Ghostwritten

‘You were nearly forty when we met.’

‘Or maybe it’s seeing the kids at school develop and grow, and wishing that I could watch my own kids do that.’

‘That didn’t seem to worry you before.’

‘True. But now it does.’

I glanced at the manuscript. ‘I think it’s because I’ve been working on this baby-care book.’ I felt my throat constrict. ‘I wish I’d never agreed to do it.’

‘The book has nothing to do with it, Jen. I wanted to be with you so much that I convinced myself I didn’t want children. Then I began to believe that because we were in love we’d naturally want to have them. So I thought you’d change your mind.’

‘Which is what you’re hoping for now?’

Rick sighed. ‘I guess I am. Because then we’d still have each other, but with the chance of family life too. I’ll be applying for head teacher posts before long: I’d like to try for jobs outside London, if you were happy to move.’

‘I’d be happy to be wherever you were,’ I said truthfully.

‘Jen …’ Rick’s face was full of sudden yearning. ‘We could have a great life: we’d be able to afford a bigger place.’ He looked around him. ‘This flat’s so small.’

‘I don’t care. I’d live in a bedsit with you if I had to. But, yes, it would be wonderful to have more space – with a bigger garden.’

He nodded. ‘I’ve been thinking about that garden a lot. I see a lawn, with children running around on it, laughing. But then they fade, like ghosts, because I know you don’t want any.’ Rick sat down again, then reached for my hands. ‘I want nothing more than to share my life with you, Jen, but we have to want the same things. And the question of whether or not we have children isn’t one that we can compromise on; and if we can’t agree about it—’

I withdrew my hands. ‘Let’s imagine that I do change my mind. What if we then find that I can’t have kids?’

‘At least I’d know that we’d tried. Or maybe, I don’t know … we could try IVF.’

‘A bank-breaking emotional rollercoaster with no guarantees. The other day Honor interviewed a woman who’s spent forty thousand pounds on it and still isn’t pregnant.’

‘Well, we might be luckier. If not, we could adopt.’

‘Could we?’ I echoed. ‘Would we really want that? In any case this is all academic, because I won’t be changing my mind; and if you really do love me, you’ll accept that. Can’t we just go on as we were?’ I added desperately.

Rick blinked. ‘I don’t see how we can.’

My throat ached with a suppressed sob. ‘Why not? Because now you’ve decided that you would like kids, you’d want to go right out there, as soon as possible, and find some woman to have them with? Is that it? Should I start knitting a matinee jacket for the baby right now?’

Rick flinched. ‘Don’t be silly, Jen. It’s because we’d only be putting off the inevitable. I’d come to resent you, then you’d be upset with me, and we’d break up anyway.’ He shook his head. ‘What I don’t understand is why you won’t at least explore why it is that you feel—’

‘No,’ I interrupted. ‘I won’t.’

‘Why not?’

‘Because I’m not prepared to bare my soul to some stranger! In any case there’s nothing to explore. Yes, lots of women want children, but there are lots who don’t, and I’m one of them. So seeing a counsellor won’t make any difference. I mean, you’re the one who’s changed, Rick, not me, yet you’re making the condescending assumption that I don’t know my own mind!’

‘No, Jen, I’m just trying to work out why you feel as you do. Because you like children. You go out of your way to be with them.’

‘That’s not true.’

‘It is – you come into school every week and read to them.’

‘I … do it for you.’

‘Jen …’ Rick looked bewildered. ‘That’s how we met.’

Another silence fell. I could hear a magpie chattering in a nearby garden. ‘Well, it’s hardly a big deal, especially as my flat was practically next door. And liking children doesn’t mean I want to have them myself. I don’t.’

‘Yet you’ve said that if I’d been divorced, with children, you’d happily have had those kids in your life.’

‘Yes.’

‘But you won’t have a child of your own.’

‘No.’

‘I wish I knew why not. If you told me that it was because you felt that having children would wreck your career, or your lifestyle, or your body, I could at least understand that. I could try to accept it. But to say that you won’t have children because you’d be too scared …’

I put my hand on the table, tracing the grain with my fingertips. ‘I would be,’ I insisted quietly.

‘Why?’

I looked up. ‘I’ve told you; I’d be scared that something would go wrong. Or that I’d make a terrible mistake – that I’d drop the baby, or forget to feed it or give it enough to drink.’

‘Babies don’t let you forget, Jen; that’s why they cry. And you’ve just written a book about babies. Hasn’t that made you feel you could cope?’

‘It’s given me knowledge of how to care for them,’ I conceded. ‘But it hasn’t taken away my fear that something bad would happen.’ Panic swept through me. ‘Like … cot death, God forbid; or that I’d turn my back for a few seconds – that’s all it would take – and the child would fall down the stairs, or run into the road, or that there’d be some terrible accident that I could never, ever, get over.’ Tears stung my eyes. ‘Parenthood’s a white-knuckle ride, and I don’t want to get on.’

Rick gave a bewildered shrug. ‘Most people probably feel the same way, but they control their fears: you let them govern your life. You’re normally so level-headed, but with this I think you’re being—’

‘Don’t tell me – irrational?’

‘Yes.’

‘It’s not irrational to avoid anxiety and stress.’

‘It is irrational to presume that things will go terribly wrong – especially as you’ve no reason to think you wouldn’t be a good, careful parent. What’s your real fear, Jenni? That you wouldn’t love the child?’

‘On the contrary; I know that I would – which is precisely why I don’t want to have one.’

He groaned. ‘But you know, Jen, this isn’t just about whether or not we have a family.’

‘What do you mean?’

Rick gave a frustrated sigh. ‘We get on so well, Jen.’ I nodded. ‘We respect each other. We love being together, we talk easily – and we’re attracted to each other.’

‘We are,’ I agreed with a pang.

‘But you’re just not … open with me. Every time I ask you about your childhood you avoid my questions, or change the subject. And you never mention your mother, or explain why it is that you’re virtually estranged.’