The No-Kids Club Read online

  ‘Oh, brill, thanks so much for agreeing to do this.’ She could hear the relief in his voice. ‘Don’t worry—we’ll sort out your wardrobe when you’re at the studio. Just throw on some clothes and I’ll send a car around to pick you up in thirty minutes.’

  ‘Okay,’ Clare said, raising her eyebrows. Wardrobe? What the hell had she let herself in for? Then again, she thought, eying her meagre clothing selection, that was probably a good thing.

  ‘I’ll see you soon.’ Nicholas hung up, and Clare padded to the loo and washed her face, feeling her stomach slide back into place. Fingers crossed it stayed there. She cleaned her teeth and ran a brush through her hair, then went into the bedroom and stood in front of the mirror. Turning to the side, she ran a hand over her still-flat belly. She didn’t look pregnant, but that didn’t mean anything. Women often didn’t start showing until the fourth month. God, she couldn’t wait to take that test and put these doubts to rest. Every minute that passed, they burrowed deeper into her brain.

  Sighing, Clare pulled on a pair of jeans and a loose-fitting T-shirt. Outside her window, the sky was still dark, and she brewed a very strong espresso and downed it as she watched the quiet road outside. A few minutes later, the glowing headlights of a sedan lit her narrow street, and she slipped on a pair of ballet flats, threw on a coat, and headed out into the foggy morning.

  After a quick journey through the quiet roads of central London, the car pulled up to a large building situated on the Thames. The driver pointed to a door.

  ‘Right in there, madam,’ he said in a gruff voice. ‘Reception will take care of you. Good luck.’

  Clare nodded, her cold fingers trembling now at what lay ahead: facing down the cameras on a live show. A little more preparation might have been nice, she thought, rubbing sweaty palms on her jeans. But then again, what did she need to prepare? She was the club’s founder, she knew all there was to know about it, and everything would be fine.

  She pulled open the heavy door, squinting against the bright light of the reception area. Behind a curved silver desk sat a woman wearing an earpiece, tapping busily away on a computer.

  ‘Hi,’ Clare said, clearing her throat of its early-morning rasp. ‘I’m here for the show?’

  The woman rolled her eyes. ‘Which one?’

  ‘Er, Wake Up London. Nicholas Hunt is a producer.’

  ‘Give me a sec and I’ll get someone to come out and meet you.’ She punched some numbers into a phone, then looked up at Clare. ‘Name?’

  ‘Clare Donoghue.’

  ‘Have a seat.’

  Clare sank onto a very uncomfortable chair made from glossy plastic, shifting from one buttock to the other to find a position where she didn’t risk sliding off.

  ‘Clare?’

  She glanced up with a smile, anticipating Nicholas’s friendly face. Instead, her eyes met a boy almost half her age with a quiff so high it added a good five inches to his height. ‘Oh,’ she said. ‘I was expecting Nicholas.’

  ‘He’s backstage getting everything ready,’ the boy responded, attempting to run a hand through his hair but repelled by the gel. ‘If you’d like to follow me, I’ll take you to the green room, and hair and make-up will come get you. We’re on tight timeline, since your piece is due to run in about an hour. Nick wanted to make sure you get prime-time wake-up viewing.’

  Well, that was nice of him, Clare thought as she followed the boy down a narrow corridor, trying not to notice the waistband of his boxers peeping out from his jeans. Her stomach shifted again and she popped two Tums, furiously crunching down on them.

  The boy shot her a quizzical look at the sound. ‘Everything okay?’

  Clare nodded shakily. ‘Fine, fine.’ Just too much caffeine on an empty stomach, she told herself—nothing else. Despite the horror circling inside at the other possibility, she couldn’t help smiling at how ironic it would be if she was pregnant. The founder of the No-Kids Club, live on television arguing for the rights of the childless, knocked up herself.

  All the irony in the world couldn’t make up for being pregnant, though, she thought grimly. God, she couldn’t wait to get back home and take that test!

  ‘Right, here we are.’ The boy ushered her into a room with plump sofas and chairs. A table in the corner was heaving with pastries, and the smell of coffee drifted from metallic canisters in the far end. Clare tried not to breathe in any of the scents. ‘Just chill out here for a few minutes, and Jenna will be by soon.’ He gave her a quick once-over, lip curling slightly. ‘Don’t worry, she’s a miracle worker.’

  The nerve! Clare had to laugh as she sank into a brown leather chair. Not that she could blame him, though—her jeans, baggy T-shirt, and pale face weren’t exactly doing her any favours. Hair and make-up would have to work a miracle to make her presentable.

  Half an hour later, Clare glanced in the mirror at her altered reflection. Jenna had transported her to the land of the living, that much was true . . . although the result wasn’t quite what she’d have chosen. Even when she went out, Clare always chose the natural-but-slightly-enhanced style, with mascara, a little mineral powder, a swoosh of taupe eye-shadow to accent her eyes, and lip gloss.

