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It was Henry Bryant.
He even developed Bryantisms; mannerisms and affected patterns of speech – a pursing of the lips and drawing out of vowels – that he only did when he was being Henry. In some ways – and this was worrying – he preferred Henry. He was funnier, more relaxed. Moreover, he didn’t have to be the soft, unthreatening little bitch that Alfie Daniels pretended to be.
He could be whatever he wanted, and he was. He cancelled at the last minute (on the occasions when it was too risky to go), drank hard when he wanted and was rough in bed. Most of all he didn’t apologize, didn’t simper and coo, and didn’t sing any fucking stupid songs.
It was wonderful. And it was the only thing that was keeping him sane.
He became aware of a tapping on the window. He looked up. Claire was beckoning him inside.
Christ. He’d almost forgotten. He glanced at Jodie’s buttocks; she was wearing a pair of very tight jeans. He pictured peeling them off, revealing some expensive underwear, an image which allowed him to force a smile on to his face. He waved at Claire, then blew her a kiss; she mimed catching it and planted it on her cheek.
It was sickening.
Inside, he kissed Claire for real, then hugged Jodie, enjoying the press of her breasts against his chest. She gestured at the guy standing with them.
‘This is Trevor.’
Alfie shook his hand. He had a fixed, goofy grin. If this idiot was fucking Jodie he didn’t think he could take it.
‘We were on our way out,’ Jodie said. ‘I have to go and meet a friend. She’s not doing so well.’
‘Oh,’ Alfie said. ‘Everything OK?’
‘Boyfriend troubles.’ Jodie took out her phone. ‘Quick photo before I go?’
She handed the phone to Trevor, who looked put out she didn’t want him in the picture. Alfie thought it might be deliberate. Maybe he wasn’t getting any with Jodie, after all.
The three of them lined up and Trevor took a few snaps. When he was done, he gave the phone back to Jodie.
‘Nice to see you,’ Alfie said. ‘And good luck with your friend. I’m going to grab a drink.’
As he walked away, Henry Bryant’s phone buzzed in his pocket. Pippa, again. Obviously, despite how clear he’d been, she hadn’t got the message. He’d reply later and get rid of her once and for all, before she became a problem.
Henry Bryant would never let her become a problem. He dealt with things, decisively. He would never have put up with what Alfie put up with. He would have found a way to deal with Claire.
And Alfie needed to. He just had no idea what to do.
Claire (#ulink_f04c789a-4873-52b7-ab0e-ca35198812d3)
Dr Singh sat opposite Claire and studied his notes. He looked to be in his sixties and had small, precise features. She had googled him and, as her dad had said, he really was an expert in the field of fertility; he had pioneered a number of treatments with spectacular results, which probably explained the fee her dad was paying.
It was the second time they had met that day; in the morning he had asked her a bunch of questions and discussed her goals, and then he’d sent her into the room next door where a nurse had drawn blood and performed an ultrasound scan, along with some X-rays.
We’ll have the results shortly, he said. But you’ll have to see when Dr Singh is free to take you through them.
Dr Singh was free that afternoon, and Claire had left work to come and meet him. She’d had to move a couple of meetings around, but as a partner she had that flexibility. Besides, she had been thinking about it all day, unable to focus on anything other than what the doctor might tell her.
‘Well …’ He smiled. ‘So far, it’s good news.’
‘What do you mean “so far”?’ Claire said.
‘I mean the tests we did showed no abnormalities, but there are more procedures we can do. However, I’m not sure they’re warranted, at this point. I see nothing wrong.’
He pulled a piece of A4 paper from a file and handed it to her. ‘These are the results of your Hysterosalpingography – that’s the fancy name for the X-ray we took of your uterus and fallopian tubes. As you can see, nothing showed up.’
She studied the paper. There was a lot of text, but her eyes settled on the only words that mattered to her.
Abnormalities: None
‘What about the other test?’ she said. ‘The one about the eggs?’
‘The ovarian reserve test,’ Dr Singh said. ‘That, too, was fine. You have a normal egg supply, and they are of good quality.’ He laced his fingers together and leaned forwards. ‘As far as I can tell, there is no problem with your fertility. We could do further imaging, or even a laparoscopy.’
