The No-Kids Club (5 page)

‘Okay, thanks for coming,’ Clare said. ‘Same time next
Wednesday
? Feel free to bring along your husband, as well as
anyone els
e you think might like to join. And how about next
week, we
meet somewhere with
real
drinks?’

‘Sounds good to me,’ Anna responded. Maybe that would tempt Michael away from his video games. Poppy looked ready to protest—alcohol was probably on the banned list also—but she just nodded.

‘Works for me, too.’

‘See you then.’ Anna stood and smoothed down her skirt, then weaved a scarf around her neck and waved goodbye.

As she clattered down the steps to the Tube and onto the Northern Line, she couldn’t help replaying Clare’s disapproving expression when she’d said Michael was her everything, and how uncomfortable she’d felt when Poppy asked what she did. It
had
been a while since she’d met new people, though. Maybe she was just out of practice making small talk.

It didn’t matter what they thought, Anna told herself as the Tube rattled through the darkened tunnels. What mattered was the man waiting for her in the home they’d created together.
Sure, the exterio
r might need a little sprucing up, but it was everything she’d wanted.

CHAPTER SEVEN

P
oppy trudged up the slight rise from Ladbroke Grove Tube, her breath making clouds in the air. It was past six on Friday evening, and she’d already endured a full day of lessons plus two meetings with parents, but she wanted to get a jump-start on the weekend’s pile of work. Sighing, she listed the tasks in her head: finish lesson planning for Maths, figure out what on earth to do for Music next week, and mark the week’s spellings. Heading out on a weekday night was a rare thing, and the No-Kids Club had put her behind. Still, meeting Clare and Anna had been interesting, even if she was disappointed neither of them was on the same track as her.

In fact, Poppy thought as she rounded the corner to her
rickety
maisonette, all three women couldn’t have been more different from each other: the clever career-woman Clare, who cherished her
independence
so much she didn’t want to get married let alone have kids; Anna, who was so busy building a home for her
husband
she hadn’t room in her life for children; and her, longing for a child. Poppy couldn’t imagine marriage without a little one running around. It’d certainly be interesting getting to know the two women much better—along with any other new members sure to join in the coming weeks.

She unlocked the squeaky front gate and navigated down the stairs to the door of the maisonette, noting once again the light was burnt out. This whole place was starting to fall apart! It had been newly renovated when they’d first purchased it after the wedding, but since then, every spare drop of cash and time had gone into having a baby.

‘Hey there, I’m back.’ Poppy flicked on a light in the corridor, breathing in the smell of Alistair’s famous homemade lasagne. Yum. Her stomach grumbled as she realised she’d missed lunch today to let the children finish up their Mother’s Day cards. She stuck her head into the kitchen. ‘Anything left for a hungry woman?’

Alistair turned from the sink and gave her the smile that never failed to melt her heart. He was so handsome, with long-lashed eyes and sandy-brown hair now streaked with the odd bit of grey. They’d both grown up in the Surrey village of Leatherhead, but they hadn’t got together until they’d run into each other in a Notting Hill pub one night. Ever since, they’d been inseparable.

Funny how they were compatible on so many levels except the one that seemed to matter most: making a baby. People always said the two of them were perfect together. If only they knew.

‘I wouldn’t want to risk your wrath, now, would I?’ Alistair joked, neatly hanging a tea towel on a hook. ‘Of course there’s some left. I was waiting for you to get home before tucking in.’

Poppy planted a kiss on his cheek. ‘Oooh, you’re nice and warm. Thanks.’ She spotted a cheesecake on the counter. ‘Yum! Maybe we can start with that.’ Poppy’s cheesecake fetish was a running joke ever since Alistair had challenged her to eat a whole cake in one go. To his surprise, she’d devoured it.

Alistair whacked her playfully on the bottom. ‘Get changed, and I’ll put dinner on the table.’

Poppy scooted from the kitchen and up to the bedroom, her tummy rumbling in anticipation. Alistair was in a good mood—maybe tonight she could bring up IVF? She’d been trying all week to find the ideal moment, but the days had flown by and the timing never seemed right.

Stripping off her typical uniform of trousers and blouse, her eye caught a pile of brochures and leaflets on the bedside table. Hmm, what were those? She pulled on jogging bottoms and a T-shirt, then drew the top one closer.

