The Rules Of Conception

By Angela Lawrence

Rachel Richards is ready to be a mother.

She's got a great job, a good income, a beautiful inner–city apartment, and a great group of supportive friends. All she needs is a father to have the child with...

But go–getter Rachel won't let a little thing like that get in the way of her dreams. After researching different options to become pregnant, from co–parenting, adoption and anonymous sperm donors, Rachel finally settles on a method of conception – using a known donor. Making the decision to choose the biological father for her child, Rachel picks Digby. The single, softly–spoken Canadian – with a complicated family background – who wants to have children but not have a child.

As Rachel tries to fall pregnant, the well–established foundation for her dream begins to develop cracks. Lyndall, her nightmare boss, is becoming even more obsessed with ruining Rachel's career, a desirable – but undeniably married – colleague is beginning to show inappropriate interest and the stress of her impending new life is starting to take its toll on her health. Now Rachel is beginning to question if she should have followed the rules of conception after all…

• Language: English
• Publisher: HarperCollins Publishers Australia
• Release date: May 1, 2013
• ISBN: 9781460898864

Angela Lawrence

Angela Lawrence is a writer, marketing professional and mother. She divides her time across all three pursuits in a manner which can only be described as serious juggling. Angela lives in Sydney with her family.

Book preview

Prologue

I’d arranged to meet Digby outside a busy coffee shop in Surry Hills. It was a Friday morning and despite having emailed each other regularly over the past three months, we were strangers.

Digby had sent a photo of himself, which had been handy – mainly because I’d googled him prior to receiving it and had come up with a choice of three Digby Howarths (who knew!). One resembled Leonardo DiCaprio, another had regular features – brown hair, pale skin, good bone structure and kind eyes – while the third was morbidly obese.

The shallow me hoped for Leonardo as I was still youngish and single, while the lazy me had prayed it wasn’t Mr Obese because I didn’t want to start my online search again. The realistic and sensible me, however, knew it would be Mr Regular Features because, in my heart, he looked about right.

I felt relieved when I clicked on Digby’s photo and it was the same man. It’s not the photo I show people, though. Later on I found another, which is more like the Digby I know. He is smiling politely, dressed in a suit and standing in a beautiful garden with his hands behind his back. There is something in his expression that makes sense to me. This is the photo I show people when they ask me what he looks like.

It surprised me that I felt nervous when I saw Digby approaching me. It occurred to me that I’d been spending so much time dwelling on what I thought of Digby and had given little thought to how he might perceive me. I knew I was normal, but he didn’t and suddenly I felt self-conscious.

Digby’s expression was quite severe as he walked towards me. When he got closer, he asked reservedly: ‘Rachel?’ His Canadian accent was softer than I expected.

‘You must be Digby,’ I offered. ‘It’s nice to meet you.’

Digby smiled. ‘Rachel. You’re exactly as I imagined you to be.’ He looked around. ‘Let’s find a table where we can talk.’

Chapter 1

I stare at the text message in disbelief. How could a grown man behave so badly?

It’s Friday night, my thirty-fifth birthday and five minutes ago my plans were to leave the office and meet Simon in the city before being taken out somewhere special. But according to Simon’s ridiculously long text message, he now has a conference call which won’t end until – shock of all horrors – eight o’clock and: I’m sorry but I’m just going to go home afterwards, because I’m totally shattered, working on this massive deal.

Simon is firstly, a senior associate at Cutters & Page, a law firm in the city, and secondly, my boyfriend. I’m sure he thinks most people are very impressed about him being a lawyer, so it gives me some satisfaction that my friend Harry asked him if Cutters & Page was a hairdressing salon when they first met. He is desperate to be made a partner because there are younger partners than him in the firm and he’s got an enormous chip on his shoulder about it – and pretty much everything else.

I shouldn’t be surprised at receiving this text. Simon often cancels at the last minute, usually because he’s shattered after working such busy days. At first I understood. Everyone knows how hard lawyers work. But as I read his text, I acknowledge the creeping feeling I’ve had for some time now: How can I have willingly come second to his career, simply because I want to be in a relationship? I feel ridiculous.

