Inconceivable (26 page)

‘Carl. I can’t. You’re wonderful, beautiful, and I could fall in love with you in an instant, perhaps I already have. But I’m married. I love my husband, it’s not exciting like this, but then nothing is exciting for ever, is it?’

‘Isn’t it? That’s a rather bleak view to have of life, Lucy’

And of course he was right. Oh God, he was right. What an appalling thing to have to say. I want it, I crave it, I need it, but I’m going to deny myself because I believe that life is better lived sensibly and unexcitingly. Nonetheless that is what I believe. You can’t just go doing exactly what you like the whole time. Not if you want to look after the things that really matter to you.

‘Please, I have to go now,’ I said. ‘I can’t be strong for much longer. Will you call for a cab? Please?’

And to his great credit he did not try to persuade me further. He just said, ‘Of course,’ and rang for a taxi. I could see that he was as upset as I was. For some strange reason he really has convinced himself that he’s fond of me. Christ, I hated leaving that big beautiful bed.

‘This time I really won’t call you again, Lucy’ Carl said as he kissed me goodbye (on the cheek). ‘It wouldn’t be fair on either of us.’

The gig was pretty dreadful. I don’t think I’ve ever heard anything so loud in my life. The engineers assured me that it sounded better on the radio, but it was rough going for the audience. I think all arena shows should be banned. They’re utterly soulless. I don’t care how good the act is, it could be Elvis come back from the dead but if you have to watch it at two hundred metres in what is basically a concrete aircraft hangar it’s going to be pretty dull. Anyway, the kids seemed to enjoy themselves or at least they acted as though they did. Then again, if you’ve paid twenty quid you’re going to make the effort, aren’t you?

Afterwards there was a line-up to meet the Prince, but I was excluded because the Head of BBC Manchester had muscled his way in and nicked my place. I didn’t really mind. I imagine you’d feel a bit of an idiot in one of those royal line-ups. I’m sure the royals do.

Anyway, as I say, me and Joe and Woody Monk ended up in the bar at the Britannia. I managed not to drink too much, although I did have more than I meant to. Joe kept getting the rounds in.

I’ve noticed that about people who’ve given up the booze.

They’re always very anxious to buy other people drinks. Vicarious pleasure, perhaps, or else they just don’t want you to think that they disapprove. Anyway, after Joe had got me my fifth bottle of Pils I had to explain that I was taking it easy as I was likely to be called upon to provide sperm samples in the near future.

‘Oh, blimey,’ he said. ‘Paternity suit, eh? I get one of vose a veek. Fahking DNA, ruined the art of the casual shag.’

Well I’m home now, drunk and feeling very strange. Angry with myself for so nearly doing something very stupid, and angry with myself for not doing it. I know I’ll feel terrible in the morning, even without the appalling hangover that I’m definitely due. But the main thing is that in the end I resisted temptation. Whatever I may have thought or desired, I did not actually
do
anything. Well, almost nothing anyway, and that’s what matters. I know I let him feel my breasts, but I’ve decided to pretend even to myself that this hardly happened. Ditto tongue-sandwich style kissing. Yes, I freely admit that I wanted him to shag my brains out for hours and hours, but we didn’t and I’m glad.

One thing I do feel is that I’m very much in love with Sam. I hope that’s not the booze and the guilt talking because I do feel it, perhaps not often, and not in the way Carl excited me tonight, but I do still fancy him. I mean it. It’s not just because I’m drunk. He does still turn me on, and that’s because I love him. And love is something to be cherished and protected. You can’t go through life hopping from bed to bed. You can’t just keep redoing the first few nights of a relationship, can you? Of course not! If you want the love and the security that a proper relationship brings then you have to go for the long haul. Even if you do really really really want to shag another bloke.

Anyway, what I really want to say is that I feel very close to Sam now. I rang him at his hotel and told him so. I hope I didn’t sound too drunk because I have specifically asked him to cut down on the booze because of our IVF business, which I did not give a thought
to tonight like the disgusting slapper that I am. Also I hope I didn’t make him suspicious. I mean I do sometimes ring up to tell him I love him. Well, it’s not the first time. I’m far more effusive than he is. Oh well.

Actually I think I’m going to be sick.

I just spoke to Lucy, which I’m really glad about. I’d just been thinking how much I missed her when she phoned. It was so nice. I haven’t heard her as affectionate in ages. I suppose she was feeling the same way I was. It’s not often we’re apart.

I really am a lucky man. A lucky, lucky man. I just don’t deserve a girl like Lucy, she’s beautiful and funny and interesting and I’m just a git. In fact I’m worse than a git. I’m a bastard, a deceiving bastard, because I’ve already betrayed her trust over my movie script, and now I’m planning a second and even greater betrayal that I can hardly bear to think about, let alone write.

