It's Been a Pleasure, Noni Blake Read online

  But before she opens it she looks at me. ‘Noni?’

  ‘Go,’ I say.

  And she does.

  16

  I stare at the door for I don’t know how long. What the hell just happened? I feel entirely disoriented. Used. And stupid for all of the energy and hope I poured into tonight. Into Molly and this perfect vision of what I thought was meant to be. I feel stupid for coming here. I feel stupid for thinking I could change my life. Some things are just the way they are.

  My phone buzzes on the lounge. I pick it up. A text from Molly.

  Noni, I’m so sorry. I don’t want you to think that I was leading you on, that wasn’t my intention. I’m so glad tonight happened. I want to talk to you. Talk this through. Please. When you’re ready. You’re incredible. Tonight was incredible.

  I burst into tears. Stupid. Stupid. Stupid. I climb into the bed, cocooning myself in the covers. And I sob.

  When I wake up, it’s raining and the sky looks exactly how I feel. I check my phone. I’ve been asleep for hours. There’s a message from Joan. The message is four words long.

  Two years, my love.

  At first I don’t know what she means, and for a second I suspect she’s sent the wrong message to the wrong person. But she hasn’t, because the revelation runs into my chest like a slow-moving coal train; long, heavy, oh so grubby, and without hope of stopping. I check the date to be sure, but I already know what she means. Our due date.

  Today should’ve been her birthday.

  Socially Infertile. That’s the medical term for same-sex couples navigating fertility treatments. I never got used to seeing the red stamp in our folder at each appointment. It made me rage. Joan thought it was ridiculous. The cracks in our relationship had already begun showing before we started trying for a baby, but we were in too deep for either of us to be able to put up a hand and say, ‘I’m drowning.’ Drowning in our life, our mortgage, our dog, in the amount of money we were spending on IVF, and sperm, and medical appointments. We were drowning in the expectations of what all of these things meant, of how we should have been feeling versus how we were actually feeling. Because the alternative was too hard. Too difficult to consider.

  The knowing that it wasn’t right was easier to live with than the unknown of doing something about it. I was thirty-one, Joan was thirty-three, we were prime baby-having age. We had put in the work. We had done all of the right things. We would fix our shit. We would make it right. We would stay together. We would be parents. We would be great parents. We would be okay. And this feeling would go away. Eventually. We just had to keep working.

  IVF is an asshole. Like a smarmy bald guy who gives you back-handed compliments, never harsh enough to be abusive, but enough to make your ears prick hot and question whether they did in fact just call you fat, but you let it slide with a wry smile because it happened so quickly. I was pumped full of hormones, and tears and extra kilos and raw heart. We did everything we were told to do, and then some. The pressure was high. Our first three cycles didn’t take and it was just…hell. I know now that any kind of fertility journey is actual hell. Without the flames, but with the heat of expectation, and stress, and hope, and fury at every single person who’s ever had a baby, and every single person who doesn’t understand what you’re going through. Which feels like every single person on the entire planet.

  It’s a kind of mental fuckery that no one ever talks about. Deeply isolating. Confusing. Lonely. So about your body, but so in your head. There’s no reprieve. I never understood that stereotype of the fanatical fertile woman craving a baby. I never thought that would be me. But it was me. It was us. There was a distinct turning point where we became consumed by it. Everything in our life was split into two-week time slots. Waiting to ovulate. Waiting to see. Waiting. Waiting. Fucking waiting. And in the meantime, it feels like every single fucking person in the whole world is pregnant except you. And you don’t talk about it because it just feels so dripped in shame.

  And then we were pregnant.

  And everything shifted again, because the thing that had been the goal for years now, had happened. We were elated, like joy that had blissed out on excitement. We were focused on nothing but our future. We had a goal. We were talking more than we had in a long while. We were showing up for each other. We were connected. It was intimate. It all seemed possible. Not that things between us were fixed, by any means, but possible that we would make it work. I believed that with my whole heart. We, the three of us, were going to be okay.

  And then we weren’t pregnant.

