Bethany Opposites Attract by Liobhan We are symbols, and inhabit symbols.   ― Ralph Waldo Emerson

Bethany had felt a terrible pang of envy when she’d opened the square envelope. In it, as expected, had been the engraved invitation to Stephanie’s bridal shower. Everyone from work was going to be there, so she’d known she had to go, and here she was, outside the door of Barbara’s flat, but she hated them, hated Stephanie for getting married, hated all the women who flaunted their boyfriends and marriages and husbands, who brandished their pregnancies and babies as if they were as natural and inevitable as gravity, as lightly assumed as the air they breathed, inherent in the moist fecundity of the environment in which they swam.

But they weren’t any of these things, and some women were asphyxiated by their lack, left gasping on the rocky shore as all the rest swam off laughing. She stared at the door, sullen, noting the wear and tear of years on it, the ornate moulding, sharp edges softened to curves, the nicks and indentations around the lock, the marred surface of the kick plate, all covered by shiny paint, the metal polished, but rotting underneath.

Bethany wasn’t getting married, ever. Bethany would never have children, not ever, and almost every time she saw a mother with a babe in arms, or a toddler in a stroller, or even a parked car with an empty baby seat in back, the hollow grieving gripped her by her throat, rising like bile, bitter, as always since that rainy day when she was just fourteen. Her mother had taken her to the gyno to see why her period hadn’t come, and then, just then, the guilty knowledge had began to seep into her brain. She wasn’t normal, never had been, and that was the day that she’d had the first inkling.

She’d become quite skilled in looking away, mostly; a child’s voice or cry sent her burrowing into her handbag looking for something, anything, until the crisis passed and she could continue as if nothing had ever happened, and nothing ever would.

The doctor had been startled, at first, and then grave, asking her to wait a bit while he went off with the nurse into the next room, where her mother waited. She’d heard their voices, pitched low, her mother’s startled cry and then silence. Then, after a long worrisome moment, they’d all trooped in, the doctor impassive, her mother wringing her hands in that maddening way she had, and the nurse clucking behind, just twice before the doctor’s dirty look made her shut up.

“We’re going to have you see a specialist,” he’d said without preamble, looking down at her chart, frowning, “Bethany.” He’d looked at her then, but not like he had before, all smiles, “Nothing at all wrong, just a bit outside my experience, best to see a top man.” And then he closed the chart folder, coloured bands and numbers all along the long edge now visible, and they’d filed out, the nurse and he, whilst her mother gathered up their things and they’d walked up to the consulting room exit and then through into freezing rain. Bethany hadn’t been truly warm since — she was always cold inside.

—««-»»—

Eventually, she heard women’s voices on the stairs and hurriedly knocked, lest she be caught skulking outside. The door was opened by Mique, the one-woman technical support crew and all-round genius with all things mechanical, wearing a much cuter outfit than she usually did at work, but still a bit butch, what with her hair and all.

Maybe she could become a lesbian. She couldn’t believe there’d be any pressure to have children, the subject would probably never come up, certainly wouldn’t have to be revealed to a date, even a steady date, never that humiliating moment when she’d have to say, ‘I can never bear your child,’ and then explain, and saw some bastard’s face close off, rejecting her as damaged goods at best, at worst a freak of nature, a sideshow attraction whose only appeal was morbid, the horrified regard paid to bloody wrecks on the highway, the ‘date from hell’ story they laughed about with their filthy mates over a pint or two. “Hullo, Mique. Am I late?”

Mique smiled with something more than general bonhomie, “Bethany! Not at all! Come through to the lounge, they’re about to start the games, I think, but we’re nowhere near played out. Stephanie’s here, but there’s more still on the way.”

“In other words, I’m among the very earliest of the people who are late?”

“Well, not in so many words, but yes.” She laughed, “I don’t think we’ll be graded on appearance and deportment, either, so not to worry.”

“Is there any chance of finding something wet before I join the party? Someone’s bound to start singing, and my throat’s a little dry.”

“Of course there is. Come through to the dining room and you’ll find a rum punch ready, several wines, soft drinks, beers, ales, still and sparkling waters, and a large selection of ingredients to mix your own.”

Bethany followed closely behind as Mique led her to one of the sideboards set up as an impromptu bar, studiously ignoring the main party in the lounge, and was relieved to see her very most favourite, Peter Heering Cherry Liqueur. “Do you think she’d mind if I just helped myself?”

“What, Barb? She didn’t hire a bartender, if that’s what you mean. Of course you can have anything you like. If she has anything with sentimental value, I’m sure it’s tucked away somewhere, not sitting out here on offer.”

“I would like a little glass of this,” she said, holding up the familiar bottle.

Mique laughed, “Well, pour out, then.” She picked up an apéritif glass from a tray laid out with a mixed lot of different types and handed it to her.

She took it gratefully, “Thank you so much. My tummy’s been upset all day for some reason, and I’m craving something sweet.” She poured a good shot, took a sip, and then another, sighing, and the warmth spread down her throat.

Mique looked her over carefully, “Are you coming down with something? ”

“I don’t know. My nose has been stuffed up, and my boobs are sore, but that doesn’t sound like anything in particular.”

Mique looked at her thoughtfully, “They do seem plumped up a bit. Do they feel that way to you?”

She rolled her eyes, “Good God, I hope not. They’re big enough already.”

“Not on, are you?”

“Not hardly, not possible.” she said with a bitter shrug.

Mique’s eyes widened slightly, then her expression changed to one of sympathy, which annoyed Bethany for reasons she couldn’t articulate, even to herself, “I am sorry; I wasn’t to know.”

She shrugged again, easing her internal tension, “Not a particular secret. I imagine some people, well, some women anyway, will have noticed. Problems down there. Went wonky from the start.”

Mique raised one eyebrow, “You don’t want to talk about it, then.”

Shaking her head abruptly, she said, “Would you?”

Mique nodded, “No, I suppose not.” Smoothly changing the subject, she continued, “You look like you need a refill. May I?” She picked up the bottle and made to pour, waiting until Bethany held out her glass, then pouring with the economical panache of a professional bartender.

Bethany was properly impressed, “You’re quite good. Did you watch that Tom Cruise film, ‘Cocktail,’ I think it was?” ‘Is she trying to pick me up?’ She didn’t know whether to be flattered or frightened.

Mique shook her head, “No, I work as a musician most weekends, and sometimes help at the bar to keep the clubs happy to see me. Fancy tricks generate larger tips, and encourage the customers to order more expensive drinks; the more ingredients, the more tricks, so I cope.”

Beth smiled at a private irony, but didn’t say anything. “So if I wanted to know what a Sloe Screw was, you’d tell me, right?”

“Absolutely, but Sex on the Beach has more interesting moves.” She grinned, “A Sloe Screw is just a Screwdriver made with sloe gin instead of vodka, but the fanciest one I know is a Long Island Iced Tea, with six to nine ingredients, depending on the recipe. A lot of clubs won’t mix them, or use readymade blends because they take too long, but there’s time for beaucoup Tom Cruise style dancing around when you make them from scratch.”