  Now, though, she looked like she’d collided with a make-up truck. Her lips were a glossy crimson that would rival any vampire movie, masterful streaks of blush made her cheekbones look razor-sharp, and her lids sparkled with thick eye shadow. It wasn’t bad, just . . . different. And—Clare tilted her head as she examined her reflection again—rather intimidating. With her hair scraped back into a high ponytail, the only thing missing was a whip. Obviously they were trying to transform her into the stereotypical image of a career-driven woman who put her own desires and ambitions over children.

  She blinked, a surge of anger running through her. Why did people always think that was the face of today’s childless women? Anna and Poppy certainly weren’t focused on careers, and they didn’t have kids. There was a myriad of reasons why people were child-free. She’d try her best to get that across, despite her corporate-meets-dominatrix facade.

  ‘Hiya!’ The chipper voice of a woman about her age with cropped dark hair cut into Clare’s thoughts. ‘I’m Liz, from Wardrobe. If you’d like to come this way, we’ll get you kitted out.’

  Clare nodded and clambered to her feet, then followed the woman through yet more corridors and into a room where rails and rails of clothes lined the wall. ‘Um, have you seen Nicholas anywhere? I’d love to have a quick chat with him before I go on.’

  Liz shook her head as she delved into one of the huge racks. ‘Not since earlier this morning,’ she said, her voice muffled by the clothes. ‘I’ll see if I can grab him once we’re done here, but we don’t have much time. He told me he already briefed you.’

  ‘Well, yes.’ Nicholas had told her what to expect, but somehow she’d thought he’d be here to shepherd her through this whole process, too. But he was a busy producer managing a top show; he obviously had other things to do than holding her hand. Besides, she was more than capable of doing this on her own. Hopefully.

  ‘Okay.’ Liz’s flushed face emerged from the depths of the rack, clutching a pencil skirt, sky-high stilettos, and a wrap-around blouse with a plunging neckline. ‘Here we are. You’re a size ten, right?’

  Clare nodded, forcing the thought from her mind that lately her trousers felt a little snug—despite the fact she hadn’t been eating more.

  Her heart sank as she eyed the clothing. They were doing her up to be selfish-corporate-woman. A thrill of righteous indignation went through her. Why didn’t they treat males the same way? No one interrogated ambitious single men about why they didn’t want kids.

  ‘I don’t think that’s for me,’ Clare said, shaking her head at the ensemble. ‘Do you have anything a bit more, er, comfortable?’ And something that didn’t scream corporate bitch.

  Annoyance flashed
across Liz’s face. ‘Sorry, hon, we don’t have much time here. You’re lucky we could pull this together last minute.’ She glanced at her watch. ‘Look, you’d be doing me a huge favour if you put this on. I’ve got to sort out the next guest.’

  Clare ran her eyes over the outfit again. Maybe it wouldn’t be that bad on—at least they hadn’t handed her a whip. Yet. ‘Fine,’ she said. ‘Just show me where to change.’

  ‘Right here, please.’ Liz’s tone was brisk and efficient. ‘Hang your jeans and T-shirt on this rail. You can collect them after the show.’

  ‘Okay.’ Clare shrugged as she peeled off her clothes, stepped into the skin-coloured tights Liz handed her, then shimmied into the pencil skirt, noting with satisfaction it slid easily over her curves. She shoved her arms into the sleeves of the wraparound blouse.

  ‘Christ, that bra looks about to give up the ghost,’ Liz said, arching an eyebrow at Clare’s bust. ‘Let me see if I have a tank to put over that. We can’t risk you flashing a nipple on the morning show. I’d be burnt at the stake.’

  What the hell was Liz on about, Clare thought, glancing down at her chest? She’d only just bought this bra a couple months ago . . . her eyebrows rose in surprise. Shit, her breasts did seem to be making a break for freedom, spilling over the sides of the cups. She must have shrunk it in the wash or something. But then, the lingerie she’d worn last week had also seemed a little tight. Christ.

  Now’s not the time to think about all that, she told herself, cursing Ellie and her ridiculous fantasy for planting the thought in her head. Liz handed her a tank top, which Clare carefully manoeuvred over her head in an effort not to dislodge make-up or hair. Then Liz tied the wraparound shirt as tightly as possible, manhandled Clare’s cleavage into place, slid her feet into the stilettos, and declared her ready to go with minutes to spare.

  ‘Have a look.’ Liz shoved aside a rack to reveal a dusty mirror, and Clare squinted at the woman in the glass. Wow. Was that really her? She looked like a contestant on The Apprentice—all tightly tailored business attire with killer heels and a face so full of make-up it was a wonder her cheekbones could support it. She’d never dressed this way a day in her life. In fact, if she turned up at the hospital sporting this get-up, her colleagues would fall about laughing.

