The year before, she had tried to grow flowers from seeds and bulbs. A complete failure. Not a single sunflower had grown from the seeds. There had been the odd cranky tulip but that was it. “Just don't take it personally,” was Anthony's consoling phrase, though Claire couldn't help but feel that nature was somehow turning against her. Her body didn't work as it should and she wondered, as she looked at the dazzling display of colours before her, how long those plants would look like that before they started to fade away.
Anthony's face appeared behind the kitchen window. He waved at her; he always did that, even when he came out a second later.
“Sadie just called; she's coming a bit earlier,” he said, embracing her from behind. “She wants to help me with the sangria.”
“Sure, what do you think of the garden?”
“Very colourful,” he said, holding her tight. The narrow border was so cramped with vivid yellows, blues and reds, a sea of colour, that it actually looked quite striking. She was sweating, covered in soil, her hands black from the earth. She said she was desperate for a shower.
“You can shower later,” he said, pressing his crotch against her, teasing her earlobes with his teeth, giving her goosebumps.
“Sadie could ring the doorbell any minute,” she said, knowing what he was up to but realising, if any- thing, it only made it more exciting. He pushed her forwards into the kitchen. She couldn't see his face but felt his fingers skillfully opening her trousers and undoing the hooks of her bra. Her body smelt of damp earth and salt. Looking down she could see the white skin of her breasts. The hard, warm flesh of his penis entering her from behind, she held on to the kitchen counter and listened to his moaning.
She welcomed this sudden outburst of passion. It hadn't happened very often lately. The whole babymaking business was quite a turn-off, especially as it didn't work. It was neither making love nor fucking; it was a third category altogether. An awkward mechanical meeting of two bodies for a very unsexy purpose. The hypnosis teacher had told her to visualise the sperm swimming up the uterus into the fallopian tubes. Claire couldn't think of anything less erotic. Miss Zelda had warned them it could take the fun out of it. In hindsight Claire thought that was putting it mildly. She should have been honest and told them that on the way to getting pregnant they might just get bored to death.
This time Claire didn't think anything and didn't care whether his sperm was swimming somewhere or just dripping out. Normally she would lie down on the bed for half-an-hour afterwards, a pillow propped up under her bum. On finishing, they didn't even look at each other; he just gave her a pat on her buttock and Claire hurried up to the bathroom to finally take her shower.
When she came down 20 minutes later, her hair still wet, Sadie and Anthony were cutting up fruit. Sadie was standing at the kitchen counter, right where they had just sex; Claire wondered whether she had any inkling of that. Anthony certainly looked the part with his tousled hair and half of his shirt hanging out of his jeans. It was also the wide grin on Sadie's face that made her wonder.
“Hi gorgeous. So nice of you to have everyone over for a barbecue,” she said, giving her a kiss on the cheek.
“It's called a window of opportunity. From next week it will probably be raining for the rest of the year,” Claire said, popping a slice of orange into her mouth. Sangria. It was Sadie's idea. Since she'd been in Jerez on holiday she was raving about Spanish food. She had brought them sherry vinegar and chorizo that was still in the fridge.
“Where is Paolo?” Claire asked while pouring red wine into a big plastic bowl.
“Still teaching. He might come later. Why, do you fancy him?”
“Of course. Who doesn't.”
Sadie always asked her whether she fancied her new boyfriends, and Claire always gave the same answer. It was one of their little rituals. Claire watched her cut- ting an apple into slices. Outlined against the evening sun, her shoulder-length auburn hair was glowing. A delicately crafted dragonfly charm was sitting in the little triangle on top of her cleavage. Sadie only wore jewellery from her own vintage shop. She was telling them about this actress who'd came in with a pug puppy and how everyone went “ahh” and “ooh, how cute” until the puppy lifted its leg, peeing on a 700 quid dress. Of course the actress paid the 700 quid, Sadie added, smiling. She'd had a good day. Since her shop appeared in fashion magazines she had a colourful clientele, from models to rock stars, and her shop had turned into a little goldmine.