“During which time, the pub isn’t making any money, right?”

“Exactly.” She made a wry face, “You can only charge so much for one drink, and three quick drinks for six-fifty each is better than one drawn-out for a tenner. One has to be judicious, since a few fancy displays can attract a crowd around the bar, but they’ll walk off if their drinks don’t arrive when they want them.”

Bethany was starting to feel as if people might notice her avoiding the party, so she said, “Well, enough fun. I’d best go out and show the flag. No point coming if no one knows I’m here.”

“I’m sure it’s not that bad, Bethany. I know Stephanie doesn’t have an ‘enemies list,’ and things happen, people can’t get a sitter, have to visit Mum in hospital, whatever. Not showing up wouldn’t have mattered, other perhaps than to miss having a good time with most of the women of the firm.”

“Probably not,” she admitted. “I’m just a little timid around all these movers and shakers of the financial world. And they all seem to be wearing outfits just shipped in from Paris or Milan.”

“Don’t be shy, there are simply hordes of us here who wouldn’t know a designer label if it bit us, and whose shoes are more likely to be named ‘Hush Puppies’ or ‘Cole Haan’ than anything you’d find on the catwalks of Paris.”

Bethany smiled suddenly, “That’s what I’m wearing! Cole Haan with Nike Air, their Carma mid-air court shoe. They’re a little more pricey, but so much more comfortable for everyday wear.” She made as if to model them by twisting her leg out to one side.

Mique chortled, looking down at her leg and shoe, “And I’m sure they’re simply marvellous, dear, but they’d be impractical in my line of work, so I lean rather more toward boat shoes than anything with stiletto heels.”

“Oh!” her face fell. “I hadn’t thought.”

“Don’t be bothered. I’m comfortable with who I am and what I wear, but clothes don’t make the woman. They’re only decoration for the soul.”

Bethany looked at her, wondering, “Mique, may I come back and talk to you later?”

“Of course,” she smiled. “My department is unofficially called ‘Support,’ so my office door is always open, even when I’m out of it.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” she said, and walked through to the lounge.

—««-»»—

Bethany wandered around the room for a bit, not having been clued in as to what sort of games were to be played, if any, and not terribly interested. On the other hand, she was fascinated by the beautiful black and white photography on the walls. She’d barely noticed similar photos in the dining room, but had paid them no attention because she’d been more interested in her drink. Now, she regretted her inattention and made up her mind to revisit them quite soon. Each one of these pictures seemed more striking and gem-like than the last, devoid of any visible life other, perhaps, the implied presence of an observer, high mountain vistas, rocky lakes, and open defiles brilliantly illuminated by unseen light and set off against dark shadows deepening to black. They were so sharp and stunning that it was as if she were there instead of here, washed by chill breezes in the thin mountain air, gazing at that deepest blue, almost black, clear sky only seen from places where it was difficult to catch one’s breath. She shivered.

“Nice, aren’t they?” The voice came from behind her.

Bethany turned around to see the new analyst, Deirdre, she thought it was, looking at the same picture. “Yes, they’re quite startling. It’s as if they opened you up and laid you bare, splayed out on the dissecting table as nakedly as the rocks and pebbles she often shows in the foreground.”

“You can tell just by looking they were done by a woman?”

“Of course. Men aren’t ordinarily that subtle, nor willing to show such vulnerability.”

“Well, you’re right of course, as they’re all done by Barb, our esteemed hostess. You have an excellent eye, Bethany, I had to look closely at the signature before I knew.”

Bethany glanced at Deirdre briefly, “I’ve made something of a study of women,” she said, and then turned back to the photograph in tacit dismissal.

Deirdre made a noise behind her, as if she were clearing her throat to say something, but then they started some party game in earnest, so Bethany had an excuse to turn around and look at the women clustered around Stephanie, ignoring Deirdre, and by the time she’d glanced back toward her, Deirdre had disappeared into the crowd.

Bethany continued her tour around the walls, looking carefully at every picture, building a theme in her head, and wondering if Barb would be willing to talk about her work. Every picture was unique, but the sum of them seemed strangely to mirror her own life, remote from the warm green lowlands, solitary, but connected to the open sky. They made her feel liberated from gravity, almost like flying, transported into another world.

In the background, she could hear talking and laughter, but it was distant, as it were taking place in the next flat rather than just behind her.

She’d reached the last picture, next to the window overlooking the garden, so the contrast between the lush green life outside and the stark beauty of the single mountain in the photograph was amazing, the promise of a scale more humane and, after travelling through endless spaces inimical to life, a bountiful sanctuary waiting. She saw now that this progression along the walls, frame by frame, and now the garden, was filled with purpose, the ultimate intent of the artist. She stared out the window, yearning for the burgeoning green ocean of life beyond the glass. The faint sounds she’d been almost totally ignoring stopped abruptly, conspicuous by their absence, and she turned to see Stephanie standing alone.

She spoke, “Ladies, I’d like to thank you all for coming here to wish me well, and especially you, Sarah, for passing on your mother’s good advice which, unlike your younger self, I intend to take, having decided to ‘dump the schmuck’ before it all gets messy, but do let’s continue with a party for just us, with dear Richard left languishing in the dustbin of history. Your good wishes, your friendship, have left me happier than I can say.”

Bethany was astounded. The bridal shower she’d feared had disappeared completely, transformed into a celebration of unwedded bliss in the twinkling of an eye, seemingly without regret or complaint. She saw women rising, laughing, talking, and congratulating Stephanie as if her impossible rebellion were admirable, as if not getting married were an occasion to rejoice, and she felt an imponderable connection to every woman around her, as if she were swimming freely in a safe sea of women, her friends, her sisters, in the midst of whom there was no reason to fear. She moved forward, serene.

First, she sought out Barb, and simply took her hand, holding it loosely, saying above the music, the dancing, the laughter, “Thank you for your extraordinary art. You’ve opened my eyes.”

Barb started to say something, but Bethany raised her hand against further speech, saying again, “No words, please, nothing further. At first, I wanted to talk to you, talk at great length, but now I’m filled to the very brim. I see it all now, all that we share, we all of us share. We’re surrounded by immense desolation, living precariously on its frontiers, yet we treasure life, and nurture it, searching always for the deepest green. You have a great gift.”

Barb smiled at her, and gave her hand a little squeeze, until Bethany broke eye contact and moved on through the women, through to where she saw Mique standing by the music system, fiddling with some electronic gadget in her hand.

“Hullo, Mique. Great music. Your doing I take it?”

She grinned, “Yeah. The jazz seemed a little too cerebral as the soundtrack to accompany such an emotional catharsis.”

“I hadn’t had time to pay too much attention, but it’s definitely elevated the mood of the party.” She gestured behind her, where women were dancing, or singing along with the verses in raucous chorus.

“I try to give satisfaction,” Mique said modestly, but with an impish wink.