I scroll down the screen: I’m sorry Rachel but I’m sure you understand given that you have a high-pressure job too …

I know he’s lying about my job being important to soften me up because once he asked me how I could be satisfied doing something as inconsequential as media relations. He was, of course, comparing it to the valuable contribution he makes to society as a corporate lawyer.

I’ll take you out before I go to Nepal at the end of October. I’d forgotten about Nepal, although I’m not sure how because this is Simon’s other key conversation topic. He is going on a trek to clear his mind and become more goal-focused. At the moment I really need to be laser-focused on end goals …

I don’t even bother replying to his message because I’ve already made up my mind. Instead I go to my Facebook profile, read a long stream of birthday well-wishes and change my status from ‘in a relationship’ to ‘single’. Simon and I are finished and I decide to let it die a natural death resulting from a change in online relationship status.

Empowered by my decision but flattened by this complete birthday celebration fail, I sit for a while looking at my reflection in the office window. I’m wearing a new dress; I’ve redone my makeup. I have particularly good hair today and it’s all wasted because I’m sitting alone in my office on a Friday night.

I could call my friends and they’d probably meet me for a drink, but I’m not in the mood. I consider fighting any woe-is-me thoughts but then decide to go with it: Thirty-five years old, alone and single on my birthday with no plans, wondering how I let my life turn into this?

Eventually I can’t take any more of my mirror image and pitiful existence and leave the office. By the time I get myself home, takeaway food still in the plastic bag and glass of wine in hand, I am as miserable as I can be. I don’t want to see my friends, I don’t want to be in my apartment, and I can’t think of one romantic comedy that will make me feel better. In short, right now, I can’t stand my own company.

In such times of crisis, I do the only thing I can think of and call my parents – who live three hours out of Sydney – and leave a message to let them know I’ll be visiting them for the weekend.

And then I get drunk.

‘Is Simon going to take you out for your birthday when you go back to Sydney?’ my mother asks tentatively, while my father reads the paper. I’m setting the table for lunch – my hastily arranged family birthday lunch to be exact.

I haven’t told my parents about Simon standing me up last night, and retrospectively, I may have already had a few wines before I called them to let them know I’d be visiting. They have asked very few questions until now, but I can tell they’re confused about my spontaneous visit and while I’m glad to be here, I am also feeling a little sheepish.

I shake my head. ‘No. We broke up, so that’s not going to happen.’ I see my parents exchange looks. ‘It’s fine, really. Don’t look so worried because I’m not bothered at all. In fact I’m pleased.’

This is partly true. After a good night’s sleep, I can see everything more clearly and while I’m still humiliated about being stood up on my birthday, I know that Simon and I were never going to make it. It’s the thought of starting again; trying to find someone new that bothers me. I feel tired at the prospect.

‘Are you sure?’ Mum asks.

I feel self-conscious because I don’t know how to convince them and don’t want their pity. I’ve got enough to think about in terms of where my life is going without factoring in their worry.

‘I am fine. And honestly, did you want him here?’

My family has met Simon a few times and while they haven’t said as much, they found him boring. He kept banging on about the jus in his meal not being up to scratch and then posturing about wine. Perhaps if he’d talked about cars or movie trivia, he might have won them over. As it was, I felt mortified for him. I probably should have ended it there because it’s your parents you should be embarrassed about, not your boyfriend!

‘It’s not important whether we liked him or not,’ my mother says diplomatically. ‘It’s what you think that matters.’

I don’t answer because, for the first time, I realise I’d never really factored in whether I’d liked Simon or not.

‘So, thirty-five?’ My sister, Rebecca, asks as we eat lunch. ‘What’s next?’

I look at her meaningfully. Do you think I’d be here if I knew? But instead I say: ‘I don’t know. I guess I’d like life to move on a bit.’

‘It astounds me that you can’t find a decent man,’ my brother, Tim, says wondrously. He’s been with Linda, his wife, forever and he just doesn’t understand why I haven’t got my personal life together by now and why I sometimes feel a bit sensitive about this. Given this and the fact that he’s never experienced justifying being single, he could never grasp why I would not want to discuss this at my birthday lunch.

