Pieces of You.

ELLA HARPER

Pieces of You

Copyright

AVON

A division of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd

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London SE1 9GF

www.harpercollins.co.uk

First Published in Great Britain by HarperCollinsPublishers 2014

Copyright © Ella Harper 2014

Cover photograph © Natalie Spencer

Cover design © Andrew Cunning 2014

Ella Harper asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.

Source ISBN: 9780007581108

Ebook Edition © August 2014 ISBN: 9780007581115

Version: 2015-12-15

Dedication

This one goes to my excellent friends … you know who you are.

Table of Contents

Cover

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

Chapter One: Lucy and Luke

Chapter Two: Lucy

Chapter Three: Patricia

Chapter Four: Lucy

Chapter Five: Nell

Chapter Six: Lucy

Chapter Seven: Patricia

Chapter Eight: Nell

Chapter Nine: Lucy

Chapter Ten: Lucy and Luke

Chapter Eleven: Nell

Chapter Twelve: Lucy

Chapter Thirteen: Patricia

Chapter Fourteen: Lucy and Luke

Chapter Fifteen: Nell

Chapter Sixteen: Lucy

Chapter Seventeen: Lucy and Luke

Chapter Eighteen: Patricia

Chapter Nineteen: Lucy and Luke

Chapter Twenty: Nell

Chapter Twenty-One: Lucy

Chapter Twenty-Two: Patricia

Chapter Twenty-Three: Lucy and Luke

Chapter Twenty-Four: Nell

Chapter Twenty-Five: Lucy

Chapter Twenty-Six: Lucy and Luke

Chapter Twenty-Seven: Patricia

Chapter Twenty-Eight: Lucy and Luke

Chapter Twenty-Nine: Nell

Chapter Thirty: Lucy

Chapter Thirty-One: Patricia

Chapter Thirty-Two: Lucy and Luke

Chapter Thirty-Three: Nell

Chapter Thirty-Four: Lucy

Chapter Thirty-Five: Patricia

Chapter Thirty-Six: Lucy and Luke

Chapter Thirty-Seven: Nell

Chapter Thirty-Eight: Patricia

Chapter Thirty-Nine: Lucy

Chapter Forty: Nell

Chapter Forty-One: Lucy

Chapter Forty-Two: Patricia

Chapter Forty-Three: Lucy

Chapter Forty-Four: Luke

Chapter Forty-Five: Nell

Chapter Forty-Six: Patricia

Chapter Forty-Seven: Lucy

Reading Group Questions for PIECES OF YOU

Acknowledgements

About the Author

About the Publisher

CHAPTER ONE

Lucy and Luke

February

‘What are we doing here, Harte?’

If I sounded impatient, it was because I felt it. I’d been standing outside Luke’s hospital for about fifteen minutes and my toes were beginning to seize up. It was one of those crisp, frosty mornings where pavements and branches of trees looked as though demented elves had gone crazy sprinkling sugar all over them; pretty enough, but also bloody freezing.

‘Just hang on a bit longer,’ Luke frowned, checking his watch. ‘What time do you have?’

‘It’s nine-fifteen and your mother is going to be cross if I’m late for work.’ I grabbed his wrist, pulling at the battered metal strap of his watch. ‘I know you love this thing, but seriously, it has terrible time-keeping issues.’

‘I know, I know. But it’s my dad’s … you know I can’t take it off. It’s the law.’ Luke straightened. ‘Ah, here’s the person I’ve been waiting for.’

I sunk my chin deeper into the warmth of my scarf and blew on my hands as a pretty girl approached us. She was smiling and proffering a wrapped package. I felt a flicker of intrigue, but chilliness prevented me from displaying too much interest.

The girl stopped in front of Luke. ‘Luke Harte? Sorry I’m late. Here it is.’

‘Great! Thank you; you’re a life saver.’ Luke handed over an envelope which the girl pocketed. He looked ridiculously pleased with himself, in fact. ‘God, I love it when a plan comes together.’

‘What sort of plan?’

He touched my nose. ‘Don’t look so suspicious. It’s Valentine’s Day! You know that, right?’

