Inconceivable! (32 page)

He conducted the exam with efficiency and emotional sterility. A cold poke here, a bit of pressure there.

“You may sit up, my dear.”

I adjusted and held the sheet tighter over my lower half as I sat on the edge of the table. My legs dangled like a child sitting in a grown-up’s chair.

“I think you’re merely overanxious about getting pregnant. There appear to be no problems, and we don’t even consider an infertility diagnosis for a woman your age until you fail to conceive after one year of unprotected sex. Stop worrying because that will make you less desirable to your husband, and desirable you must be.” He smiled and winked before turning to my file. His wrinkled hand scribbled something on my chart.

Those were the words he said. This is what I heard:
It’s your fault.
Your worrying is causing you not to get pregnant. So, stop it. Focus on how to entice your husband and not on getting pregnant. It will happen.

Basically, the plan was to have more sex. We could totally do that.

Every time I swallowed, it was like sending a knife down my swollen, aching throat. The pain reminded me of the time I had strep as a kid.

I threw on some sweats and climbed into bed. Lying on top of the covers, my eyes drifted shut; fatigue overtook my body.

But the sound of John’s voice finishing up a phone call just outside our room sent me into a panic, and I jumped out of bed. Spurred by adrenaline, I sprang for the door and locked it to give myself a chance to change into something sexier. The egg white-like substance on the toilet paper this morning told me it was my most fertile day this cycle. I’d learned online this was the body’s primary evidence of pending ovulation.

We’d started our day with slow, luscious sex when my throat felt merely scratchy. But I wanted to squeeze in one more romp to maximize our chances of getting pregnant, sore throat be damned.

The knob jiggled. “Hatty? Are you in there?”

“Just a minute.” Ugh… it even hurt to talk. Naked and chilled, I shoved the sweats under the bed. Forget the lingerie; I answered the door in the buff.

“Sorry. Did you need something?”

“I do now.”

John pushed into the room, pressing his lips to mine. I turned my head. “Be careful. I might be getting sick. Kiss me anywhere but my lips.”

He held me in his arms and twisted his lips to one side. “Are you up for this?”

I laughed and patted his cheek. “For sure. I’ll spread my legs, but not my germs.”

He grabbed my ass and licked my neck before walking me backward to the bed. He lifted me onto the mattress. I watched him undress, kicking out of his pants and popping a button off his shirt as he tore at it too roughly. I ran my fingers over various sweet spots, knowing he got aroused more quickly when I gave him a show.

My desire to move things along intensified as gunk streamed down the back of my raw throat. I wondered whether we had any cough medicine in the bathroom.

John didn’t bother taking off his socks before he climbed on top of me, pushing my back into the mattress. A desperate need to cough concentrated itself in my throat. I swallowed in hopes of making it go away. As he entered me, a violent cough exploded from my mouth and the force pushed him out.

“Go again,” I choked, putting a fist over my mouth in case I coughed again.

“I don’t think you’re up for it.”

“But you are.” I grabbed him down there, not wanting him to lose his concentration. “We’ve got to do this. Please?”

He laid his hand across my forehead. “You’re burning up.”

I relaxed, letting my feet touch his legs and he jumped. “Your toes are ice cold. We’re done.”

He went over to the dresser and grabbed a pair of thick socks.

“My sweats are under the bed.” I stood as he retrieved my clothes. He helped me get dressed and tucked me into bed.

After he put on his robe, he came to my bedside. “I’ll be back. Do you need anything?”

“Your semen. But if you aren’t willing to give me that, then some ginger ale would be nice.”

“Okay. I’m going to ask Astrid to call Dr. Cloutier’s office and arrange for him to see you tomorrow morning.”

He kissed my forehead before leaving the room.

he scientists from the Royal University prepared to release their findings about the environmental impact of the smelter. Toulene’s Ministry of Agriculture received a courtesy copy of the results one day before the scientists went public. Things didn’t look good. John and his family couldn’t believe scholars who worked for a university they supported could produce such a scathing report. The findings blamed the monarchy for failing to intervene and initiate an environmental clean-up program.