‘The clock is ticking,’ Linda adds, her tone suggesting that I am the fussy one rather than none of it being terribly easy.

I don’t want the conversation to go down this path and I can see my parents looking uncomfortable on my behalf.

I know they don’t mean any harm. But it’s about as comfortable as the time my crazy boss Lyndall took our team out for lunch and then made everyone go around the table, one by one, describing their wedding. The difference there, of course, is that she did it on purpose to single me out given that I was the only unmarried person at the table.

‘You’re just picky.’ Tim shakes his head.

‘No, I’m not,’ I say indignantly. Why do people think this? ‘If anything, I’ve been giving loads of different people a go over the past few years.’

‘You shouldn’t have to make something work.’ Mum pats my arm. ‘You’re far too good for that.’

Even though it’s a statement all mothers make, she is right. Everyone is far too good for that. Simon had been a set-up by a mutual friend and was an effort on my part to move away from my usual type and find a more stable person. Someone I could settle down and possibly have a family with.

It’s a strange formula, trying to make something work with someone who will make you unhappy, so you can have the very thing that will make you happy.

‘You should have a baby by yourself,’ Rebecca remarks offhandly. ‘Look at Michelle Pfeiffer. She adopted that darling little girl and then a month later she met David E. Kelly and life is perfect.’ She tells me this as though she has only recently had coffee with Michelle and has discussed the details firsthand. My sister and mother relate everything back to Hollywood.

There are so many reasons I would like to be Michelle Pfeiffer, apart from her having darling adopted and biological children. I do, however, think that comparing my life to Michelle Pfeiffer’s is entirely unrealistic.

I roll my eyes at her and she ignores me. ‘Seriously! Look at January Jones. Had a baby by herself and never looked back.’ Clearly January was at the same coffee shop.

Mum intervenes. ‘You’ve plenty of time.’ Because she knows that all I really want right now is to know that I will have a baby one day. ‘You’re only thirty-five years old, and the world is changing. I’m amazed at how many people have babies in their forties, and so easily.’

‘True,’ I say and then my mother starts referring to the likes of Madonna, Geena Davis, Susan Sarandon, the redhead in Desperate Housewives and those weird stories in online newspapers titled ‘Khuzestan Grandmother Gives Birth to Twins!’ None of these stories really reflect the average person’s wealth, access to state-of-the-art reproductive technology, ability to circumvent conventional adoption procedures and – in the latter example – mental stability.

I think if either one of them could come up with one non-Hollywood case study, I’d be more inclined to listen. Right now I wouldn’t know where to start with having a baby by myself and I’m not sure I’m ready for such drastic measures.

‘Okay.’ My father pulls rank. ‘It’s Rachel’s birthday. Let’s stop hassling her and give her some gifts.’

I receive a range of gifts – most of which I’d asked for – and an array of drawings on random bits of paper from my nieces and nephews. Rebecca gives me a book.

‘I read the back of it and I thought of you,’ she says happily before I’ve unwrapped it.

This happens to me all the time and I just know the kind of book it’s going to be. It’s a hefty read titled The Groom Gamble.

Shelley is thirty something and successfully climbing the corporate ladder in her publishing firm. Apart from a miserable love life, she’s happy with her lot. That is until Randolph Wagner, the ageing owner of the firm visits and incorrectly assumes that she is married to an old family friend’s son. Flattered and enjoying the new career opportunities due to his sudden interest in her, Shelley goes along with it and starts creating an elaborate relationship. But when Randolph wants Shelley and her husband to spend the summer break in the South of France with his family, Shelley needs to find a husband … fast.

But how is she going to do this in a city of ten million single women and four eligible men?

I quickly scan the reviews, which include phrases such as ‘hilarious romp’ and ‘addictive read’.

‘Thanks. It looks great,’ I tell her. ‘I can’t wait to start it.’ And while the multitude of books about single women makes me feel self-conscious whenever I’m in a bookstore, I will probably start it tonight and more than likely finish it in two days, so addictive will it be.