  Our baby died. Our baby, who had suddenly appeared in our sphere and defibrillated our relationship, had died. She was gone. When her fifteen-week-old heartbeat stopped, so did the heartbeat of our relationship. We couldn’t save it. Any of it. We spent a whole year afterwards trying, but we were both too tired and sad. And so one night, when Joan came in the front door after walking Carson and saw me sitting on the stairs, she took three steps towards me, kissed my forehead and started to cry. I cried too. We stayed like that for hours, neither of us saying anything. We didn’t need to. There was nothing left to say.

  It was done.

  We were done.

  For good.

  Two years. And I forgot. I hit the call button and it rings three times before she answers.

  ‘Hey,’ she says.

  ‘Hi.’

  ‘Where are you?’ she asks.

  ‘In an Airbnb. In London.’

  ‘In London? Why?’

  ‘I forgot. I forgot about the date,’ I cry. My throat clamps as I listen to her breathe.

  ‘I’m sorry, Noni.’

  ‘Me too.’

  The plain and simple truth is that our hearts broke. We broke. Smashed, even. Into smithereens. Like glass hitting tiles. And there was no way that we’d ever have been able to put the pieces back together, because the pieces were everywhere.

  Just like smashed glass, Joan’s text message acts like one of those pieces that you step on months later, barefoot, and you bleed. And sob. Which I do, sitting up in bed. Joan listens.

  I hear her crying too. ‘Are you okay?’ she asks.

  ‘I dunno. No. You?’

  ‘Me either.’

  ‘I’m just—I’m trying to be happy and it feels like it works sometimes, and then other times it feels like such an effort, you know?’

  Joan chuckles a little. ‘Yeah, I know.’

  ‘This isn’t how things were meant to be. I don’t know what this version of my life is. And I’m trying really hard. And maybe that’s the thing, yeah? You shouldn’t have to try.’ I pause. ‘I have no fucking idea what I’m doing.’

  ‘I think that’s all of us,’ she says.

  ‘Do you think about her?’ I ask.

  ‘All the time.’

  ‘Same.’

  ‘Do you talk about her?’ Joan asks.

  ‘Not really. No. It hurts.’

  ‘I don’t either. And it feels awful not to, but it just fucking kills. It kills me in my body, Nons, like, it stings so bad.’

  My quick intake of breath is so loud it’s startling and we both make throaty pained sounds that come from deep places. ‘I’ll be fine one moment, and then out of nowhere it just smacks me,’ I tell her. ‘I imagine it’s like a plank of wood to the face, you know like those old slapstick skits? And then other times it just fucking creeps up on me.’

  ‘Baby-wearing dads,’ she says.

  ‘What?’

  ‘If I see a baby-wearing dad, I just want to kick him in the dick and steal his baby, but also howl with the ache.’

  I laugh at this. ‘Please don’t steal anyone’s baby.’

  She laughs too. ‘What are you doing in London?’

  ‘Trying to be happy.’

  ‘Is it working?’

  ‘No. Not at all. I’m a fucking idiot. I don’t know. Nothing ever goes as I plan.’ Neither of us says anything.

  ‘It’s okay to be sad,’ she says eventually. ‘It’
s okay to be happy too, Nons. It is.’

  ‘Are you happy?’ I ask.

  ‘I’m getting there.’

  The tears drip down my cheeks, but I’m so used to crying that I just let them. ‘How’s cannellini beans?’

  ‘She’s fine.’

  We breathe together, feeling the weight of this thing that feels so unique to us, even though it’s not, even though millions of people have experienced this very same thing. Which in theory should make me feel better. But it doesn’t, because it feels like it cheapens our experience. That it’s somehow normal. And nothing about it, about this kind of pain, and grief, is normal at all. It hurts. I have been happy. And that feels bad. Just last night I was happy. Until I wasn’t. And right now what Molly did feels deserved. I should be unhappy. I catch that thought, knowing it’s wrong. Because I want to be happy, I do. But this pain is rigid and felt all over my body. No matter where I think I hide it.

  ‘I love you, you know that right?’ she says finally.

  ‘Yup. I love you too.’

  ‘I know.’

  We say goodbye and hang up. Joan is right.

  What the fuck am I doing here?

  I let myself be consumed by my grief and confusion and rage, and I sob heavy and hard into the pillow. The kind of sobs that fold your body in half and hang as heavy in your throat as they do in the air.

  I get up, pull the curtains closed and I get back into bed. And I don’t move for hours. But when I’m ready, I message Lindell.