“Adoption in the UK: FAQs”, the title said in big, bold lettering. Hands shaking, she flipped through the stack, each to do with the ins and outs of how to adopt a child in Britain. Panic rose as her eyes frantically scanned the words. Alistair wasn’t giving up on IVF, was he? Sure, he’d been making noises about checking out other options, but she hadn’t thought he was ready to actually start investigating them.

Poppy had nothing against adoption. In fact, she was all for it—just not for them. Not until she’d tried everything to carry the baby she always wanted inside her. Alistair’s desire to throw in the towel so soon made her heart thud as if she’d climbed to the top of the Shard.

She scooped up the literature and plonked down the stairs, the cold floorboards searing her soles. Alistair was sitting at the kitchen table, reading today’s
Guardian
. The table was set, a steaming lasagne filled the space with the heady scent of garlic and tomato, and a candle flickered. But the cosy atmosphere did nothing to diminish the impact of the leaflets burning a hole in her hand.

‘What’s all this?’ She plonked the pamphlets on the table a little harder than intended.

Alistair’s head snapped up from the paper at the slapping noise. ‘Oh, those.’ His voice was calm . . . almost deliberately so, as if he knew he had a battle on his hands. He folded the newspaper and gestured to her place. ‘Come on, sit down before the food gets cold. We can chat while we eat.’

Poppy forced herself to slide into the chair, her toes now freezing. The lasagne looked delicious, but she couldn’t imagine taking a bite. Her stomach was twisted in knots at the thought of officially giving up on pregnancy. She wouldn’t do it, and that was that.

She cut off a slab of lasagne to show she was making an effort, and glanced over at Alistair. ‘So?’

‘So.’ He leaned forward, his grey eyes serious. ‘Well, we’ve been trying for a baby for ages, Pops. You know that. And we’ve done pretty much everything. You’ve been through the ringer with investigations, injections, IVF, the lot.’

‘I’m fine—don’t worry about me,’ Poppy yelped. ‘I’ll do anything I can.’

‘That’s just it, Poppy.’ Alistair’s gaze was steady. ‘I know you will. I know how much you want to get pregnant, give birth, and all of that.’

All of that?
Poppy screamed inside her head. How could he trivialise what some women considered to be their purpose in life—and biologically, what women were made to do? The lucky ones, anyway.

‘The thing is,’ Alistair continued, ‘we could go on forever, trying for a baby, and miss out on the chance to have one through other means, like adoption.’ He slid the pamphlets towards her. ‘We could have a child in a matter of months if we decide to go down that route.’ His eyes lit up with excitement at the thought.

Poppy’s heart beat even faster at the look on his face. Sure, she’d be willing to consider adoption at some point in the future—the distant future, if need be. But not now! For goodness’ sake, she was only thirty-four. She still had a few good years left to try in her. ‘I’m nowhere near ready to even think about that option,’ she said, her voice shaking with conviction. ‘I can’t believe you are!’

Alistair reached out to take her fingers, and the fork she’d been holding clattered to the floor. ‘Pops, listen. I’m not saying I’m ready to give up. Just that . . . it might be time to consider something else, too. Our last round of IVF took you quite hard, remember?’

‘Quite hard’ was a definite understatement. Poppy’s mind flashed back to the failed IVF attempt in early December. On her way to the Harley Street clinic for a blood test to check for pregnancy, her heart was filled with optimism and hope. Even the day seemed to echo her spirits: the sky was a deep blue and sun streamed into Oxford Street, making the elaborate Christmas decorations sparkle. She threaded between a group of carollers and down a narrow corridor into St Christopher’s Place, where café tables were packed with people wrapped up enjoying coffee in the sun.

Breathing in the crisp air, her mind drifted to how much she’d love being pregnant over Christmas. Not that she could tell many people—it would still be very early days, and doctors had drilled into her that one in five pregnancies ended in miscarriage. But just knowing a baby was growing inside her, all cosy and warm, as carols played and she and Alistair unwrapped their gifts . . . and this time next year, the baby would already be a few months old! She couldn’t help smiling as she pictured a chubby cherub, face wreathed in smiles, ogling the Christmas tree.

But the idyllic vision had been shattered a few hours later when the doctor informed her, his tone businesslike and perfunctory, that the procedure hadn’t been successful. Poppy had nodded, feeling dead inside, and left the clinic. The bright day now felt overcast, the sounds and decorations muted. She’d made her way home like an automaton, climbed into bed fully clothed, and lay there staring up at the ceiling for hours, her heart heavy. How could she grieve something she’d never had in the first place, she asked herself over and over.