‘What’s that?’
‘It’s a procedure to take a look inside the uterus. We make an incision in the navel and put a camera in there. If there was anything going on – endometriosis, scarring – it would show up. But, like I said, there’s no reason to believe there is anything.’
Claire met his gaze. ‘Then why can’t I get pregnant?’
‘Sometimes it takes a while,’ Dr Singh said. ‘And the stress caused by worrying about it can make it more difficult. If you can relax, take your time, that would probably help.’
She already knew this. Every one of the myriad of websites about pregnancy and childbirth mentioned it. Make sure you stay relaxed. The body is less likely to conceive when under stress. A relaxed body is a body ready to have a baby. All very well; the problem was that when you tried to relax the trying got in the way of the relaxing. It was like telling somebody not to think of an elephant; as soon as you said it an elephant popped into their mind.
‘It’s hard,’ she said. ‘I can’t stop worrying that something’s wrong.’
‘There’s nothing that I can see.’ Dr Singh twirled his pen in his fingers. ‘At least, not with you. There is, however, one other avenue to explore.’
‘Which is?’
Dr Singh took off his glasses. ‘Has your husband had his sperm tested?’
Claire nodded. ‘A couple of months ago. It was fine.’
When she hadn’t got pregnant after the first few months of trying, Alfie had declared that he was going to take a test.
I don’t want to waste any time, he said. If there’s something wrong, I want to know so I can fix it.
She had asked if he thought she should get tested too.
Not yet. You’ll need to go to a doctor. I can do a home test. It’s easy. And I want peace of mind that everything’s OK with me.
And it was. She was at work when he did it, but when she came home he was beaming: sperm count was normal. She was pleased for him, but it only made her feel worse. If there was a problem then it was with her, and not him.
‘Where did he have it done?’ Dr Singh said. ‘If you don’t mind me asking. You don’t have to say, of course.’
‘It was a home testing kit.’
‘Ah.’ Dr Singh pursed his lips. ‘Those kits are perfectly accurate, if correctly used, but there is scope for error. Do you know if he kept it?’
‘I doubt it. I think he threw it away. I’ve never seen it.’
‘Well, it’s only something to consider, but maybe you could suggest that he come and see me. We can do a more comprehensive fertility test, so we’re absolutely sure.’
‘You think there’s a chance it was wrong?’
‘There’s always a chance. Faulty test, or maybe user error. Think about asking him to come in.’
‘There’s no need to think. He’ll want to do it. Can I book it now?’
‘Are you sure you don’t want to check with him first?’ Dr Singh asked.
Claire shook her head. Alfie would be on board, she had no doubt about that.
Alfie (#ulink_cb55359a-997e-54fc-bc3f-f5c2ca75623b)
Alfie turned into their street – they lived in a double-fronted Victorian villa halfway down the street – and walked slowly towards the house. It was a few minutes past seven p.m.; he’d been to a showing in Battersea. He normally tried to avoid showings as much as he could. After he and Claire got married he had felt he needed some kind of job, but he had no idea what to do, so, when Mick suggested becoming an estate agent he had agreed. Mick had helped him to find a post at a different agency – he claimed he didn’t want to mix family and business, but Alfie was convinced it was because Mick thought he was incompetent and didn’t want him near his business. As it was, it had turned out to be an inspired choice of career.
He was, if he did say so himself, fucking good at it. People seemed to want someone with a big smile to convince them that whatever property they were looking at was the perfect place for them, and Alfie was happy to oblige. Even when he knew the neighbours were noisy and annoying and there was a problem with cockroach infestations in the summer he looked them in the eye and said they’d be so happy there. Not giving a shit about them made it easier, of course.
The other benefit – and this was huge – was that he could come and go as he pleased during the day and, even better, the agency had the keys to all kinds of empty properties all over the city which he could use when he met people online.
Claire had texted – Doc sayseverything OK! – so he had bought a bottle of champagne to celebrate.
‘Hey!’ he called out as he opened the door. ‘Are you home?’