“If it’s not too much trouble, could you give me the names of some of the songs sometime? I’ve never heard any of these few before, although many of us seem quite familiar with them. I find I like them.”

“Sure. No problem. In fact, I’ll send the playlist thus far to your office account this instant if you like.”

“You can do that?”

“Of course.” She raised one hand in a magician’s stylised flourish, then touched the screen, “Technical wizardry is my stock in trade. What’s the point of carrying along the latest gizmos if they won’t do what you tell them to do.”

Whilst she’d been speaking, her fingers had been flying across the screen of her little gadget, which Bethany now saw was an iPhone. With a flourish, she stabbed her finger at the screen and said, “There it’s off. I’ll post updates as the evening goes on.”

Bethany said, “Thank you so much. I do want to remember this evening, although I doubt I’ll ever forget it.”

Mique nodded judiciously, “It’s been an interesting experience for many of us, I think. Certainly for me. Certainly for Stephanie. May I ask what your own reaction was?”

“Of course. I had a crisis of faith in myself, and an epiphany, mediated largely through Barb’s photos on the walls here. I had the good luck to see them in their proper order, and the wit to realise what I was seeing.”

Mique’s eyes lit up, “You saw it too, the deep melancholy?”

“Yes, but also the warmth and joy hidden beneath that forbidding surface, the hope-filled, even triumphant, resolution of that lingering theme of loneliness and alienation.”

Now Mique was puzzled, “I don’t understand. All the pictures seemed to say the same thing to me, the same aching blues notes over and over.”

Bethany smiled, “You missed the big picture, then?”

“What big picture? They were all exactly the same size.”

“Mique, Barb is a visual artist of great skill. Every visual aspect of her presentation is precisely controlled. By far the largest frame is that surrounding the expansive view of the partially-illuminated garden outside. Surely you didn’t think it was accidental?”

Mique had to think about that for a while, visualising it in her mind, and suddenly saw, “Of course! It was so obvious it was invisible, ‘just a window,’ but it’s the key to the whole series! You’re meant to overlook it, though, or come to it slowly, because it’s not framed like the others.”

“True. They’re all of them subtle, dense with hidden meanings and revelations, but that’s the most cryptic of them all, because it’s something she had no part in creating, other than to draw our attention to it, out in the world beyond artifice. It’s a wonderful paradox; here we are huddled on this tiny rock, floating in the endless and hostile vacuum, and yet the view out the window is boundless, extending in theory to the farthest horizon, even though we can see only the smallest part of it, and all of it welcoming and fertile, filled with coruscating life.”

Mique was awestruck, “We can climb the highest mountains and almost touch the black void, powerless to go further, or we can descend into the valleys….”

“…and cultivate our gardens. Barb’s work is an existential passion play. It shows us that we’re not only responsible for our own actions, but for our re-actions. We’re not only affected by the world, as children are, almost powerless against the many things they can’t control, but also capable of growth, gradually, eventually, developing the adult power to build, to help, to nurture, healing the world of its many wounds, healing ourselves in the process.”

“And you’ve felt that healing?”

“Not until recently, but then I was overwhelmed by it. You see, we’re complementary sides, I think, of a similar coin. You’re a woman who prefers to dress in almost masculine styles. I’m a man, more or less, forced into a woman’s body and dress by circumstance.”

Mique burst out, “But that’s not possible! You’re beautiful! Your complexion is flawless, with no beard pockmarks anywhere, and boobs like that never came out of a bottle.” She suddenly realised where they were, glanced around, and lowered her voice, “You don’t even sound like a transsexual, your voice is more like Cyndi Lauper’s than any man’s could conceivably be.”

“That’s because we’re all of us caught up in binary thinking, either/or choices, flipping coins and the like, heads or tails, but life is composed of fuzzy logic, not simple alternatives. I am, in very fact, a genetic male with a rare condition called Complete Androgen Insensitivity Syndrome, known fondly as CAIS amongst the illuminati, which is a fancy way of saying that my body, in its inmost, most secret parts, is what you might think of as completely ‘tone deaf’ to testosterone, so I developed as someone who looks almost exactly like a normal female, but isn’t. I thought — everyone around me thought — that I was a perfectly normal girl baby, an unexceptional girl child, until the other girls started teasing me as a ‘late developer,’ and I never got my period at all, so I was eventually taken in for genetic testing. Imagine my surprise.”

Mique swore, shaking her head in sympathy, “Bloody hell. It must have been perfectly awful for you.”

“It wasn’t the happiest time of my life,” Bethany said with wry good humour.

“But isn’t there anything they can do?”

“Physically, not at all. Psychically, not much. Counselling is all that’s on offer, because there’s nothing can change my genetic makeup, and that’s what it is, a recessive mutation on my X chromosome that made it utterly impossible for my body to respond to androgens of any sort, made that masculine note most men feel droning as the background to their lives fall silent whilst I was still safely within my mother’s womb. The default body type in humans is female so, unlike most men, for whom the Y chromosome is determinative, my mother’s little X had the last word and here I am.”

“But I’ve never heard of such a thing.”

“Few of us advertise our state. It’s rare, but not that rare, around one case in every twenty thousand women, so in a city as big as this one, we could form a decent club, but the average person is unlikely to know any of us, especially because we don’t particularly stand out, and don’t wear little badges.”

“So, in greater London. there are about seven millions of us…, halve that…, then divide…. Bloody hell!” Mique’s voice had risen again, but then she looked around and said more privately, “That’s a hundred and seventy-five thousands of women. Forget about clubs, you could form a bloody army and outnumber the one we have! Including the Gurkhas and the Territorial Army! Just in the near vicinity of London! Almost ten times that in the UK!”

Bethany smiled, “Things aren’t always what they seem, Mique, but I think you’ve misplaced a decimal point or two here and there. My fault entirely, as the mind doesn’t function well when it’s boggled. Statistically, there’ll be a hundred and seventy five of us locally, perhaps fifteen hundreds in the United Kingdom, although of course there are many more if you include those whose insensitivity isn’t total, and may present either as mostly female or truly ‘in-between.’ I don’t doubt that some such mutations are purely internal, invisible even to the scientific eye aided by sophisticated instruments, creating the broad spectrum of sexual behaviour and gender alignment we see around us, but completely overlooked by the fond idiots who cobbled together what pass for divine revelations and religions amongst us. Most of us cling to a false binary reality as if it had been handed down from Sinai, but it wasn’t. It’s in the Bible, though, ‘male and female created He them…,’ but this didactic pronouncement is really only propaganda; there are more things in Heaven and Earth that are dreamt of in most of our philosophies, and all the religions I know of have got it all wrong. This leads me to misdoubt ‘divine’ inspiration for any of them. It seems to me that any putative god, or goddess, might have managed to get at least that tiny bit of reality right, and their inability to grasp what even children may understand is diagnostic.”

“But why tell me? Other than that I wear dungarees at work?”

