Ghostwritten. Isabel Wolff
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
‘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.’
‘I have explained.’
‘You haven’t – at least not in any way that I can understand. And as time’s gone on it’s bothered me more and more. This feeling I have, that although I love being with you, and desire you, I don’t really know you.’ He sighed. ‘You said that your mother neglected you.’
‘No. She looked after me. But she was distant and cold.’
‘That is neglect.’ Rick chewed his lip. ‘So … was she always like that?’
‘No.’ I saw my mother playing with me, reading to me. Holding my hand … ‘But as I grew older, it got worse; and it wasn’t as though I had a father to make up for it.’
‘Maybe that’s why she was so remote – though you’d think what happened might have brought her closer to you.’
‘Well … it didn’t.’
‘Is this the real reason why you don’t want kids?’ Rick asked. ‘Out of a fear that you’d be like that with your own child? Because you wouldn’t be, Jen.’
‘How do you know?’ I demanded bleakly. ‘I might be worse.’
‘Jenni, I wish that you’d at least talk to someone who might be able to help you overcome your fears.’
I laughed. ‘With a wave of their magic, psychotherapeutic wand? No. In any case, there’s nothing to resolve. I don’t want to have children. I like talking to them, and reading to them, and playing with them, and yes, I can see that having a child must in many ways be wonderful. But against that I set the never-ending, heart-wrenching anxiety of parenthood. I intend to protect myself from that.’
Rick stood up then walked over to the patio doors and unbolted them. He went out and sat on the wooden bench at the end of our small garden. After a moment he took a pack of cigarettes out of his breast pocket, lit one, released a nebula of smoke, then sat with his hands on his knees, head bowed.
I pushed back my chair, gathered up the manuscript, then went down the hall into my study. I dropped the pages beside the computer and sat staring at the darkened screen.
Three options … allowed to change … not open with me …
I heard an e-mail come in but ignored it. Was there any way Rick and I might resolve our problem? I refused to see a counsellor. I didn’t need counselling, and it would be more likely to destroy us than help us. Without thinking, I clicked the mouse and the screen flared into life.
I looked at the list of messages, desperate for distraction. The first three offered me laser lipo, cut-price hair extensions and fifty per cent off a pocket-sprung mattress. The fourth was headed Ghostwriting Enquiry and had been automatically forwarded from my website. It was from Nina’s godfather, Vincent Tregear. Surprised that he should contact me, I read it. It was a two-line message, asking me to call him. I was too upset to speak to him now. Instead, I opened the baby-guide