Alistair had tried everything to cajole her out of bed, bringing her meals which lay untouched. Finally, after a few days when nothing had worked, he’d climbed the stairs, sat down beside her, and cried. He could deal with not having a child, he’d said, but he couldn’t face losing her, too. She’d only seen him weep once, when his father had died, and his tears had startled her into action. There was still plenty of time ahead, Poppy had told herself, and their next attempt would work.

‘Anyway.’ Alistair squeezed her hand again. ‘It wouldn’t do you any harm to have a look at the literature, don’t you think?’

Poppy stared down at his fingers entwined with hers. ‘No,’ she said in a numb voice, pulling away from him and getting to her feet. ‘I won’t look at it. There’s no point.’

And with that, she padded back up the stairs, feeling Alistair’s gaze following her as she walked away.

CHAPTER EIGHT

C
lare’s eyes snapped open at 5:00 a.m. Saturday morning. She reached out to smack off the alarm before remembering
she had
n’t turned it on: today was a rare weekend day off. Some medics couldn’t handle an emergency doctor’s’ erratic
schedule
—fellow medical students had even gone as far as opting for the
predictable
timetables of GPs or dermatologists—but Clare didn’t mind. She found the change invigorating, despite the near-constant sensation of jetlag. A roil of nausea went through her and she closed her eyes, willing it away. Ugh, speaking of jetlag . . .

Slowly, she poked out an arm from under the duvet, feeling the cool air of the room, then stretched.
Ahhhhhh.
She loved the silence, the freedom to come to terms with the day ahead on her own time. Sharing a bed was bothersome, really. There were too many limbs and too much movement for such a small space.

Funnily enough, though, whenever Edward stayed over, she’d slept like the dead. The memory of his broad chest rising and falling and the even sound of his breathing crept into her mind, and she shoved it forcefully away.

Clare turned on a light, as if by doing so she could banish the memories. Onwards and upwards, she told herself as she swung her legs around the bed, wiggling her bare toes against the cold floor. Okay, the No-Kids Club still had a way to go, but it
was
growing. Granted, she had been hoping for more women like her. The
inaugural
members weren’t really what she’d envisioned: a
homemaker
who’d rival Martha Stewart, and another who was
desperate
for children. Beggars couldn’t be choosers, though, and the club had to start somewhere.

Maybe Ellie would have some ideas how to reach new members, Clare thought as she scrubbed her dark hair in the shower. Her friend’s social networking ability was legendary—she’d brought in some hefty commissions because of it, propelling her straight to the top of the agency’s best sellers. They hadn’t spoken since the baby shower, despite Clare leaving several messages. She knew Ellie was busy, but . . . She’d try to ring her again later.

Shrugging on a robe, Clare slathered her face with moisturizer, then padded into the kitchen and made an espresso. Steaming drink in hand, she plonked down at the table with her tablet to check the Facebook page for any new messages. There were the usual enquiries from far-flung locales, along with spam and crazies. Sighing, she was about to put down the tablet and go get dressed when a post on the club page caught her eye.

Sounds very interesting. I’d love to come along to a meeting. Please message me with more details.

The name was Nicholas Hunt, and from what Clare could make out from the thumbnail-sized profile picture, he looked
normal
enough. She clicked on the photo, tapping her fingers on the table as she waited for the larger size to load. With blond hair, blue eyes, and an open, friendly smile, he’d seem at home on the pages of a
J. Cre
w catalogue. Fingers flying across the keyboard, Clare
messaged
him with the date and time of the next meeting, saying she’d be in touch again once she confirmed a venue. God knows they needed to move on from Foyles.

She was about to log out when her messenger pinged. Could that be him, she wondered? She hadn’t thought anyone would be up at 5:30 a.m. on a Saturday morning!

Shame, I’m busy this Wednesday. Would love to meet soon and learn more about the club, if you’re available?

Clare bit her lip. Hmm, okay. It’d be good to see a potential member in the flesh before they came along to the meeting. She was typing a response when her messenger bleeped again.

Taking a punt here, but are you free for coffee this
morning
?

Her eyebrows flew up. This morning! Well, why not. She was gagging for caffeine and could do with some company. She’d planned to visit Tam and drop off her Mother’s Day gift a day early, but Tam was visiting her own parents in Suffolk. And
without
Edward or Ellie, Clare’s days off seemed to stretch forever.

I can do eight, if it’s not too early for you. Carluccio’s, on
Fulham
Road?

