21 Miles. Jessica Hepburn

       The Publisher

       The Restaurateur

       Camp Eton

       The Divorce Lawyer

       Was It Because of the IVF?

       So We Beat On

       The Chief Constable

       Beach Life

       The General

       Gertrude Ederle

       The Gateway Woman

       The Seven and Six

       Ten Minutes

       Dad and Mum

       The One-Week Wait

       Are You Asleep Yet?

       Dear Peter

       The Last Supper

       Epilogue

       Acknowledgements

       Patrons

       Supporters

       Copyright

      Prologue

      I slide off the side into the deep end. My body feels weightless in the water as I start to swim. Breaststroke arms and legs pull me forward; it feels like my speed is strong. Could the duckling have turned into a swan?

      My opponent’s mum nods admiringly as I reach the shallow end, as if she is impressed. My mum stifles a smile, I think, I can never be sure with my mum. Whoever wins today’s swim-off will compete in the inter-schools swimming gala. The teachers haven’t been able to decide which one of us is faster, so me and a classmate have been sent to the local pool to sprint it out, two girls marshalled by their mothers.

      My opponent climbs down the steps into the water and now we are both poised, ready to start. Her mum says ‘Go!’ My mum stands silently watching. I’m not sure she would know what to say; she’s not like most people’s mums. I push off and swim, reaching ahead, pulling the water past me, kicking back. But I don’t feel as quick as I did on my first length. I’m fighting the water, I’m losing the race and the coveted place in the gala.

      When you’re a child, life is all about speed. Who will be the first and the fastest? When you grow up, you realise that life’s really about endurance. Water would teach me that.

      –––––

      ‘Can we have the works tonight?’

      ‘You mean starter and pudding?’

      ‘Go on. It is Christmas.’

      ‘But you know I don’t like puddings,’ Peter says. ‘I’m happy for you to have one though.’

      ‘It’s not the same eating a pudding on your own. Will you at least share one with me?’

      ‘If it makes you feel better, I’ll share one with you and you can eat it.’

      There’s no point continuing this conversation. I’m not going to win.

      It’s the night before Christmas Eve and we’re having supper at our favourite restaurant, just round the corner from our flat. The place is fairly quiet. Most work parties are over, and everyone is either doing last-minute shopping or staying home in preparation for the excess to come. The waiter comes over.

      ‘Shall we?’ Peter asks.

      ‘Why not? It is Christmas.’

      ‘Touché,’ he says, before turning to the waiter. ‘Two Negronis, please.’

      The waiter smiles. Every waiter who knows their cocktails always does when you order a Negroni. It’s a drink lover’s drink.

      I order the food. Crab on toast, followed by seven-hour lamb and a bottle of the Douro. It’s what we always have.

      ‘Any sides?’ the waiter asks.

      ‘Greens definitely,’ I reply. ‘Do you think we need potatoes?’

      ‘Depends how hungry you are. The lamb’s for three so it’s going to be a big portion for the two of you anyway.’

      ‘It’s OK,’ Peter says, ‘She likes big portions.’ He smiles at the waiter.

      Peter likes food too. Not quite as much as me, maybe. But I could never have stayed with a man for twelve years who didn’t like to eat. Having said that, my perfect partner would share my love of carbohydrates – Peter thinks they’re boring.

      Our Negronis arrive. ‘Here’s to Christmas,’ he says as we clink glasses. ‘And to a great year ahead.’

      ‘You say that every year and we still haven’t had one. I’ve been thinking about doing my own version of the Queen’s Speech on Christmas Day – 2013: my annus horribilis. I might think it was something to do with the number thirteen, except that every year for the past nine years has been unlucky.’

      It was Christmas day nine years ago that Peter and I first decided to try for a baby. I had just turned thirty-four and the topic had been under discussion for a while. I’ll always remember him looking at me across the dinner table, surrounded by our family, and mouthing: ‘Let’s do it!’ But nine years later we still haven’t had one. This is the first Christmas in years that we’ve spent at home in London. We usually escape somewhere hot, somewhere we’re not reminded of the children we haven’t got.

      ‘It is going to be great,’ Peter says in his most encouraging voice. ‘This is the year you officially become a writer.’

      ‘Yeah, but who’s going to want to read a book called The Pursuit of Motherhood that doesn’t end with a baby?’

      ‘Not yet. There’s still hope.’

      ‘Peter, I love you for your optimism, but I’ve just turned forty-three. Haven’t you heard that’s the age a woman’s fertility jumps off Beachy Head?’

      ‘Why Beachy Head?’ he says.

      ‘Well, I would say “falls off a cliff”, but apparently good writers steer clear of clichés.’

      He laughs.

      ‘Mind you,’ I continue, ‘clichés are clichés for a reason. They say it how it is. There’s nothing active about the decline in my fertility. It’s falling,