Love Is…
‘High drama and lots of laughs’ - Fabulous MagazineDating Agency doyenne Ellie Rigby always thought that helping people find love with the hard part…But now she’s all loved up with husband Nick and has hundreds of matchmaking successes under her belt, Ellie ought to know all there is to know about love.As her struggles to get pregnant put strain on her marriage, and her matchmaking service starts losing clients, Ellie realises she has so much more to learn. So setting off on a global research trip, Ellie makes it her mission to find out what makes love last forever, and whether it’s enough to save her own romance.
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HALEY HILL is a fresh new voice in fiction. Prior to becoming an author, Haley launched and ran the Elect Club dating agency – and is an expert in all things dating! She lives in South London with her husband and twin daughters. Love Is… is her second book.
To my grandmother, Grace, whose love life never quite measured up to the romance novels she read.
Keep flirting with the Elvis impersonator, nan, there’s still time.
One of the greatest secrets to happiness is to curb your desires and to love what you already have.
Emilie du Chalet
Contents
I sat on the toilet and stared at the packet.
After years spent bringing couples together, attending their weddings, then their offspring’s christenings, spending more money on baby gifts than I did on my mortgage, surely I deserved my chance of happiness too. Wasn’t that the way this karma thing was supposed to work? I thought Eros and I had a deal.
I glared up at the ceiling to register my protest, then ripped off the cellophane. It must have been about the hundredth pregnancy test I’d bought since our wedding day. I’d tried to restrict it to one per cycle, but invariably I ended up back at Superdrug, clearing the shelves in the family planning section, hoping that a different brand might provide a different result. And I’d tried them all, from the basic two-liners to the early-response super tests complete with digital screen to spell out the result in shouty capitals. And then of course there were the ovulation kits, the sight of which now triggered some kind of Pavlovian response in Nick, sending him on a desperate quest for alcohol before I presented myself wearing Ann Summers lingerie and a ‘you know what that does to your sperm count’ nod at his wine glass.
I continued to stare at the turquoise and pink branding until the colours merged like a Maldivian sunset and my thoughts wandered back to our honeymoon. At the time, I’d believed that all it took was a sandy beach, white linen sheets and a quick flick of the fertility fairy’s wand. And after seven nights of consummating our marriage in a five-star beach hut, as I skipped into the chemist at the airport, I couldn’t have been more certain that the tiny mound of a stomach I’d developed was the manifestation of Nick’s and my future happiness, and entirely unrelated to the ten thousand calories I’d consumed each day at the hotel buffet. I glanced back down at the box and laughed out loud. If only I’d known, I thought.
My phone vibrated. I ignored it.
‘Well, I know now,’ I said to myself as I pulled out one of the tests, ‘that even with the aid of a NASA-engineered ovulation detector, we had no hope of conceiving.’
Our first Harley Street consultation had been over a year ago, but since then, the doctor’s words had been bouncing back and forth in my head like a ping-pong ball.
‘Intra-cytoplasmic sperm injection is the only option,’ he’d said.
He’d gone on to explain in medical terms that I had the follicles of a fifty-year-old heroin addict, my uterine lining was thinner than an Olsen sister, and my ovaries were about as useful as a snorkel in a tsunami.
My stomach churned. This round of treatment was our third and final chance. I took a deep breath and pulled out the test. My heart beat faster. I could feel the pulse in the tips of my fingers. I lost my grip for a second and it slipped from my grasp. I caught it swiftly with my other hand, as if it were the Olympic torch.
I’d learned from the fertility forums that it was better to wee into a container, to ensure the stick was properly immersed, rather than hold it under a stream of urine. The method was more accurate, ‘Mum to Three Snow-babies’ had advised. I rested the test, lid still on, on the cistern and spread the information leaflet open. I already knew it by heart. It didn’t matter. I read it again. Just to be sure.
It is best to conduct the test in the morning after a night’s sleep. The urine is more concentrated.
I couldn’t recall sleeping, although my uncompromised pelvic floor muscles had at least managed to hold off any bladder evacuation.
My hands were trembling as I reached for an old lid from a toothpaste pump dispenser. It was the perfect size for collecting a sample, ‘Here’s Hoping’ had explained on the Fertility Friends forum. I sat down on the toilet and held it under me until I felt warm urine overflowing from the top. Once I’d carefully submerged the test in the container, I closed my eyes, visualising the word ‘pregnant’ in my mind, hoping it might somehow instruct the test to comply. Moments later, when I found myself chanting and rubbing my womb, unwittingly re-enacting a hypno-spiritual video I’d seen on YouTube, I realised that I was in dire need of distraction. Instinctively, I went to call Nick, but then I remembered he had an important breakfast meeting, so instead I called Matthew.
