The Trouble with Women

Boys Don't Cry

WE'RE IN THE pub again, Becks and I.

The old window panes have coloured glass running across the top and the daylight filtering through creates a kaleidoscope of gem-coloured light across the tables.

I feel lucky when Becks can join me for a weekend lunch these days. Between Roger and her work, I don't get as much of her weekend time as I used to, but this weekend, I have something she wants. I'm like the cat who caught the canary. Or, maybe more accurately, the dog who's brought in the newspaper. I've dropped it at her feet and am waiting for my 'good dog' head petting.

"This is great, Doll. So great. You won't get into any trouble, will you." She's not asking so much as assuring herself.

But no, I don't think so. I don't believe Sasha (or anyone) checks our searches, and even if she did, I could say the names had come up in a case file.

She unfolds my notepaper and takes a look down the list of numbers. I feel rather than see her pause.

"Why did you look mine up?"

I smile like I didn't think it at all odd that her serial number had a different starting sequence than the rest of the numbers on the list.

"Oh, I thought it would be good to have them all listed together. So you could see if any were, you know..." I trail off and point to the list. "I put mine on there too, see? And Missy's, that's my co-worker Julian's housemate. I think she's about our age, and he told me she'd been..."

I'm babbling nervously now. I stop myself.

Her expression is a little bit clouded, but she smiles and folds the paper back over, slipping it into her coat pocket.

"What are you going to do with them now? Are you going to interview them?" I ask.

"That's the plan," she confirms and turns to look at the French barmaid who is bearing down upon us with the specials sheet.

"Laydeez," the barmaid says in greeting, then waits mutely while we decide.

I order a glass of Chablis and a Fish-ish Pie with sweet buttered peas. Becks hands the menu back to the barmaid and says, "Just a soda water for me, please, and a small green salad."

I'm disappointed. Her watery order hits me like a betrayal, like she has one foot out the door when we just got here. The French woman nods and walks away to put our order into the kitchen. I turn to Becks, trying to keep the petulance out of my voice.

"Not even a glass of wine?"

She looks embarrassed.

"There's something I may as well tell you," she shrugs in that way she has when she wants to give the impression that something's not important, but it really, really is. I wait for her to continue.

"We're going to try for a baby after all." The word sits like a poisonous toad on the table between us. "You know how much Roger wants one. He'd done all the paperwork, all the testing cleared, the bank approved—"

I cut her off. "But you don't approve. You don't, do you? You'll lose your job, Becks."

She nods. "I know. This story might be my last one. I'll have to make it count."

The barmaid deftly deposits the wine and a tall glass of club soda on our table and breezes away again.

Becks says sullenly, "You know, Doll, mostly I want this thing out of me. If I say yes to a pregnancy, they'll take it out right away." She lowers her voice. "I don't want to go haywire."

"But, you aren't even sure what's causing it yet, Becks. It seems extreme to say yes to a baby before you confirm there's a connection. And besides," I point out carefully, "Your serial number is different. Maybe yours won't cause a problem."