Daddy’s Girls. Tasmina Perry

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      Venetia took a deep breath and began recalling their history of trying for a baby, trying to overcome her embarrassment at telling her such personal, intimate details. The number of times they had sex per week, the family history of fertility, her menstrual cycle, which under the stress of not being able to conceive, had faded away to almost nothing in the past three months.

      ‘It’s your menstrual cycle I’m most worried about,’ said Dr Rhys-Jones, tapping the file gently with the back of a pencil. ‘Especially as you say you’ve become irritable, hormonal, and been suffering from insomnia …’

      ‘Women, eh?’ said Jonathon, who was ignored.

      ‘I know you’re looking for answers on how you can conceive, Mrs von Bismarck, but for the minute I’m interested in the why not.’

      ‘It’s not me,’ blurted out Jonathon, suddenly riled. ‘There’s nothing wrong with my sperm count.’

      ‘So it seems,’ said Dr Rhys-Jones, thumbing down the notes.

      ‘What do you think it could be?’ asked Venetia anxiously.

      The doctor smiled thinly and pulled the glasses from her nose. ‘Infertility in women, as Dr Ebel might have told you, can be a result of lots of things. Hereditary factors, viral infections, many things. I want to take some blood tests, measure your hormone levels. I don’t think we should rule out the possibility that you’re going through a premature menopause.’

      Venetia felt her guts twist. ‘The menopause? That hasn’t been mentioned as a possibility before.’

      Dr Rhys-Jones looked at her kindly. ‘It often isn’t. Some practitioners, usually men, I might add, tend not to consider premature menopause as a potential cause of infertility, but about two per cent of women do have the menopause before the age of forty, so it must be considered. Some even have it pre-puberty,’ she added, as if to suggest, ‘Look, it could be worse.’

      Venetia felt her hands tremble as a flood of emotion built up inside her. ‘And if it is … what about children?’

      ‘A high-resolution ultrasound scan can show if you have eggs left. But you have to prepare yourself: you could have only a few months left in which to try and conceive. If you don’t have any eggs left, then a natural conception is, of course, impossible. The standard IVF process, as I’m sure you know, requires your egg and your husband’s sperm, so we can also rule that out. There is the option of egg donation,’ she continued slowly.

      Jonathon let out a cynical snort. ‘Someone else’s eggs? Surely not, Venetia?’

      Both women turned to look at him. ‘It depends on how much you want children, Mr von Bismarck.’

      Outside the surgery, Jonathon and Venetia stood on the street, a sharp wind pinching their cheeks. Jonathon motioned to Gavin to let him into the car.

      ‘What are we going to do?’ asked Venetia, looking to her husband for answers.

      He looked at her contemptuously. ‘You know people are expecting us to have children. What am I supposed to tell them? My wife is incompetent?’

      Venetia glared at him – for once her upset was overtaken by her fury. ‘Incompetent?’ she snarled. ‘I’m not one of your staff.’

      ‘I assume you knew this before we got married,’ replied Jonathon coldly, one foot already in the car. ‘You’ve been forcing me to come to these ridiculous sessions, making me feel that this problem has been something to do with me.’

      Venetia felt punch-drunk – so stunned, she could barely get her words out. ‘Are you still going to the office?’ she whispered.

      He got in the car. ‘I should have been there two hours ago. Do you want Gavin to drop you at the house?’

      She bit hard on the inside of her lip. She was not going to cry in front of him. ‘So you’re really going …?’ she repeated.

      ‘Let’s not start this again.’

      ‘But we have things to talk about.’

      Jonathon turned to face her, his face impassive and cruel.

      ‘Talk about what? Egg donation? I’m not having some tart’s eggs transplanted into my wife in the name of children. We have the family to think about,’ he said, struggling to control his voice.

      ‘This is our family, Jonathon.’

      ‘The family line.’

      Venetia shook her head angrily. ‘Jesus, Jonathon you sound like a bloody Nazi.’

      ‘It’s just how I feel. Now, are you getting in the car?’

      She pulled her coat collar further up around her neck and shook her head.

      ‘Please, Venetia. Get a grip.’ Jonathon slammed the car door and the smoked electric window purred down. ‘And don’t forget we’ve got William and Beatrice coming round for drinks tonight. Can you please make sure you’re in a better mood?’

      As the car pulled away, Venetia stood very still, quietly letting the tears roll down her face.

       8

      Cornwall Chambers was housed in an austere, imposing Georgian building on Lincoln’s Inn Fields, a prim London square that reeked of establishment values and dour respectability. However, inside, in the office of Charles McDonald, QC, there was a party atmosphere. Grey-haired men in Savile Row suits were smiling broadly and chinking glasses, a rare break in the usual sobriety of one of the best commercial practices in London.

      Charles McDonald tapped his crystal tumbler of tonic water with the back of a silver teaspoon and cleared his throat.

      ‘I don’t need to tell you what a productive month these chambers have had,’ he said to his colleagues in his rich Edinburgh drawl. ‘So productive that I felt it would be rude not to finish it off with drinks, even though I’ll only be joining you with a mixer.’

      Light laughter rang politely around the room. Barristers, particularly heads of chambers, were not known for their sense of humour, so any levity always raised a disproportionate amount of laughter.

      ‘Gerry and David,’ he nodded over to a round man with a florid face and to a smaller, thinner man in moon-shaped glasses by his side, ‘a fantastic win in the Petersham libel case. Look out for a page three interview with Gerry in next week’s Lawyer.’

      More laughs as Charles once again raised his glass. ‘Can I also take this opportunity to congratulate Cornwall Chambers’ resident celebrity, Miss Camilla Balcon. A wonderful victory in the Kendall versus Simon case. I frankly thought it was unwinnable. Congratulations, Camilla.’

      All the men in the room turned towards the attractive blonde woman in the corner, always grateful for an opportunity to look at her. Camilla Balcon nodded politely, smoothing down the skirt of her bespoke Gieves & Hawkes suit to look even more presentable for her audience.

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