“It’s more than that, the way you carry yourself, your attitude, which doesn’t correspond to most female norms, but mostly because of something you said earlier, about our clothes being ‘decorations for our souls.’ It led me to believe that you might be something of a kindred spirit, or perhaps the mirror-universe analogue of a kindred spirit, because I’ve longed desperately for real femininity, periods, fertility, babies, a husband, all my adult life, yet they were always just out of reach, despite my appearance. To repurpose a famous quote, ‘I have that within which passeth show; these but the trappings and the suits of woe.’ I’ve never felt at all happy, from the day of my first diagnostic consultation until now, a young lifetime of fruitless grieving and sorrow.”

“So you looked at Barb’s pictures and…?”

“Everything was changed, made new and fresh and green where I’d been living in the shabby grey wasteland. I’d thought of myself as a crippled woman with a secret shame, a terrible guilt, my carefully-concealed ‘masculinity,’ but when I saw that beautiful garden open out before me at the end of Barb’s metaphorical journey, I realised that I was a man with a precious gift, far more than any man deserved. I can’t imagine wanting to be masculine, and here I was given the opportunity to grow up as I was meant to be, a woman amongst women with what amounts to a female brain. I may not have all my bits, but I have a woman’s heart and soul, and that, I think, is what really counts.”

“And you looked at me and saw that I wasn’t terribly happy with I’d been given either. You’re a lot like Deirdre, I think.” She smiled impishly, “Bloody women!”

Bethany laughed out loud,“You’re not so unhappy any more. That’s good. Neither am I, so we’re both twice blessed.”

“But why don’t we all know about this? With so many ‘in-betweens,’ even if less than I’d calculated in haste, you’d think it would make a huge difference.”

“Don’t discount your estimate entirely, Mique. My case is only one tiny part of a general fuzziness, not the prime exemplar. When you count all the rest of us, the people who live outside the rigid boxes, you may have been more nearly right than wrong, and may have underestimated by an order of magnitude or more. How many of us hide? How many are caught out in the open?”

“You’re not just trying to make me feel more clever than I am, are you?”

“Not at all. You are clever, and may have touched upon an unconscious truth, since you’re swimming in the same ocean, a woman, I think, not fixated upon the divinely-mandated male objects of her ‘natural’ affections. When one applies somewhere between three and ten percent to our seven millions, and then adds in gay men, transsexuals, and all the rest of us, outcasts from the Edenic playpen, your ‘estimate’ was far too low. But to answer your original question, I think most of it is down to the pernicious and malign influence of exclusively binary patriarchal religions. If one starts paying too much attention to reality, too much of received ‘wisdom’ begins to fall apart, and that uncomfortable fragility calls forth powers from the vasty deep to protect the status quo. There are, by my perfectly spontaneous and unsupported ‘guesstimate,’ at least a hundred legal ‘gay’ marriages in Greater London, for example, consecrated in the Church of England, or elsewhere, smiled upon benignly by God and all His angels, that we all studiously avoid thinking about, possibly lurking amongst the highest ranks of the very churches that declare them to be anathema. It’s also, of course, because few of us are willing to seriously come to grips with the idea of fuzzy logic. If Manchester United is partly composed of Arsenal players, and vice versa, what does it mean to have a ‘contest’ between the two? Can we accept partial victories, partial defeats, partial supporters, people who cheer for one side or the other depending on which way the wind blows? We prefer our black and white blinders, because it makes life simple and easy to handle. Here’s a man, there’s a woman; here’s a friend, there’s an enemy. Here’s an Englishman, there’s a German. Actually believing that there’s less difference than we usually think there is might make all our heads explode.”

“I understand, actually,” Mique said, “I thought for a long time that I wanted to be a man, but Deirdre helped me to realise that what I wanted was to be respected like a man, to be free of the things that had hurt me as a woman, and especially to be undesirable to any man. What I wanted was to be somewhere in between genders, or outside them, safe and solitary.”

Bethany shook her head slowly back and forth, “It’s not quite as nice as it’s cracked up to be, let me assure you, but I can understand the attraction. Hardly anyone likes being pigeonholed.” She paused to look at Mique closely, but somehow not intrusively, “And you’ve been hurt very badly, haven’t you, dear?”

Mique winced, “You and Deirdre would get on famously, I think, reading each other’s minds would be such a restful alternative to talking. There’s no hiding from either of you, is there?”

“I’m sorry. Was I being intrusive?”

“Not really. It’s just startling to realise that what I’d thought was buried in my past is still written all over my face.”

“Mique, if it’s any consolation, most people never look, and those who do, those who can see your pain, are those who share it. There was a play, years and years ago, although it keeps coming back in bad revivals, called The Fantasticks. In it, there was a song which said, amongst other things, ‘without a hurt, the heart is hollow.’ Those with hollow hearts can never really see, so you needn’t worry too much, and the hearts that aren’t hollow are usually quite filled with love.”

“That’s more or less what Deirdre said. She told me that I should share whatever pain I had inside me with all my sisters, because sharing was our collective source of strength.”

“I’m sorry I didn’t take the chance to meet her, then, but I was still rapt within Barb’s pictures and recognised her as someone who’d want a deeper conversation than I wanted to give.”

Mique laughed, “You’re probably right. We began shouting at each other within minutes, and I’m still not sure my head’s on straight after being soundly knocked about the ears.”

“She never did!”

“Well, not literally, but she set me back on my heels.”

“You probably deserved it, then. You can be a tiny bit dense at times, dear Mique, but I’ve always known you had a loving heart.”

“See here!”

“Mique, I’m joking, and you well deserve it. If you’re going to dress like a man, you can expect to be treated a little like one as well, which I’m sure is why you do it. As I said, we’re two of a kind. We both have all our women’s bits, save two tiny exceptions in my own case, and have taken opposite paths to resolve our separate pains. I scarcely own anything at all that might be taken as unisex, even in a dense fog at midnight, much less masculine, and I daresay you probably own nothing overtly womanly other than your knickers and brassieres. Even this cute little dungaree outfit of yours is something more like a young girl might wear than a grown woman.”

Mique looked down at her shortalls, visualising them in context, and nodded, “I suppose they are a little Peter Pannish, aren’t they?”

“Yes, but there’s nothing at all wrong with that. Growing into womanhood entailed great distress for you, just as it did for me. We both deny the most painful parts of our different experiences in our attire, decorations for the soul, as you so aptly put it. Or perhaps dressings for our wounds.”

“Bethany, I don’t know how you do it, but you have a spooky knack I haven’t got, deciphering people with a simple glance.”

“That’s not quite true, Mique, you have the same gift, but it’s gone in quite another direction. You can ‘feel’ the mood of a roomful of people and express yourself with music better than I ever could, and probably Deirdre as well. Don’t downplay your own gifts when you meet someone with another. Right around the time Deirdre and I were being forged in the fires and stresses of prepubescent girlhood at school, I suspect you were increasingly cut off and alone, listening rather than looking, so your development turned inward where we were free to face out into the world. We may read faces with ease, but you read souls. It amounts to the same thing, but you handle crowds with the same ease that Deirdre and I might manage individual interactions.”

