‘I look like shit,’ he says, Theo leans his head against the mirror and closes his eyes.
‘You’ve looked better.’
‘I need a new job,’ he says, ‘I need to move. I need a new life. And a new fucking family.’ He pauses, and then with an off-kilter smirk he adds, ‘I suppose I need a new girlfriend now, too.’ It’s the oddest, most telling thing he’s ever said and while I know none of those things will fill the space in his heart, I also know he needs to figure that out for himself.
Once the last of the boxes is loaded in the van, we say our final goodbye. When he hugs me, my strength fails and I cry.
‘I wanted to thank you,’ I blubber into his ear.
‘For what?’
I pull back so I can look him in the eyes.
‘When we met,’ I say, ‘I was so lost. So completely unsure of myself. Of my worth. And then you came along. And you made me feel strong and special and worthy of love.’
‘Oh, angel,’ says Theo, tears filling his eyes as he reaches out to touch my cheek, ‘you’re all of those things all by yourself. You always were.’
He pulls me towards him for another hug and we cry into one another’s necks, oblivious of the world around us or the people passing by, going about their ordinary days.
‘I really did love you, you know.’
I think it’s my use of the past tense that gets him because I feel his body jolt slightly in my arms and I know that’s it, the final straw, we’re done. He wipes his cheeks with the back of his hand, looks at me one last time and walks away.
As I step into the lift, my hand moves to my cheek, and finds the spot where Theo touched me just moments before. I think about what he told me. That I am all of those things, all by myself.
I catch my own reflection in the mirror now and I notice a hint of a smile. The face looking back at me is sad but resolute, maybe even hopeful.
When I get back upstairs I close the door behind me and this time I don’t allow myself to crumble. I walk straight to the kitchen, prepared to throw away the tea I made for us, and then I see it there, on the counter; I only made one cup of tea.
Pissing on Sticks
This morning I woke up, got in the shower, and vomited. I didn’t feel nauseous. I didn’t anticipate it at all. One second I was scrubbing shampoo into my hair, the next I was – involuntarily and rather violently – vomiting. It would have only happened once, I think, but the sight of last night’s lasagne mixed with foamy water as it swirled round the drain made my stomach turn and I threw up again.
Afterwards, I sat on the edge of my bed, wrapped in a towel, not shivering or shaking, showing no other signs of illness whatsoever. I checked my calendar to see when my next period was due. Three days ago.
Right.
I considered calling someone to talk it through. But who? My mother would get on the next plane to London, and I wasn’t quite ready for that; my friend Maya was at home caring for her six-month-old daughter, so discussing my options with her felt wrong somehow, and Theo was at a wedding in Devon. I hadn’t heard from him in almost twenty-four hours, which meant that he was nursing a fairly severe hangover this morning. The truth was I absolutely could call Theo; he just wasn’t the person I wanted to talk to.
I took a long, deep breath. This could be any number of things, I told myself. And yet …
I got dressed, shoved twenty quid in my back pocket and headed to the pharmacy. The nearest one was shut – in my haste I’d forgotten they close on a Sunday – so I kept walking for about fifteen minutes until I found another. I spent most of the brisk walk wondering how much a pregnancy test cost these days and whether or not £20 would cover it. It did, as it happens.
I approached the cashier with the same affected nonchalance of everyone who has ever bought a pregnancy test, condoms or lube, and wondered why, as a thirty-year-old woman, this was still the case. It’s the same feeling I get every time I walk through US border control; the last time I was asked about the reason for my visit to the States, I said, ‘Just for the craic like.’ The customs officer scowled at me and waved me through. Presumably, if one does intend to buy or sell crack cocaine, one does not announce that upon arrival.
The variety of pregnancy tests on offer was a bit overwhelming. I had chosen one with minimum bells and whistles – I wanted to keep this as simple as possible – and as I placed the blue-and-white box down on the counter, the cashier smiled an excited little smile at me. I gave her a half smile in return, then looked away, hoping to avoid as much of whatever this was as possible. Finally she handed me my change, but just as I turned to go she said, ‘Good luck.’
I pretended not to hear her.
Outside the pharmacy a young girl and her mother were sat eating ice creams. She wore a mint-green dress, her hair was caught up in a pile of wispy, blonde curls, and her little legs dangled lazily off the edge of the bench. She seemed entirely unaware of her mother’s ongoing efforts to catch dollops of ice cream from dripping into her lap. She was lovely, I thought.
That’s the problem with kids … they’re everywhere, and I’m hardwired to want one. I’m reminded of this every time I see one; their big eyes and cherub noses and chubby little limbs, all designed to make me want to protect and nurture them.
I know that my purpose on this planet is to make a child of my own, and that we are all programmed to procreate, but while men are meant to spread their seed, women are just walking, talking incubators. Which may sound flippant, but really I’m rather in awe of it all. A woman can manufacture inside of her another whole human being, with its own thoughts and fears and tiny toenails. I have the ability to create life, and from a young age, my body has been preparing itself for that eventuality; my boobs, my hips, my monthly mood swings, they’re all just part of The Plan. Capital T. Capital P.
Unfortunately, The Plan is not my plan. My plan involves a prosperous career, weekly trips to the cinema, impromptu holidays, dinner parties with friends and lots of sex. Oh, and regular lie-ins – a luxury reserved for the rich, the old and the unfertilised. I’d also like to keep all the other things you lose when you become a parent, including, but not limited to, your sanity.
The thing is, I’m not sure I don’t want children, I’m just not sure I do want children, and I think that anything short of a deep desire in your mind, body and soul to have one is not a good enough reason to do it. For a long time I avoided expressing my opinions on offspring. The phrase ‘I don’t want children’ is met with everything from confusion to hostility from other women, and there usually follows a sermon on the wonders of motherhood. I loathe the assumption that I will ‘come to my senses’ someday or – worse still – that my status as non-mother means I’m somehow lacking in emotional range; I was once accused, by another woman, no less, of being incapable of empathy because I don’t have kids. Clearly, that particular lady has a piss-poor grasp of human psychology, but it still stings a little to be seen as somehow impaired because I don’t want to have a baby.
And let me be clear, my body wants a baby; it’s my mind that’s the problem. I’ve cradled my newborn nieces in my arms, looked down at their tiny bodies – skulls still soft from birth – and craved a child of my own. It’s a craving more intense than any I’ve ever known, born from hundreds of thousands of years of evolution, and it intensifies as my window of opportunity grows shorter. To make matters worse, successfully resisting this craving does not bring with it the sense of pride or achievement you get from, say, resisting the urge to cheat on your partner or smoke another joint. Instead of feeling good about avoiding it, you are punished with feelings of guilt and failure. And these feelings are reinforced by stupid cunts who claim you can’t feel feelings without bearing babies.