stupid nonsensical idea. I think you're out of your mind."
"I don't see why," I stubbornly repeated.
"What does he say, anyway?" continued Joe. "It's his fault, it's his job to get you out of it. He's rich enough, isn't he? Why don't you make him pay and go off and have it done in comfort?"
"Roger, you mean," I said faintly.
"Well, yes, Roger. Why don't you get married? No, for God's sake, don't bother to tell me. I can't imagine anyone wanting to marry a selfish well-dressed lump of mediocrity like him. Still if you don't marry him, you might as well do something about it."
"I don't want to do anything about it."
"Don't tell me you
want
to have a baby."
"I don't mind," I said.
"What does he think about it, anyway? If he does think."
"I haven't told him yet," I said truthfully.
"You haven't told him? You really must be out of your mind. Whyever not?"
"I just haven't got round to it."
"Oh Christ. I give up. What have you done about it?"
"I went to the doctor," I said with some pride, "and he's booking me a hospital bed."
"God," he said to himself, staring up at the black sky through the neon-lit trees, "she means it, she's going to have it." He was rattled, poor Joe; I could feel him being rattled. He didn't like the idea at all.
"You can't," he said, after another few yards of silence. "You just can't. I forbid you. It'll ruin your life. If you want some money, I'll lend you some. How much do you want? A hundred? Two hundred? How much do you need?"
"Thank you very much, Joe." I said, touched, "but I don't need anything. It's too late now, anyway."
I said this with some authority, though I did not know the facts, as I had not known the facts about gin or doctor's waiting rooms; but he did not know the facts either and he believed me.
"Oh well," he said, "if you want to make a fool of yourself. Don't tell me, you've probably been longing to have a baby all your life. You won't be able to keep it, though. They won't let you keep it. So you'll go and get yourself all upset about nothing, the whole thing'll be a complete waste of time and emotion."
I could not work out my response to this immediately, as I was highly offended by both its implications: first, that I was the kind of person who had always had a secret yearning for maternal fulfilment, and second, that some unknown authority would start interfering with my decisions
by removing this hypothetical child. I decided to tackle the first one first.
"Of course I haven't always been longing to have a baby," I said, "I can't think of anything that has ever crossed my mind less. The thought of a baby leaves me absolutely stone cold."
"Nonsense," said Joe. "All women want babies. To give them a sense of purpose."
"What utter rubbish," I said, with incipient fury, "what absolutely stupid reactionary childish rubbish. Don't tell me that any human being ever endured the physical discomforts of babies for something as vague and pointless as a sense of purpose."
"What does it feel like?" said Joe, momentarily distracted.
"Nothing much. One can't really tell much difference," I replied untruthfully. "Yet."
"Anyway," said Joe, "so I believe you, so you've never thought much about having babies, but just the same, I bet you'd be pretty annoyed if somebody told you you couldn't have one, wouldn't you?"
"Not at all," I said staunchly, "I would be highly relieved. There is nothing that I would rather hear." Though, as a matter of fact, he was quite right and I was in some perverse and painful way quite proud of my evident fertility.
"In that case," said Joe, "I don't see why you didn't have something done about it."
I was silent because I did not see why not either. We had by this time reached Marble Arch: there had been a suggestion at an earlier point in the evening that Joe should here catch the tube home, and we paused by its entrance, and I said:
"Well, I think we ought to stop going around together, or whatever it is that we do."
"Why?" said Joe.
A
"I don't see why," I stubbornly repeated.
"What does he say, anyway?" continued Joe. "It's his fault, it's his job to get you out of it. He's rich enough, isn't he? Why don't you make him pay and go off and have it done in comfort?"
"Roger, you mean," I said faintly.
"Well, yes, Roger. Why don't you get married? No, for God's sake, don't bother to tell me. I can't imagine anyone wanting to marry a selfish well-dressed lump of mediocrity like him. Still if you don't marry him, you might as well do something about it."
"I don't want to do anything about it."
"Don't tell me you
want
to have a baby."
"I don't mind," I said.
"What does he think about it, anyway? If he does think."
"I haven't told him yet," I said truthfully.
"You haven't told him? You really must be out of your mind. Whyever not?"
"I just haven't got round to it."
"Oh Christ. I give up. What have you done about it?"
"I went to the doctor," I said with some pride, "and he's booking me a hospital bed."
"God," he said to himself, staring up at the black sky through the neon-lit trees, "she means it, she's going to have it." He was rattled, poor Joe; I could feel him being rattled. He didn't like the idea at all.
"You can't," he said, after another few yards of silence. "You just can't. I forbid you. It'll ruin your life. If you want some money, I'll lend you some. How much do you want? A hundred? Two hundred? How much do you need?"
"Thank you very much, Joe." I said, touched, "but I don't need anything. It's too late now, anyway."
I said this with some authority, though I did not know the facts, as I had not known the facts about gin or doctor's waiting rooms; but he did not know the facts either and he believed me.
"Oh well," he said, "if you want to make a fool of yourself. Don't tell me, you've probably been longing to have a baby all your life. You won't be able to keep it, though. They won't let you keep it. So you'll go and get yourself all upset about nothing, the whole thing'll be a complete waste of time and emotion."
I could not work out my response to this immediately, as I was highly offended by both its implications: first, that I was the kind of person who had always had a secret yearning for maternal fulfilment, and second, that some unknown authority would start interfering with my decisions
by removing this hypothetical child. I decided to tackle the first one first.
"Of course I haven't always been longing to have a baby," I said, "I can't think of anything that has ever crossed my mind less. The thought of a baby leaves me absolutely stone cold."
"Nonsense," said Joe. "All women want babies. To give them a sense of purpose."
"What utter rubbish," I said, with incipient fury, "what absolutely stupid reactionary childish rubbish. Don't tell me that any human being ever endured the physical discomforts of babies for something as vague and pointless as a sense of purpose."
"What does it feel like?" said Joe, momentarily distracted.
"Nothing much. One can't really tell much difference," I replied untruthfully. "Yet."
"Anyway," said Joe, "so I believe you, so you've never thought much about having babies, but just the same, I bet you'd be pretty annoyed if somebody told you you couldn't have one, wouldn't you?"
"Not at all," I said staunchly, "I would be highly relieved. There is nothing that I would rather hear." Though, as a matter of fact, he was quite right and I was in some perverse and painful way quite proud of my evident fertility.
"In that case," said Joe, "I don't see why you didn't have something done about it."
I was silent because I did not see why not either. We had by this time reached Marble Arch: there had been a suggestion at an earlier point in the evening that Joe should here catch the tube home, and we paused by its entrance, and I said:
"Well, I think we ought to stop going around together, or whatever it is that we do."
"Why?" said Joe.
A
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