Clare grimaced as she glimpsed her reflection in the mirror. Wet hair hung around her face in clumps, and dark circles ringed her eyes. She’d have to do a major repair job if he did agree to meet, otherwise he’d run screaming in the other direction. She looked more lunatic than club founder.

See you there.

The response came within seconds, and Clare glanced at the clock. Yikes, she’d best get cracking.
It was amazing they’d arranged a time to meet so quickly, Clare thought as she hurried into the bedroom. In her experience, finding a free night with a mutual Londoner required effort equivalent to building the Pyramids. It’d taken her and Edward forever to co-ordinate their schedules in the beginning! But the longer they’d been together, the easier it had become. Their lives had just fallen into sync. A tiny dart of sadness pinged her heart—what would he be doing right now? Probably still sleeping. He’d never been one for early mornings, always grumbling and grunting until she forced him from the bed.

Reaching into the wardrobe, Clare selected her favourite pair of skinny jeans and a turquoise jumper—her usual day-off uniform. A smile nudged her lips as she recalled how Ellie had persuaded her to buy the trousers, saying she must be the only person in the world still wearing boot cut. She’d whistled as Clare pivoted in front of the mirror, commenting how the garment made her look like she had ‘junk in the trunk’. God knows where her friend had picked up that one! Sighing, Clare pulled the jeans over her hips. She missed doing things with Ellie; it had been ages since the two of them had an outing lasting longer than a brief coffee.

Eek, there
was
a little too much junk in the trunk right now, Clare thought, straining to do up the button. She felt bloated, as if someone was attempting to blow up her abdomen from the inside out. Probably PMS, she sighed, tugging a jumper over her head. It’d been a while since her last period and she must be due on any day now.

Was this all right? Her brow furrowed as she examined her
reflection
. Don’t be silly, she told herself. It’s not a date. Still, she couldn’t help feeling a little nervous. She was out of practice meeting men—before Edward, she’d been on a blind date every
couple
of weeks. She had it down to a fine art: quick check in the
mirror
, quick drink at a nearby pub, and more often than not, quick
getaway
. Usually, she was in and out in less than thirty minutes, and by the time she was home, the date was far from her mind.

Clare tugged her hair into a ponytail, slicked on mascara and lip gloss, grabbed her bag, and was out the door. No matter what this man turned out to be like, she could murder a cup of coffee right now.

Outside, the early morning sky was dark, and Fulham Road was free from its usual traffic. As she walked to Carluccio’s, she wondered if Nicholas was already there. The worst thing about blind dates was trying to figure out who the guy actually was. More than once she’d approached the wrong man—not that it was difficult to do, given how fuzzy some of the photos were! One elderly bloke had actually sent a picture of his thirty-year-old son, pretending to be him.

Oh, there he was. Even with his blond head bent over an iPad, Clare could tell straight away it was Nicholas. She smoothed her hair and scurried towards him.

‘Hi, there,’ she said, hovering awkwardly over his table.

He glanced up, lips lifting in a friendly smile. God, his teeth were white, Clare thought as he got to his feet. ‘You must be Clare,’ he said. ‘Lovely to meet you. Have a seat.’ He gestured to the padded banquette across from him.

‘Nice to meet you.’ Clare slid onto the bench, but not before noting how tall Nicholas was. Edward had been only an inch or so taller than her—she’d had to be careful her heels weren’t too high whenever they’d gone out. ‘You were up early this morning! It’s good to meet someone else who can’t sleep in on weekends.’

Nicholas nodded. ‘I’m a TV producer for
Wake Up London
, and we have to be at the studio by five. Even when I’m not working, it’s hard to shut off the internal clock.’

Clare grinned. ‘Tell me about it.’

‘So what can I get you?’ Nicholas asked, sliding the menu across the table. A half-full espresso cup sat in front of him.

‘I’ll have the same as you.’ As Nicholas beckoned over the waiter, she took the opportunity to examine him. With a high forehead and straight nose, he was actually much better looking than his Facebook photo. That must be a first, she smiled to herself. The Breton-striped jumper and jeans fit his solid body perfectly.

‘So.’ Turning back to face her, Nicholas caught her giving him the once-over, and Clare quickly averted her eyes. ‘Thanks for meeting with me—I’m sorry I couldn’t make Wednesday. But I’m really interested in learning more about the club. It’s so hard to meet like-minded people, women especially. When I saw your Facebook advert pop up, I knew I had to get in touch.’