I hope I didn’t sound like I’d had a drink.

Dear Penny,

W
ell, it’s been a week since the night I choose not to mention and I feel a bit better about it all. The weird thing of feeling guilty and frustrated isn’t easy to deal with because there’s no doubt that I do like Carl and in another world I could easily see myself with him but I’ve been really trying to push these thoughts from my mind because I’m absolutely committed to my love for Sam and there’s an end to it. In fact we’re really getting on at the moment. I don’t know why. Perhaps it’s doing this IVF thing or perhaps I’m making more of an effort because of ‘you know what’, but we do seem to be happy together.

I think it’s partly Sam, actually. He seems very positive about things and about himself, which is quite a change from the way he’s been, well, for years really. It’s very nice.

I’ve been sniffing my drugs every night. This way of pumping them up your nose is all right, but it does mean that you go to bed making the most appalling honking snorts. I can’t believe Sam can still fancy me, although he assures me he does. It doesn’t matter anyway at the moment because sex is now out for us. I think theoretically we’re still allowed to do it but I don’t feel like it. These weird hormonal drugs are taking effect, I expect. That and concentrating everything on the big day.

Dear Self,

L
ucy is snorting and honking like a pig in bed, poor thing. It’s these drugs she’s taking up her nose. I’ve had to come through into the spare room, which is where I’m writing this. To be honest I don’t think I’ll get much sleep anyway. You see, I’ve finally made my big decision.

I’m going to read Lucy’s book.

I have to if I want this script to be as good as it can be. If I want to have any chance at all of it having genuine heart and soul then the heroine’s voice must be authentic. I’m sure I could get it right in the end on my own, if I had time. I could talk to Lucy, coax it out of her. I’ve already used lots of her lines. There was one about telling a doctor to sit on a traffic cone and see if he could relax that I put in only today. But you see I don’t have time. This script is hot now. It’s coming together now and I have to finish it.

I mean Lucy would want me to get the woman right, wouldn’t she? Of course she would.

I tried taking a look tonight while she was in the bath. I felt like a thief, which of course is what I am. The damn thing was locked, of course. She’s got one of those leatherbound journals from W.

H. Smith. It’d be easy enough to pick but I might break it and then the game would be up. What I must do is go and buy another one. I’m certain that all the keys are the same. They only cost about a fiver.

I feel terrible about this, but what can I do? If I don’t blow it, within six months or so I could have my own movie. The ultimate dream of every single wannabe writer on the planet. Courage, Sam. You have no choice.

Dear Penny,

I
went into Spannerfield today for a check-up. It seems the sniffing business is not moving fast enough, so they’re going to switch me over to injections, just shallow ones in the leg, which I can do myself, but I can’t say I’m looking forward to it.

There was a lady waiting there who’s on her sixth cycle! I felt so sorry for her. She’s from the Middle East and it’s terribly important to her to have a child. I think the pressure on women is greater in some cultures. At least I don’t have to put up with that! Christ, some men can be bastards, as if a woman doesn’t have to deal with enough sadness when she can’t conceive without a load of pressure and guilt from her husband.

In so many ways I’m lucky with Sam, apart from loving him, that is, which goes without saying. He really is very gentle and supportive in his own way and he certainly never puts me under any pressure. I’ve asked him to give up the booze completely, by the way, in order to get his sperm into tip-top condition. I thought he’d sulk but he’s been very nice about it. He said it didn’t bother him at all.

Dear etc.,

D
amn, blast and bollocks. I hate being off the booze. Somebody had a leaving do today and I had to drink Coke. It’s surprisingly difficult to kick the sauce. You say to yourself, ‘It can’t be so hard, I’ll just take a month off,’ but then suddenly Trevor’s having a dinner party and you
have
to drink for that. Then there’s the pub dominos team reunion coming up and you
have
to drink for that. And of course you’re having beans on toast in front of the telly tonight, and you
can’t
not have a drink with that.

Ah well. I’m going to stick with it. I love Lucy and I’m not going to let her down, particularly now that I’m actively planning to deceive her. My local Smith’s was out of Lucy’s type of journal today and I didn’t have time to go further afield, but I’ll do it tomorrow. My resolve is hardening. Lucy is being ever so nice to me at the moment as well, which doesn’t make betraying her any easier. We seem to have entered a new stage of affection.

Perhaps it’s the treatment. Apparently it plays havoc with a woman’s hormones. Well, that is, after all, the point. Also I imagine Lucy is feeling quite emotional because there is now the actual, real possibility that the treatment will work and in a couple of months’ time we’ll be on our way to becoming parents.