With gifts out of the way, Mum raises her glass. ‘To Rachel on her thirty-fifth birthday – may this be her year to shine.’

We all raise our glasses and Rebecca, unwilling to let it go, says: ‘You should really think about the baby thing, you know.’

I ignore her and Dad mercifully changes the subject. I listen quietly, mulling over the events of the past twenty-four hours and silently make a pact to myself not to keep chasing a life I can’t ever see myself playing a role in.

Chapter 2

Tonight is one of those really good nights out. They don’t happen that often. We’re at a tiny pub, sitting in the beer garden chatting and drinking. New Year’s Eve has just passed and we’re all out together tonight because it’s the holiday season, the weather is balmy and it’s Saturday night.

Going out can be hit or miss for me. Sometimes I have nothing to say and other times I can be the life of the party. Experience has taught me to stay home when it’s the former and make the most of it when it’s the latter. Tonight I feel relaxed and happy.

Pete, a friend of Harry’s who I met on New Year’s Eve, has come along and this adds a new dimension to the night – that feeling of excitement when a potential flirtation is on the horizon. It’s still the festive season and the pressures of work and life in general are nowhere to be seen. I chat enthusiastically to whoever sits next to me.

Inevitably, the person next to me gets up and Pete takes the chair. He’s handsome in an I-seem-dishevelled-but-I-spent-hours-getting-the-look-right way and for better or – more accurately – worse, he is exactly my type.

He smiles at me shyly. ‘You look very pretty tonight.’

‘Thanks, Pete.’ I’m surprised by such early flirting, so I play it cool. ‘What have you been doing since New Year’s Eve?’

‘Recovering mainly. New Year’s lasted a few days for me.’ He begins to tell me about the long days of partying post-New Year’s Eve and I smile at him, not because I think he’s cool for partying for several days without sleep but because I don’t care whether he does or not. Plus, he’s not showing off. Rather, he is merely answering a question and there is something earnest, shy and awfully well mannered about him that makes me feel as though he could do better than the life he currently leads.

In truth, Pete is a disaster and everyone in my crowd knows it, and while I’m enjoying the night and his company and the attention, there are absolutely no long-term prospects with him whatsoever. Not that I care. Ever since the Simon debacle, and the realisation that my date-anyone strategy wasn’t working, I’ve decided to stop being so crazy about finding someone.

There is something liberating about this decision.

‘So what do you do?’ he asks. ‘I think you’ve told me but I can’t remember.’

‘I’m a communications manager.’ I tell him about the company I work for which specialises in the buying, revamping and selling of websites, primarily to larger media outlets who want to acquire a digital interest. ‘I’ve been there on and off for years. Too long,’ I add.

He laughs. ‘That’s not good. You must like it, though?’

‘I like the job but I have a mad and evil boss and that makes it hard.’ I tell him a bit about Lyndall’s erratic personality, her screaming fits, periodic silent treatments and episodic bouts of humiliating me publicly.

He looks at me as though I am the disaster, not my boss. ‘Why do you stay?’ He sounds incredulous.

Now I feel a bit embarrassed. Everyone hates people who complain but do nothing to change their fate. ‘Well, the thing is the work is really good and I’m doing well. I have lots of great friends there and I like the company. Crazy as it sounds, it’s almost as though she’s just an occupational hazard. You know how it goes: that which does not kill makes us stronger.’

He looks at me and shakes his head. ‘Nuts. What a crazy story. I used to work in the corporate world and I knew people like that. It sucked.’ He sighs. ‘But I shouldn’t put the hard word on you for staying because I think I’ll have to go back soon. I’m running out of money.’

He tells me about his previous career and his current hopes to exhibit his art. I watch him as he speaks, thinking that it’s a shame he’s so out of control because he seems so normal otherwise.

People come and go during our conversation, but we continue to sit together and steadily drink more. Eventually the pub closes and everyone goes back to a friend’s place that is nearby. Pete and I walk together.

‘Harry said you have a boyfriend,’ he says easily. ‘But he wasn’t around on New Year’s Eve and he’s not here tonight.’