  Molly is in a relationship, I text. I discovered this fact when I was naked.

  And on the phone to her girlfriend.

  WHAT THE ACTUAL FUCK?!? he replies.

  Molly and I had excellent, excellent, excellent sex last night.

  Lindell’s messages arrive in quick succession. YOU DID?

  WHAT? NONI!

  And then I answered her phone accidentally thinking it was my phone and that it was you. It was not you. It was her French girlfriend, Luana.

  I’M DEAD, Lindell writes back straight away.

  ACTUALLY DECEASED.

  And then after a moment. Do you want me to call?

  Do I? Of course. But also not, because I know the love and concern in his voice will make me want to cry again. Yes, I reply.

  The phone rings. I tell him everything, and when he feels like he is across the whole drama, he kicks into peak best-friend mode.

  ‘I’m so sorry, my girl. Fuck. What an ordeal.’ He sighs, gathering his thoughts. ‘But you can’t forget that you’re a powerful fucking boss bitch and this actually has nothing to do with you. This is all her bullshit. Not yours.’ I picture his eyebrows knitting in the middle and his lips pursing with matter-of-fact precision.

  ‘Yeah. Just—what a shitty, shitty thing to do. I feel so used,’ I say, feeling it in my chest and arms like it’s crawling under my skin, making me itch.

  ‘Of course you do. You were. She used you. What was she thinking?’

  ‘She said it was because she didn’t think this thing between us would be a thing anymore,’ I paraphrase sourly. ‘And then it was, and I guess it took her by surprise, and she got swept up in the moment.’ I punch the pillow in my lap flat.

  Lindell scoffs loudly. ‘It’s the dishonesty that fucks me off. It was so manipulative. Was there chemistry though?’

  ‘Yeah, of course, there’s always been chemistry between us. We just get along so well.’

  ‘But is it chemistry, or is it history?’ he says.

  ‘Oh god, I don’t know.’ I don’t know where he’s going with this.

  ‘I mean, I don’t want to be shit, but you wanted this to happen, not the French girlfriend bit obviously, but the fucking, the chemistry bit, yes?’

  ‘Of course,’ I tell him, pushing the flattened pillow into my lap and hugging it tight. ‘So?’ I want him to finish this thought. He doesn’t. ‘Did I make this up?’ A pang of anxiety hits.

  ‘You didn’t make it up, babe, of course not, but did you only see the good? Was Molly giving you other signals, maybe?’

  Was she? Did I miss something? ‘I don’t think so. I think she was doing, and saying, everything I wanted her to, and now I’m like, was any of it real? Fuck, Lindell, was this just her plan? Is she that egotistical? She just wanted to make me look like an idiot?’

  ‘You are not an idiot.’ I picture him shaking his head and pacing. ‘Fuck her,’ he groans, ‘she’s got so much work to do. Shit.’ He goes quiet for a moment. ‘Thank god you know now, though, yes?’

  Holy shit. ‘Yes. You’re right. What if I hadn’t picked up her phone? Then what? Oh god. It makes me feel sick.’ What if I hadn’t found out? Then what?

  ‘You dodged a fucking bullet. You were meant to answer that phone, babe. Clearly. You know what you fucking deserve, Noni, and this isn’t it.’

  ‘Yeah, and that’s not all that happened,’ I say. And then, very slowly and very reluctantly, I tell him about the phone call with Joan.

  ‘I forgot. I forgot about the date. I’m sorry, darling,’ he says.

  ‘Why would you remember the date?’ I say, pulling the doona up over my shoulders and rolling onto my side.

  ‘I want to remember everything. Fuck.’ He exhales loudly. ‘I’m not going to ask you if you’re okay, because that’s shit, I’m just going to tell you that I love you and I’m here, and remind you to tell me whatever you need and I’ll do it,’ he says. I can hear his pain and worry. I start to cry. ‘Oh my darling. I know. I know. Just cry. I’m here. Just cry it all out,’ he says, his voice twinging with sadness too.

  ‘I’m okay. It’s your voice. Your voice, just—’ I tell him through sobs.

  ‘I know.’

  ‘I feel like this whole adventure idea was only a distraction from feeling like this.’