“It’s still a mystery to me, but I suppose you may be right. I’m not that much of a talker, but I feel absolutely throttled when I can’t play for any length of time, and I connect with my audiences, and with my fellow musicians, in a way I can never experience with words.”

“You were born in the right time, then. The prejudices and hardships that kept women out of the music business are gradually falling way, and I’ve just read an article in the Guardian that claimed that the top new groups, in the UK at least, are all women. It makes sense to me, because music is a language, and I’d expect women to excel at it, but for misogyny and general hostility from male audiences. The younger generation seems less poisoned by these toxic feelings, so I suspect women and lesbians will be amongst the first sexual minorities to live in relative freedom.”

Mique snorted, “If only. I’ll believe it when I see more of it.”

Bethany laughed, “I’m discouraged too, at times, but console myself with mere….” She broke off abruptly, her hand flying to her abdomen as a look of anguish flooded her face. “Excuse me…,” she gasped, “…something seems… to hurt quite badly….”

“Are you all right? Should I call someone?”

“I don’t think so. It’s passing, but it took me by surprise. I’ve never felt anything like it….” Suddenly, a panicked look replaced the former look of pain, “The loo, quick…!”

Mique hustled her into the en-suite in the guest bedroom, sweeping aside three women in line and banging on the door as she called out, “We have a situation here, please don’t dawdle.”

Within a short time, the former occupant emerged, starting to give Mique a dirty look until she saw how Bethany was breathing and the green tinge on her face, “I’m so sorry. Here, let me help. Are you all right, dear? Hold her hair back, Mique, and I’ll manage her dress.”

They managed between them to get Bethany positioned before the porcelain bowl before she vomited uncontrollably, retching and crying as the stench filled the air. “Oh God!” she gasped, crying, “I’m so sorry!” and vomited again.

Another woman reached over with a warm damp flannel, dabbing at her mouth and chin to catch the reeking spittle, crooning wordless sounds of comfort and care while Mique and… Angharad Upjohn, the telecommunications and wireless analyst, kept Bethany’s hair and dress as nice as could be managed. “There, there, Liebling. Don’t worry. Nothing none of us hasn’t done before, and for less reason.”

Mique looked over her shoulder up toward the woman with the towel, someone from the Zürich office, she thought, from her slight accent, and wondered again, “She’ll be all right, I think. She was complaining of an upset tummy before.”

The German woman giggled, “That’s an upset she won’t be getting over soon, I think.”

Mique didn’t want to stay anywhere near this topic, “She’ll be all right. It’s a little too sensitive to discuss, but she’ll be all right.” She turned to Bethany, “Are you feeling well enough to lie down for a bit?” She turned toward the washing basin, to find a tumbler so she could offer some water so Bethany could rinse her mouth, only to find one right beside her, held out by a woman she couldn’t turn enough to see. She took it gratefully, and cradled Bethany’s head and hair in her left hand while holding the tumbler to her lips, “Here, take a sip and swish, then spit and do it again until you feel quite human again. You needn’t apologise. We’re all here for you.” Mique felt a powerful current of maternal, or sisterly, emotion sweep through her, as she realised what Deirdre had been talking about; there were women all around, ready with comfort and help on the instant it was needed. She felt humbled and ashamed that she hadn’t trusted them before.

Bethany took a large mouthful and then spit it out into the bowl before she said, head still down, “Help me up, please. I don’t want to be on my knees before the toilet bowl. It reminds me too much of housework.”

All the women laughed at this show of spirit, then wordlessly shifted to make room, as if this very scene had been choreographed and rehearsed many times before so smoothly was it played. The German woman had a fresh flannel dampened with warm water held out ready while Angharad and the others helped her to rise and move over to the mirror and washing basin without mussing her dress, the tap already flowing and adjusted to what Mique now knew would be the perfect temperature, their dress-handling skills probably learned at countless weddings and formal occasions, an experiential lack she now regretted.

Mique glanced at the other women, thanking each without words, and said, “Thank you. I think I can help her now, and there’s another loo just off Barb’s bedroom on the other side of the hall. We’ll be out soon.”

Bethany took the cloth and held it to her eyes, then her face and mouth, before speaking, “Thank you all. I wasn’t expecting anything like that. I’m so sorry again.”

The German woman arched an eyebrow at Mique, but didn’t say anything before she left, preceded by everyone else as they offered privacy with the same warmth and generosity they’d freely shown in aid.

When she felt ready, Bethany turned to Mique and said, “Could you make sure I make it to the bed? I’m still a little wobbly, but I have to get off my feet for a bit.”

“Of course, Here, hang onto my shoulder and I’ll manage the covers….” She half-supported her to the bed, threw back the comforter and coverlet, and then held both hands as she lowered her to a seated position, whereupon Bethany collapsed against the pillows and Mique knelt beside her, worried and confused.

Bethany closed her eyes and said, “Thank you. My head is still spinning, but at least the room isn’t moving.”

Mique said, “May I get you some crackers or something? They say you’re supposed to put something bland in your stomach to settle it….”

Bethany didn’t open her eyes, but said wearily, “That’s probably a good idea. I do still feel a bit queasy. Could you fetch it me? I’m sorry to be a burden.”

Mique rose immediately, “No trouble at all. I’ll be right back. There’s a whole basket of savoury cheese bickies out on the sideboard. I’ll bring the lot.” She turned and was out the door as quick as thought.

—««-»»—

As she crossed the hall toward the dining room, Angharad appeared with a tray of Italian crackers and cheese, along with a pot of tea and some sort of tea apparatus for carrying along in a car. She explained, “I thought this would be easier to manage than a regular teacup, as it has one of those ‘sipping tops.’ ”

Mique said, “Thank you so much. She’s going to be fine, I think, and already feeling better.”

“We were all feeling concerned, although Inge, from our Zürich office, thought she was just pregnant, in which case I suppose congratulations are in order.”

“I’m not at all sure that’s the case, but I’ll relay your concern and best wishes, and thank you so very much for your thoughtful help.” With that, Mique turned back to the bedroom and went through.

She approached the bed, where Bethany still had her eyes squeezed tight. “Are you feeling better, dear? Everyone wishes you the very best and Angharad sent along a tray with tea and mild Italian crackers.”

“That does sound nice. Do I have to get up?” Her eyes were still shut, but she seemed more relaxed now that Mique was back in the room.

“Not at all. The clever girl has managed to find one of those ‘commuter thingies’ for the tea, and we won’t mind a few crumbs on the bed.”

Bethany opened her eyes, “Tea first, please. I still have a bit of a sick taste in my mouth, and then a cracker or two.” She leaned up and shuffled a few pillows behind her to raise her head, then held the hi-tech tea tumbler in both hands and took a sip, then sighed, “Oh, that’s so good.”

“Ready for a cracker yet?”