“Their conclusions are complete speculation because they’re not supported by the science.” John paced the parlor at Belvoir, running his hand through his hair.

Aunt Elinore, Granny, and Leopold were also there. Cilla, the family’s public affairs guru, sat on the arm of the sofa, listening intently. She intimidated me. It went back to that Sunday morning call early in my relationship with John when she confronted me about the story Paul had filed exposing Princess Beatrix’s foundation.

“John. We were going to sell the plant anyway because it’s a money pit. At least this study gives us cover to make that move now,” Aunt Elinore said.

“I don’t care about the public relations aspect. I care about the science. This report rests on thin evidence produced by shoddy research. And we could’ve avoided being caught in the middle of this if we’d sold the property several years ago, as we’d planned to do,” John countered.

I coughed, still recovering from my cold, then cleared my throat. “Then why don’t you hold a press conference and refute the findings?”

All four of them looked at me like I’d just suggested John run naked through the streets.

“Hatty, if John holds a press conference about this issue and doesn’t take questions, the reporters will erupt in a frenzy. God only knows what they’d write. We can’t allow that to happen,” Aunt Elinore explained.

“Okay. Then, don’t call it a press conference. He can just read a prepared statement and walk off stage. The longer you go without issuing some kind of response, the longer the story stays alive. Talk about the researchers’ shoddy work, you get coverage for a day or two, and then the press goes back to reporting on what Claire Léglise is wearing for her wedding.” Claire was set to wed a British royal at a ceremony outside London in two weeks. The woman who broke up with John because she didn’t want media attention regularly talked to reporters about the preparations for her big day.
I heart hypocrisy.

“I think Hatty has a point,” Cilla said, standing. “If we draft a statement, have John read it, and leave, we might prevent this story from growing into something bigger.”

John sighed, shaking his head, his irritation apparent. “Hatty, this isn’t going to work. You’ve never dealt with anything like this.”

“But I know what journalists will think if you don’t respond. Your failure to comment will become the story. Giving a statement means you’ll have coverage for twenty-four, maybe thirty-six hours. Then, they’ll move on to the next big thing. It’s a way to shut it down.”

John paced, his hands behind his back. “Look, you don’t know how this works. Reporters don’t just let us walk on stage, read a piece of paper, and walk away. They always try to get in their questions. This is way beyond anything you experienced as an intern.”

That stung. “But I do know how editors think, and how newsrooms operate…”

John exhaled noisily, exasperated. “Hatty, please let us handle this. You don’t have a degree and your experience is still quite limited.”

Oh no he didn’t. Oh yes he did.

“Excuse me?
Excuse
me? Who’s fucking fault is it that I don’t have a degree? Don’t take away the value I bring to this discussion. I worked for several months in two newsrooms. I write guest columns for The Guardian. I’m telling you, reading a statement is the right thing to do.”

P.S. Did I just drop the f-bomb in front of the Queen of Toulene?

The queen stood. “Cilla, if
you
think it’s the best move for John to read a statement, I can go along with that. Please brief the reporters and let them know John won’t accept questions. If any of them try to shout questions at him afterward, have their credentials revoked.”

I looked at John, triumphant.
Mic drop.

That evening, John burst into our bedroom at Langbroek and slammed the door. I didn’t look up. I sat in bed typing a message to Kendra27, one of the women who frequented the same infertility discussion board as me. Where else but online could the infertile share tips, encouragement, and the occasional pregnancy test photo?

“How dare you speak that way to me in front of my family,” John huffed.

I threw down my phone and jumped out of bed, ready to have it out. “You dismissed me like I’m some kind of hick who doesn’t know anything. That was hurtful and embarrassing. Get your head out of your ass, prince.”

He stomped over to me, and I took a step back, unsure what he was about to do. He grabbed me by the arms and pulled me to him. He kissed me with a fierceness I didn’t anticipate. It left my knees wobbly.