My God, imagine that. We’ve got so used to just presuming upon the inevitability of Lucy’s periods that this is a thought that takes some adjusting to. I always stress how small the chances are when I’m talking to Lucy because I don’t want her to be too disappointed, but I suppose it
could
happen! And what then?!

I got a taste of it today actually. George and Melinda brought Cuthbert round for tea. He’s crawling now, that is when he can find a moment in his busy shrieking, shitting and vomiting schedule. My God, that lad can puke. There seems to be a constant flow of milky vom emanating from his mouth. I mean he doesn’t
hurl
it, not often anyway. It’s not as if he’s coating the furniture or anything, it’s just always
there
, sort of falling from his toothless gums. Which of course means that eventually he
does
coat the furniture because everywhere he goes, and he can get about a bit these days, he pushes his face against things, leaving a stomach-turning slimy, milky, gobby patch behind him.

I’ve seen it on George’s shoulder many a time. It’s as if a large and angry seagull hovers permanently above him, waiting for him to put on a decent suit.

Cuthbert also broke a model of a Lancaster bomber I made when I was ill last year and had painted with meticulous care. The model (which I admit was a kit, but a
bloody
difficult kit) was perfect in every detail. I even sent to Germany for the authentic eggshell blue paint for the underside. Ironic, isn’t it? That you have to send to Germany to get the right paint for a Lancaster bomber. They’re a big modelling nation, of course, and let’s face it, in the end they did win the war. Anyway, I’d thought that I’d put the model way out of reach. ‘Everything precious three feet off the ground,’ Lucy had warned me, but Cuthbert seems to have an extension section in the middle, like a dining room table.

Out of the blue he can suddenly reach twice his physical length.

You don’t see it happen. You don’t know anything about it until there’s an unholy screaming. Then you turn to see him surrounded by glass or china or in this case plastic (he’d sort of rolled himself on it, crushing it totally), at which point you have to comfort
him
! It’s unbelievable. I mean,
he
didn’t spend a week making it, did he?

removed

Penny,

I
’ll probably be writing to you a bit less from now on. The original intention of the letters was, as you know, in order to become a partner with my emotions and to avoid feeling like a cork bobbing about on the sea of fate. Well I no longer feel like a cork because by beginning this cycle of IVF, gruesome though it is, I really feel a lot better and that I’ve taken control of my destiny. I don’t like to admit it, but I feel very slightly confident. I mean, although the chances are reckoned at about a fifth, I’m top of the list in terms of the perfect patient. I’m still relatively young, very young for IVF, I have nothing apparently wrong with me. My husband appears to be packing a full scrotum. All the signs are good. I don’t even feel strange about trying to get a baby this way, which I thought I might. In fact just the reverse. I’m quite combative on the subject.

I was talking to Joanna at work about it and she said something I hear quite a lot. She sort of shook her head in disbelief and said, ‘Wow, isn’t it amazing? I mean we really are playing God these days, aren’t we?’ Now she wasn’t trying to be mean, quite the opposite. She’s very supportive, but nonetheless I bridled. People do still seem to see IVF as a deeply unnatural process and so it is, but no more unnatural than taking antibiotics or flying in an aeroplane. Left to themselves people’s teeth would fall out in their twenties and they’d die of pneumonia. Everything we do is unnatural but nobody ever shakes their head in disbelief about eating apples out of season or talking on the phone to people in Australia or being able to get from Highgate to Spannerfield Hospital, which is in West London, in under an hour (depending on the traffic). It’s just babies that people get funny about. But I won’t have it. All IVF is, when you get right down to it, is the process of getting the sperm and the egg to meet outside the body. That’s it. It’s my egg. It’s Sam’s sperm. If it works it’ll develop inside me. All they do is create more ideal conditions for the moment of conception than the inside of my plumbing. As far as I’m concerned, it’s like a Caesarean but in reverse. Millions of women have their babies

by the hand of man. I’m just going to have mine inserted, that’s all. I said all this to Joanna and she said she hadn’t meant to offend and I said that she hadn’t, but I suppose in a way she had. I don’t feel remotely different or weird because I have to go through this, and I can do without people shaking their heads in gentle disbelief at my situation and talking about playing God.

I just took a moment out to inject my leg. Sam hates this and turns away (as if I enjoy it!). Just wait till he starts having to give me my bum injections, that’ll give him something to think about. Actually, he probably turned away because my legs look so horrible. These injections leave awful bruises (maybe I’m not doing it very well). I look as though I’ve been beaten up by a midget.