Off-Target Read online

  ‘It’s the twenty-first century, Steve,’ I snap. ‘Luck has precious little to do with it.’

  We must be the only couple I know who are still trying solo, without help, the old-fashioned way: just sex.

  He sinks onto the bed and sighs. ‘We can’t keep doing this, Susan. It’s like history’s repeating itself.’

  He means Katya: his ex. The ultimate insult. It’s not my fault, what happened. I’m the one being punished, and I wasn’t even there.

  ‘As if work isn’t stressful enough … I don’t want to live like this.’

  ‘And you think I do?’ I cuff away a tear. ‘All those pitying looks from mothers in the playground. The endless bulge of bellies in the staff room—’

  ‘You think you’re the only one?’ Steve cuts in. ‘Week in, week out, I have to listen to the same office banter about how lucky I am, how much fun I must be having: all those lie-ins and rampant sex…’ He turns to me and his face stills my heart. ‘Every day. Every single day I wake up seeing how unhappy you are. Because I haven’t given you the thing you want most…’

  I smooth my palm over his cheek. ‘It’s not your fault, Steve. You’re right, though: this can’t carry on. We have to try something else.’ I swallow. ‘Look at Carmel. It worked out fine for them, in the end, didn’t it?’

  He yanks away from me as if I’ve just bitten him. ‘Christ. Don’t you ever stop?’

  I slam the mattress. ‘It’s my choice, too! How can IVF be any worse than this?’

  He stands up and squints at me, as if from a great distance. ‘Oh, it gets much, much worse, believe me.’ There’s a gravelled edge to his words that makes me shiver. ‘We’ve barely even got started.’

  He stomps to the bathroom and locks the door. Water smashes into the tiles.

  I grab my phone and slide down the wall to the floor. I scroll through my history: relentless pink circles encasing straight blue lines, the word, ‘NO’, shouting in white capitals.

  I hear my father’s voice:

  You can’t do anything right…

  These lines have become the story of my life.

  Flat. Blue. And always negative.

  CHAPTER 3

  I pull my collar up around my ears and pace the playground, trying to avoid the parents’ eyes. I have no bandwidth this morning for the posse of petty plaintiffs: Greta’s mum whining about school lunches and how utterly exhausting the new baby is, or Harry’s dad laying in about phonics again.

  A straggle of year twos darts past like startled fish, first one way, then the other. Did I ever run like that? It’s hard to imagine. My body is calcifying; with every failed conception it grows more inert. Sometimes, it feels as if I’ve been dropped down a very deep well, and I’m lying there, watching the clouds roll past, listening to the far-off lives of others.

  I risk a glance at the idling pushchairs, the red-faced toddlers straining against their straps. Two girls fly up to a pram and wave at a swaddle of pink inside. My chest tightens. Other mums crowd round, poking their fingers under the hood. The mother bestows on them a sleepy, beatific smile, her hand cushioning her belly as if she’s already lining up number three.

  I look away and spot Marty, his long legs striding across the playing field. I lift my arm and wave.

  He nods at the babble of children, frolicking like puppies. ‘It’s as if they store it up over the weekend, ready for Mondays.’

  I smile. ‘Good weekend?’

  ‘Loud.’ He takes a swig from his travel mug. ‘Grandparents are over, on Mamma’s side.’ Marty’s mother is Sicilian. He makes a yapping motion with his fingers. ‘Non-stop, I tell you. I had to send them into Oxford on one of those open-top-bus sightseeing tours. I’ve been craving silence for forty-eight hours.’

  I remember Marty on his first day in the staff room: fancy shirt, olive skin and huge brown eyes. He looked like some tropical species that had inadvertently flown off course. After ten years in corporate law he joined an accelerated teacher-training scheme: I didn’t think he’d last the year. Then I watched him at break, coaxing shy Holly Chipson off the Friendship Bench. I couldn’t have been more wrong. The next thing, Holly was up playing football with Marty, and three other kids joined in.

  ‘Take it steady, Danny.’ Marty sidesteps two boys crashing past after a ball. The red-haired one whoops as he crosses in front, but then he teeters to a stop, as if his batteries have died.

  He sways slightly. Marty rushes over. ‘Danny?’

  Marty gets there just as the boy crumples, catching him under the shoulders. Marty lays him gently on the ground. Danny’s body is completely rigid, his eyes rolled back. Marty takes off the boy’s glasses and checks his watch.

