Truly Madly Guilty(52)

As she made Oliver’s tea and toast, she thought about the first time their doctor had said it was time to give up on Erika’s eggs.

‘We can pay someone to donate to us, right?’ Erika had said. She didn’t care. She was almost relieved, because she could forget now about her secret fear of passing on her various genetic stains. There had never been any particular pleasure for her in imagining a child with her own eyes or hair or personality traits. Who would want her thin lifeless hair? Her skinny knock-kneed legs? And what if the child hoarded? It was fine that the child would not be biologically hers. She was ready to move on almost instantly.

It was Oliver who had seemed to genuinely grieve. It was odd. Touching but baffling. She knew he loved her. It was one of the most wonderful surprises of her life. But to actually want a child who looked like Erika, who behaved like Erika, who shared her physical and mental attributes? Come on now. That was going a step too far.

Anyway, they had money. They could pay for someone’s eggs. They would get this job done, finally, once and for all.

But apparently not.

‘Well, no,’ said their doctor. ‘That’s illegal here.’ Their doctor was American. ‘You’re allowed to pay your donor for her time and medical costs but that’s it. It’s not like back home where young college students donate their eggs for money. So Australia does have a real shortage of egg donors.’ She looked at them sadly, resignedly. She’d obviously given this spiel so many times before. ‘What you’re looking for is an altruistic donor. There are women who are prepared to donate to strangers, but they’re difficult to find. The easiest, least complicated option, which I would suggest you consider first, is finding a good friend or a relative to help you.’

‘Oh, that’s fine. We wouldn’t want a stranger’s eggs anyway,’ said Oliver immediately, and Erika thought, Wouldn’t we? Why not? ‘We don’t want to just build a baby from spare parts,’ he said. Their doctor’s face went blank and professional as she listened to Oliver. After all, that was her trade: building babies. ‘We want this child to come from a place of love,’ Oliver said with a tremble of emotion, and Erika blushed, she literally blushed, because what in the world was he going on about? She had no problem talking about ovulation and menstrual cycles and follicles in front of her IVF doctor, but not love. That was so personal.

Oliver was the one who had suggested Clementine, in the car on the way home, and Erika had instantly, instinctively baulked. No. No way. Clementine didn’t like needles. Clementine was so busy trying to balance her family and career. Erika didn’t like to ask Clementine for favours, she preferred doing favours for Clementine.

But then she thought of Holly and Ruby, and suddenly she’d been overwhelmed by the most extraordinary desire. Her own Holly or Ruby. Suddenly this abstract idea she’d been working towards for so long became real. Ruby’s beautiful blue cat’s eyes with Oliver’s dark hair. Holly’s rosebud lips with Oliver’s nose. For the first time since she’d begun the IVF process she felt true desperation for a baby. For that baby. She wanted it as much as Oliver did. It almost seemed like she wanted Clementine’s baby far more than she’d ever wanted her own baby.

The kettle boiled and she remembered how she had walked down that bouncy, soft-carpeted hallway at Tiffany and Vid’s house, encased in that strange bubble where nothing seemed quite real, except that she’d overheard Clementine’s voice perfectly: It’s almost … repulsive to me. Oh God, I don’t mean that, I just really don’t want to do it.

Why did she remember that part of the night so clearly? It would be better if Clementine’s words had vanished from her memory, but her memory of that part of the afternoon was crystalline, more distinct even than a regular memory, as if the tablet and the first glass of champagne had produced a chemical reaction that had at first heightened her memory before turning it murky.

She heard Clementine say, What if it looked like Holly or Ruby?

Even after all these weeks, her cheeks burned at the memory. Clementine had spoken Erika’s secret, most precious hopes out loud in a tone of disdain.

She remembered walking into that room and seeing Clementine’s horrified face. She was so clearly terrified that Erika had overheard.

She remembered how she’d carried Ruby downstairs on her hip while rage and pain raced like bacteria through her bloodstream. Rage and pain for Oliver, who had so blissfully, innocently assumed that if they asked Clementine to donate her eggs his little baby would come from ‘a place of love’. A place of love. What a joke.

They’d gone out into that preposterous backyard and Tiffany had offered her wine, that very good wine, and she’d drunk it faster than she’d ever drunk a glass of wine before, and every time Erika had looked at Clementine, laughing, chatting, having the time of her life, she had silently screamed, You can keep your damned eggs.

And it was at that point that her memories of exactly what happened that afternoon began to loosen, fragment and crumble.





chapter twenty-eight



The day of the barbeque

‘This is some backyard,’ said Sam.

‘It’s … amazing,’ said Clementine.

Vid and Tiffany’s house had been impressive, especially the artwork, but this lavishly landscaped backyard, with its tinkling water features, its fountains and urns, its white marble statues and its scented candle-lit, luxuriously fitted out cabana, was another level of extravagance altogether. The fragrance of roasting meat filled the air, and Clementine wanted to laugh out loud with delight, like a child walking into Disneyland. She was enchanted by the opulence of it all. There was something so hedonistic and generous about it, especially after poor Erika’s rigidly minimalist home.