Page 2 of Nine Months to Bear
Too bad no one aside from me and the printer will ever see them.
Truthfully, I want to sink to my knees and sob. But that would draw eyeballs, and if Dr. Mom taught me anything, it’s that you never, ever want people pitying you in public.
So instead, I tuck my clutch under my arm and go looking for a nice spot to have a quiet mental breakdown.
People barely bother to get out of my way as I navigate through the tuxedoed and ball-gowned masses of Boston’s one-percenters, as I dance between the towering ice sculptures shaped like genitalia.
The gala planning committee really dove into tonight’s theme of “advancing modern fertility research.” Personally, I think the giant melting ice penis is a little much, but no one asked for my opinion.
As I’m trying to nudge past rich people who seem to think my rotting hopes and dreams actually have a repulsive stench, my phone vibrates again. Speak of the devil.
If Margaret Aster, Chief of Surgery at Mass General and tiger mom extraordinaire, is good for anything, it’s exquisite timing for her little pep talks of encouragement.
DR. MOM:Have you secured any commitments yet? Dr. Walsh just announced a new partnership at her table.
Of course she did.
Because she’s a fucking snake.
Dr. Rebecca Walsh, my former mentor-turned-nemesis and the most lethal of all the sharks circling me, has been systematically poaching my clients for months.
She lures them in with promises of a personalized experience she can only afford because she’s spreading her legs for all the VCs and wealthy investors in Boston. “Personalized” is B.S., though—she’s basically running a chain of assembly line baby factories. She might as well be setting up shop in a back alley with a turkey baster.
“Classy,” it is not.
But “class” isn’t her goal. From the moment Mass Gen announced they were looking for a fertility clinic to launch an exclusive branded partnership with, Walsh’s one and only goal was to make sure it wouldn’t be mine.
So far, she’s getting her way.
I down my champagne in one gulp. Walsh wants this Mass Gen partnership, but Ineedit. Without it, AFS is finished.
That’s the only reason I’m here tonight: praying that I find someone with a big enough heart and a bigger checkbook to keep my clinic alive.
So on second thought, the mental breakdown is gonna have to wait.
I scan the room, looking for my next target. I’m not picky at this point; I’ll take anyone. It’s depressing just how low the bar has fallen.
My original dream for Aster Fertility Solutions was to work with women who understood love, who craved family, who had values and morals and things they dreamed of.
That dream died quickly.
And tonight, the people I’m trying to woo are dancing all over its grave.
To think I was still hopeful when I first arrived here. One woman approached me to chat about treatment options, and it took me ten minutes to realize that “Muffy” was not her bizarre nickname for her vagina, but rather the name of the infertile, fifteen-year old Pomeranian stuffed in her twenty-thousand dollar handbag.
She wanted me to help herdoghave babies. Good Lord.
I thanked her politely, told her I didn’t specialize in canine reproduction, and then fled as fast as I could. If all else fails, maybe I’ll go back and beg her for the chance to work together.Dr. Doggystylekinda has a ring to it, right?
… Morbid, Liv. That’s very, very morbid.
But post-Muffy, things did not improve. Most of the women here are vapid socialites who think their money entitles them to designer babies grown by surrogates so that they don’t have to stretch out their own uteruses. They’re usually married to men who would happily fertilize the crevice of a couch cushion if it was plush enough.
But beggars can’t be choosers, and right now, I’m practically on my knees.
That’s when I see him. Frederick Carson is red-faced and swaying near the bar, his whiskey dangling from meaty fingers.
He’s not my white-knight-in-waiting, though.
