she would hold off the trip to the sperm bank for a while longer. If that was to be the route she would one day have to take, then she would seriously consider choosing American sperm. Yanks seemed to do everything better. They had better sit-coms, better looking actors, better teeth, better governments, better parking spaces and definitely better shopping malls. The majority of men looked better on paper too, their education, self worth, bodies. Yes, if she ever had to go to the bank, she would have to withdraw her deposit from an American one. Maybe tonight she would e mail him a picture of her on a beach, no bikini shots, just one that she had from a couple of summers ago, a good one where she had been wearing an orange beaded kaftan on a moody lit beach at sunset in Italy. Her phone rang, a Billie Holiday ringtone serenading Starbucks , a welcome relief as her mind was beginning to feel as freshly ground as the java in her cup .
‘Frankie, get your lippy on, he’s here!’ whispered Jezzy fiercely.
‘What?’ Frankie had been lost in her dreams and was just trying to ease herself out.
‘The balloons were for you from him, he’s got a huge bouquet and he’s in the waiting room, quick!’ Jezzy spoke in an insane whisper, spitting into the phone.
Frankie was puzzled. ‘I thought they were your balloons?’
‘Well, they’re not. They’re from him. Him! Your virtual man is no longer virtual. He’s here. Literally.’
‘My online man is in your office?’ Frankie spoke very slowly as if trying to comprehend a new language.
‘That’s the address you gave him right? Well baby, he’s here and he’s gorgeous. Come and get him.’
Frankie began to grow very hot. She felt as though she was a plant, wilting in the window of Starbucks. ‘I’ve got to get Sam, he’s due out in half an hour!’
‘Then get him and then come here, I’ll make him tea and leave him in the waiting room with a pile of Country Life and The Lady. Just hurry up, OK?’
Frankie couldn’t answer.
‘OK?!’ squawked Jezzy .
Frankie nodded. Which didn’t help.
‘Frankie!’
‘Yes, OK.’ Frankie’s face had drained of colour and she suddenly had an onslaught of thoughts: that she hadn’t used body lotion or perfume that morning so she probably didn’t smell of anything at all, hadn’t washed her hair in two days so it was bordering on a hedge-do, wished she hadn’t worn her old baggy All Saints T-shirt and most of all, that she hadn’t eaten beefy crisps at lunchtime. Her dreams were suddenly coming true and she wasn’t dressed for it.
*
Devon
Devon stood in the crowd in front of two Edwardian houses. Similar houses. Narrow, tall, slightly stark, quite ordinary, almost bordering on indistinguishable, except for the brightly coloured tissue paper shapes stuck to the inside of an upper floor window and a hard, white plastic board with red writing above one of the front doors which read, ‘St. Fairfield Primary School.’ A bell rang and the sudden onslaught of small people stormed from the front door, all dressed in black and yellow uniforms. Black blazers with yellow braid trimming the edges. Yellow and black ties against graying-white crumpled shirts. Black shorts and skirts. Filthy white socks and scuffed black shoes. Typical. A typical assortment of English school kids. They rushed out to their mums or the mums of a friend with cries of ‘I’m starving mum!’ or ‘Can we get a Wimpy?!’ There were no nannies in a school like this. A few of the older kids walked to the bus stop at the end of the street and three kids walked off together, probably living only a few houses away, digging into their bags for a half eaten bag of crisps or a broken biscuit.
Devon was aware of a few sidelong glances. This was something she had always experienced though, being slim, good looking and elegant, with a slight, almost imperceptible air of danger about her, there
‘Frankie, get your lippy on, he’s here!’ whispered Jezzy fiercely.
‘What?’ Frankie had been lost in her dreams and was just trying to ease herself out.
‘The balloons were for you from him, he’s got a huge bouquet and he’s in the waiting room, quick!’ Jezzy spoke in an insane whisper, spitting into the phone.
Frankie was puzzled. ‘I thought they were your balloons?’
‘Well, they’re not. They’re from him. Him! Your virtual man is no longer virtual. He’s here. Literally.’
‘My online man is in your office?’ Frankie spoke very slowly as if trying to comprehend a new language.
‘That’s the address you gave him right? Well baby, he’s here and he’s gorgeous. Come and get him.’
Frankie began to grow very hot. She felt as though she was a plant, wilting in the window of Starbucks. ‘I’ve got to get Sam, he’s due out in half an hour!’
‘Then get him and then come here, I’ll make him tea and leave him in the waiting room with a pile of Country Life and The Lady. Just hurry up, OK?’
Frankie couldn’t answer.
‘OK?!’ squawked Jezzy .
Frankie nodded. Which didn’t help.
‘Frankie!’
‘Yes, OK.’ Frankie’s face had drained of colour and she suddenly had an onslaught of thoughts: that she hadn’t used body lotion or perfume that morning so she probably didn’t smell of anything at all, hadn’t washed her hair in two days so it was bordering on a hedge-do, wished she hadn’t worn her old baggy All Saints T-shirt and most of all, that she hadn’t eaten beefy crisps at lunchtime. Her dreams were suddenly coming true and she wasn’t dressed for it.
*
Devon
Devon stood in the crowd in front of two Edwardian houses. Similar houses. Narrow, tall, slightly stark, quite ordinary, almost bordering on indistinguishable, except for the brightly coloured tissue paper shapes stuck to the inside of an upper floor window and a hard, white plastic board with red writing above one of the front doors which read, ‘St. Fairfield Primary School.’ A bell rang and the sudden onslaught of small people stormed from the front door, all dressed in black and yellow uniforms. Black blazers with yellow braid trimming the edges. Yellow and black ties against graying-white crumpled shirts. Black shorts and skirts. Filthy white socks and scuffed black shoes. Typical. A typical assortment of English school kids. They rushed out to their mums or the mums of a friend with cries of ‘I’m starving mum!’ or ‘Can we get a Wimpy?!’ There were no nannies in a school like this. A few of the older kids walked to the bus stop at the end of the street and three kids walked off together, probably living only a few houses away, digging into their bags for a half eaten bag of crisps or a broken biscuit.
Devon was aware of a few sidelong glances. This was something she had always experienced though, being slim, good looking and elegant, with a slight, almost imperceptible air of danger about her, there
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