Page 80 of Am I Allergic to Men?
To the other sisters though, it sparked some surprise. Lucy was interested in her fertility? Lucy avowed to us with much indignation that motherhood was not her thing. She liked her vagina, she wanted to preserve it for the future and not have it ruined by the spoils of childbirth. Why would she be here? Had she suddenly grown up and realised she wanted a future with more stability? With children? The only other reason Emma could think I might be connected to this place was because of STDs, while Grace reckoned it was because maybe a doctor had realised my vagina had broken some world record and he was analysing it now for research. This was unusually hilarious for Grace but they’re both still cows. That said, we got in contact with the clinic and made an appointment. Let’s get some confirmation about why Dr Oscar is pinned to my notes.
A door suddenly opens to the left and a couple leave, one crying, I think with joy, but the three of us sisters go quiet for a moment, trying hard not to stare as they make their way to the reception desk. They are followed out by someone I will assume to be Dr Jacobs as he looks exactly like his profile picture on his website. He looks around the room and grins widely to see me, putting his arms out in preparation for a hug. We hug? OK then. I stand up.
‘LUCY!’
‘DR JACOBS!’ I reply as he wraps his arms around me. I guess he may have seen my vagina so I will afford him this level of intimacy but Beth and Meg look completely bemused by his warm reception of me. He stops hugging me to stand back and study me, looking at my head. I wish people would stop doing that. He’s working out what to say next as his gaze bounces towards me and my sisters.
‘You’ve brought company this time? Is everything all right?’ he asks.
‘Oh, these are my sisters, Beth and Meg. Do we know each other?’
He looks at Meg, wondering if this is some elaborate prank.
‘I’d hope so with the number of times you’ve been in here? Seriously? Is everything OK?’ There is concern there, which makes me less dubious about him.
‘I was in an accident about two months ago and I’m having problems recollecting events.’
His expression drops for a moment and he ushers us into his office, away from the gaze of others.
‘You were? Lucy!’ he says with some shock, closing the door. ‘It explains the new look. What happened?’
‘I tried to take on a bus. And lost,’ I say, as we all enter the room and take our places on a long white leather sofa.
His shoulders slump for a moment and he looks me up and down in what I hope is not a sexual way. Dear god, I hope the familiarity here is not from the fact we slept together. You’re lovely but you’re old.
‘So retrograde amnesia?’ he asks.
‘Possibly dissociative…’ Meg intervenes. ‘The psychologists can’t decide at the moment.’
‘So you have no idea who I am or what this place is?’ he asks.
‘I know you’re a doctor and this is a fertility clinic but basically…’ I get out my phone and scroll down to the note where his name is pinned with the date. ‘This was on my phone so obviously quite important. Maybe it was an appointment? Have I done a party for your kids maybe? But you said I’m here a lot. Did I work here? Was it because of something else?’
‘Was she ill?’ Beth asks.
He pulls a chair over to the sofa, looks over the top of his glasses to read the note on my phone but then smiles broadly.
‘You have no record of your time here?’ he asks.
‘The one thing we learnt with Lucy is that she does not have much of a paper filing system,’ Meg contributes. ‘Her inbox was like a car crash too.’ She’s not half wrong. When we tried to look through my emails, there were 6,475 unread, the majority of which seemed to be confirmation of password changes and Boohoo discount codes.
‘Then this might be a bit of a revelation…’ He wanders over to some bookshelves in the corner of his office and retrieves a file that looks like a catalogue of sorts. He runs his fingers down the dividers and page numbers and then brings it over to us. All three of us sit here waiting, wondering, part of me hoping that this is a very complicated coffee menu. He sits down and turns the folder around. It’s a picture of my face.Lucy, 29, BA in Drama Studies and English Literature, MA in Philosophy in Literature, DipEd in Dance Psychotherapy, blonde hair, blue eyes, 5’11.
‘What sort of clinic is this?’ Meg questions, slightly worried as this seems to be a catalogue of women, and all our minds jump to the wrong conclusions. Do they farm women? Christ, was I an escort? Is this a ruse for something?
‘Lucy was an egg donor.’
Meg and Beth go deathly quiet at the reveal. I won’t lie, it takes me a moment to process that as my mind just goes to the kind of eggs one can eat with bacon and I picture myself here donating them to the good doctor for his breakfast. I hope I carried them in a wicker basket. Eggs?
‘She was one of our more popular donors too. I mean, you’re very attractive and well-educated and your profile always appeals to our many couples looking for donor eggs so they can start families of their own.’
Meg can’t seem to speak. Lucy did good things too? The same Lucy who does drinking and jokes and cartwheels at inopportune moments without knickers on?
‘How many times has she done this?’ Beth asks.
He scans over some records. ‘Twice.’
‘But she’s Lucy, she occasionally smokes and drinks like a fish. How would she have been suitable?’ Meg mumbles.