‘I’m aware.’

I sounded prim, but there was a reason for that. I had Valentine’s Day wrapped up and sorted. I had ordered in some lovely food rather than trusting my own cooking, (for very good reasons, I hasten to add), I had wine, I had candles and I had vague ideas about a massage-type thing for Luke at the end of the night.

‘So go with it, okay?’ Luke’s eyes met mine and I could tell he was indulging me. The man knew me well.

‘Now I know we usually save things until later, but I’ve been tracking this gift down for you. It’s a good ‘un, even if I say so myself. Are you going to open it? I can’t wait to see your face.’ He thrust the package into my hands.

‘No pressure then,’ I smiled, dropping my eyes. ‘I know you and your surprise gifts. They’re usually amazing and then I worry that I’ve only, you know … thought of dinner with candlelight.’

Luke waved a hand. ‘That’s all I want, so you’re spot on … can’t wait. Open it, go on.’

I turned the package over in my hands. Was it chocolates? No, Luke wouldn’t be so obvious. Nor would chocolates require personal hand-delivery. Was it a book? I peeled back a section of wrapping paper. Books were the perfect gift for me; I adore them. Perhaps it was another copy of Wuthering Heights – I collected them; the older the better. Old novels with illustrations and dedications written in the front pages in fountain pen, scratchy, illegible marks steeped with meaning.

I tore the rest of the wrapping off, discovering a hardback with a torn, tarnished sleeve – or wrapper, as they used to be called. A Book of Delights, I read. ‘How lovely. Er. What is it, exactly?’

Luke opened the book. ‘It’s an anthology of poetry and quotes and stuff. Romantic things.’ He flipped the pages. ‘I mean, it’s probably mostly pretentious rubbish, but apparently there are a few really nice poems in there.’

‘You old romantic, you.’ I was impressed.

‘That’s not even the best bit,’ Luke said.

I flicked my eyes over him. The man was practically preening.

‘There’s an inscription at the front … read it. This is absolutely the best bit.’

I found it. It read: To my darling wife, with all my love, Luke. 14th Feb, 1954. ‘1954? What the—? I don’t understand …’

‘Some other Luke wrote in the book all those years ago.’ Luke was practically beside himself at this point. ‘The other Luke wrote that to the wife he loved. Isn’t that amazing? I’ve had someone on the case trawling through old books for ages, looking at inscriptions. I was hoping for a ‘To Lucy,’ but this one appeared and I just knew it was perfect.’

I traced my fingers over the writing. It was neat and well-formed – nothing like Luke’s actual writing which was chaotic and sprawling. I flipped through the pages and found a poem called ‘Captive.’ It made me smile. Luke leant over my shoulder and read it.

I did but look and love awhile,

‘Twas but for one half-hour;

Then to resist I had no will,

And now I have no power.

Luke laughed. ‘Ha ha, brilliant. That’s you and me.’

‘Is it? Wow.’ I closed the book and stroked the cover. ‘Just … wow. You’re unbelievable.’

‘Too much?’ Luke’s shoulders hunched and he screwed his face up. ‘I know you hate surprises.’

‘No. No, it’s not too much. It’s perfect. Just … perfect. You’re …’

I was overwhelmed.

‘I love how you crumble in the face of anything truly romantic,’ Luke said, placing a hand on my neck. ‘It’s one of the most adorable things about you.’

Against my better judgement, I started to cry. What an idiot. Buy me a soppy book with an achingly romantic inscription and I become a dribbly mess. Well, in fairness, my tears weren’t just about the book today, but I was still mortified.

Fear gripped my insides in an icy vice. I thought about the vitamins, the acupuncture, the doctors, the therapy, the alcohol avoidance, the hope, the joy and the disappointment. And about what might be ahead for us if nothing else worked.

‘It will happen, Luce,’ Luke said, reading my mind as he gripped my shoulders. ‘We will have a baby.’

