‘So you’ll give the tablets a try? For me?’ He asks so sincerely I find it hard to say no.
‘I suppose I will. Like Ron said, they’re pretty mild. Can’t do any harm, I guess.’
‘Exactly… and let’s make a pact to put all talk of killer sperm donors out of our minds and enjoy our first Christmas as a trio.’ He pulls me closer into his chest, his hand heating my arm through the fabric of my jacket.
I want to point out to him that I never once suggested the donor was going to kill anyone. But I don’t… because we’re getting on well again and surely that’s all that matters.
CHAPTER TWENTY
Louisa
Now
‘Louisa! Twice in one day? I must have been a saint in a past life.’
I look over to where Magda stands at the open door of a greasy spoon café, her hair swept up into a fluorescent pink bobble hat.
‘What are you even doing in there?’ I ask, grimacing as I read the misspelled writing on a standup chalkboard out front, advertising two of ‘Mama’s specals’ for a fiver.
Mama’s cafeteria has been operating for as long as I’ve lived in Chester. It’s situated on a main road a few hundred metres from where we live. I can’t say it’s a place I’ve ever fancied visiting, the infamous ‘Mama’ known around Chester for her doorstop sausage butties and tattooed knuckles. I’m surprised to see Magda here, if I’m honest, not only because of the café’s reputation but because she lives a mile or so in the opposite direction.
‘Oh, just fancied a cuppa before heading home,’ she says, offering up a smile.
‘Here?’ I roll my eyes over the exterior of the café, the sign above the doorway both faded and chipped.
‘Well, actually…’ She pauses to take a breath. ‘Truth be told, I’m not relishing the thought of going home to Helen. She’s really not good at the moment and I’m finding it all a bit much. I suppose when I bumped into you at the doctor’s I came here in the hope you’d walk past.’ She pulls a face, sort of apologetic but it’s difficult to tell.
‘I see. Sorry to hear about Helen.’ Awkwardness rests in the air between us. I feel torn, a part of me wanting to stay with Magda, especially given her plight, but an even bigger part of me desperate to get home. ‘Do you want to come back to ours?’ I ask eventually.
She shakes her head, perhaps picking up on my reluctance. ‘No, I don’t want to burden you, Louisa, especially not with your cold. I was selfish to expect.’
James nudges me in the side. ‘Why don’t you stay here and have a coffee with Mags? I’ll get the little man home.’
I turn to face James, trying and failing to keep my tone light. ‘I’d love to, but you’re on call, remember? You might have to rush out.’ Please don’t make me go into Mama’s, James. I’ll get E. coli. I’ll die. Really I will.
He smiles, either completely oblivious to my attempts at telepathy or choosing to ignore them. ‘It’s five minutes’ walk away. If I do get called in I’ll ring you to come back. Go on, have a natter with your friend. It might be just what the doctor ordered.’
My heart sinks. If only that’s what the doctor had ordered.
‘There’s a cup of coffee and a mince pie with your name on it if you do,’ says Magda, her voice small.
‘I, erm…’
‘Please?’ She sticks out her bottom lip. ‘For me?’
I sigh. ‘All right, just a quick one though.’ I turn to James, my voice harder than a moment ago. ‘You go on ahead. I’ll keep Cory with me. Might as well allow him to stay in the pram while he’s sleeping.’
‘Right you are.’ James plants a kiss on top of my head before practically running down the road, no doubt to a fresh Nespresso and a hot shower, the lucky bastard!
‘Thanks, Louisa,’ says Magda, already making her way back inside. ‘You’re an angel.’
The café looks even worse on the inside than it does on the outside. Tacky Christmas decorations hang down from the ceiling, all shiny gold and bright red, which would be much better suited to an Eighties sitcom. It’s relatively busy though; a mismatch of people all huddled around wonky-looking tables, varying sized mugs of coffee and tea clasped between their frostbitten hands. The distinct waft of burnt bacon tickles my nostrils, a serving hatch behind the counter seeming to be its source.
Magda gestures for me to sit down, her half-drunk coffee coated in a thick layer of skin. ‘It’s not the best but at least it’s warm,’ she whispers in my ear. ‘And old Mama’s cabbage soup will definitely put hairs on your chest. You want a bowl?’
I cover my mouth with my hand, tasting what can only be described as puke in the back of my throat, which I’m sure is still preferable to Mama’s cabbage soup. ‘No thanks, Mags, just a coffee will do, thank you.’
‘I’ll just go and order it then. Won’t be a tick.’
I watch her as she makes her way over to the counter, a spring in her step despite her tricky home situation. Mags has always been the same; chirpy in the face of heartbreak, always putting others before herself. Things must be tough for her too, I think. After all, Helen’s son was her nephew, and with no children of her own…
My mind drifts off to the first time we met, fourteen or fifteen months ago now.
James and I were sitting in SureLife’s cafeteria, which was as plush as the rest of the establishment, from the Italian-inspired delicacies, neatly exhibited in a gleaming glass display counter, to the granite worktop and exposed brick walls. A far cry from Mama’s café, I can tell you. I placed the toasted panini back on the plate and pushed it away, the herb-encrusted bread sticking to the roof of my mouth. Everything was about to change and I wasn’t quite sure how I felt about it all.
‘Not hungry?’ James eyed me up over the rim of his cappuccino, a newspaper folded out on its centre page in front of him. He wasn’t reading it, that much was obvious.
A rich aroma of roasted coffee beans filled the air, accompanied by hushed chatter of expectancy and hope. ‘I just feel a bit queasy,’ I replied, the pulp from my ‘fertility boost’ smoothie congealing on my tongue.
James placed his cappuccino back in its saucer and looked at me. ‘Is something on your mind?’
I raked my hand through my hair, the feel of it dry and brittle between my fingers. ‘Just nervous.’
‘It’s not too late to change your mind.’
It wasn’t lost on me how he said ‘your’ instead of ‘our’, thus detaching himself from the situation. Since Doctor Hughes had mentioned the notion of a sperm donor, James had swiftly altered his position from an anxious, albeit keen, participant, to a detached spectator. It upset me, of course, but what was I to do? The sperm donor was the only thing on the table and I was determined to grab it with both hands.
Catching sight of my reflection in the mirror, which hung over an original chesterfield in the corner of the room, I was startled. My once sleek red hair hung lifelessly down my back, my cheekbones protruding out of my gaunt face. The last three years had taken their toll on me, from the endless cycles of hope and heartbreak, to the darkest depths of shattered dreams and unanswered prayers. As I sat in the cafeteria, surrounded by the clattering of cutlery and the whispered promises of broken-hearted couples, I felt my womb stir with anticipation. Soon, I would be a mother. The donor, a two-dimensional stranger with no name, was about to offer me the missing jigsaw piece to my puzzle. He was about to make me whole. I shook my head at James. ‘I won’t be changing my mind.’
‘Well, this sperm guy better not be ugly.’ He tried out a laugh. ‘Or a weirdo.’