The Longing: A bestselling psychological thriller you won’t be able to put down. Jane Asher

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СКАЧАТЬ Northfield turned out to be very young, very dark and very attractive. His short-sleeved blue surgical uniform made him look more like a doctor from an American television series than from a small Harley Street clinic and revealed tanned, thickly haired arms that set Juliet imagining a glorious future when the arms of her son would look just like this, and would carry her shopping, comfort her with manly hugs and one day hold her tiny grandchild.

      His surprisingly deep voice snapped her out of her daydream.

      ‘Hello there, Mrs Evans. I’m Anthony Northfield and I’ll be collecting your eggs today. This is Dr Chang, the embryologist.’ Only then did Juliet notice a small, oriental man in a white coat hovering just behind Dr North-field. He nodded and smiled at her, then moved to sit at the table, on which stood a microscope, several glass dishes and the monitor screens.

      Dr Northfield moved closer to Juliet. ‘I’ve a couple of little gadgets here I’d like to fix up first if that’s OK. Just relax back on the couch here and we’ll get you comfortable. All right?’

      He smiled encouragingly down at her as she settled herself, then picked up what looked like a small finger stall with wires attached, which he fitted on to the end of her finger. ‘Just so’s we can keep an eye on the oxygen in your blood. All clever stuff here, you know!’

      Another boyish grin accompanied the fixing of the blood pressure cuff on to Juliet’s upper arm once again, then young Dr Northfield sat back on a black plastic-covered stool and linked his hands in his lap. ‘So. Now we wait for the great man.’

      Juliet assumed that he was referring to Professor Hewlett. An unpleasant thrill of panic suddenly shot through her bowels from nowhere at the thought of what was to come, and involuntarily she gave a small gasp.

      ‘All right, Mrs Evans?’ asked the nurse, leaning over and putting a comforting hand on her arm.

      ‘Yes, yes of course. Sorry, I’m not very good at all this,’ Juliet said again, and then she noticed the green boots that both the nurse and doctor were wearing. She suddenly pictured them sloshing ankle-deep through blood, and had to shake her head to rid herself of the unwelcome image.

      ‘You’ll be fine,’ smiled the nurse.

      ‘Nothing to it,’ added Dr Northfield, ‘it’ll be over before you know it. Just a gentle little doze and we’ll do all the work.’ He smiled at her, and Juliet felt a little calmer.

      The door opened and a grey-haired man entered dressed in a short-sleeved blue tunic similar to the young doctor’s. On this larger, older figure it lost all connotations of American television and looked crumpled and well-worn, the material stretched tightly across a generous paunch and its modern styling thrown out by the pair of half-moon spectacles and dramatically untidy hair sported by the wearer. Juliet knew instinctively that this must be ‘the great man’ referred to earlier – no one could get away with looking so dishevelled and eccentric in such a setting without the power and kudos of status.

      ‘Right, let’s get the show on the road!’

      He managed to exude bonhomie and pomposity at the same time in this one short sentence, and Juliet found herself taking an instant dislike to him.

      ‘Got any good veins there?’ He bent over and tapped at the back of her hand.

      ‘Mrs Evans, this is our anaesthetist, Dr Andrews. Don’t mind him – his bark’s worse than his bite.’

      Juliet felt grateful for this thoughtful introduction, and determined to withhold her instant opinion of the grey-haired figure still tapping at her blood vessels and give herself a chance to like him. ‘I’m afraid I’m rather nervous,’ she volunteered.

      ‘Yes, my dear, I can see that.’ The grey head, that looked as if it belonged to someone just in from a violent storm, bent over her as the strong, calm fingers fiddled at her arm. ‘Not to worry, I’ll soon have you sleeping like a baby. But you’ll wake up crystal clear, I can guarantee that. Now then, I’m just going to – here we are now, just a little tiny prick and we’ll – good, good. Pass me that cannula would you, nurse? Thank you. Now, give a cough for me, would you? Good, and another one.’

      ‘I apologise, I’m not a very good patient, I – ow!’ Juliet jumped as she felt a sharp pain in her arm.

      ‘Just relax, you’re OK. Well done, all finished. Keep quite still now or it might fall out again.’

      Dr Northfield called from across the room: ‘Just remember it was the anaesthetist that hurt you, not the gynaecologist!’ Juliet found this far funnier than she would have in any other circumstances. Being so utterly dependent on them for her health and future happiness she was disproportionately thankful for any demonstration of interest or concern from the two blue-uniformed doctors, even if it took the form of a patronising, schoolboy humour that coming from anyone else she would have dismissed as puerile and unfunny.

      ‘Having put the cannula in,’ Dr Andrews was quiet and far less jovial as he spoke half to himself, ‘I shall – heart only sixty-six p.m., Anthony. Right, my dear,’ the jollying-along tone was assumed once more, ‘I’m going to inject this stuff now, it works very quickly; think of something nice; your husband? Come on now, don’t be frightened.’ Juliet could see out of the corner of her eye the top of a large syringe being slowly pushed downwards. ‘You’re going to soak up quite a lot of this stuff if I’m not mistaken,’ he added, as he looked down at her legs, which were still wriggling in nervous anticipation. A moment later they were still.

      The atmosphere in the small room was changed to one of quiet but casual intensity now that Juliet’s conscious mind was successfully switched off.

      ‘Her oxygen level’s down. We’ve knocked out her breathing, let’s lighten her up a bit. That’s better. Right, she’s all yours, Anthony.’

      With the help of the nurse, Dr Northfield lifted up Juliet’s legs, slotted her feet into the hanging leather loops and pushed back her gown. He pulled a low stool on castors towards him, positioned it between Juliet’s legs and sat down. He pushed the scanner (the jellied penis of her conversations with Harriet) into her vagina, and watched the screen in front of him while he began the search for ripe follicles. When he found a giveaway dark shape he carefully entered it with a fine tube attached to a pump and switched it on so that it sucked the contents into a test tube, which was passed to the waiting embryologist to examine under the microscope for possible eggs. As Anthony bent back down again to continue the search, the part of his mind not engaged in replaying sections of the previous night’s football on Sky Sports was concentrated on listening for the call that would give him the news he waited for. After a short pause it came:

      ‘Egg!’ The call from Dr Chang was clear and definite, as if he were bidding at an auction in a rather noisy hall.

      ‘Good,’ said Anthony, still peering at his screen.

      And then again: ‘Egg!’

Chapter Six

      He had done it.

      Michael gazed proudly at the evidence of his manhood in the phial in his hand, tucked and zipped himself neatly away and rang for the nurse. While he waited for her to come and collect his potential future offspring, presumably swimming vigorously but vainly in search of a suitable home, he sat back again on the chair, exhausted. As he cleared his head of the fantasies that СКАЧАТЬ