I couldn’t meet his eyes. When we first met, eight or so years ago, I wouldn’t have questioned our chances. Eight years ago, I didn’t know the half of it. At the beginning of our relationship we’d been reckless about contraception, because we both wanted children from the outset. We’d been rewarded with an early pregnancy that we hadn’t expected … and then punished when the dream had been cruelly snatched away. And that hadn’t been the only time our dreams had been trodden underfoot.

Luke lifted my chin and kissed me. ‘It will happen. Without a shadow of a doubt.’

He was emphatic. I was cautious. It was how we rolled. He was the carefree optimist; I was one of life’s natural worriers. My extreme need for tidiness and order led my best friend Dee to introduce me as ‘Monica from Friends and then some’ to new acquaintances; accurate, but not the most charming of introductions.

Luke placed a warm hand on my neck, ducking his head so I had no choice but to meet his eyes. ‘Don’t even think we won’t succeed at this, Luce. Because we will.’

‘But we’ve already lost … What if we can’t …’

‘We will.’

‘How do you …?’

‘I just do.’ Luke kissed my forehead and drew me closer. ‘I love you and you love me. There is nothing we can’t achieve together.’

I leant into him, inhaling his strength, breathing in his positivity. He was right. We could do this. I clutched my beautiful book and I held on to Luke and, in that moment, I knew everything would be all right. It was Valentine’s Day and I had a thoughtful husband, an amazing gift – and I had the most important thing of all; I had hope.

CHAPTER TWO

Lucy

September

A woman strode efficiently into the consulting room. I felt panic set in. I didn’t recognise this person. Where were the other ones, the ones who knew what we’d been through, how much this meant to us? Someone had obviously decided that today we should come face to face with the only fertility consultant in Bath we weren’t on first name terms with.

I shifted in my chair, unequal to the challenge of dealing with a stranger. The consultant began hastily perusing our file to familiarise herself with our case, allowing us a brief smile.

A professional smile, I observed with weary expertise. Non-committal, reserved. Not so different to the other consultants, then. They were able to produce an entire repertoire of smiles for each occasion – cautiously hopeful, compassionately apologetic, not-sure-yet-neutral. I studied this consultant. It was a game I had taught myself to play during the agonising waits we were always subjected to when it came to IVF appointments. Don’t get me wrong, the NHS has been superb, but waiting is de rigueur. Bad news might be on the horizon – or not, as the case may be. Either way, sitting patiently wasn’t in my nature.

I settled back in my chair. Did this one have children? Her well-cut suit was spotless, the shoulder pads decorated with shiny buttons rather than milk stains. One tick for non-parent. The freshly-dried mane of dark hair looked as though it hadn’t ever had clumps of Weetabix mashed into it – not this morning or any other morning.

Another tick, I thought with a sinking heart. Unlike most of the others, this consultant bore zero tell-tale signs of a hasty exit from home. It shouldn’t matter but, for some reason, it did, very much. Because if anyone was going to snatch my dream away, I would prefer it to be someone who knew how utterly crucifying it was. How it would feel like the end of … well. I didn’t want to think about that.

As the minutes ticked by silently without a word from the consultant, I felt a strange, silent scream building inside. I’d been behaving irrationally recently; I knew that. I’d been distracted, emotional … that and probably far, far worse. I was spiralling inside, chaotic. I glanced at Luke. His jaw was tight and his hair was messed up, but as he turned to me, he managed a grin. The man actually managed a grin. He had put up with so much from me I wasn’t quite sure how he had coped. The mood swings, the hysterics, the anger … a lesser man might have crumbled. Or, at very least, run a mile. I guess the fact that he wanted this as much as I did saved him.

Sometimes, I wondered what Luke saw in me. Unlike him, I wasn’t especially funny. I mean, I could be highly amusing after a few glasses of wine, but only moderately so without.

Looks-wise, I had dark hair, direct, brown eyes that needed several coats of mascara to bring them out and a slim but rather boyish figure. Based on comments made by friends, I had deduced that I was pretty enough, but in a non-threatening way. Meaning, presumably, that the boyfriends/husbands of my female friends enjoyed my company – may even have found me vaguely attractive – but they didn’t necessarily feel obliged to bend me over the kitchen counter passionately if caught alone with me by accident.