  I kneel next to him. ‘Shall I fetch another first aider?’

  Marty wrestles out of his jumper and lays it under the boy’s head. ‘It’s alright: I’m trained.’

  Danny’s back arches and his arms jerk out; his feet start pushing against the tarmac.

  ‘It’s OK, Danny,’ says Marty softly. ‘You’re OK.’

  Tremors ripple up Danny’s body; his legs rhythmically thump the ground.

  I glance at Marty. ‘Tell me what I can do.’

  Marty shields the boy’s head with his hands, keeping the jumper close. ‘Get hold of his mother. Let her know what’s happened.’

  ‘What’s wrong?’ asks a small voice. Danny’s friend is staring at him, the ball clutched tight to his chest. ‘Is Danny OK?’

  ‘Yes, Ben: he’s having a seizure,’ says Marty. Danny’s back stiffens and he hisses through clenched teeth. ‘They usually pass pretty quickly.’

  I give Ben a bright smile. ‘Actually, Ben, would you do me a favour and run over to reception? Let Miss Jenner know what’s happened and ask her to contact Danny’s mum. She may still be by the gates.’

  Ben nods and sprints off.

  Saliva bubbles out of Danny’s mouth as the spasms intensify. I notice a dribble of blood and someone squeals. Behind us, a circle of children has gathered. They’re gawping at the boy, eyes wide.

  I stand up and clap my hands. ‘OK, everyone line up now, please: the bell’s about to go. Let’s give Danny some space. Nothing to worry about: he’s going to be fine.’

  I usher them away and flag down Aaliyah, one of my teaching assistants. I ask her to cover for me and organise something for Marty’s class.

  When I get back, Marty checks his watch again and scowls. ‘You may need to call an ambulance. We’re almost at four minutes. Five isn’t good.’

  I swallow. ‘OK.’

  Sweat is running down the boy’s freckled face; his fists are tightly clenched. I count the seconds, phone at the ready, but the spasms begin to slow. Eventually, his body slumps. Marty rolls him onto his side as Danny splutters and gasps for air.

  ‘That’s it, Danny. Cough it up.’ Marty wipes the boy’s mouth and smooths back his hair. ‘You’re OK: you’ve had a seizure. You’re at school and you’re safe. Just try to relax: your mum’s on her way.’

  Danny’s eyes close. Gradually, his breathing calms.

  I exhale. ‘Should we call his doctor?’

  ‘We’ll let his mum do that. He’s exhausted. He probably just needs to go home and sleep.’

  ‘Well, thank goodness you were here. I mean, I know the basics, but when you see it for real … You were so calm.’

  He doesn’t take his eyes off Danny. ‘My sister had epilepsy. I’ve been doing this since I was six.’

  We stay with Danny until he’s able to sit up. Marty virtually carries him to his mother’s car. I wait in reception while Marty speaks to her outside. She’s a small woman: pale face, dark rings under her eyes. At one point, Marty puts his hand on her shoulder. I think she’s crying.

  ‘Is she OK?’ I ask as Marty trudges back in. ‘Has this happened before?’

  ‘Once.’ He sighs. ‘There’s going to be an update at the staff meeting.’

  ‘Epilepsy?’

  He shakes his head. ‘I wish…’
His jaw stiffens. ‘Danny has Batten disease. We were only told on Friday.’

  ‘What? I’ve never heard of it.’

  ‘Neither had I. It’s a genetic disorder: very rare. The family got the diagnosis last week.’

  ‘Is it serious?’

  He holds my gaze. ‘It’s devastating.’

  Danny’s in Marty’s class: he’s only eight.

  ‘Sight goes first. Then the muscles. Dementia sets in.’ Marty’s fingers curl into a fist. ‘By the end, he won’t be able to see, or walk … Or even swallow.’

  I think of what I said in the playground.

  Nothing to worry about, Danny’s going to be fine…

  I inhale. ‘But surely they must be able to treat him?’

  ‘It’s terminal: there is no cure.’

  ‘God … His poor mother…’

  ‘His parents were in pieces when they told us: they’d no idea. Danny had only been referred because his eyes had deteriorated so quickly.’ Marty stares out the window. ‘The consultant said he may not make it past his teens.’