  ‘Maybe, my love, but you’re allowed distractions. All of this is very much a big, exhausting, inside job. Hang on— Julius, put the guinea pig back in its cage now. Now,’ he yells. ‘Sorry.’

  ‘You got a guinea pig?’

  ‘Don’t ask. I fucking hate the thing.’

  This makes me laugh a little and I rub my forehead, trying to alleviate some of the pressure in my head, on my thoughts. ‘I’m so sick of my own shit. You know? Like, I think I’ve dealt with things and then I’m smacked in the face with how fundamentally I have not dealt with things.’

  ‘Oh, darling, that’s life, that’s grief, that’s being human. And there is a hole. There is a hole in your heart, or your life, or however you want to look at it. That baby, she is a hole, which you’re never, ever, gonna fill. You’re just gonna get better at living with the hole,’ he says, far too honestly for me to bear, but I know he’s right.

  ‘Fucking hell.’

  ‘I know. It sucks. And it’s all fucking inside work.’

  ‘Ugh.’ I sigh loudly and roll onto my back.

  ‘I miss you, so much,’ he says.

  ‘I miss you.’

  ‘Now, pop a valium and go to bed,’ he says. I sigh loudly and agree, hanging up. Just as I put my phone down it dings again with a text from Naz wanting to know how it went. I give her the short version.

  WHAT A FUCKING ASSHOLE SHIT CUNTING PIECE OF FUCKERY, she replies.

  Then again. I just told Tom. He’s furious too.

  Then again. What are you doing this weekend? Cancel it.

  I’m not doing anything, I reply.

  Good. You’re coming away with Tom and me. We’re going to Scotland. I’m arranging it now.

  Okay, I reply. I don’t have the energy to do anything but agree with Naz.

  Good. We’re going to some retreat for four days. It’s about relaxation and clearing your poxy fucking chakras or something, but there’s facials and massages and spas. You’re coming.

  Okay, I reply again. Getting away will be good. A change of scene and pace will be good. I have nothing keeping me in London anymore, anyway.

  My phone dings again. Good. It’ll be a right old laugh. Get out of town
.

  Then again. FUCK HER.

  Then again. FUUUUUUCCCCKKKK HER.

  I smile. I’ve never been to Scotland.

  17

  I stand next to the information desk at King’s Cross Station, ‘The one near the escalator,’ Naz had said. I have all of my stuff and I am feeling deeply curious about what I’ve agreed to. I hear Naz squeal behind me, she’s wheeling an oxblood snakeskin suitcase and she has a matching tracksuit on with ridiculous gold sneakers. Tom trails behind her rolling his eyes, but smiling at me. She squeezes me tight.

  ‘Are you fucking ready?’ Naz asks and I shake my head.

  ‘Hey, Noni.’ Tom hugs me hard. ‘It’s so good to see you.’

  Tom is an art director in one of those fancy open-plan offices, but he’s also a man who has the ocean in his veins and the sun in his skin, the quintessential surfer type. He says he could surf before he could talk. And Naz jokes that he practically combusts if his feet don’t touch sand every few weeks. She thinks his brain loves their city life, but his heart longs for a beachside life. Which she is unsure she’ll ever be able to provide because she is all city, all the time. If Tom has sand in his DNA, Naz has smog. They’ve lived in London so long now that I think he’s just gotten used to it, and he loves the capacity to jump on a plane for forty quid and be somewhere entirely new in a matter of hours. He’s calm. And he completely offsets Naz’s combustible energy.

  Once we’re on the train, and I’m sitting across from Tom and Naz, she looks at me, worried, and says, ‘Babes, do you want to talk about Molly or not? We weren’t sure.’

  ‘We’re armed and ready to talk about it if you want to,’ Tom adds.

  ‘I’m okay right now, I think,’ I say. ‘I’m mostly just mad about how deceitful she was about it all. Months and months of fucking bullshit that could’ve so easily been avoided.’ I stare out the window.

  ‘Dick moves left, right and centre on her part,’ Naz says.

  ‘People find it hard to speak honestly about their feelings or intentions. I know I can’t speak for Molly, but I can’t imagine that her intention was to hurt you,’ Tom offers, relaxing his hand on Naz’s thigh. She doesn’t react. It’s like his hand belongs there.