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this big, light, bright, white waiting room, disguised as a faux lounge, on a blue metal designer chair, waiting, chest slumped onto knees, for the longest five minutes ever. I can feel all Kayla’s pain and pray I’m transferring some of it. When the pain subsides, I hear a door open. I look up. Kayla’s standing there, in front of me. She smiles weakly, though not with her eyes. All colour has been drained from her ghostly face. I rush to take her in my arms, to try to make it all better.    
     

MARCH
     
     
     

Chapter 6
     
     
     
     
     
    “Alison Kirk,” calls a heavily pregnant nurse.
     
    How DARE a nurse in a fertility clinic be pregnant!
     
    I’d gone to see my GP after Adam got his sperm test results. She’d said because I’d been trying for over a year it was worth getting checked out and a good place to start would be cycle monitoring. St Mary’s Hospital offered it for free at their Outpatient Clinic. So that’s where I am, for the second time. The first time they’d scanned me to check the lining of my womb (it looked good apparently) and taken blood to check my hormone levels. I’m presuming, as I follow the pregnant nurse, that today will be the same.
     
    “Sorry about the wait,” she says as she closes the door behind her, and motions for me to lie down.
     
    She picks up my notes, has a quick glance through. 
     
    “Right, the results from the blood we took last time were perfect, so let’s have a look and see what’s happening down there. Could you scoot a little bit towards me?” she asks.
     
    She dollops a load of icy cold gel onto my lower abdomen, plants the probe on my flesh, starts painting circles with it and talks me through what she’s checking for as I look at a blurry collage of wavy white lines on a black screen. 
     
    “Excellent…mmmmmmmm……yes…….that’s the lining of your womb there and it looks like it’s thickening up nicely…mmmmmm……this here is your right ovary……………….and…… this here……. is your left ovary………and all these tiny circles here are your follicles, but this one here (she pushes the probe harder towards my bikini line), this one’s much bigger, can you see?”
     
    “Yes, I think so.”
     
    I’m lying. I really WANT to get what she’s looking at, but I can’t. It all looks like bad TV interference to me.
     
    “Well this one’s got your egg growing inside and I’d say (she screws up her face, considering) that you’re going to ovulate within the next two to three days.”
     
    “Are you sure?”
     
    “Absolutely,” the pregnant nurse smiles. “So you better get cracking.”
     
    Oh joy. More sex.
     
    “Does it look like a good egg?”
     
    “I’m afraid we can’t tell the quality,” she says, putting the probe back in its socket, giving me a tissue to wipe off the gel, “but it all looks as it should.”
     
    “How long to go?” I ask, as I make myself decent.
     
    “Still three months, I just look huge.” She pats her bump. “Too much chocolate.”
     
    I gather my belongings, remembering I don’t have time for chitchat and neither does she.
     
    “Is that it? No blood test?”
     
    “No, come back at the same time in five days and we’ll do one then, to check your progesterone levels.”
     
    “Right. Ok then, thanks. See you next week.”
     
    Each and every woman sitting in the corridor outside looks up as I leave the room. I ignore the strange catwalk sensation, which makes me feel as conspicuous as a polar bear on a beach, head out the building and speed-walk to Paddington station.
     
    ***
     
    Scott Richardson knocks at the door mid-afternoon. I’m alone in chambers, doing key on-line research and quickly click on my screensaver as he enters. What I’m researching isn’t for anyone’s eyes but mine.
     
    “Thanks for coming at such short notice,” I say, shaking his hand briefly, professionally and offering him a chair. 
     
    Since our first meeting I’d