‘I don’t have a boyfriend,’ I tell him. ‘I was seeing someone but that ended well before Christmas.’

‘What happened?’

‘To the boyfriend?’ He nods and I pause because I want to phrase this well. Given that I’ve painted myself as a victim in the workplace I don’t want to portray myself this way in the love stakes as well. ‘Well, firstly it didn’t last long and secondly, he took his career very seriously. He was always tired. Tired from being important at work.’

Pete frowns. ‘He was a hairdresser, right?’

‘Yes.’ I give up because it’s not important enough to correct and knowing how furious Simon would be I still find it funny. ‘He was a very ambitious hairdresser.’

We are laughing as we walk up the stairs to the party. Suddenly he stops and puts his hands on my shoulders and kisses me squarely on the mouth. When he draws away, we smile at each other before he grabs my hand and we run up the rest of the stairs together.

‘I heard last night got completely out of hand,’ Harry says the following day when he, Nikki and I are sitting on the beach, the sun beginning to turn from pleasant to blistering.

Harry and I met when we were at university. We both started out in first year communications together before he changed to economics, then accounting and then left to play music. These days he works for himself, writing jingles for ads and generally anyone who wants music. Harry is tall, super skinny and pale, and he has the most unusual grey eyes. He’s funny too. Everyone laughs with Harry and I can’t remember him ever being in a bad mood.

Nikki is his girlfriend. They’ve been together for years and during this time she and I have become better friends than I am with Harry. She’s far more serious than Harry, which I think is good for him as she tends to keep him grounded. She’s a freelance writer and has been writing a novel for as long as I’ve known her. We keep asking to read it and she flatly refuses to tell any of us one thing about it. Not even Harry knows what it’s about and we’re all beginning to think it doesn’t exist.

I give them an abbreviated version of events that transpired at the party. ‘After you guys left, people continued to get more and more and drunk. Then that creepy Polly girl turned up. Pete and I were talking until she arrived. Then Pete disappeared into another room with her and came out all quiet and paranoid. I saw that as my queue to leave.’ The evening had ended up being depressing.

Nikki nodded in agreement. ‘Oh, that is disappointing.’

‘So you didn’t even kiss Pete?’ Harry asks incredulously. ‘I was sure that was on the cards. He was firmly stitched to your side from the moment he arrived.’

‘No,’ I say neutrally. I’d never really seen Pete in full party-mode before and it was fairly unattractive.

‘Did you want to?’

‘No Harry, I didn’t want to.’ I pause. ‘Well maybe at the pub when he was perfectly normal, but there’s no point being with someone like that.’

‘No point,’ Nikki echoes resolutely.

‘You could do better than that,’ Harry adds.

‘Maybe I won’t,’ I tell him and I realise that I am beginning to believe this. ‘Don’t you think there is something futile about actually searching for someone to end up with?’

‘Sort of, but your chances are more likely than if you stayed at home,’ Nikki suggests.

I shrug. The conversation is beginning to annoy me and I have no single friends here to back up the difficulties of being single as you get older, and the fact that going out on prowl isn’t all it’s cracked up to be.

‘What happened to the barber?’ Harry asks. ‘You liked him, didn’t you?’

‘Harry, that ended months ago.’ Nikki hits him with her sunglasses.

‘Oh yeah,’ he says sheepishly. ‘Sorry.’

‘Don’t be,’ I assure him.

We lie on the beach for a little longer before the sun drives us off and we walk across to a café where we have burgers and beer. We gossip about all the people from the night before and lounge under umbrellas pretending we’re still on holidays. I can’t pretend anymore. The sun is telling me it is late afternoon and I want to get ready for the week ahead at work.

I’m in no rush so instead of hailing a cab I catch the bus, leaning my head against the window watching the world go by. The past few weeks have been fun and I refuse to let the dread of Monday spoil my Sunday evening. I’m covered in sand, salt and sunscreen and while that’s the case I resolutely commit to remaining in the summer holiday spirit.

