Читать книгу 21 Miles - Jessica Hepburn - Страница 18

BBC Radio 4 is coming over to interview me about my IVF story. This is a major moment. Seeing my legs in the most read tabloid newspaper in the world is nothing compared to hearing my voice on Radio 4. I love Radio 4. I have done since I was at university and a boy I had a crush on persuaded me to start listening to it. The crush was unrequited, but a lifelong radio love affair began. I just wish I hadn’t had to fail at having a baby in order to succeed at being on it. But putting that aside, it’s Radio 4. RADIO 4!!!

Now, I’ve been asked to be part of a documentary which is going to be written and presented by a BBC journalist who has decided to come out for the first time about her own struggle to conceive. The producer calls and says they want to do at least part of the interview with me at home. Apparently background sound is very important in radio as it adds colour. They want to record me boiling the kettle, that kind of stuff. I’m not sure how I feel about this. If I’m honest I don’t really want them to come round. Not just because I’ll have to tidy up but also because it feels like a further ‘opening-up’ of our life that I’m not sure even I’m comfortable with.

A few days later, hesitation cast recklessly aside, the producer and presenter arrive. The presenter is petite, pretty and clearly clever. We stand together talking in the kitchen whilst I put the coffee on – one of those silver stovetop pots that heat up on the hob. The producer points her furry microphone towards it. As the water comes to the boil it makes a satisfying bubbly sound. The producer moves the microphone closer. We carry on talking. I offer to warm some milk. It boils over, white foam cascading over the top of the saucepan. Embarrassed, I take out mugs from the cupboard. Huge ones – the size of bowls – decorated with beautiful multicoloured streams of paint that looks like it’s running off an easel. I like them a lot. They’re my best mugs. I pour out the coffee. It looks a bit weak. Then I pour over the burned milk. It curdles.

This isn’t going well. I want to come across as someone who is confident with people in the kitchen. I have always dreamed of living in a country farmhouse: a well-used wooden table on a flagstone floor surrounded by family; bread and cakes cooling on wire racks; homemade jams and pickles in Le Parfait jars. The sort of place where there would always be people talking, laughing, eating and drinking and I would be mother-cum-maître d’. Instead we live in a shoebox in central London which is so small we rarely have people round. We don’t have a table to speak of and, it seems, I’ve even lost the skill to make a visitor a cup of coffee. How is it that my life is so far away from the dreams I had? There’s nothing to stop me living in a farmhouse. I could still make cakes and jam. But I don’t, and there is something about where we’ve chosen to live that I know is a by-product of our childlessness.

We sit down. The presenter is on a chair, balancing the cup, which is almost as big as her, on her knees. She doesn’t look comfortable; I’m not comfortable. It makes me wonder why I’m putting us all through this. Then I remember the biscuits.

‘I bought biscuits,’ I say, jumping up excitedly and nearly knocking over my own cup. ‘Two packs. Posh ones – pistachio or sultana. Which would you prefer?’

The presenter and the producer both make mmm-ing sounds but don’t give me a definitive answer, so I open both packets and put a few of each in a bowl. The producer takes one. The presenter politely refuses. She doesn’t look like the sort of woman who eats a lot of biscuits. I decide not to have one either.

And so the interview starts. Here we go again. Infertility. IVF. The sadness. The shame. The envy. The emptiness. At one point the presenter cries, and then shares a little of her own story. She’s Asian and I had wondered if this might have its own particular challenges. She tells me it does, that in traditional Asian communities, couples without children are shunned and women are often the ones who are blamed. And then she suddenly takes a biscuit, breaks it carefully in half, puts one half down and starts eating the other.

After two hours of conversation, the producer thanks me. She says we’ve generated some great material but she’s wondering whether there’s anywhere else they could record me – ideally with interesting background noise?

‘Somewhere else?’ I say, half in question, half in astonishment that two hours of intimate disclosure in my kitchen and a bubbling coffee pot hasn’t been enough.