Sam and Christine arrived. Claire could hear them parking their bike in front of the house. Peering through the lattice window to the street, she saw their feet on the pavement.
Anthony went upstairs to let them in while Claire rushed into the garden to arrange the folding chairs around the table; it would be light until late. She liked this time of the year around midsummer, when the daylight didn't give way but swallowed the evening hours. The windows and doors of houses were wide open; she could hear the voices of the neighbours. Everyone was out in their gardens and backyards. Soon their barbecue would be ready and the smell of coal and burnt meat would fill the air.
Behind the wall the neighbour's two little boys were playing football. The soles of their trainers were squeaking on the paving, the ball smacking against the wall. Their mother was shouting something from inside. Laughter. Claire wondered what it was like being that mother, seeing her own boys running around, sweaty and red-faced. Their endless energy around her like something electric, something supercharged, something that made her shout and her voice sound out of breath even though she was probably just standing at the kitchen sink. A door shut and it suddenly went quiet behind the wall, as if a light switch had been turned off.
As she turned back to her own garden, they came, one after another. Sam and Christine were inspecting the area. “It's bigger then ours,” Christine said.
“No, it's not; it's exactly the same size,” Sam insisted. This was the kind of conversation Claire didn't know until she came to London, where every inch of property could be the subject of hour-long discussions. Questions like, âHow many bedrooms do you have?' were asked with the greatest interest and concern.
“Whatever, it's tiny,” Claire said. “In Berlin you could have a mansion and your own cook for that kind of money.” They both looked at her startled, like she had just snatched away a great opportunity from in front of their noses.
Anthony appeared, armed with a pair of tongs to tackle the barbecue, and he had a concentrated expression on his face. It was as if they were still cave dwellers and he had just come back from a hunt, offering meat to his wife.
Sam gave some advice on how to cook the meat so it was still rare the way he and Anthony liked it.
“Must be a male thing,” Sadie commented. “I never came across a woman who liked blood on her plate.” She was pouring sangria into round glasses with a ladle. Maybe it was the ladle in her hand that made her look so wholesome and together, like someone who had everything she could wish for.
Claire wondered where it came from, that complacency. She had this strange feeling that Sadie was somehow carrying a secret. And it suddenly occurred to her, while she was fishing out an apple slice from her glass, that she actually didn't know these people all that well. All they really had in common was the fact that they were all in their thirties and forties and childless â maybe that's why they were all together there. Apparently like-minded people seek each other out, so they feel less alone. People were in fact just like sheep, gathering to keep each other warm. If they had children they would hang out with people who had children too, or not hang out at all, like their neighbours.
A light went on in the neighbours' house. It was the window with the Superman sticker on. She could hear the boys scream and she could just imagine them, jumping up and down on the bed, having a pillow fight, driving their mother to her wits' end. Wasn't she supposed to be that person, trying to get her children to bed? Instead of sitting here on the patio having a barbecue, desperately trying to enjoy herself, chewing on a dry piece of chicken breast?
As the evening went on, their voices got louder, buzzing in the mild silky air. Even though they were divided by brick walls, there was a certain communal feel that only happened in summer when the backyards and gardens became additional living rooms. Someone was laughing, a glass broke, Jack Johnson's soft, effortless voice came from a radio on a window sill: âI hope this old train breaks down, then I could take a walk around, see what there is to see...' At dusk bats appeared, flapping over their heads. “Where are they coming from?” Sadie wondered.
“Probably from under the bridges on Regent's Canal,” Anthony contemplated, his face unsharp in half-darkness.
Sam was rolling a joint. There was something childish about the way he was fiddling with Rizla paper, like he just couldn't help it. She had never understood his fascination with marijuana. It just made her feel sleepy and stupid. Claire didn't know what came over her, but she suddenly leaned forward and started telling them about Nora. That she went to that coffee place, bought her cake and how close she felt when she was holding her hand as if it were her own child. Relieved to be unburdening, she found herself adding, “I even imagined taking her back home with me.”
