‘No thanks, Erika,’ said Sam. ‘I’m good.’
It was clearly Clementine’s turn to say something but there was a constricted feeling around her chest that seemed to be preventing her from talking. She wished one of her daughters would yell for her, but predictably, they were being quiet and well behaved the one time she would have liked them to interrupt.
They seemed to love Erika’s craft table.
Erika would be an excellent mother, a craft-table, watch-your-manners, hand-sanitiser-in-the-handbag sort of mother. Oliver would be a good father too. Clementine could see him doing something old-fashioned and painstaking with a dear studious little boy, like making model aeroplanes.
To their own child, thought Clementine despairingly. They’d be good parents to their own child. Not my child.
It wouldn’t be your child, Clementine. But it would. Technically, as Holly would say, it would be her child. Her DNA.
People do this for strangers, she told herself. They donate eggs just to be nice, to be kind. To people they’ve never met. This was her friend. Her ‘best friend’. So why was the word ‘No!’ so loud in her head?
‘Well,’ she said finally, inadequately. ‘This is a lot to think about.’
‘Absolutely,’ said Oliver. He looked again at Erika but she was still no help to the poor man. She had laid out a line of crackers and was placing a thin sliver of cheese on each one. Who did she think was going to eat them? Oliver blinked once and smiled apologetically at Clementine. ‘Please don’t think this is the end of the road for us if you decide it’s not for you. There will be other options. It’s just that you were the first person we thought of, being Erika’s closest friend, and you’re the right age, and you’re done having kids –’
‘Done having kids?’ said Sam. His hand tightened on Clementine’s. ‘We’re not necessarily done having kids.’
‘Oh,’ said Oliver. ‘Sorry. Gosh. I thought, that is, Erika was definitely under the impression –’
‘You said you’d rather poke your eyes out than have another baby,’ said Erika to Clementine in that truculent way she had when she could disprove something with facts. ‘I asked you. It was last September. We had yum cha. I said, “Are you done with babies?” You said, “I’d rather poke –” ’
‘I was joking,’ interrupted Clementine. ‘Of course I was joking.’
She hadn’t been joking. Oh God, but was this her only way out now? Would she have to give birth to get herself out of this situation?
‘Well, you can certainly still donate eggs if you want to have more children,’ said Oliver. Three deep, corrugated lines furrowed his forehead, like a cartoon character frowning. ‘The clinic does prefer known donors to have completed their families but it’s, ah, it’s all there in the literature.’
‘You said that you’d rather poke your eyes out than have another baby?’ said Sam to Clementine. ‘You really said that?’
‘I was joking!’ repeated Clementine. ‘I’d probably had a bad day with the kids.’
Of course she’d always known this was an issue. Her deluded hope had been that he’d just, well, get over it. Every time the girls were badly behaved, or when the house seemed too small for the four of them and they kept losing things, or when they worried over their financial situation, she secretly hoped that Sam’s hopes of another baby were gently, sensibly fading away.
She should never have told Erika she was done with babies. It was a flippant remark. A carefully constructed flippancy was her default position with Erika. She should have confided that Sam didn’t feel the same way, because there had always been the risk it could come up in conversation, just as it had today.
She rarely shared information like that with Erika. She deliberately withheld herself. With other friends she didn’t think twice, she chatted about whatever came into her head, because she knew they’d probably forget half of what she said. There was no one else in the world, not her mother or her husband, who listened so ravenously to what she had to say, as if every word mattered and was worthy of being filed away for future reference.
As a child, whenever Erika had come to play, she would first do a peculiar audit of Clementine’s room. She’d open every drawer and silently examine its contents. She’d even get down on her hands and knees to look under Clementine’s bed, while Clementine stood, mutely infuriated but, at her mother’s request, being kind and polite. Everyone is different, Clementine.