  My eyes veer to a wall display: lopsided paintings of cats and dogs, a little boy chasing a purple balloon.

  ‘There’s one hope. Some new gene therapy in the States. The hospital is trying to find out more, see if they can get Danny onto the trial.’ He sighs. ‘He’s been prescribed drugs, to help with the seizures. But that’s about it. All we can do is try to keep Danny safe and record any other symptoms.’

  I shake my head. ‘I’m so sorry, Marty.’

  ‘Yeah. You know the worst thing? His parents blame themselves.’ His forehead furrows. ‘They found out they’re both carriers for the disease.’

  ‘It’s hardly their fault, what’s in their DNA.’

  ‘Right. It was a one-in-four chance. And Danny was the one. They weren’t tested, so how were they to know?’

  I think of Danny’s mother. How cruel. To finally get pregnant, only to have your child stolen from you by some time bomb lurking in their genes. No wonder everyone’s getting themselves and their embryos tested.

  ‘Anyway…’ Marty exhales. ‘I’d better rescue whoever’s covering my class.’

  I catch his arm. ‘You were brilliant with him, you know, Marty. Really brilliant.’ I meet his gaze. ‘Whatever happens, at least Danny’s got you looking out for him.’

  Marty’s mouth twitches. ‘Thanks, Susan.’

  As he walks off, my eyes return to the painting of the boy running after his balloon.

  I know what legacy my genes have in store: I’ve been tested.

  But Steve hasn’t.

  CHAPTER 4

  ‘Here, babe. Get this down you.’

  Carmel hands me a decaf latte and sinks into her myco-leather sofa, curling her feet underneath her like a pedigree cat. If you’d told me five years ago that Carmel would buy furniture made from the roots of fungi, I’d have laughed.

  ‘Thanks.’ I grip the handle, trying not to scald my fingers.

  She nods at me. ‘This will blow your taste buds. New variety, only just designed. Vanilla and cocoa notes, all dialled up.’

  She eyes me over the rim of the glass. ‘Look, this hang-up of Steve’s about IVF … I know only too well it’s no tea party, but, Jesus, practically everyone’s doing it: for the disease screening if nothing else. You shouldn’t let him bully you out of it.’

  I think of Danny, and my gut churns.

  ‘Honestly, some men would rather die than ask for help.’ She deposits her glass and inspects her nails. ‘Steve should know better, particularly second time around.’

  I recall Steve’s face and feel a stab of guilt. I’m not sure I subscribe to such a black-and-white view.

  ‘Of course, this not-having-a-reason only makes things worse. If you know who the enemy is, you can crack on with it, get things sorted. Like Barry and I did. But if you don’t, well…’ She plucks some fluff from a cushion. ‘I’ve seen it with couples before.’ She pulls a face. ‘Turns ugly.’

  The coffee burns down my throat. I’m still waiting for the part where Carmel gives me hope.

  ‘Come to think of it, I don’t know any couples who are even trying to conceive naturally.’ She nods at me. ‘I’m telling you, Susan, conception through intercourse is becoming positively Neanderthal. What’s the saying? “Sex is for recreation and IVF is for procreation.”’

  I shift in my seat. It was different for Carmel: there was never any question about intervention. Barry’s bank provides fertility insurance so they both got tested and discovered Barry carries a mutation in the Huntington’s gene. Fortunately, his faulty gene is in what they call ‘the grey area’, which means he’s highly unlikely to develop symptoms himself, but there was a one-in-two chance of him passing it on. So that was that. Barry and Carmel qualified for PGD – pre-implantation genetic diagnosis – to test their IVF embryos for disease, and got it all done through the company scheme.

  Whereas the only intervention I’ve had is a few fertility pills that gave me hot flushes and bloating.

  ‘Has Steve actually considered the risks he’s taking, leaving it all to chance? He’s had his own profile done, right?’

  I hesitate. ‘No.’

  Carmel’s face drops. ‘But he works in biotech, for goodness’ sake! You’re telling me he’s prepared to ravage the genomes of mosquitoes and mice, but not even get his sequenced?’

  ‘He works in corporate affairs, Carmel, not the labs.’

  It’s a sore point but I still feel the need to defend him. Steve’s dad died in his fifties. After a heart attack.

  ‘And?’

  I pick at my skirt as the argument floods back.