I rubbed my forehead, my fingertips weirdly cool in the sultry heat. And what about all the baby stuff? I reckon the baby stuff had made me seem a little crazy. More than a little crazy.

I watched Luke drumming the fingers of his other hand on his thigh. He was apprehensive, maybe even more so than me.

The consultant looked up apologetically. ‘I’m so sorry, I normally get to grips with new patients before I meet them. Teenage daughters who dawdle all the way to school are a perennial hazard.’ She rolled her eyes to garner our sympathy and returned to the file. ‘Please bear with me …’

I exchanged a glance with Luke, noticing his eyebrow cocked pointedly. I ignored his rubbish Roger Moore impression. Yes, yes; I had presumed that the consultant was childless, but instead, she had older kids. Hence the pristine appearance. I shrugged tetchily. The consultant was still a slow reader. Dee’s daughter Tilly was faster with The Faraway Tree.

Luke tightened his grip on my hand. ‘It’s going to be all right,’ he whispered firmly. ‘This time, everything is going to happen the way it should.’

I nodded. It was one of life’s ironies that the only fly in the ointment, the only tiny but irritating flaw that prevented us from being complete, was that we were here in this office, waiting for a consultant we didn’t know to tell us if our baby might stick around this time. A tedious but excruciating fact: we couldn’t conceive a baby. Not one that stayed put for longer than twelve weeks, anyway.

One in four women experience a miscarriage at some point in their lives and one in five pregnancies end this way, but having eight of them had eclipsed everything else in our lives. We hadn’t conceived a baby naturally for years … at least … no, wait. We didn’t talk about that. We never, ever talked about that. It was the one thing that had caused a major rift between us.

Losing so many babies had changed us irrevocably. ‘Character building,’ Luke used to say bravely, tears streaking down his face as he gathered me up and held my heartbroken body in his arms for the umpteenth time.

Yes. Character building. We had done much of that over the years.

A few years ago, I remember Luke playing with Dee and Dan’s youngest daughter Frankie in the park, using her as a human Subbuteo, swinging her chubby legs and roaring with laughter as they scored a goal. It was an image I still held in my head, although I was no longer sure that it would become a reality for us.

The clock on the wall ticked steadily, mockingly, echoing my biological timer. In my ears, the rhythmic ticks gathered pace, rather like sand slithering at high speed into the bulb of an egg timer.

If only they had been able to find something wrong. But Luke had superb sperm by all accounts, and my ovaries, womb and fallopian tubes were perfectly ripe and healthy. Yet somehow, the stench of failure had been firmly but unfairly placed at my door, or rather, at my womb. Because if I couldn’t conceive, it must mean that my body was at fault. Terms like ‘foetal rejection’ and ‘hostile environment’ had been carelessly tossed on to the table as explanations.

‘Hostile environment’ – have you ever heard such a thoughtless, cruel term? It made me want to scream. It was an onslaught to my womanhood and everything I felt I should be capable of, but what was the point? Everyone would just think I was crazy or hormonal. Or both.

And so it had begun. Three bouts of IUI – intrauterine insemination – that hadn’t worked and, due to my age – thirty-seven, ancient in baby-making terms – we had started IVF immediately afterwards. Hormone injections, accompanied by the dreadful side effects everyone talked about, multiple ultrasound scans to check the size and maturity of my eggs and injections to ‘ripen’ my eggs. The best ones (Luke liked to call these the ‘Eggs Benedict’ of my offerings) were mixed with his sperm (spun, washed and carefully selected, Luke would comment in amusement, as if describing a washing cycle) and these were then hopefully fertilised before being placed back inside my body.

Smear tests had nothing on IVF treatment, I thought ruefully. I’d spent more time with my legs in the air and my parts on show than I cared to admit. Ultimately, all dignity and modesty had been annihilated. My womb had been discussed and scrutinised in such intimate detail over the past few years I almost felt I should give it a nickname. Luke had a choice few, all unsuitable for general consumption, but they made me laugh.

