ankle. Then she leans forward slightly and I feel another pinch in my tummy, followed by three or four more in quick succession. Each time I flinch, expecting pain but not knowing where it will be, and she smiles and apologizes in a whisper.

  ‘Right, that’s the lot,’ she says, gathering the needles together and covering me with a blanket. ‘How do you feel?’ She clasps her hands under her chin as she waits for me to answer, and I stare at her neat nails as I try to work out how I feel.

  ‘I’m OK, I think.’

  She nods briefly. ‘You’ll probably feel a bit strange for a few hours. But make sure you drink plenty of water to help your body in the healing process.’ She turns to her desk and picks up a piece of paper, glances at it briefly then replaces it. ‘Get up slowly and then come and take a seat here.’ She gestures to the padded chair next to hers.

  I sit up carefully, f
eeling a dull ache in my tummy where the needles have been, and blood rushes to my head. I grab the edge of the bed and swing my legs round, reach for the floor and perch on the chair she indicated. She sits down next to me and as she shuffles through her paperwork I glance at the walls, where framed certificates hang, gathering dust. ‘Elizabeth Penfold,’ says one. Her name is completely unfamiliar.

  At the sound of her voice I turn to face her. Her glasses have slipped to the end of her nose and she pushes them up, screwing up her nose a little as she does.

  ‘Right, well, firstly, well done on your first session.’ She smiles again and I smile back nervously. ‘From what I’ve seen this time your fallopian tubes were quite blocked. I’m hoping that what I’ve done today will have helped to clear them a little but you will need to come back regularly for it to make any real difference. How does that sound?’

  ‘Yes, great.’

  We arrange another appointment. I scribble the date in my diary wondering, briefly, whether I’ll actually go through with it; then we say our goodbyes and I leave.

  As I make my way home I glance at my phone to see what the date is. 19 December 2010. It’s nine days after the appointment with the consultant.

  Back home, I turn the key in the lock and seconds later Ed’s at the lounge door like an expectant puppy.

  ‘How did it go?’ He’s obviously desperate for good news and it almost breaks my heart.

  I drop my bag on the floor and shake myself out of my coat, hanging it carefully on the peg.

  ‘Fine. It was fine.’

  Ed waits, hoping for more. I sigh and look him in the eye.

  ‘Ed, it was fine, honestly. She said I need to keep going back for more treatments, and now I feel relaxed. And I need a coffee.’

  There’s nothing more I can tell him but I know he’s disappointed. He follows me into the kitchen and watches as I spoon coffee beans into the grinder. I press the button down and for a few seconds the room is filled with the sound of the beans churning round the machine. I release it and tip the coffee granules into the cafetière, breathing in the scent as I do.