Claire sensed immediately she had made a mistake. The words sounded wrong, desperate, like a confession. Everyone looked at her taken aback; there was a silence. She had changed the cheerful scene, the easy flow of the evening.
Sam shook his head, inhaling noisily. “Maybe you should have your own child to look after.”
Claire didn't answer; she just looked at the empty bowl of sangria, the bits of fruit stranded on the bottom.
“I have read of women who are so desperate for a child that they steal babies out of prams,” Sadie added. It was intended as a joke, but nobody laughed.
“I just did the woman a favour and played babysitter for an hour,” Claire said, hoping to end the conversation. But it was too late.
“Why didn't you tell me?” Anthony asked, irritated.
“Probably because it's not that important,” she said elusively.
For a second she contemplated making a scene; how dare he reprimand her like that in front of friends? Instead she decided to save her anger for later, shrugged it off and got up. “Tea or coffee anyone?”
“I'll help you,” Christine said quickly, following her into the kitchen.
Putting the kettle on, she regretted her openness. Why did she have to talk about it?
“I can't believe he still does that.”
“What?”
“Smoking pot,” Christine said, pointing at Sam. They could see them from the kitchen window, the candlelight dancing on their faces.
“He promised to stop for good, you know.”
“Sure,” Claire answered absently, pushing down the plunger of the cafetiere, still feeling furious about Anthony's attack.
“We went to this information evening about adoption,” Christine said suddenly, lowering her voice. Claire looked up.
“We have been thinking about it for a while... We did these tests and unfortunately Sam doesn't produce enough fertile sperm. Apparantly that happens quite often nowadays... According to the doctor, our chances of getting pregnant naturally are very slim.”
Claire turned away from the window; she couldn't look at Sam â it was just too awkward to be informed about such intimacies, talking about his sperm while he was sitting there a few metres away, unsuspectingly enjoying his joint.
From the urgency in Christine's voice, Claire could sense that she had wanted to tell her this all along, probably waiting the whole evening for the right moment. She wished she could just hug her and tell her that everything would be fine, that she needn't worry. But she felt she would be lying.
Claire sat down at the kitchen table and told her how long she and Anthony had been trying to conceive. She could tell Christine now, knowing she would be feeling just as miserable.
“At least you have a reason why it's not working. The most frustrating term in reproductive medicine is âunexplained infertility'.”
“What is it then with you guys? Stress?” Christine asked.
“How pathetic is that,” Claire answered promptly. “Stress is what woman in Third World countries have, struggling to get food and water.”
“Maybe we have to accept there are certain things that can't be explained,” Christine said thoughtfully. “It's hard though, when you see these women with their brood in tow, reproducing like rabbits, fat and ugly, shouting at their foul-mouthed kids on the street, and you ask yourself, why her?”
Claire was stirring her coffee. It was good to hear Christine talking like that. “I just never thought it would become such an issue, you know. I expected it to happen like with my sister. It seemed so easy for her, for most people it is, anyway.”
Christine didn't answer but looked towards the lattice window; they could hear the tapping of heels on the pavement.
“But this is serious Christine. Adopting, I mean. Why don't you get donor sperm?”
Christine looked up, twisting her eyes and Claire realised that, as much it was a relief to talk, it was also painful and embarassing.
“That's what I suggested to Sam,” she answered, whispering again, even though no one could hear them, “but Sam doesn't want to. He won't accept sperm from another man. He couldn't do it. And frankly, why do we need to have our own baby when there are so many out there in desperate need of loving parents?”
She was holding her cup with both hands, staring at it, frowning as if she was looking for an answer in there. “Maybe there is a reason, you know. Maybe I am meant to give a disadvantaged child an opportunity.”