‘I’m glad you did,’ Clare said. ‘I’ve had a great response to the ad, but a lot of people aren’t based in London or just want to make it an online thing. I started the club to create a real-life social networking group for both men and women to meet new people. So many of my friends are housebound now with families.’

‘Children do have a way of cramping your lifestyle.’ Nicholas made a face, and for a second, it almost seemed as if he was speaking from experience. ‘I’ve seen it first-hand with my brother and his wife,’ he explained quickly. ‘They used to be huge clubbers, and now a good night out involves heading to the off-license for wine and frozen pizza. With the energy my two nieces have, I can’t say I blame them.’

Clare laughed. ‘That’s precisely why I formed the club. I’m
hoping
with time and a few more members, we can arrange some weekend getaways and other activities, too.’

‘Sounds perfect.’ Nicholas smiled, and again Clare was struck by how handsome he was. ‘How many members do you have so far?’

‘Only three, but it’s early days. I’ve set up a Facebook page and I’m looking for other ways to spread the word. I’m sure there are loads of people in London who want a place to get together and have fun without conversations constantly being hijacked by kids. I just need a way to reach them. Any ideas?’ As someone who worked in media, maybe he could suggest a strategy.

Nicholas tilted his head, a thoughtful expression on his face. ‘Actually, I might be able to help with that.
Wake Up London
is always looking for new events, different trends, and the like. If you want, I can pitch your club to my boss and see what he makes of it. It’d definitely be a great way to get more members.’

‘That would be fantastic!’ Clare’s eyes widened with
enthusiasm
.

‘Let me talk to him and I’ll get back to you.’

The waiter set an espresso in front of her, and Clare breathed in the heady scent of coffee. ‘Cheers!’ she grinned before lifting it to her lips for a sip.

‘Cheers! Here’s to the No-Kids Club . . . and to living child-free.’ Nicholas raised his drink in the air, too, meeting her eyes as their cups clinked. Clare felt her cheeks flush under his intense gaze.

‘Tell me a bit more about you, then,’ she said, lowering her head to hide the redness of her face. ‘Do you enjoy working in TV?’ What a silly question, she chastised herself. God, she really was out of practice.

But Nicholas just nodded. ‘I love it,’ he said. ‘I don’t have the angst of appearing on air, and it’s very satisfying to see your piece come together. You get to create something every day—even if it
is
sometimes a little frivolous, such as interviewing a fashion designer for dogs.’ He laughed, and Clare joined in. It was so nice to see someone in London who, like her, actually enjoyed their job. Most of the men she’d met spoke of their work as a necessary evil. Something else we have in common, Clare thought.

‘It means getting up at half-past three weekday mornings, but I don’t mind,’ he continued. ‘I’ve been there for eight years now, so I’m used to it.’ Nicholas took a sip of his espresso. ‘Kids don’t fit easily into that kind of lifestyle, you know? And the responsibility weighs you down.’

‘I hear you,’ Clare said. ‘My job has some crazy hours, too, and I like my life and my independence too much.’

‘You seem like a woman after my own heart. I tell you, it’s so difficult to meet people who feel that way! I should know—I’ve been trying. My friends have even taken to pairing me off with post-menopausal women.’ Nicholas grinned, and she felt warmth and mutual recognition pass between them.

‘Sounds fun.’ Clare could identify all too well. The last dinner party she’d been to, an old mate from university had made a more than obvious attempt to match her up with a man who must have been about seventy. He even had a cane, for God’s sake! “But at least he didn’t want kids,” her friend had whispered.

Nicholas looked at his watch. ‘Oh, bollocks. I’m sorry. I have to run.’ He smiled at her, then a thoughtful expression came over his face. ‘Look, I know this is kind of sudden and we’ve just met, but I got a pair of tickets through work to this evening’s performance of
Madame Butterfly
. I was planning to blow them off and stay in, but would you be free to join me? I’d love to spend more time with you.’

This evening? Clare jerked in surprise. Usually, she liked taking things slowly on the dating front. And the opera? It seemed so formal . . . she’d much prefer a quiet pub dinner or somewhere they’d be able to chat.

Come on, she chided herself. The opera might not be her ideal first date, but Nicholas was exactly what she was seeking: someone to have a little fun with and enjoy life together. Plus, he was incredibly handsome, and they were definitely on the same page—not just about children, but work, too. She could sense he really
got
her, and she did want to get to know him better. Anyway, what else did she have planned? A hot date with a Chinese takeaway?