‘In the kitchen,’ Claire replied.
He walked in, making sure there was a wide smile on his face. ‘I got your text. It’s wonderful news. I’m so glad the doctor didn’t find anything.’
‘I know,’ Claire said. ‘In one way it’s a relief, but in another it’s frustrating – and worrying – because if there was a reason then at least the doctors could fix it, and if they couldn’t we’d know for sure and could make other plans. As it is, all I – we – can do is wait.’
‘It’ll happen,’ Alfie said. ‘Eventually. Lots of people have been in this exact situation.’
Claire seemed about to say something but she hesitated. She looked a little sheepish.
‘Everything OK?’ Alfie said.
‘He did ask about one other thing.’
‘Which was?’
‘Your test. The one you took at home.’
‘What about it?’
‘He wondered whether you should take another one.’
Alfie was, for a moment, lost for words. He had not been expecting to hear that. He’d taken his test – or so he’d told Claire – and he’d assumed the whole sperm-count question was settled. The last thing he needed was anyone else interfering. ‘Doesn’t he think they’re accurate?’
‘He didn’t say so. Not exactly, anyway. All he said was, there’s some margin for error. Maybe you didn’t get it right.’
Alfie laughed. ‘It’s not tremendously hard to do. You just – you know, point and shoot – on the test and a line pops up in a window.’
‘Still. He said there are other, more reliable tests he could do.’
‘And get paid for.’
‘I don’t think he was trying to drum up business, Alfie. I think he was making a suggestion. Being helpful.’
Alfie held up his hands. ‘I’m sorry. I was only being cynical.’
‘So will you do it? Go and see him?’
Alfie weighed it up. He could say yes, and then simply put it off. Find reasons to cancel appointments. Eventually she might forget.
‘Sure,’ he said. ‘I don’t think it’ll come to much, but why not? If it helps, I’ll do it.’
‘I knew you wouldn’t mind.’ Claire smiled. ‘So I made the appointment. It’s for seven a.m., this Thursday.’
Seven a.m. thisThursday? The stupid fucking bitch. What had she done now? This was typical of her. She had to fucking interfere. He’d told her his test was OK, but did she believe him? No – she went jabbering on to her private doctor that Daddy paid for because the NHS wasn’t good enough for her and then she went and actually made an appointment for him, an actual goddamn appointment that he would have to attend. There was no way he had something going on at seven a.m., and she knew it.
But he couldn’t attend. Any half-decent doctor would see immediately that he didn’t have a low sperm count; he had no sperm at all. And then they’d see the vasectomy scar – it was small but they’d know exactly what it was – and he’d be screwed.
Totally screwed.
He’d wake up on Thursday and say he was ill. But then she’d reschedule.
He was trapped. Shit. Shit. Shit. He needed a way out. And fast.
‘Are you all right, Alfie?’
He smiled at her and took out his phone – his iPhone, not his Henry Bryant phone, Henry Bryant who would have told her to go to hell, he’d already done the test and she’d better believe what he damn well said – and opened the calendar.
‘What day was it?’ he said, his voice calm and even. He grabbed her glass of wine and took a sip. He fought the urge to chug the whole thing.
‘Thursday at seven a.m. Dr Singh said he’d open early for you.’
He nodded. He’d have to go. He’d simply have to find another way to deal with it. This was a real problem.
Unless. Unless he could find a way to nip it in the bud. He had the beginnings of an idea. Perhaps there was something he could do after all. He felt himself relax.
‘I’ll be there,’ he said.
Claire (#ulink_0ddd4148-63c6-5012-96e0-5e815c69bf23)
Claire swayed as the Tube train pulled out of the station. She glanced at her watch. Alfie should be with Dr Singh now. She’d wanted to go with him but she had a meeting with a client at eight. They were working on the product launch of a new flask, and they still hadn’t settled on the design. It was getting late in the project so they had fired their original designers and come to Claire’s firm. Part of the problem was the brief; they wanted something urban and sleek, but rugged and tough. It wasn’t immediately obvious how to incorporate all those things, but she had some ideas.
She got off at her Tube stop and her phone rang. It was Jodie.
