KATE
A few nights later, I find myself at Rosie’s cottage, taking part in her Invisible Book Club. Turns out that’s quite a literal title, because there are no books involved at all. It’s more of a drinking-and-gossip club. All the women present have made a point of going into the bookshop to buy a novel, but so far, it seems that zero pages have been read.
It’s been a riotous night, filled with laughter and banter, warm and irreverent in the way that only a bunch of tipsy women seem able to be. It was nice, feeling part of their community, part of their world. I’m going to miss it all so much when I go back to London – which, now we’ve made such progress on the bookshop, is looming large and ugly on the horizon.
Everyone else has left, and Rosie and I are having a final drink for the road. I told her I’d just have a Baileys, and she emerged from the kitchen with a pint glass of the stuff.
‘This isn’t how Baileys is meant to be served,’ I say, taking a sip.
‘Who says? I don’t believe in half measures. I’d just have to keep getting up and down and going to the fridge again. Andthe kids are finally asleep, so I need a few more moments to recalibrate.’
Rosie has three children, Laurel, who is fifteen, Sam, who is ten, and six-year-old Charlie. Charlie was the one who kept trying to join in with the book club, appearing at the doorway in his cute little dinosaur pyjamas, hair ruffled, clutching a copy ofWhere’s Wally?
The last time was only a few minutes ago, and he was so sleepy his eyes were almost shut. He just wanted to be part of the fun, I guess.
‘They’re lovely kids,’ I say, smiling at the memory. Rosie is amicably divorced, her ex sharing custody, and seems perfectly content with her busy life.
‘Aye, they are that,’ she says, swooping her red hair away as it accidentally dips into her Baileys. ‘Little terrors, mind.’
I can see her biting back the question, the one that women of my age get asked with regularity. I could easily skip over this part, but I remind myself that I have nothing to be ashamed of. It’s not my fault. It’s not a moral failing, and it’s something that lots of people deal with. Except years with Harry have worn me down, and I’m only just persuading myself that everything in the world isn’t my fault.
‘I, uh, I can’t have children,’ I say briskly. A look of sympathy flickers across her face, but is quickly replaced with a matter-of-fact nod.
‘I see,’ she replies, leaving it at that. I gulp down a bit of Baileys. ‘Do you want to talk about it?’
I’m not entirely sure if I do or not, but Rosie has this way about her – she comes across as nosy but kind, which is a winning combination in an interrogator.
‘I think the phrase was “inhospitable womb”, or something like that.’
‘Really?’ she says, eyebrows arching. ‘That sounds very Victorian! Did the docs not come up with any suggestions?’
I take a deep breath, and try not to let myself slip into the abyss. It wasn’t a pleasant time in my life, and revisiting it hurts. But as I’ve been learning since I’ve been here, ignoring things and hoping they go away isn’t the way forward. Dragging them out into the light is.
‘Well, it wasn’t that simple, Rosie. We’d been trying for a while, and when I raised getting some help, Harry – my ex – looked into it. He was like that, you know, always the one doing the research and making the decisions? Anyway. He basically said the first and least intrusive test was for him to have his, uh, stuff looked at.’
‘Aye. Wank in a wee cup, did he?’
I have to laugh. ‘Yes! And then I also went in and they took a look, which is always fun – a stranger having a rummage in your vagina. So, a few weeks later, Harry called them for the results – this was just before lockdown as it happens, when going into a hospital had started to feel wrong. The results came back that he was fine, that he had super-duper sperm, obviously. As for me… not so good.’
I haven’t told very many people this – I don’t have many to tell, for one thing – and it isn’t easy. But I know Rosie’s concern is genuine, and I’m grateful for the moment. It’s nice to feel able to open up, and even nicer to have someone I trust to open up to.
‘Then things got a bit chaotic. My grandma was ill, and there was a pandemic coming, and it all felt insane didn’t it? I was so busy and stressed, getting everything in place for her, worried sick about what might happen if I couldn’t get to see her every day… I was glad, in a way, that I had Harry to deal with the fertility stuff. It made sense – he worked in medical sales, and knew people, and knew the lingo, and I suppose there was only so much I could handle.’
She nods, no judgement on her face. That’s okay – as ever, I have enough judgement for two anyway.
‘Then Harry and I were stuck at home, and the healthcare system was imploding, and my gran was declining, and… in all honesty, the cracks started to appear in our marriage. Every time I raised it later, talked about seeing more specialists, looking at alternatives, even considering adoption, he deflected. I can’t even say I pushed that hard, because I knew, deep down, that things between us weren’t right. It took him having an affair to finally break us up, but I knew… and I suppose I didn’t want to bring a child into that world, you know?’
‘I do,’ she says kindly. ‘People seem to think that having a baby will solve their problems, but in my experience, it sometimes makes them worse. Sure, it can be a glue that holds you together for a while, but it’s not a cure-all. It’s hard work, and if you’re not in it together, it’s even harder. It was not long after Charlie was born that me and his dad split up. I love my kids dearly, but sometimes motherhood feels like you’re at the zoo, they’re all monkeys, and every one of them is throwing poo at you. And Kate – having kids is not the only thing in the world a woman can do.’
I know she’s right, but I also still don’t feel it in my heart. I still get sad in the quiet moments, when I wake up in the early hours, alone and melancholy. I imagine what life would be like with my own child. I feel the emptiness of wanting something that I can never have.
She takes one look at the tears swimming in my eyes, and says: ‘Get that Baileys down you – because that really is a cure-all! Everything looks better when you’re a wee bit pished! Anyway. On to more pleasant subjects. What’s Brody like in bed? I bet he’s a tiger!’
I choke on my booze, and splutter out a laugh. She deliberately waited until I was drinking to say that, I know she did.
Once I’ve recovered I blush, and wonder how much I can say without feeling like I’ve crossed a line. Girl talk is one thing, but Brody would not thank me for kissing and telling.
‘Um, I have no complaints,’ I say simply, shrugging. She looks disappointed and was obviously hoping for more detail.