The year looms before me, full of promise and hope, just like every other year. I daydream about the things I’d like to have happen. It’s no different from the year before or the year before that; I want things to be different. I want new challenges – something that could turn my life upside down, in a good way. I don’t want to know that I’ll be in the same job, doing the same things on the weekend and still having no firm goal in mind.

I think about Pete and how futureless the men I meet are in all their varying shapes, sizes and quirks. The thought of another year of the same is unappealing and demoralising.

The bus is travelling interminably slowly and normally this would drive me mad, but I’m just happy to watch the world go by. A family sits in the seat in front of me – two little kids jumping about on their parents’ laps. They’re trying to clap each other’s hands. While I’m watching, the little boy reaches up and gives his mother a big smacking kiss on the cheek. She tickles him and he laughs hysterically before putting his arms around her neck and closing his eyes.

And it hits me right then and there, sitting on the bus looking at the little boy’s chubby arms and sleeping angel’s face. And it’s not frightening or embarrassing or a sign of failure, or all the other things that have stopped me over the years. Suddenly, the desire to have a baby overtakes the long held out and unfulfilled hope.

I am not going to miss out on that.

Chapter 3

Annabelle saunters into my office the next day. ‘Hey, I thought you might like to wander down to the coffee shop? The Little Tanned Horror isn’t back for another week, so I figure you may as well take it easy.’ She rearranges my pin board of photos while she chats.

I minimise my computer screen. ‘Don’t rearrange my photos. I like them just the way they are.’ The Little Tanned Horror is Lyndall, my crazy boss – a woman known for her ability to cause terror while simultaneously being addicted to fake tanning. I spin my chair around. ‘Do you know that if I didn’t pay another cent on my mortgage, it would service itself for nearly two years?’

She rolls her eyes. ‘See, this is the problem with people once they get a big office with a miniscule view of the harbour. They start showing off to people who earn less than them and still rent.’

‘No, I didn’t mean it like that. Besides, at your age I couldn’t do much more than feed and clothe myself, so you’re way ahead of the game,’ I correct her. ‘No, the reason I am telling you is …’

I shut

Reviews for The Rules Of Conception

[shelleyraec · Rating: 3 out of 5 stars]

Debut author Angela Lawrence explores a woman's desire for motherhood in The Rules of Conception. Rachel Richards is in her mid thirties, single (again), financially secure and wanting to be a mother. Worried time is running out, she makes the choice to go it alone. Rachel begins to investigate her options, eventually choosing a 'known donor' but the conception of her plan turns out to be much easier than it's execution.I was intrigued by the premise of The Rules of Conception, primarily because I have a friend currently considering her options. Like Rachel, none of her relationships have worked out and as she approaches forty her biological clock is ticking ever louder. There are so many factors for her to consider and I hoped that Lawrence would provide some insight into the journey.I found the viability of the varied options Rachel explores really interesting, from co parenting arrangements to the purchase of anonymous donor sperm from abroad. They each have their pro's and con's, raising issues I hadn't given much thought to.Eventually Rachel determines that a 'known donor' is the right choice for her and her search leads her to Digby, a man who wants to father a child but not raise one. Armed with a list of questions and a legal contract Rachel is sensible about the process in an attempt to control the situation, but her narrow focus doesn't allow much room for variations of her circumstances.What I do think the story lacked was emotion, Rachel is focused on her plans but there is no real sense of excitement or apprehension from her about the pregnancy, birth or her general circumstances until very near the end. She never seems to daydream about her baby's future, muse about what he/she will look like or debate baby names neither does she seem concerned about the baby's health or worry much about Digby's honesty, even when he disappears. Most everyone is supportive of her decision and I think the story could have benefited by having a character to really challenge Rachel.Most of the angst in the story involves Rachel's relationship with her horrific boss, a situation that definitely evokes sympathy and which her pregnancy threatens to exacerbate, yet even that fizzles out to a bland truce.The Rules of Conception is interesting, entertaining and I thought Lawrence wrote sensitively about the practical issues involved in the process of choosing single parenthood. It is a thought provoking story and as such I will be passing it on to my friend.