mews, and through the wide red door there was a sombre, formal atmosphere more like a library than a doctor’s surgery. Venetia stepped inside with a sense of dread. She was sure it was all going to be terrible news.
‘Mr and Mrs von Bismarck, good morning,’ said a pretty blonde pony-tailed girl sitting at the front desk. ‘If you’d like to go upstairs to Dr Rhys-Jones.’
The couple made their way up the wide staircase to the first floor, where they were greeted with a faint smile by a short, grey-haired lady behind a large desk. ‘Venetia, isn’t it? And this must be your husband.’
‘Jonathon,’ he replied brusquely, stretching out his hand.
‘I’ve been sent your notes by Dr Patrick,’ said Vivienne slowly, peering intently and owl-like at a sheaf of papers before her. ‘But we might as well start from the beginning.’
As the doctor stared quizzically at the couple, one eyebrow raised slightly above the rim of her glasses, Venetia decided she liked this woman’s confident approach. Dr Rhys-Jones was the second fertility specialist she had consulted. The first, Dr Ebel, had been far too trigger-happy with his IVF suggestions for Venetia’s liking. Jonathon meanwhile had been offended by Ebel’s suggestions that the infertility might be his fault. How dare he make him take a sperm-count test, in that revolting little cubicle with its grubby porn magazines? Jonathon could have told him about the von Bismarck family tradition of producing a line of healthy male heirs, though perhaps less readily about Suzie Betts, his former secretary … How could she have been so stupid? All he had wanted was to feel her stilettos striding up and down his back in a Mayfair hotel once or twice a week. But the little slut had got pregnant. It had cost Suzie an abortion and Jonathon fifty thousand pounds in hush money.
Venetia took a deep breath and began recalling their history of trying for a baby, trying to overcome her embarrassment at telling her such personal, intimate details. The number of times they had sex per week, the family history of fertility, her menstrual cycle, which under the stress of not being able to conceive, had faded away to almost nothing in the past three months.
‘It’s your menstrual cycle I’m most worried about,’ said Dr Rhys-Jones, tapping the file gently with the back of a pencil. ‘Especially as you say you’ve become irritable, hormonal, and been suffering from insomnia …’
‘Women, eh?’ said Jonathon, who was ignored.
‘I know you’re looking for answers on how you can conceive, Mrs von Bismarck, but for the minute I’m interested in the why not.’
‘It’s not me,’ blurted out Jonathon, suddenly riled. ‘There’s nothing wrong with my sperm count.’
‘So it seems,’ said Dr Rhys-Jones, thumbing down the notes.
‘What do you think it could be?’ asked Venetia anxiously.
The doctor smiled thinly and pulled the glasses from her nose. ‘Infertility in women, as Dr Ebel might have told you, can be a result of lots of things. Hereditary factors, viral infections, many things. I want to take some blood tests, measure your hormone levels. I don’t think we should rule out the possibility that you’re going through a premature menopause.’
Venetia felt her guts twist. ‘The menopause? That hasn’t been mentioned as a possibility before.’
Dr Rhys-Jones looked at her kindly. ‘It often isn’t. Some practitioners, usually men, I might add, tend not to consider premature menopause as a potential cause of infertility, but about two per cent of women do have the menopause before the age of forty, so it must be considered. Some even have it pre-puberty,’ she added, as if to suggest, ‘Look, it could be worse.’
Venetia felt her hands tremble as a flood of emotion built up inside her. ‘And if it is … what about children?’
‘A high-resolution ultrasound scan can show if you have eggs left. But you have to prepare yourself: you could have only a few months left in which to try and conceive. If you don’t have any eggs left, then a natural conception is, of course, impossible. The standard IVF process, as I’m sure you know, requires your egg and your husband’s sperm, so we can also rule that out. There is the option of egg donation,’ she continued slowly.
Jonathon let out a cynical snort. ‘Someone else’s eggs? Surely not, Venetia?’
Both women turned to look at him. ‘It depends on how much you want children, Mr von Bismarck.’
Outside the surgery, Jonathon and Venetia stood on the street, a sharp wind pinching their cheeks. Jonathon motioned to Gavin to let him into the car.
‘What are we going to do?’ asked Venetia, looking to her husband for answers.
He looked at her contemptuously. ‘You know people are expecting us to have children. What am I supposed to tell them? My wife is incompetent?’
Venetia glared at him – for once her upset was overtaken by her fury. ‘Incompetent?’ she snarled. ‘I’m not one of your staff.’
‘I assume you knew this before we got married,’ replied Jonathon coldly, one foot already in the car. ‘You’ve been forcing me to come to these ridiculous sessions, making me feel that this problem has been something to do with me.’
Venetia felt punch-drunk – so stunned, she could barely get her words out. ‘Are you still going to the office?’ she whispered.
He got in the car. ‘I should have been there two hours ago. Do you want Gavin to drop you at the house?’
She bit hard on the inside of her lip. She was not going to cry in front of him. ‘So you’re really going …?’ she repeated.
‘Let’s not start this again.’
‘But we have things to talk about.’
Jonathon turned to face her, his face impassive and cruel.
‘Talk about what? Egg donation? I’m not having some tart’s eggs transplanted into my wife in the name of children. We have the family to think about,’ he said, struggling to control his voice.
‘This is our family, Jonathon.’
‘The family line.’
Venetia shook her head angrily. ‘Jesus, Jonathon you sound like a bloody Nazi.’
‘It’s just how I feel. Now, are you getting in the car?’
She pulled her coat collar further up around her neck and shook her head.
‘Please, Venetia. Get a grip.’ Jonathon slammed the car door and the smoked electric window purred down. ‘And don’t forget we’ve got William and Beatrice coming round for drinks tonight. Can you please make sure you’re in a better mood?’
As the car pulled away, Venetia stood very still, quietly letting the tears roll down her face.
Cornwall Chambers was housed in an austere, imposing Georgian building on Lincoln’s Inn Fields, a prim London
