she no longer liked what came out of it. She put the pencil back in the packet. Could she no longer draw Jez because Jez would never have bought her those pencils? Jez would have bought her a bottle of perfume that she’d never worn before.
“Is it what you really want?” Sam’s words looped around her head. A 747 rumbled across the sky. A warm wind rustled the hon- eysuckle. These were the sounds of her Oxford childhood, and they were getting louder and louder until the whole garden seemed to vibrate and hum and resonate in her ears with unavoidable truth,
like one of her mother’s pre-breakfast “Ommm” exhalations. Stevie gripped the arm of the bench to steady herself, squeezed her eyes shut, and felt herself whipped and turned around a dark, emotional vortex. And then, suddenly, peace. She opened her eyes. The wind stopped. The garden was still. The outline of everything— dandelion, apple tree, blade of grass—was as clear and certain as a drawing, and Stevie felt the exhilarated release of a decision reached.
SIX Æ
katy norris reread the pregnancy test instruc- tions. Three minutes? She could wait. Besides, even though she’d missed a pill, it would still be a near miracle if she were up the duff. Since Seb had started the contract with the New York bank, they were rarely in the same place long enough to share a meal, let alone bodily fluids. But what if she was pregnant? Her augmented lips curled. How would Seb react? Surely with joy, even though he’d al- ways said he wanted to be married before he had children. Not wanting to appear a psycho thirtysomething, she’d agreed with him and waited for her proposal. And waited and waited.
A couple of months ago, she’d worked up the courage to ask her doctor, “How long have I got left, exactly?” The doctor had looked her up and down and told her that yes, fertility fell off a cliff at about her age and that, ideally, she should gain a few pounds to en- hance her chances of conceiving. Oh, yes—and they should be hav- ing sex every three days. She’d laughed and explained her situation—the clash between her ovaries and their careers and Seb’s rather non-urgent romantic scheduling—and asked if, in theory ,
because they weren’t planning anything now, but just so she knew for the future, was it possible to pencil in a course of IVF sometime later next year, just after her thirty-seventh birthday, just to leave nothing to chance? The doctor thought she was joking.
Katy checked her Hermès watch. Two minutes to go. She won- dered what her other half was doing. Seb must be up now, she sup- posed, stretching his arms, muscles flexing, looking for a tie and shirt. Behind him, midtown Manhattan would be winking awake behind the vertiginous sheet-glass windows that made her soles tingle and filled her with a strange longing to fling herself out like a rag doll. Did Seb miss her? Did Manhattan compensate for the more domestic environment of Notting Hill? She knew it wouldn’t work for her. New York was the only place in the world she felt un- attractive; the only place in the world she stepped into a party and felt that she could never eat again.
Katy walked across her large living room, her pedicured toes sinking into the two-inch-thick cream carpet, to a mound of plumped silk cushions, piled extravagantly against an antique Chi- nese tea chest. She lay down, mentally checked her thigh circum- ference, and, as if Seb were watching, arranged herself in the most photogenic pose, one leg slightly bent leaning across the other straighter one, like a typical Elizabeth Hurley stance, but rotated. She lit a Space NK joss stick, breathed deeply, closed her eyes, and tried to conjure up some kind of inner Zen. But it didn’t work. She didn’t feel relaxed. It was hard for a woman of thirty-six to relax when she had been living with a guy for two years and he hadn’t proposed.
Katy’s eyes rested on a photograph of them on a windy sand- duned beach in
“Is it what you really want?” Sam’s words looped around her head. A 747 rumbled across the sky. A warm wind rustled the hon- eysuckle. These were the sounds of her Oxford childhood, and they were getting louder and louder until the whole garden seemed to vibrate and hum and resonate in her ears with unavoidable truth,
like one of her mother’s pre-breakfast “Ommm” exhalations. Stevie gripped the arm of the bench to steady herself, squeezed her eyes shut, and felt herself whipped and turned around a dark, emotional vortex. And then, suddenly, peace. She opened her eyes. The wind stopped. The garden was still. The outline of everything— dandelion, apple tree, blade of grass—was as clear and certain as a drawing, and Stevie felt the exhilarated release of a decision reached.
SIX Æ
katy norris reread the pregnancy test instruc- tions. Three minutes? She could wait. Besides, even though she’d missed a pill, it would still be a near miracle if she were up the duff. Since Seb had started the contract with the New York bank, they were rarely in the same place long enough to share a meal, let alone bodily fluids. But what if she was pregnant? Her augmented lips curled. How would Seb react? Surely with joy, even though he’d al- ways said he wanted to be married before he had children. Not wanting to appear a psycho thirtysomething, she’d agreed with him and waited for her proposal. And waited and waited.
A couple of months ago, she’d worked up the courage to ask her doctor, “How long have I got left, exactly?” The doctor had looked her up and down and told her that yes, fertility fell off a cliff at about her age and that, ideally, she should gain a few pounds to en- hance her chances of conceiving. Oh, yes—and they should be hav- ing sex every three days. She’d laughed and explained her situation—the clash between her ovaries and their careers and Seb’s rather non-urgent romantic scheduling—and asked if, in theory ,
because they weren’t planning anything now, but just so she knew for the future, was it possible to pencil in a course of IVF sometime later next year, just after her thirty-seventh birthday, just to leave nothing to chance? The doctor thought she was joking.
Katy checked her Hermès watch. Two minutes to go. She won- dered what her other half was doing. Seb must be up now, she sup- posed, stretching his arms, muscles flexing, looking for a tie and shirt. Behind him, midtown Manhattan would be winking awake behind the vertiginous sheet-glass windows that made her soles tingle and filled her with a strange longing to fling herself out like a rag doll. Did Seb miss her? Did Manhattan compensate for the more domestic environment of Notting Hill? She knew it wouldn’t work for her. New York was the only place in the world she felt un- attractive; the only place in the world she stepped into a party and felt that she could never eat again.
Katy walked across her large living room, her pedicured toes sinking into the two-inch-thick cream carpet, to a mound of plumped silk cushions, piled extravagantly against an antique Chi- nese tea chest. She lay down, mentally checked her thigh circum- ference, and, as if Seb were watching, arranged herself in the most photogenic pose, one leg slightly bent leaning across the other straighter one, like a typical Elizabeth Hurley stance, but rotated. She lit a Space NK joss stick, breathed deeply, closed her eyes, and tried to conjure up some kind of inner Zen. But it didn’t work. She didn’t feel relaxed. It was hard for a woman of thirty-six to relax when she had been living with a guy for two years and he hadn’t proposed.
Katy’s eyes rested on a photograph of them on a windy sand- duned beach in
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