“Yes, please.” She reached out her hand and took it, then nibbled off a corner, then took a sip of tea, until both were gone. “I’m feeling quite better now, so I’m taking myself off the invalid list. Could you help me clear up? Then we’ll go back to the party so they all don’t stand about worrying.” She squirmed over to the edge of the bed and swung her feet over. “Stiff upper lip, don’t you know.”

Sitting down on the bed beside her, Mique said, “Before we leave this private space, could we talk a bit? I’m quite concerned about your symptoms.”

Bethany shot her a suspicious look, “What do you mean?”

Mique didn’t know exactly how to frame what she’d been thinking without offence, but plunged ahead, “From your motions when you felt the pain, it seemed as if you might be ovulating, but from what you’d said, that shouldn’t be possible.”

“You’re right, and I don’t know exactly what it was, but I do have fallopian tubes and a uterus, since I hit the jackpot of weird things that can happen to a male fœtus. In addition to CAIS, which you now know more about than you ever wanted to know, I suffer from what’s called PMDS, Persistent Müllerian Duct Syndrome. This basically means that, in addition to my Graafian ducts never developing — those are the ones that change into the various parts of a penis and associated tidbits — the female equivalents were never destroyed through the action of a special hormone designed just for that purpose, so I have everything a proper woman has except ovaries, unlike most with my general complaint, whose uterus and tubes have quite gone missing.”

“There’s a hormone designed to destroy the uterus?”

“There certainly is, cleverly called AMH, anti-Müllerian Hormone. Those jolly doctor blokes are so imaginative and droll I’m sure they fall about laughing over the dissecting table all the time. Anyway, this AMH never gets going in females, but then shows up during puberty, where it’s used by the ovary only during the lead-up to ovulation, where it seems to help regulate the process of bringing follicles to maturity without too many being formed all at once.”

“But you don’t produce this hormone?”

“Definitely not, since they measure it these days in the standard diagnostic tests for intersex women, to help keep track of what’s going on inside. It might also be true that the receptors for this hormone went wonky, but I don’t know that, because the National Health wouldn’t pay for the appropriate genetic test, and it didn’t seem worthwhile knowing. I am at risk for testicular cancer, or so they say, because they’re not in their proper position, and they’re designed to be cooler than the body, a vestigial relic of our lives as fishes. On the other hand, they’re not paying the slightest bit of attention to the testosterone they produce, and I don’t have a prostate, so the proper impulse towards the genesis of tumours seems scanty, although not completely absent.”

“Might it be that, then?”

“It doesn’t seem likely, because I should have years and years yet before it might be advisable to have them removed as a prophylaxis, but one never really knows, does one? It didn’t feel like any potential symptom ever described to me, and I’ve paid very close attention to my lessons. I thought it was worth the risk, keeping them, I mean, because having them removed early on quite often leads to crippling osteoporosis, and the synthetic equivalents aren’t completely satisfactory in many cases.”

“But you don’t know for sure, then.”

“No. As far as I know, and my case has been the subject of many learned papers in peer-reviewed journals, I’m the only woman living with this particular constellation of genetic anomalies, and quite possibly the only woman known to science.” She grinned, “I think you might arrange to have the theme from The Twilight Zone radio drama played here. The long and short of it is that no one but me has any real experience with my health issues as a whole, just bits and pieces gathered from the history of others with whom I have little or nothing in common.”

“You seem awfully calm about it. Aren’t you worried?”

“What’s the point? I’m sui generis. If I call up my physician, we’ll both be worried, and he won’t know any more than I do, perhaps less, since I’m only one patient amongst many, and I have far more motivation to remember all my unique features than he, for whom they are all exceptions to general rules. There’s a blood test for testicular cancer, so I’ll schedule one of those, but they can’t be easily palpated without the dreaded bimanual pelvic exam, which I’m not particularly anxious to go through again so soon, since I’ve just had one this past February, thank you very much. I’m sure my gynœcologist would have noticed any abnormality that might have developed so far in so little time. I think I may have twisted about and trapped one of my tubes or something, although I’ve never done it before.”

“I don’t know anything about that, Bethany, but the shape of your breasts is different, I can see that, and then you were nauseous, and had pain near your uterus and tubes. It reminded me strongly of my cousin when she was pregnant, and a couple of the other women here think much the same.”

Bethany stared at her with cold fury, eyes narrowed, her lips pursed and thin, “Are you mocking me, Mique? I’ve told you what I am, a sort of super drag queen, atypically voluptuous, my femininity exaggerated, my maturity minimised, any lingering masculine traits firmly suppressed by that same nature that makes me theoretically male. It’s a bit ironic when you think about it. My authentic self is that of a man amongst men, flooded with testosterone, with certain genetic traits which lead to inherent ambiguity, a sea change in which I am inevitably perceived by everyone, including my past self, as inherently and ineluctably female, perinatally pinked, as feminist analysis shows, and indelibly marked by centuries of oppression and subordination as a woman amongst women, but I can no more become pregnant than I can fly to the moon. If this is a joke, it’s a cruel one, and in very poor taste.”

“Bethany, I swear to you I’m not trying to wind you up or do anything cruel or mean. I have nothing but your best interest at heart. I don’t know anything about your genetics, or what bits you’ve got inside. Please forgive my ignorance and inadequate powers of speech. Perhaps there are hormonal things that mimic pregnancy, I’ve heard of that often enough, and it might be a clue to what’s gone wonky now. But there’s nothing normal in a woman’s life that will bring one to one’s knees so rapidly, or cause such pain. Menstrual pain is caused by the contraction of the uterus, but initiated by hormones you’re not supposed to have; I know that much anyway. And the pain is often referred elsewhere, although if you’re used to it you can feel the uterus contracting. It’s like an ordinary leg or foot cramp, you can feel it starting, and you showed no signs of that.”

Bethany scowled, “Well, I’m not pregnant, that’s for bloody sure, but I acknowledge that I don’t know what it is. I just don’t think….”

Mique cut her off, “Bethany, you’re surrounded by the collective wisdom of fifty very clever women, and between us we know more about women’s bodies than a hundred male doctors. I’m telling you that you have something going on with you that mimics certain symptoms of a dangerous pregnancy, which might be a uterine cancer, or might be any number of things, but whatever it is has released hormones into your body that have changed the size and shape of your breasts, progestins, in a word, or something very much like them, along with all your other symptoms, and you simply must see someone straight away. We’re alarmed, aside from the ones who think you’ve simply fallen pregnant, and you ought to be alarmed as well.”

Bethany stared, stunned, and then started to weep, “Just my luck,” she sobbed. “I finally get my head around my good fortune and then have it all snatched away!”

Mique reached out to hold her close, stroking her hair to soothe her, “Bethany, Bethany, dear heart, don’t go on so, please. It’s early days yet, and prompt medical attention will surely set you right again. You’ll see. You make the appointment and I’ll go down with you. We’ll get a small platoon from the firm to go and hold your hands. There’ll be so many of us that we’ll have to wrestle for our turn with you. You’re well-liked, and I’m your sister now. You were right; we’re just alike, you and I, uncomfortable in our skins but getting better every day.”

