Chasing Charlie by Linda McLaughlan Page A

could have erased the underlying tang of antiseptic, I could have been visiting Aunt Vivian, waiting for her to prepare a G&T. I took another breath. My nervous stomach had settled a little. This was do-able, and practically five star compared to my last experience of the world of all things medical.
    The last time was seeing Kate and a brand-new Rosie in hospital. I couldn’t get there fast enough – although my imagination had heaved with Dickensian images of what an NHS maternity ward would look like. I had imagined far too many mothers and babies crawling with germs, dilapidated buildings, exhausted under-resourced nurses walking around in a sleep-deprived daze, and I wasn’t disappointed. The ward was full of women and babies, copious tears issuing from both. The paint was faded and worn. The staff looked peaky. But then I saw Rosie. She was a perfect little bundle, so beautiful she eclipsed her surroundings, and as I looked down at her in her little plastic crib, I almost forgot to breathe.
    I turned a page in the magazine. It was strange I hadn’t thought about having my own children very often, considering I’d entered my thirties. But I really hadn’t. At least not until this all started rumbling. I put my hand on my belly. The night before I had lain awake churning everything over in my mind. What if my fertility had been affected? And I thought about it and thought about it and realised I was scared witless, and all because of a brief moment of pleasure. Was I missing the point here, after all? I have always enjoyed my body without shame, always seen it as mine to enjoy, one of life’s pleasures. Like hot chips, walking at the seaside, chocolate in front of a film. But as I had tossed and turned past one o’clock, past two, past three, I wondered for the first time in my life if I wasn’t a woman making choices but actually an irresponsible slapper.
    The day before I’d had lunch with Jill at work.
    â€˜What’s eating you, Claudia?’ she’d asked in her Afrikaans accent. ‘Scowling doesn’t suit you, you know.’ There wasn’t much that passed Jill by. She’d been round the block and back again. Her teenagers were convinced she could read minds.
    â€˜Oh women,’ I’d replied, rolling my eyes. ‘Our place.’
    Jill raised her eyebrows. ‘Our place?’
    â€˜The good woman. This stupid world,’ I continued, scrabbling around for tangible examples to describe the sudden swell of indignation I was feeling. ‘All around us, blocking out perfectly good sunlight, are billboards of sexy women selling bloody anything and everything with their tits—’
    â€˜You’ve only just noticed?’ Jill asked.
    â€˜No, of course I’ve seen them. It’s just that I’ve never minded before. I’ve always taken them for granted. They do their job . . .’ I paused; I still couldn’t quite get to my point. ‘It’s not them I’ve got a problem with – of course tits sell stuff, why wouldn’t they? They’re fabulous!’
    â€˜Speak for yourself.’ Jill looked down her top. ‘Mine are dropping out of sight rapidly.’
    â€˜Your fault for breastfeeding,’ I said.
    â€˜Charming!’
    I flapped my hand at her – I didn’t want to get distracted from my train of thought.
    â€˜I think that what’s eating me is that despite all the sexy images of women, in real life we’re not really allowed to be sexy, not in the full sense of the word. We’re still expected to stay in our place, be good women. Look sexy, act sweet,’ I said.
    â€˜Oh listen to her. You’d better watch out, you’ll be burning your bra and marching the streets if you’re not careful.’
    â€˜But that’s the thing I don’t get. We had feminism. Our mothers—’ Here I paused again. ‘Well, maybe not my mother, but other