Speak, I pleaded with the consultant mutely. Tell us it’s all right. I pulled at an unravelling thread on my trousers, feeling an affinity with it. We had missed out on the magical moments most parents surely revelled in, such as the deliciously important task of choosing names. (For the record: Jude for a boy, Bryony for a girl.) But such a thing had fallen by the wayside, as had daring to have a preference when it came to the sex of a baby. A preference? Pure self-indulgence. Healthy, that was all that mattered. Just … healthy.

I bit my lip. Recently, instead of flattering talk about what incredible parents we would be, friends and family had mentioned egg donation and surrogacy and, astonishingly, buying a dog. Yes, obviously, we should forget about babies and get a chihuahua. Dee … even Dee, had even suggested giving up. Giving up. It had caused the only major row we had ever had, and it had taken a while to forgive her.

It was difficult for me to explain, but I yearned to carry Luke’s baby. I had this inner ache that I felt only our own child could fill. Luke understood, I thought, although I did have a sense deep down that he might have been more than happy to discuss other options, should we have needed to. I couldn’t think that way, though. I had to believe that this would work.

The consultant finally sat back. ‘Well, everything looks healthy this time round,’ she remarked rather cheerily. ‘Obviously we’re not out of the woods yet and you’ve had quite a journey, but this is the furthest you’ve come, so there is every chance that this pregnancy will develop as it should. Fourteen weeks … this is fantastic.’

The consultant’s gaze softened. ‘Regular scans and check-ups, of course. But that’s all part of the process, as I’m sure you’re aware. Here you are – another set of scan photographs for you to keep. Lovely ones. Look at this one of the baby’s feet.’

I took the photos. I was shaking.

‘Really? Everything looks all right?’ Luke’s elation was evident; his heart on his sleeve, as ever. He crushed my hand accidentally and I loved him for it. My own euphoria tended to be rather more contained these days – a casualty of the process – but Luke was endearingly positive.

The consultant gestured to the test results in the file. ‘It does. The baby is healthy, the heartbeat is strong and all of your tests came back with great results.’

‘A perfectly good oven, as it turns out. I bloody knew it.’ Luke snaked an arm around my neck and spoke into my ear. ‘I told you that old guy didn’t know what he was talking about, Luce. I knew it; I just knew it.’

I burst into tears. An aged, male consultant had once breezily described my womb as a ‘broken oven’ some years back and I had never quite got over it.

‘Let’s just get through the next couple of months, shall we?’ The consultant’s professional demeanour was firmly back in place. She headed for the door. ‘Good luck, both of you, and I’ll see you again soon.’

Was that ‘good luck’ because we needed it, or was she just wishing us well? I caught myself. Would the ball of tears in the back of my throat, caught like a frozen waterfall, ever thaw? I just wanted to feel normal. I wanted to be able to glance at doll-sized babygrows pegged on a washing line without dissolving into tears. I wanted to be able to hand a lonely-looking teddy bear I’d found on the supermarket floor back to its owner without biting my lip until it bled. The sweet scent of downy peach fuzz on the head of a friend’s newborn as I cradled a tiny body? Instant hysteria. Snot, heaving chest … the works. Cue awkwardness all round and cautious comments about it being my turn soon. Yes. My turn.

I traced a finger along the baby picture, outlining its perfectly formed leg. Perhaps this baby wanted us as much as we wanted him or her. As we walked into the heavy summer air, Luke placed a tender hand on the swell of my stomach.

‘Didn’t I tell you to trust me? Didn’t I say it would all work out eventually? We just had to wait for the right baby to come along.’ He was thrilled. ‘This one is special … this one wants us to be her parents. His parents. Whatever.’

‘God, I hope so.’ I touched his face. ‘I’ve been a nightmare, haven’t I? Absolutely barmy.’

Luke caught my hand and held it. ‘Not barmy. Clinically insane. Make that certifiable – joking!’ He doubled over at the bicep punch I threw him, his expression sobering. ‘You want this badly, that’s all. We both want this badly. This one wants to stay in your perfect, perfect oven. This is it, Lucy. This is it.’