‘Have you got any friends or family that are having a children’s party in the next few weeks?’ she asks. ‘That might work well.’

‘Not that I can think of, ’ I say. (Knowing I can’t think of anything worse.)

‘Or do you have any particular hobbies or places that you like to go that have a good soundscape?’

‘Well, there is somewhere,’ I say, desperate to respond with an alternative to the humiliation of a children’s party. ‘I’ve started swimming at the Serpentine in Hyde Park some mornings. It’s got ducks – could be good for radio?’

‘Yes … that could work,’ the producer ponders.

‘So you’re a swimmer?’ the presenter asks.

‘Not exactly,’ I reply. ‘Although I do have this crazy idea that I want to try and swim the English Channel next year.’

‘Wow,’ the presenter and the producer say in unison.

We then have the no-wetsuit and it’s-going-to-take-at-least-fifteen-hours conversation.

‘Wow,’ they both say again.

‘So is this about you trying to move on?’ the presenter asks.

I notice that something inside me feels immediately defensive and, as if she senses that she’s pressed a bruise, she doesn’t wait for my answer and says instead: ‘Are you doing it for charity?’

Ever since I publicly announced my Channel aspirations at work, people have been asking this question, and I haven’t had an answer. What am I doing it for? I realise I lied to my colleagues when I said I’d never done a sponsored anything before. I did a sponsored walk once, when I was at primary school, and raised about 20p. I had been hopeless at asking people for money. So I sidestep this question too by saying I haven’t decided yet but that I do have another idea.

‘Yes?’ the presenter says looking interested.

‘To be honest, I haven’t told anyone yet but maybe I could try it out on you and see what you think?’

This is the first time I’ve spoken aloud the idea that came to me the night I decided to book my boat, but now another thought has occurred to me about how the presenter might be able to help.

‘Sure,’ she replies.

‘Well, because of the cold and the no-wetsuit rule, you have to put on weight to swim the Channel.’

‘Yes …’

‘So I thought I might write to some inspirational women – some of them mothers, some of them not – and ask them to meet and eat with me. I thought I could ask them whether they think motherhood makes you happy or whether you can have a fulfilling life without children. It might help me decide what to do next in my own pursuit of motherhood.’

‘Sounds great,’ the presenter says encouragingly. ‘You should.’

I pause for a moment, summoning bravery.

‘Actually, I was just wondering, and I hope you don’t mind me asking … but I’m wondering …’ I take a breath and press on nervously. ‘I’m wondering whether I could interview you over lunch or dinner or something?’

‘Interview me?’ the presenter says.

She looks startled and I immediately fear I’ve gone too far. She pauses before speaking again – presumably to work out how to let me down tactfully – so I step in and save her. ‘Don’t worry, you don’t need to say yes now. Have a think about it. I’ll write to you another time,’ I say, speaking quickly to cover all our embarrassment, ‘or maybe I could just have the transcript of our conversation today?’ I add, turning to the producer and then back to the presenter. ‘I know we didn’t eat but I did make you a coffee which you’ve been so nice about drinking even though I burned the milk. And you had a biscuit. Well – half a biscuit.’

Oh God, I think, I shouldn’t have mentioned the biscuit. Now I’ve made things even worse.

The presenter smiles at me kindly without really giving an answer. The producer, who I can tell doesn’t want to do anything without the presenter’s agreement, says she’ll ask her boss about the transcript. I don’t push it. I move on. We all know she’s not going to ask her boss about the transcript. Maybe it was naive of me to think that anyone in the public eye would be prepared to talk to me candidly about their thoughts on motherhood versus non-motherhood, especially a journalist who, after all, is accustomed to being the interviewer not interviewee.

As I show them out, the producer says she’ll be in touch about recording me at the Serpentine. I feel a knot of regret in my stomach. Why did I mention any of that swimming stuff ? What was I thinking when I booked that boat? None of this is going to get me what I really want.

–––––

Later that evening, I decide it’s got to be beer and nachos for supper. Sometimes the only thing that helps is a jalapeño.