Oh. I hurry after him, my chunky heels clicking on the tile floor. He sees I’m following and starts walking down the street. He rounds the corner, and I take quick steps and try and catch up.
“Thank you. They said the group was in the basement, but I didn’t see an entry, and there weren’t any signs, and…” I stop rambling when the man stoops down and opens up one of those metal cellar doors built into the sidewalks all over the city. You know, the ones that look like old-fashioned cellar doors in Kansas that people dive into when a tornado is coming.
The man holds his hand out like “ta-da!” and gestures to the dark, stone steps leading down into the basement.
Hmm.
I look around. There are plenty of people walking by on their evening commute home. Nobody’s screaming, “don’t go in there! He’ll take your skin!” But I’m feeling really uncomfortable.
“The fertility group is down there?” I ask, and then I lean forward and try to peer down the stairs into the dim basement.
The man grunts, “Go on then. I don’t got all day.”
I shake my head. Nope. Not doing it. Not doing it.
Just then a woman with frizzy copper hair, freckles and a drab gray business suit steps up next to me. She takes a long draw of a cigarette and blows a cloud of smoke out.
“Real crap hole, isn’t it?” she asks.
I turn to her and take a closer look. Even though her hair is bright and her freckles could be considered cute, she holds herself in a way that shouts, “do not mess with me, or I will use your face as an ashtray.”
She’s waiting for me to respond so I say, “The true value of things aren’t based on what they look like, but what they have inside.” And then I inwardly cringe because…honestly, what the heck am I talking about? Who says that kind of thing to a stranger?
She snorts and then flicks her cigarette to the sidewalk. “Great. Another Pollyanna. Just what I need.”
The man, who had been standing by the cellar doors lets out a long sigh. He swaggers away, calling, “Shut the door behind ya.”
“Screw you, Clive,” shouts the woman after him.
I look from Clive’s retreating form back to the woman.
“You’re here for the fertility support group, right?” she asks. She pulls a pack of cigarettes out from her suit pocket and lights one. She takes a long draw and then slowly blows it out.
“Yes?” I say.
She grimaces at me, taking in my bright red winter coat and my hesitant smile.
“Well, come on then. You first. I’ll shut the door.”
I hesitate, but then I hear female laughter from the basement. Real, happy, full-belly kind of laughter and I think, maybe my stupid rambling quote to this woman was right. The true value is found within, and I won’t find it unless I go in.
So, I walk down the uneven stone steps into the basement of Clive’s Comics.
The metal door clatters shut behind me. The woman steps next to me. The entryway is dark, most of the light comes from the glowing tip of her cigarette.
“It’s down there.” She points to a shaft of light coming out of a doorway down the hall. “I’m Brook, by the way.”
I smile. “Nice to meet you. I’m Gemma Jacobs.”
“Alright,” Brook says, then she leads me down the dark, old stone-walled hallway. “Watch out for rats. They bite. And their piss will give you some freakish disease, so don’t lick the floor.”
I give her a quick look, certain she has to be joking, but she takes another puff of her cigarette and then steps into the doorway of the brightly lit room.
I stand behind her. The room is low-ceilinged, painted dark pink, and there are boxes full of comics shoved against the far wall. In the middle of the room a group of six folding chairs have been set up in a circle. Only two of the chairs are occupied.
There’s a glossy blonde-haired woman with bright blue eyes who looks elegant and poised, like she could be a model on the cover of Vogue. She’s talking in a clipped British accent to another woman who is listening to her and nodding her head intently.
The second woman has long, brown wavy hair that nearly reaches her hips and warm light brown eyes. She’s in a shirt and long skirt that look like they were hand dyed, and hemp sandals, which wow, must be cold in the winter.
Brook clears her throat loudly and both women turn to her.
“Hello, darling,” says the blonde woman.
“Brook, will you please put that out? My energy worker said that all your smoking and negative energy is blocking my chi,” says the wavy-haired woman.
Brook snorts, but she drops her cigarette to the concrete floor and steps on it.
“We’ve got another one,” Brook says. She pulls me into the room. I stumble to a stop in front of her and smile at the two women.
“Hi,” I say and give a small wave.
Brook steps up next to me. “Her name’s Gemma. She believes in never judging a book by its cover, has terrible fashion sense, and is routinely late.”
“What? I am not, I—”
“She wants to have a baby, clearly. And she’s delighted to make our acquaintance,” finishes Brook.
I give her an incredulous look. Who is this woman?
“Delighted,” says the blonde, she stands up smoothly and holds out her hand.
“This is Carly,” says Brook. “She’s a former model. Check out her nudies online.” Brook whistles and Carly gives a smile. “She married a kazillionaire and never has to work again. Unfortunately, she’s old, so her eggs suck.”
Carly shrugs and gracefully sits back in her folding chair.
I look at her and wait for her to deny any of Brook’s bio, but she just says, “That’s all true.”
“I still don’t understand why we can’t meet in your penthouse instead of this dump,” says Brook.
“Because I like this dump,” says Carly. “The pink reminds me of a uterus ripe for action.”
“You are one sick Brit,” Brook says.
The brown-haired woman covers a laugh with her hand. Then she stands and walks up to me. I smell lavender and maybe sandalwood? “I’m Hannah, it’s wonderful to meet you.”