After thinking long and hard and making a spreadsheet of the pros and cons of each option, I conclude that the simplest way to have Rose’s baby would be to become pregnant naturally by a man who isn’t Owen. This method would have no prohibitive costs, no medical treatment, no need for Rose or Owen to be involved at all. In fact, if I were to become pregnant quickly enough, I could even surprise Rose with news of my pregnancy upon her return from her trip to London! What a happy homecoming that would be! I would, of course, require a man to have intercourse with, but that shouldn’t be too difficult. By all reports, men are desperate for intercourse. Apparently, they can be found at nearly every bar and club, prowling for women to have no-strings-attached intercourse with. Unfortunately, I don’t go to bars or clubs. But surely men congregate in other places too.
I am still researching when the rest of the staff return from lunch, smelling of beer and garlic and talking several decibels louder than before they left. I continue my research a little longer as, judging by the way everyone makes themselves scarce, they aren’t bothered by what I’m doing. Even Carmel and her ever-present cart are nowhere to be seen for most of the afternoon. Thus, I am knee-deep in research about an online dating app called Tinder when a patron appears at the desk.
‘I’m having some trouble with the printer.’
I hold back an eye roll. Ninety-nine per cent of front desk queries are about the printers and the photocopiers. The photocopier enquiries are the worst, as each patron is required to load up a beastly little card with coins and connect this card to their account, a process that precisely no-one, including myself, knows how to do successfully. As such, I prefer not to engage with those kinds of queries. Not only do I not understand them, they bore me in the most indescribable way. Lately, whenever a patron has a query about the printers or the photocopiers, I pretend I hear someone calling me and excuse myself. I am about to do exactly that when I recognise the person’s accent and perfect enunciation.
‘Wally!’ I cry.
He smiles, albeit a reserved sort of smile, and I find myself taken by his teeth. Straight, white and even teeth. There are no bits of food stuck around the gum line . . . he appears to care for his teeth the way he does his fingernails. If I had noticed these teeth the other day, I would never have mistaken him for homeless (though he is still wearing the hat and the ill-fitting jeans).
‘Still wearing the hat, I see.’
Wally pauses, touches the hat, as if checking it’s still there. ‘Er . . . yeah.’
His tone indicates mild offence. It’s astonishing what can be offensive to people. For example, apparently it is the height of rudeness to ask someone his or her age or weight, which makes absolutely no sense. Why be mysterious about something that is quite literally on display for all to see? And yet, these rules exist, and everyone seems to understand what they can and can’t ask. Everyone except me.
‘You’re American,’ I say, hoping that this is a) not offensive, and b) a distraction from the hat comment.
Wally merely nods. His gaze, like last time, lands just over my left shoulder. I actually don’t mind this. Some people can be so hungry for eye contact, it’s a relief to be able to look away.
‘What brings you to the land of Oz?’ I ask. I’m quite pleased with this comment, the casual whimsy of it, but Wally does not look charmed.
‘My mother was Australian,’ he says. ‘My father is American. I’m a dual citizen.’ He pushes his glasses up his nose. He’s quite handsome, in an odd sort of way. It’s not a surprise that I’ve only just noticed – it often takes me a while to realise someone is handsome. Rose laughed herself stupid recently when I commented that Bradley Cooper wasn’t bad looking in A Star Is Born. (‘You’ve only just noticed this?’ she said, wiping her eyes. Frankly, I thought it was far more laughable the way most people made snap judgments without taking time to consider why they felt that way.)
Gayle chooses this moment to arrive at the desk beside me and ask Wally if there’s anything she can do to help. Usually, I am very grateful when Gayle comes to my rescue, but today I am frustrated because it reminds the man why he approached the desk in the first place.
‘Ah, yes,’ he says, directing his enquiry to me once again. ‘The printer.’
‘Have you tried pressing “Print”?’ I am unable to conceal my boredom.
‘Yes.’
‘And have you checked you are connected to the correct printer? Each one has its number printed on a laminated document on the wall.’
‘I have.’
I toy with the idea of saying ‘The network has gone down’. It happened a few weeks back and it was the most glorious catch-all for every printer or photocopier enquiry that came my way. Sadly, it hadn’t remained ‘down’ for long. I am about to give this excuse a go when I notice Carmel still hovering nearby, watching us. I sigh. ‘Fine. Let’s take a look, shall we?’
I follow Wally to his computer. The last time I saw Wally I’d thought of him as lanky, but as I trail along behind him now, I notice he is more
