Free Dear Thing by Julie Cohen Page B

Right. I can see my own doctor for that, surely?’
    ‘Dr Wilson can talk you through everything, though,’ said Claire.
    ‘What’s there to talk about? I’ve had a baby. I know what it’s like.’
    ‘But this is a complicated procedure. They stimulate egg production, then they extract the eggs, and then they fertilize them and re-implant the embryo. And maybe you’d prefer that we found an egg donor, so you’re not … er, genetically related to the baby?’
    ‘That would be a delay, wouldn’t it?’
    ‘Months,’ said Ben.
    ‘I can see how it might come to it,’ said Romily, ‘but it seems unnecessarily complicated to medicalize it. To bother with the whole test-tube thing.’ She faced Claire. ‘I don’t know how you went through all that. And all the drugs, all the tests.’
    ‘I – well, we always thought that in the end, it would be worth it.’
    ‘Does it hurt?’
    Claire stiffened. ‘It’s uncomfortable. I wouldn’t say it hurt. Not physically.’
    ‘Far be it from me to criticize science,’ said Romily, ‘but it seems as if there’s an easier way to do this. We could use a turkey-baster or something for artificial insemination. Then ifit doesn’t work the first time, we can just try again. No doctors, no expensive equipment, no big deal.’
    ‘No big deal?’ said Claire.
    ‘Well, you know what I mean.’
    ‘I’ll do some research,’ said Claire. ‘There has to be an ideal way of going about it.’
    ‘Romily is a biologist,’ Ben reminded her.
    ‘But she’s never actually
tried
to get pregnant,’ Claire said, and then she put her hand to her mouth, as if she’d not meant to reveal that she knew that. ‘I mean—’
    ‘And to be honest, I do know a lot more about the mating habits of Japanese stag beetles than human reproduction,’ Romily said. ‘It can’t be that complicated, though, can it? Hello, Sperm. Hello, Egg. Let’s get together and make a … thing.’
    ‘A thing,’ Ben repeated. ‘Are you sure that PhD isn’t mail-order?’
    ‘There is quite a lot you can do to maximize your chances of conceiving,’ Claire said. ‘Basal temperature charts, ovulation kits. I have a lot of it already. We can monitor your cycle, enhance your diet, start you on half an aspirin a day.’
    ‘Right,’ said Romily. ‘Okay. It’s all new to me, but it’s your baby.’
    ‘This is really going to happen,’ said Ben. ‘I can hardly believe it.’ He gazed around him, at the children playing. ‘I feel we should be drinking champagne or something.’
    ‘And what’s wrong with tea?’ Romily asked.
    ‘Nothing. Absolutely nothing.’ He grinned at her and at Claire, and raised his paper cup. ‘A toast. To our thing.’
    ‘To our thing,’ said Claire, tapping her cup against his.
    Romily raised her own. ‘To your thing.’

9
Smiley Face
    CLAIRE WAS HEADING down to the staff room for a break-time cup of tea, students chattering around her, when she saw Georgette stepping out of her classroom into the corridor ahead. There was no mistaking the narrow shoulders and hips, the brown hair twisted up into a ballet-dancer’s bun. Georgette spotted Claire as she closed the door and her eyes widened with curiosity. Claire stopped as if she’d just remembered something and made a gesture with her hands, half-frustrated, half-apologetic. Then she turned round and headed back the way she had come.
    ‘Aren’t you coffeeing?’ asked Lindsay, passing her in the doorway of the music block. Claire shook her head.
    ‘I didn’t do enough marking over the holiday,’ she said.
    ‘I’ll bring you one. And a biscuit.’
    ‘Thanks.’
    Lindsay was lovely, in her early twenties, just starting out at St Dom’s. She was in charge of the choral teaching. Claire wondered if she’d talk with Georgette in the staff room during break. If she did, she might be bringing back questions as well as a cuppa and a custard cream.
    With everything that had happened, Claire had forgotten about