and the dad was spooning some neon gloop into its mouth. Its face was covered in the orange stuff. The little boy had a toy car, which he kept bashing really loudly on the table. The mum was trying to get him to eat some toast, but he just kept pushing her hand away. She looked like she hadn’t slept in weeks. She definitely hadn’t brushed her hair and she had a biscuit-coloured handprint on the back of her shoulder. Worst of all, she and the dad hadn’t said a word to each other for the whole meal. It was like they operated next to each other, but not with each other, if that makes sense. I couldn’t stop watching them.
Then the little boy got up a really good head of steam with the car-on-the-table bashing, and James sighed. He turned around and glared at the family, then snapped his newspaper like a grumpy old man and turned away again. Well, that was all it took. I burst into tears. Now I have to admit I am a bit of a cryer . . . by that, I mean I snuffle and tear up when I watch the proposal episode of
Friends
(
every
time), and I need to take tissues when we go to awedding. But I don’t think James has ever seen me sob uncontrollably before. He looked very alarmed indeed. He immediately put his paper down and came to sit beside me on the banquette.
The whole story poured out, about the doctor and my rubbish ovaries, and how we had to have a baby right away but I didn’t want to end up not brushing my hair. Admittedly, it was a bit of a muddle and it took about fifteen minutes of patient questioning from James before he’d got all the facts straight. Once he understood, he nodded, motioned to the waitress and ordered us more coffee. Then he took my hand in his and he said, ‘Okay.’
‘Okay? Okay what?’
‘Okay, let’s start trying. We know we want kids, and if it’s going to take time, we’d better get cracking. We might do things in a different order, but it doesn’t mean we can’t still do all the things we dreamed of. We’ll just take our baby backpacking round Thailand with us. In fact, the baby can go in the backpack! It’s all very convenient.’
I managed a sniffly laugh, and hugged him. James always managed to make the most complicated things simple.
The idea of trying for a baby seemed a bit odd . . . I mean, James and I have always had a lot of sex anyway (yes, yes I know . . . too much info again). So, really, all that happened was we stopped using condoms. We agreed that we’d just carry on as normal for the first year, and see what happened. After that we’d start taking temperatures and things and consider fertility drugs. We both imagined it would be a good two or three years before I got pregnant.
James and I had agreed not to tell our families or friends that we were trying, or that we were expecting problems. ‘We’ve got quite enough pressure as it is,’ James said. ‘I don’t need your dad coming round asking if we’re shagging often enough.’
I laughed at that . . . the idea of my conservative, north-London-dwelling, professor father saying ‘shagging’ was too silly for words.
I felt bad not telling my close friends. I have two best mates. Robyn and I made friends at nursery, and we went the whole way through school together. She works in travel now, and she’s a bit of a hellraiser: she’s always off on some jaunt across the world, bungee-jumping or skiing or white-water something-or-other. And my goodness, she can drink! Even James is a bit scared of Rob when she’s on a Friday-night mission. Then there’s Caroline: we met at uni and she’s twenty-six going on forty-five. She’s got much further in her career than I have: she’s the head of PR for some mega investment bank in the City and she’s always on her BlackBerry dealing with the
FT
, and averting huge PR disasters. Fashion is her thing, and she has items of clothing that cost more than our sofa. Rob and Caro both love James, and they were very happy when we got married (and, I might say, the
Then the little boy got up a really good head of steam with the car-on-the-table bashing, and James sighed. He turned around and glared at the family, then snapped his newspaper like a grumpy old man and turned away again. Well, that was all it took. I burst into tears. Now I have to admit I am a bit of a cryer . . . by that, I mean I snuffle and tear up when I watch the proposal episode of
Friends
(
every
time), and I need to take tissues when we go to awedding. But I don’t think James has ever seen me sob uncontrollably before. He looked very alarmed indeed. He immediately put his paper down and came to sit beside me on the banquette.
The whole story poured out, about the doctor and my rubbish ovaries, and how we had to have a baby right away but I didn’t want to end up not brushing my hair. Admittedly, it was a bit of a muddle and it took about fifteen minutes of patient questioning from James before he’d got all the facts straight. Once he understood, he nodded, motioned to the waitress and ordered us more coffee. Then he took my hand in his and he said, ‘Okay.’
‘Okay? Okay what?’
‘Okay, let’s start trying. We know we want kids, and if it’s going to take time, we’d better get cracking. We might do things in a different order, but it doesn’t mean we can’t still do all the things we dreamed of. We’ll just take our baby backpacking round Thailand with us. In fact, the baby can go in the backpack! It’s all very convenient.’
I managed a sniffly laugh, and hugged him. James always managed to make the most complicated things simple.
The idea of trying for a baby seemed a bit odd . . . I mean, James and I have always had a lot of sex anyway (yes, yes I know . . . too much info again). So, really, all that happened was we stopped using condoms. We agreed that we’d just carry on as normal for the first year, and see what happened. After that we’d start taking temperatures and things and consider fertility drugs. We both imagined it would be a good two or three years before I got pregnant.
James and I had agreed not to tell our families or friends that we were trying, or that we were expecting problems. ‘We’ve got quite enough pressure as it is,’ James said. ‘I don’t need your dad coming round asking if we’re shagging often enough.’
I laughed at that . . . the idea of my conservative, north-London-dwelling, professor father saying ‘shagging’ was too silly for words.
I felt bad not telling my close friends. I have two best mates. Robyn and I made friends at nursery, and we went the whole way through school together. She works in travel now, and she’s a bit of a hellraiser: she’s always off on some jaunt across the world, bungee-jumping or skiing or white-water something-or-other. And my goodness, she can drink! Even James is a bit scared of Rob when she’s on a Friday-night mission. Then there’s Caroline: we met at uni and she’s twenty-six going on forty-five. She’s got much further in her career than I have: she’s the head of PR for some mega investment bank in the City and she’s always on her BlackBerry dealing with the
FT
, and averting huge PR disasters. Fashion is her thing, and she has items of clothing that cost more than our sofa. Rob and Caro both love James, and they were very happy when we got married (and, I might say, the
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