  ‘He reckons it’s like unwrapping some kind of “disease fortune cookie”. He says, “What difference does it make? So you find out you’re going to get dementia or heart disease. It just gives you one more thing to worry about.”’

  Secretly, I used to agree. For all the support programmes and genetic counselling they offer, it doesn’t necessarily change the end game. Like Dad’s Alzheimer’s or Mum’s cancer: it was a curse they couldn’t lift. Only the other day, I read about some guy who’d waded out into Farmoor Reservoir with a rucksack of bricks. His wife had bought him a DNA test kit for Christmas. Turned out he carried the mutation for Creutzfeldt-Jakob disease: a fatal brain disorder that has no cure.

  Carmel puffs out a breath. ‘I’m sorry, but that’s just … irresponsible. I mean, how can you prepare yourselves properly for a baby if you don’t get tested? It’s Russian roulette.’

  I dig my nails into the chair. ‘I guess we’ll just have to cross that bridge when we come to it. If we ever come to it.’

  She sucks in her lips. ‘You know what I think, Susie?’ I look up. ‘I reckon you should just go ahead and book it in yourself.’

  I frown at her. ‘It takes two, remember?’

  ‘Tell him you’ll bloody-well use a donor if he doesn’t say yes.’

  I expel something between a sigh and a laugh. ‘You know I could never do that. I can’t really blame him. With everything that happened, you know, with Katya, his ex.’

  Carmel slams her saucer on the table. ‘Honey, that was nearly a decade ago. IVF has moved on. Back then only one in five made it: now it’s one in three. And you’re not Katya, you’re you. You need to get on with it before your egg quality falls off a cliff.’

  I gaze at one of the photos of Leo, just after he was born. Carmel’s efforts sure paid off. Underneath the ludicrously large cotton cap is that cute little face, all crumpled and pink, as if he’d stayed in the bath too long.

  ‘It’s no use … He won’t discuss it.’ I sigh. ‘Even now, I don’t think I know the whole story…’ I clasp both hands around the glass. ‘But what I do know is that IVF broke his marriage and nearly bankrupted Steve in the process.’

  I choose to omit the other detail: that it nearly broke Steve, too. Five rounds, they went through: a relentless boot camp of injections, tests and scans. And waiting. Always
the waiting. He did tell me about that. How he began to dread her ringtone, hearing her voice: so brittle with hope, followed by the suck of breath that made him want to take a hammer to that phone. He said that’s what started him drinking: listening to her fall apart.

  My head slumps into my hands. ‘It’s killing us, Carmel. Our lives are controlled by apps: what we eat or don’t eat, how much we exercise, when we have sex, if you can call it that. More like some kind of insemination Olympics. What if he leaves me, like he left her?’

  Carmel plonks herself down next to me. ‘Steve’s not going to leave you, Susie. Not in a million years. He loves you: that much is obvious. Even if he is a little…’ she meets my eyes ‘…controlling.’

  Through the blur of tears I notice a small fist curled round the edge of the door. Two round brown eyes peep at me.

  I wipe my face. ‘Ah, hello, young man.’

  Carmel glances round. ‘Leo! You little monster. You’re supposed to be having your nap!’

  He barrels into the room, all feet and arms, and buries his head in Carmel’s bosom.

  She ruffles his hair and tuts, unable to suppress a smile.

  Leo peers out at me from under her arm. His brows knit together. ‘Why crying?’

  ‘Why are you crying?’ Carmel bites her lip and glances at me. ‘Sorry. Force of habit.’

  ‘It’s nothing, Leo.’ I sniff. ‘Grown-ups worry about things they shouldn’t. Sometimes, they forget to be happy.’

  Carmel clamps a hand on each of his cheeks and kisses his nose. ‘Run and play with your Go-Go Track for just a few more minutes, and Mummy will find you a biscuit. Then you can show Susan your cars.’

  He scrambles off her lap, eyes glittering. She waits until he’s gone and taps my knee. ‘Right, how long till you ovulate?’

  ‘A week or so.’ Carmel arches her eyebrows. ‘Six days.’

  She inhales through her nose. ‘You need to plan something special. Remind yourselves that you’re lovers, not just breeders.’ She gives me the once-over. ‘You’re lucky, you’ve still got a fabulous figure. Buy something that makes you feel good. Black lace, thigh boots, whatever does it for you. Hell, I’ve got a bone-fide police uniform you can borrow—’