Her tears stopped slowly, but stopped, and she looked up, trying to rescue what was left of her mascara and failing, even in that, “You’re sure?” Her voice was weak, but in control.

“As sure as can be. As you pointed out, you don’t have most of the things that go wonky for girls, and hardly any of the things that go wonky for boys, so you’ll be right as rain in no time, you’ll see. Give us a smile then. Go on, girl.”

Bethany offered a weak smile, then sniffed and said, “Well, I’ll hold you to that, and expect at least half a dozen in my platoon, but I’ll go down to the local clinic tomorrow, braving the Sunday crush and bypassing the waiting list for my regular gyno, so you can start clearing your calendar now.”

“That’s my good girl! Now let’s have a washup with a hot towel to sort things for you, then you can fix your face, and then out to show the flag, as you cleverly put it, right at the start of our lovely evening.”

Bethany grinned, “You do have a silver tongue, don’t you, Mique? Despite your modest protestations, you sly devil. Tell Barb she’d best treat you right or I’ll give her the the sharp edge of my tongue.”

She was scandalised, “You’re the second to tell me there’s something going on with Barb and me, but whatever it is I don’t know about.”

“Let me guess, the other is Deirdre, right?”

“Bloody hell, woman, how do you two know these things?”

“We pay attention, is all, and I simply must meet this paragon among women. I’m sure I’ll like her, now that I think about it.” She gathered herself to rise.

—««-»»—

Bethany saw her across the lounge, and moved leisurely to her side, “Deirdre, we meet at last. I’m sorry I was too preoccupied to talk when you said hello.”

Deirdre smiled without rancour, “It’s quite alright. I saw you were busy, and looking even closer than I was. In your own way, you’re formidable.” She pronounced the last as they do in France.

“I’m told on good authority we have a lot in common.” She smiled as well, in genuine comradeship.

Deirdre looked at her closely, “Let’s see…, heterosexual, but not a fanatic about it, observant and annoyingly clever, so you know I’m the same, a tragedy in your….” Her brows narrowed ever so slightly, “ …distant past that still casts a pall over your life, but is recently ameliorated, much, again, like me….” She laughed, “Other than that, not much, the beginning of a beautiful friendship!”

Bethany laughed with her, “You are delightful! We shall be allies, I think, and share all our deepest secrets!”

“Best friends forever!” Deirdre reached out to hug her and they shared an air kiss to save their makeup.

“I understand you have a little project going with our dear Mique.”

“And it’s proceeding apace,” she glanced over to where Mique and Barb were sitting close, Barb’s head leaning upon her shoulder, Mique’s eyes only for Barb, whilst Sweet Leanne played softly, tears in both their eyes.

Bethany followed her gaze, “That’s what they share, then. I’d thought so.”

They looked, and then the music changed.

Deirdre turned to face her, “Here comes something you might like, Mary Black singing Dougie MacLean’s Broken Wings, a beautiful song that means something slightly different to everyone who hears it. You should listen, though; I think it may belong to all of us. We’re all wounded, one way or another. Trust Mique to think of it just now.”

They both fell silent, just listening together, until the song ended and Bethany spoke, “She is a wonder, isn’t she?”

“She is. They both are. They’ll be happier together, and heal each other’s broken places. They’re both fighters, and willing to take risks.”

Bethany took Deirdre’s hand, looking into her eyes with fond attention, “It’s been a night to remember, hasn’t it?”

“I’m glad we met as well. I’m recovering from the loss of my father, but getting better.”

“And I, dear Deirdre, am just now recovering from my intersexual past, and coming into my power.”

“Here’s to power, then. We both deserve it.”

“I think we do.” They linked arms and walked together to find a proper cordial to toast themselves, without a further word.

—««-»»—

As promised, Mique showed up at Bethany’s flat, well in time for her appointment, but she was surprised when they walked out into the street to find a limousine waiting, and Barb, Dorcas, Angharad, Melanie, and Inge lounging against the side of it, five well-dressed layabouts ready for any mischief. Mique said, “Bethany, I believe you know the gang.”

Bethany laughed, “You needn’t all have come!”

“Nonsense!” Barb scoffed. “We all wanted to come, but didn’t want to overwhelm the clinic staff with an invasion, so a few of us pulled rank. Deirdre wanted to come as well, but she’s… unh… otherwise engaged just now, but may be coming anyway.” Barb rolled her eyes with an innocent piety that didn’t, of course, fool anyone.

“She’s not!” Bethany exclaimed, laughing.

“Indeed she is,” Barb said smugly, “and he’s very hunky. You saw him last night, when you came through the door on your way up.”

“Gordie? What a coup! Your work, of course.”

“I’m glad you recognise the master’s hand, Bethany, lest you and Deirdre get swelled heads. My next project, of course, is you, and serves you right.”

“Um, Barb, thank you very much for thinking of me but I… unh… haven’t had terribly good luck with men.”

“That’s only because you haven’t placed the proper faith in your sisters. I have three in mind this very minute, and personally guarantee that at least one of them will sweep you off your feet and love you through Eternity in the extravagant manner that befits a Georgette Heyer heroine. Your only real problem will be what to do when the other two become disconsolate, noisily demanding that you allow all of them to be your wedded husbands, or paramours at least, so as not to condemn them cruelly to suicide or madness. I do have a question, though; do they all have to be Peers?”

Bethany didn’t know whether she was being wound up or not, but decided to assume that she was, so said only, “I’m not bothered, but they’ll all have to be housebroken, and I do draw the line at Royals. A woman has to have some standards, even if getting on in years.”

“Oh goody. I know they’ve had all their shots as well, so we’re set to go.” She raised her voice slightly, “Jim? We’re ready.”

Bethany had a moment of panic when she heard this, half-expecting Barb’s first candidate to pop out the top of the limousine in his birthday suit, like a stripper at a bachelor party, but then a liveried chauffeur popped out of the driver’s seat instead, and her heart-rate fell back to normal.

The driver walked smartly back to where the ladies were waiting, opened the door with a bow, and held out his hand to Bethany, so she could take the first seat.

“May I assist you, Miss?” he said.

She was impressed by the elegance with which he handled the low roof, managing to retain both his decorum and hers whilst simultaneously seating her at the centre of a white leather lounge shaped like a puffy horseshoe with some elegance.

“I trust this will be satisfactory, Miss?”

“Quite nicely done, thank you…, Jim?”

“Yes, Miss.”

Soon enough, they were all seated, although Inge and Angharad had to be content with folding seats that faced backward, and Jim was pulling away from the kerb.

All through the ride, they kept up a running dialogue about the ride itself, something Bethany had never done, and the neighbourhoods they passed through, wondering what the passers-by were thinking as they swept up to the great white edifice of the Kings College Hospital that housed the gynœcologial and obstetrics services they were headed for.

Their treatment at the hospital itself was something of a letdown, as they were crammed into typical waiting room little plastic chairs where they waited as Bethany filled out forms at the intake desk.

