I woke at midday. The sun was streaming through the window, and Charlie was still snoring next to me. Charlie. I sat bolt upright and looked down at him, the events from the previous night flooding back with sudden and vivid clarity. Oh my god. I’d got married to a guy I barely knew. What on earth had I been thinking? How could I have been so stupid?
I sat on the edge of the bed looking at him sleeping so peacefully. He truly was lovely to look at. And he was a really nice guy. But I barely knew him. And he wasn’t Steve. How the hell was I going to get out of this? We couldn’t really be married could we? The only thing I could think to do was to blag my way out of it.
‘Good morning Mrs Cosgrove,’ Charlie’s voice cut into my thoughts.
‘Oh my god,’ my voice was pure fake Hollywood. ‘I can’t believe we acted so crazy last night.’
‘I thought it was rather fun actually,’ said Charlie.
‘But come on,’ I said. ‘Getting married was a bit way out, wasn’t it?’
‘It doesn’t have to be, does it?’ Charlie took my hand.
I felt lousy then. Maybe he actually liked me. I’d led him on atrociously. All my pent-up feelings of bitterness against Steve had led me here; this wasn’t fair on him. Best to brazen it out and pretend I couldn’t see the way he really felt.
‘Well it was an adventure, that’s for sure,’ I laughed. ‘Not many people can say they came to Las Vegas and got married and divorced in a day, can they?’
‘You want to get divorced?’ Charlie said, angrily. ‘Make your bloody mind up.’
‘Well don’t you?’ I said.
‘I don’t know,’ said Charlie. ‘I know it was a bit wild, but we could try and give it a go, couldn’t we?’
‘I don’t think so,’ I said, trying not to look at him.
‘What about us being meant for each other?’ said Charlie. ‘You were the one who seemed to think it was such a good idea last night.’
‘That was the drink talking,’ I said, trying to joke my way out of things.
‘Gee, thanks,’ said Charlie.
‘Sorry, I didn’t mean it like that. But come on,’ I said. ‘Us staying married would be terrible. We hardly know each other. It’s never going to work.’
‘You really think so?’ said Charlie.
‘I do,’ I said. ‘I’m sorry, I was really drunk last night, and things got out of hand. Believe me, I’m really bad news for you, you’ll be grateful to me in the end.’
I couldn’t look at him. I felt so guilty, and he looked so forlorn I couldn’t believe he was taking it so seriously. I’d had him taped last night as being as wild as I was. Surely he could see this was just a prank that had gone badly wrong?
‘You mean it, don’t you?’
‘Yes I do. Us staying married is a really, really bad idea,’ I said.
‘The worst,’ said Charlie tonelessly.
‘So that’s it,’ I said brightly. ‘If it’s that easy to get married here, I bet it’s a cinch to get divorced.’
I didn’t look at him when I said this. I pretended it was all OK. But not for the first time, I felt really lousy. The nicest bloke I’d met in ages, and I’d stuffed it up big time.
Beth
‘Nervous?’ Matt held my hand as we sat in the waiting room, on a warm spring day in the middle of April, at the fertility clinic we’d been referred to by our GP, Dr McGrath. My hand felt clammy and sweaty, and my heart was thumping like a railway train. I knew it was my fault we hadn’t conceived. Matt’s tests had come back all clear, and mine were inconclusive. I couldn’t help the nagging feeling that it was my body telling me it was my fault that we couldn’t have babies.
Luckily, I’d explained the situation to Dr McGrath. She’d been very understanding, and said that I still might have a chance, and I shouldn’t beat myself up about it. But I knew. I was being punished for what I’d done, all those years ago. And Matt didn’t know. I’d never told him, because when we met it didn’t seem important, and now I didn’t know how to.
‘Mr and Mrs Davies?’ A smiling nurse ushered us into the consultant’s office.
I sat in silent terror waiting for him to tell us that I had destroyed our chances, thanks to a careless moment with someone unworthy to tie Matt’s shoelace. In my panic I zoned out what he was saying, concentrating on the lines in the floor, trying to ignore the pounding in my head which was saying over and over again, This is when you get found out, this is when you get found out. I felt sick and hot and dizzy, I wanted so much to be somewhere else.
‘Beth, are you OK?’ Matt’s voice seemed to be coming from a long way away.
‘Fine,’ I said, and blinked. ‘It’s a bit hot in here. Sorry, what were you saying?’
‘I was just explaining that looking at your test results, I think you two have a really good chance of getting pregnant if we go down the IVF route,’ said Mr O’Brian, an avuncular kind of man who seemed to be almost as desperate as we were for us to conceive.
‘You do?’ I let out the breath I didn’t know I’d been holding. Was it that easy? No mention at all of my previous gynaecological history and how it might impact on my chances? Just an explanation that I’d need to take fertility drugs, and then come back and have some eggs taken? I thanked the stars for Dr McGrath’s discretion.
‘Of course, it might not work,’ he added. ‘You do have to be prepared for that.’
‘Of course,’ we agreed, but hope is such a bloody awful little emotion, I knew we were both thinking the same thing. It’s not hopeless. We’re not hopeless. We can still do this. And for the first time I allowed myself an extra little thought: Maybe my past doesn’t matter after all.
‘Coffee to celebrate?’ Matt said to me as we left the hospital. We were both so excited we were practically flying. I was too dizzy to hear all the facts and figures, but the consultant felt we had a better chance than most of conceiving – everything was in good working order according to him. We just needed a little help.
‘I shouldn’t be drinking coffee now, should I?’ I said. ‘But I’ll have a juice with you.’
We found our way to a little coffee bar on the High Street and sat back, enjoying the feelings of elation washing over us. We’d had so much disappointment over the last few years, and even though I knew the road ahead was going to be tough, and there were no guarantees, I wanted to enjoy this feeling. It had been a long time since I’d felt this hopeful about anything.
‘To us,’ said Matt, raising his cup of coffee against my orange juice.
‘To us,’ I said, ‘and to Foetus.’
We hardly dared to talk about the possibility of a real baby any more.
Matt leant over, and gently touched my stomach.
‘To Foetus,’ he said. ‘You know, I’ve got a really good feeling about this.’