‘It’s fine, sweetie, it is.’
‘Is it?’ She sniffs. ‘Time for plan B, I guess.’
But there’s no point asking her what that is, I’m the one who’s meant to know.
It’s not until early afternoon that I get a long enough gap to make the necessary calls.
‘Can I make an appointment for my daughter?’ It’s just easier to say Sofie is my daughter and, funnily enough, of the three girls, she’s the only one who shares my surname. ‘For the … um, pills version. For as soon as possible.’
‘What was the date of her last period? She needs to come in for a scan. We have an appointment today at –’
‘Um, no. She lives in Ireland. But she had a scan there yesterday.’
‘We need our own scan. Which we can schedule for the same day as the procedure. But if she’s more than ten weeks pregnant –’ it’s still profoundly shocking to hear little Sofie described as pregnant – ‘the pills are no longer safe.’
‘So can I book? For as soon as possible.’
There’s a chance – admittedly tiny – that after seeing the counsellor Sofie will change her mind, but bird in the hand. I’ll just have to risk losing the deposit.
‘Let me look. Just to explain, we need to see her twice in twenty-four hours. We give her the first dose of pills, after which she’ll leave. She returns the following day for the second dose. She stays with us until she has miscarried, which takes approximately three hours.’
‘I see.’
‘Our first appointment is next Monday, one p.m., returning the following day at two p.m. Your daughter needs to be picked up by another adult at five p.m. This is important. She can’t leave on her own.’
Oh, no. The timing is atrocious. I’ve got the Tabitha Wilton/Room press launch on Tuesday at five o’clock. It’s far too late to change it. ‘I may not get there until seven thirty,’ I say.
‘We close at six.’
‘There’s no chance of an earlier slot?’ I ask desperately.
‘We’re fully committed.’
‘If I tried another clinic?’
‘Short notice but I can hold this appointment for twenty-four hours.’
The next hour and fifty minutes are spent talking with clinics in the London area and none of them can see Sofie within the week, so I end up calling back the first people and making the booking.
I’m given tons of information, and the woman says, ‘Your daughter can’t fly home on Tuesday night. Not with an afternoon appointment. We can give you the names of local B-and-Bs.’ Then she stresses again, ‘She must be picked up by another adult.’
But who?
Druzie’s away for at least another month. I consider Jackson: he’s sensible and kind and Sofie would appreciate him being there. But he’s only seventeen and looks even younger. Bringing him along as an ‘adult’ is too much of a risk.
Maybe Derry could come. If she’s not working in Ulan Bator or some other faraway locale. I could ask Joe, but I already know he’ll invent some reason not to come.
Out of nowhere rage spurts up through me. Fuck you, Hugh, fuck you for leaving me to deal with all of this on my own.
He wasn’t to know it would happen. But in fairness, leaving me in charge of two teenagers – anything could have happened. He couldn’t have predicted these precise circumstances, but he must have known something would crop up because something always does.
79
In less than two hours I’m due to meet Josh, and it feels every kind of wrong.
After flip-flopping about what to do, I eventually text him: When’s a good time to call?
Within ten seconds my phone rings. ‘Sackcloth?’
‘Josh, I can’t see you tonight.’
After a long pause he says, ‘Are you breaking up with us?’
‘Something is going on at home and I don’t feel … right about it, us, not tonight.’
‘But you’ll feel right about it on another night?’
‘Yes.’ Well, who knows?
‘Is it your period?’
That elicits a surprise laugh from me.
‘Because I don’t mind,’ he says. ‘If you don’t want to, you know, we don’t have to. But we could still, like …’
‘It’s too complicated to explain on the phone.’
‘We could have a drink? Just a drink.’
‘Not tonight, Josh.’
‘Next week?’
‘Probably.’
‘Okay, Amy.’ His tone softens. ‘I’ll cross my fingers. And if you change your mind …’
‘Okay, yes,’ I say suddenly. ‘Tonight, but just a drink. In the hotel bar.’ Torn between sorrow and the need for comfort, I go for comfort.
He’s waiting in a corner of the residents’ bar in the small hotel in Marylebone. When he sees me he jumps up, his expression both wary and concerned. Solicitously he removes my coat and hands me a drink but I sense his anxiety. And maybe impatience.
‘Are you okay?’ he asks, when I’m settled.
‘Fine. Like, there’s nothing wrong with me, health-wise or anything.’
He’s tense, waiting to hear.
‘It’s hard to put this into words … There’s a situation. Not in my life. But with a young woman in my care and … I’ve already said too much.’
‘A young woman in your care?’ he prompts.
‘Is pregnant. And she’s not having the baby.’
‘She’s having an abortion?’
‘It’s the right thing for her. I’m pro-choice. Are you?’
He seems startled. ‘Of course.’
‘You Brits,’ I say. ‘You’re so lucky to be free of all that guilt and shame.’
‘Catholic upbringing?’
‘Not really. Mum and Pop weren’t big God-botherers. But living in Ireland, it’s impossible to escape the shame. It hangs in the air.’
‘You can’t really blame the air for the shame. The shame is a by-product of Irish laws. Fourteen years in jail for taking a pill? That’s quite a judgement.’
‘Wow,’ I say. ‘I’d never thought of it like that. Anyway, I don’t know exactly how to put this but it feels … unseemly for me, a married woman, to go to a hotel with you, a married man, when a young woman in my care is going to have an abortion. It feels all a bit, you know …’ I pause ‘… Sodom and Gomorrah.’
His expression is impossible to decipher. All I know is that he isn’t conflicted like I am.
‘Amy.’ He chooses his words carefully. ‘I’m not being my best self. But you’re doing nothing wrong. You’re on time off.’
‘Hugh might have given me time off, but I’m not sure I gave it to myself. This sounds mad but I don’t approve of my behaviour with you. It’s called cognitive dissonance –’
‘You read about it in Psychologies?’ A little smile.
‘Yes. So there’s that. I also feel sad. About lots of things. About the young woman. She’s had a confusing life, in terms of whom she should love, and being pregnant is terrifying for her. And she’s particularly close to my – to Hugh and I’m sad he’s not here for her.’
Josh puts his hand over mine but I whip it away, he can’t be touching me in public. Apologetically, I say, ‘Sod’s law, Marcia’s best friend will walk in.’ But I feel cold and shaky and I’d love him to hold me. ‘I’m going to ask you a question,’ I say. ‘And you’re not to read anything into it. Okay? Did you cancel the room, the hotel room, like?’
‘No.’
‘Please don’t expect anything because I totally couldn’t, but can we go up there?’
Fully clothed, we lie on the bed, curled into each other. He strokes my hair while I talk in fits and starts, relating inconsequential stuff, Mum’s vlogging adventures, Kiara’s idealism, the beauty of Jackson’s long, dark hair. I lapse into silence for a while, then remember something else.
As time passes, calm steals over me and my sorrow lifts away. ‘Tell me things about you, Josh. Do you write stuff? Film scripts?’
He pauses before he answers. ‘Not any more.’
‘You used to?’ Almost absently, I begin playing with the front of his jeans, sliding my fingertips up and down the sharply creased fold of denim that covers his fly.
‘Yeah, when I was – Amy, what are you doing?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Please stop.’
‘Would you mind if I didn’t?’
‘But –’
‘Can we just see what happens?’ I whisper.
‘No.’ He catches my wrist and holds my hand away from him.
‘Please. Please, Josh. I want to do this.’
‘It doesn’t feel right.’