Carmel is my boss. With a thin stern face, she resembles a humourless boarding school mistress from an old English novel. She has coffee breath, and whiskers on her chin, and spends most of her shifts pushing her cart around, huffing at people who ask for a recommendation. Carmel says our job is to stack books and help people with the photocopiers. (‘Libraries aren’t just about books,’ Carmel had said to me once, and I had laughed out loud. At least, unlike boarding school mistresses, she has a sense of humour.)
My old boss, Janet, had a round, smiling face, an enormous bosom and resembled a kindly matron looking after soldiers in a postwar infirmary. Janet had read every book in the library and told staff that our job was to be a frontline soldier in the war against illiteracy and lack of imagination. I told Carmel this once and she frowned at me as if she was trying to work out a complicated maths puzzle.
‘Fern?’ Carmel prompts. ‘Would you look at me, please?’
I keep my eyes on my computer and start typing quickly, as if I’m doing something so urgent I can’t possibly be interrupted, not even to respond to Carmel. This technique is successful about fifty per cent of the time. Not great odds, but I do find it cathartic, bashing at the keyboard, filling up the silence and expectation hovering over me. The silence stretches on until Gayle comes to my rescue: ‘Right! We don’t want to miss our booking, do we? Linda, grab Carmel’s bag.’
I keep typing. In my peripheral vision I see that Carmel keeps watching me for several seconds, but then, mercifully, Gayle sweeps her up in the flurry of people exiting and she is gone.
It is quiet in the library for the next hour, leaving me with some free time to do some research on the computer. I am an avid book enthusiast, but even I can admit that when it comes to research, you’d be hard-pressed to find a tool more useful than the internet. It’s been three days since Rose confided in me about her fertility issues, and twelve hours since she boarded a plane for London. I’ve used that time to conduct a thorough investigation into what is involved in having baby for your sister. As it turns out, there are numerous options available. You can be a surrogate, which means you use your own egg . . . or you can be a gestational carrier, which means you are implanted with an embryo conceived using a donor egg. If you are using your own egg, you can become pregnant using artificial insemination, where the sperm of the intended father is inserted into your body . . . or you can use in-vitro fertilisation, where the pre-fertilised egg is implanted. In some cases, the surrogate has sexual intercourse with the intended sperm donor, but this is exceedingly rare which is an enormous relief. As fond as I am of Owen, and as much as he’d likely prefer his own sperm to be used, the idea of having intercourse with him is startlingly unappealing.
After thinking long and hard and making a spreadsheet of the pros and cons of each option, I conclude that the simplest way to have Rose’s baby would be to become pregnant naturally by a man who isn’t Owen. This method would have no prohibitive costs, no medical treatment, no need for Rose or Owen to be involved at all. In fact, if I were to become pregnant quickly enough, I could even surprise Rose with news of my pregnancy upon her return from her trip to London! What a happy homecoming that would be! I would, of course, require a man to have intercourse with, but that shouldn’t be too difficult. By all reports, men are desperate for intercourse. Apparently, they can be found at nearly every bar and club, prowling for women to have no-strings-attached intercourse with. Unfortunately, I don’t go to bars or clubs. But surely men congregate in other places too.
I am still researching when the rest of the staff return from lunch, smelling of beer and garlic and talking several decibels louder than before they left. I continue my research a little longer as, judging by the way everyone makes themselves scarce, they aren’t bothered by what I’m doing. Even Carmel and her ever-present cart are nowhere to be seen for most of the afternoon. Thus, I am knee-deep in research about an online dating app called Tinder when a patron appears at the desk.
‘I’m having some trouble with the printer.’
I hold back an eye roll. Ninety-nine per cent of front desk queries are about the printers and the photocopiers. The photocopier enquiries are the worst, as each patron is required to load up a beastly little card with coins and connect this card to their account, a process that precisely no-one, including myself, knows how to do successfully. As such, I prefer not to engage with those kinds of queries. Not only do I not understand them, they bore me in the most indescribable way. Lately, whenever a patron has a query about the printers or the photocopiers, I pretend I hear someone calling me and excuse myself. I am about to do exactly that when I recognise the person’s accent and perfect enunciation.
‘Wally!’ I cry.
He smiles, albeit a reserved sort of smile, and I find myself taken by his teeth. Straight, white and even teeth. There are no bits of food stuck around the gum line . . . he appears to care for his teeth the way he does his fingernails. If I had noticed these teeth the other day, I would never have mistaken him for homeless (though he is still wearing the hat and the ill-fitting jeans).
‘Still wearing the hat, I see.’
Wally pauses, touches the hat, as if checking it’s still there. ‘Er . . . yeah.’
His tone indicates mild offence. It’s astonishing what can be offensive to people. For example, apparently it is the height of rudeness to ask someone his or her age or weight, which makes absolutely no sense. Why be mysterious about something that is quite literally on display for all to see? And yet, these rules exist, and everyone seems to understand what they can and can’t ask. Everyone except me.
‘You’re American,’ I say, hoping that this is a) not offensive, and b) a distraction from the hat comment.
Wally merely nods. His gaze, like last time, lands just over my left shoulder. I actually don’t mind this. Some people can be so hungry for eye contact, it’s a relief to be able to look away.
‘What brings you to the land of Oz?’ I ask. I’m quite pleased with this comment, the casual whimsy of it, but Wally does not look charmed.
‘My mother was Australian,’ he says. ‘My father is American. I’m a dual citizen.’ He pushes his glasses up his nose. He’s quite handsome, in an odd sort of way. It’s not a surprise that I’ve only just noticed – it often takes me a while to realise someone is handsome. Rose laughed herself stupid recently when I commented that Bradley Cooper wasn’t bad looking in A Star Is Born. (‘You’ve only just noticed this?’ she said, wiping her eyes. Frankly, I thought it was far more laughable the way most people made snap judgments without taking time to consider why they felt that way.)
Gayle chooses this moment to arrive at the desk beside me and ask Wally if there’s anything she can do to help. Usually, I am very grateful when Gayle comes to my rescue, but today I am frustrated because it reminds the man why he approached the desk in the first place.
‘Ah, yes,’ he says, directing his enquiry to me once again. ‘The printer.’
‘Have you tried pressing “Print”?’ I am unable to conceal my boredom.
‘Yes.’
‘And have you checked you are connected to the correct printer? Each one has its number printed on a laminated document on the wall.’