She’d just got back to the area the rest had claimed as their little island of patience in the pond of pregnant women and the odd husband or boyfriend when she was stricken with pain again, letting out an involuntary grunt as she collapsed on the floor and both Mique and Angharad rushed to help her, unsure what do do, since she was deathly pale and unnatural perspiration made her forehead quite wet and cool. Angharad tried to rouse her, urgently saying “Bethany! Bethany! Are you all right!” her voice rising to near hysteria.

Of course, this being a hospital, no one noticed until Barb ran up to the intake desk and demanded a triage sister on the double, followed shortly by a flurry of activity as first, a bored sister came to look, then the bored look was replaced with urgency, and Bethany was, after a little business with aides, wheeled behind the scenes on a trolley, accompanied only by Mique, who’d had the presence of mind to identify herself as Bethany’s closest living relative. Then the waiting started in earnest.

After about an hour, Mique came out and told them that Bethany was being taken into surgery for a diagnostic laparoscopic examination, but she’d been assured that there was no immediate danger, so she went back to the relative’s waiting room and the others sat back to wait some more, at once surprised that what they’d thought might be serious actually was — evidently much more serious than they’d imagined — and relieved that the emergency, whatever it was, had taken place in a major hospital, where they had the tools to handle Bethany’s problem.

After another hour, Mique came out again, cursing because they wouldn’t tell her what was going on, only that Bethany was doing fine, and would be sent to a recovery room on another floor, where they were all welcome to wait.

So it came to pass that they were all in the room when Bethany woke up, at first incoherent, hoarse, and confused, since there were suddenly faces around her who hadn’t been there when she’d lost consciousness, and the room was different too.

After a sip of water, thoughtfully supplied by a passing sister, who promptly rushed off down the corridor, she asked, her voice still creaky, “What the hell happened to me?”

“We don’t actually know,” said Mique. “They never told me anything other than that you were being taken for a laparoscopy. Do you feel better now?”

“More or less,” she said. “The huge pain is gone, but I feel like I’ve been thrashed by a football team.”

“That will be the anæsthesia,” Barb offered. “It’s more or less like being poisoned, except you wake up at the end.”

“Remind me to stay on the good side of any relatives who might not like me. If this is what being poisoned is like, I wouldn’t wish it on my worst enemy. Are we still at the hospital?”

Angharad volunteered for this one, “Yes, but on a different floor. They called it the recovery room but they haven’t told us anything except, ‘Wait here.’ ”

“Barb?”

“I’m here, sweetheart.”

“Do you have one of those Peers handy? I’d love to have a private physician right now.”

“Not yet, but I can have one here directly if you feel up to it.”

She’d just started to open her mouth to speak when a man wearing green surgical scrubs breezed in and conversation stopped.

“Mrs Dahlgren?” he asked, looking at a chart, “I’m Mr Evans, the resident gynœcological surgeon who handled your laparoscopy. I’m so glad you came in directly instead of waiting for a scheduled appointment, a very wise choice on your part, but I have both bad news and very good news. The bad news, I’m extremely sorry to say, is that you’ve had what’s called an ectopic pregnancy — a developing fœtus that had somehow implanted in one of your fallopian tubes instead of lodging properly in your uterus — which means, unfortunately, that we’ve had to do a laparoscopic termination straight off, or you might have come to serious grief. But the very good news is that the other twin is doing fine, with normal placental attachment, no signs of fœtal distress, and we fully expect you to be able to carry him to term. Your prompt attention to this matter may well have saved both your life and that of at least one of your babies.”

Bethany, whose eyes had been wide with disbelief, went white, and then fainted dead away.

—««-»»—

Sixteen months later, Bethany stopped by the office to show off her bouncing baby boy, named Michael George Dahlgren, of course, with Mique and Barb standing as Godparents at the christening. She was accompanied by her fiancé, not a Peer, she’d turned down the one on offer as an idiot, although he was certainly rich enough, in favour of the second of Barb’s selections, George Anderson, a Chief Inspector with the Metropolitan Police, himself sterile due to an unfortunate case of childhood mumps, who was only too pleased to be squiring a woman with a "bun in the oven" during their courtship, and even more pleased to have his own name in second place, after Mique’s part in his lady’s survival was explained, and her vital rôle as his prospective son’s saviour as well.

Everyone was very glad to see her, even though she’d given notice immediately on being discharged from hospital, her pregnancy being, from then on, she’d said, her full-time job.

She popped into Mique’s office first, “Hi, Sweetie, I see the door’s still open.”

“Bethany! It’s always open for you! How are you doing, girl?”

“Better than best. George here is a perfect lamb, and keeps me very happy,” she lowered her voice, “And I do my best to keep him happy as well.” She winked.

George agreed, “A finer woman I’ve never known, much more than I deserve, and our son is the spitting image of his godmother!” Here, he winked as well, then grinned. “Mique, when are you going to come over to the Force where your talents will be appreciated? I’ve been talking you up, but the men keep telling me I’m just taking the piss and want to see for themselves, even though I’ve sworn on my oath that you really do walk on water. What do you say, girl?”

“What can I say, George? My heart belongs to the boy’s other godmother, so I’m stuck with her and the firm until we’re old and grey.”

Bethany broke in, “Mique, we wanted to tell you that we’ve finally set the date, because I’ve just found out that I seem to be pregnant again, and George wants to make an honest woman of me, so you’re all invited to the wedding of course.”

“Bethany! Again? Do they know how it happened?”

“No, and I’m not letting them touch me. During the first one, they basically wanted to freeze me solid and slice off little slivers to figure out how it worked, so I won’t let them do anything other than normal prenatal care.”

“But aren’t you curious?”

“Not at all. I’m content with my miracle babies, and my curiosity is on holidays until further notice.”

Just then, Barb poked her head in the door, “Bethany? I hate to tell you this, but there are a large group of people outside carrying signs forecasting the Last Judgement and shouting Hosannahs.”

Bethany said, “Oh, Jesus, not again.”

—««-»»—

Copyright © 2009 Liobhan — All Rights Reserved Worldwide

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Tooltips: Quite a lot of background information for this story is contained in ‘tooltips,’ explanatory text which can be accessed by ‘hovering’ over a word or phrase with your mouse or other pointing device cursor. It’s quite likely that tooltips are broken in your browser, since they’re more or less broken in every major browser, which is a shame, since they offer an unobtrusive version of hypertext that can be taken advantage of without requiring one to exit the current page or to follow a link.

In some browsers, the ‘tooltip’ text will be truncated, badly formatted, or both, and may be absent altogether. Without looking at the source code, it may be difficult to figure out exactly what’s going on. As a rather elegant workaround, Terry Volkirch has coded a little JavaScript programme which forces tooltips to be displayed in their entirety but, for technical reasons, this code cannot be used on this site. As a workaround for the workaround, I'm working on creating an offsite location which can be linked to each of the stories in Spin Cycle, and which allows the use of Terry’s code.

I’ll let you know when this is ready.