MAYBE BABY

During a mad dash to visit family, Charlotte Cripps thinks back to the emotional drive home from the fertility clinic – and how she would convince Alex there was no time to lose

“We’ve got a renutritionist,” says the yummy mummy. I haven’t got a clue what she’s talking about. Is the nutritionist reborn or something? “Haven’t you heard of a re-nutritionist?” she asks, as I stare blankly. She gives me the lowdown; her teenager Isabella only ate pizza and chicken nuggets before they got the intervention.

“So we found her a nutritionist who got her onto things like quinoa porridge and green shakes,” she says. “But now she’s got food issues: she only eats annoying food from Wholefoods, which costs £200 a time. So the renutritionist helps you to recover from the nutritionist so she can eat more normally. She can join in with us at mealtimes, that sort of thing.”

“Oh right,” I say. We are standing in a queue at my local cafe opposite the private school where her son goes. She does half-and-half; sends one of her boys to a fee-paying school and the other to a state school. But, she says, they bought the son who goes to the state school “a really expensive blazer to smarten him up”.

She grabs her coffee and strides back to her car where her rescue dog from Cyprus is yapping away in the back. “We’re off to Croatia,” she says. “Going anywhere nice yourself?”

I tell her I’m going to Blackpool. She laughs hysterically as if I am cracking a joke. Little does she realise that I am deadly serious. I’m taking the kids to see their grandma for the first time since lockdown. It’s going to be an emotional moment – it’s Alex’s mum – and without him here, it’s the closest we’ve got to him.

I’ve packed vegetarian cocktail sausages, cheese sandwiches, and crisps for the long car journey. “Are we nearly there yet?” asks Lola before we get past Ikea in Wembley.

Fortunately, Blackpool is one hour from coronavirus hotspot Blackburn. We are staying in the only nice hotel there – and I have brought packets of boil in the bag rice to eat in our room if I decide against venturing into the hotel restaurant. I rang the hotel beforehand for some coronavirus information. The kids love the Pleasure Beach where they can go on all the rides; they reassured me that each ride is sanitised every time people get on them.

Even the carousel that Lola loves will keep riders on the outer two horses only, leaving the middle horse empty, so there is a metre between them. “We’ve had no cases yet,” a man at reception tells me in a deep Lancashire accent. I still have to check out how many guests are milling about, what the ventilation is like in the food area, and if people are wearing masks. Are the other guests from Blackburn or Leicester? Is this really a good idea to go? I get slightly edgy as we set off.

I’m driving along the M1 happily when the theme tune to Midnight Express plays on my car radio – Giorgio Moroder’s “Chase”. I turn it up loud, drowning out the kids in the back who keep saying “mummy, what are you doing?” For a moment I feel a sense of freedom I haven’t felt in years – like I’m on the run.

I had that strange combination of exhilaration and terror as I charged into the apartment all guns blazing. To have a child felt like life or death

I open the window and put my foot down. Wow, here we come Blackpool. OK, it’s hardly exotic but it’s a change of scene. I have plenty of time to think as I sit alone at the front of the car with an empty seat next to me where Alex should be sitting. The music seems strangely appropriate. I remember it playing when I drove back home from the fertility doctor.

I had that strange combination of exhilaration and terror as I charged into the apartment all guns blazing. To have a child felt like a life and death matter. I remember Alex saying to me: “What on earth has happened?” It was a bit like when I needed to borrow money from my dad – I had to keep the momentum going. If I stopped to think I would lose my nerve. I could hardly get my words out... “Baby, eggs running out, need to try right now. IVF only way.”

I had tears streaming down my face. “Don’t be so dramatic,” Alex said. “What’s the rush!” I could hear that song “We have all the time in the world” tinkling in the back of my mind.

“No, no, no, we have no time left!” I shouted. It was no different to going to the airport with him – we always nearly missed a flight; everything was always a last-minute panic.

“The doctor is going to call you,” I said. I knew it was easier if he heard it from a professional.

“What doctor?” he said. “Why do I have to talk to a doctor?”

There was a stony silence and then his mobile rang. “That’s the doctor! Answer it!” Alex told me to stop being hysterical and picked up the call.

“Hello, yes I’m Alex. Yes, Charlotte told me you would call.”

He walked into another room, smoking a cigarette, while I thought “that can’t be good for your sperm count”. The doctor said we needed to test his fertility too. How would I get Alex into the clinic? Why couldn’t we be like normal couples who turn up together wanting kids? Why was it all such hard work?

I listened carefully to what he was saying on the phone. Long silence. “How do you know it is now or never?” I heard him say. “Well a couple of weeks isn’t going to make or break it I’m sure. Why right now?” he said. Long silence. “Yes, I do.” Another silence. “Ok I will think about it – I need some time. Yes, we will let you know.” He got off the phone.

My heart was pounding. Alex looked at me, and said: “I need a week and I will give you my answer.”

Oh my god, am I hearing this right? We have to live in the same one-bedroom apartment under this sort of pressure? A deadline? But not a deadline as I knew it – this wasn’t a 1,200-word feature by the morning: it was a deadline from hell. The tension was dripping off the walls and we had only been under this cloud for five minutes. I looked at Alex and he looked at me. It was like Countdown, the clock ticking in the background, waiting for the little jingle.

I tried to act normally but after day three it was all too much. My doctor was hopeful. He told me he had a good conversation with Alex. “I asked him to tell me if he loved you. And he said yes. Just give him time,” he advised. But by day four, I could cut the atmosphere with a knife. I realised the pressure wasn’t good; I was cornering him. I was on the brink of losing everything – even a baby – that’s if I could even conceive. So I called it off.

“Listen, don’t worry, let’s just take our time,” I said and suddenly we both smiled and we could breathe again. We hugged and I said: “Let’s just not worry about it for a bit.” I meant a month, not indefinitely as he probably thought.

I texted the psychic woman. “My AMH fertility test is 104 – if it’s right I’m infertile.” She texted back: “Ignore that number.” The next day we met for a coffee. “Just tell him you need a sperm sample and get it in the bank.” I looked at her blankly. Was she totally mad?