  ‘Um, I’m not sure—’

  ‘No time to change now!’ Liz said in a falsely upbeat tone. ‘I’ve got to take you to the green room. You’re on in ten! Come on.’ Without looking back, she rushed down the corridor, and Clare had no choice but to hobble after her on the four-inch stilettos. How on earth did women wear these things to work, she wondered, attempting not to topple over. Finally, she made it to the green room and collapsed into a chair. She’d barely caught her breath when Nicholas appeared.

  ‘Clare! You look absolutely gorgeous.’ His blue eyes sparkled as he took in her outfit.

  Clare struggled to her feet, tugging down the pencil skirt. Oh, shit. Her breasts were nearly hanging out of the blouse despite the tank top. She tried to adjust it, but Nicholas was already leaning forward to kiss her cheek.

  ‘Come on, follow me. We can chat on the way.’ He took her arm as they walked towards the door. ‘I’m sorry I couldn’t see you sooner,’ he said as they navigated through the maze again. ‘It’s been a crazy morning, what with the last-minute cancellation and everything. I can’t tell you how much I appreciate you stepping in to fill the gap.’

  ‘No problem,’ Clare huffed, trying to keep up with him. She’d thought running around hospital corridors had kept her in shape, but that was nothing compared to the pace he was setting—not to mention her challenging footwear.

  ‘So as I said, you’ll be chatting about the club and how you think it meets a need in today’s society,’ Nicholas said as he led her through a series of swinging doors towards the set. ‘I’ve also managed to get Mary Crowley to join us—just to add a bit of balance to the segment.’

  ‘Mary Crowley?’ Clare croaked, her mouth going dry. Mary Crowley was Britain’s best-loved expert on all things domestic. A former nanny to the royals, she’d had a popular show embracing traditional family values—featuring everything from keeping kids entertained on rainy days to children’s importance to the economy—and had been featured as a pundit ever since.

  ‘Yes, we managed to reach her last minute.’ Nicholas put a hand on her back. ‘Relax, take a deep breath, and forget all about the cameras. You’ll be fantastic, I know it.’

  Clare felt her stomach shift again and she swallowed back the rising nerves. Talking about the club was one thing, but engaging in a debate with Mary Crowley live on camera was another! Maybe it’d be good, she told herself. It would give her a chance to combat the image she’d been forced into and explain there were many reasons why women choose not to have kids. Poppy’s sad face filtered into her mind. For some, it wasn’t even a choice.

  They pushed through another set of swinging doors, and Clare could see the darkness of the set. Bright lights illuminated a huge, semicircular jade-green sofa, with three hulking cameras pointed at the two presenters who were confidently bantering and smiling.

  ‘And we’re out!’ A man with a headset motioned to the presenters. ‘Back in three minutes.’

  ‘Break for adverts,’ Nicholas said in Clare’s ear as they watched from the side. He turned towards her. ‘Ready? I’ll take you over to meet Dennis and Debs and we’ll get you settled on the sofa.’

  Clare took in another breath. ‘Ready.’

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  Clare pasted on what she hoped resembled a confident smile as she followed Nicholas over several thick cables and onto the raised platform of the set.

  ‘Dennis and Debs, this is Clare Donoghue,’ Nicholas said when they reached the sofa.

  Dennis grinned, showing off his trademark crooked teeth. ‘Nice to meet you, Clare. Thanks for coming.’ He took her hand in his meaty one, and she prayed he wouldn’t remark on the clamminess of her palm. Nerves were swimming through her stomach with the ferocity of a killer whale, and already she could feel damp patches forming under her arms. God, those lights were strong.

  ‘Yes, thank you for making it at the last minute.’ Debs smiled with all the warmth of a snake. ‘So you’re against children, then?’ She narrowed her eyes and crossed her arms.

  ‘Well, I’m not really against—’

  ‘Don’t mind her,’ Dennis broke in. ‘Debs just hasn’t had her vodka breakfast yet. Ah, here she is!’

  Clare turned to see Nicholas coming back in with Mary Crowley at his side. Clare’s heart dropped as she took in the older woman’s neat blonde bob and periwinkle suit. Grimacing, she tried in vain to adjust the neckline of her blouse. Next to Mary, she’d look like the Whore of Corporate Babylon.

  ‘Hello, Dennis, Debs.’ Mary smiled warmly at the two presenters. ‘How are little Dolly and Lucas doing?’ she asked Dennis. ‘It’s been way too long since I’ve seen them.’

  Clare gulped. Oh, God. Mary knew Dennis’s kids? This was going from bad to worse.

  Dennis grinned. ‘Not so little anymore. Dolly is twelve and Lucas just finished his GCSEs.’

  Mary shook her head incredulously. ‘My, my. How time flies. It must be wonderful watching them grow into the fine young adults I’m sure they are. Children are such a blessing.’

  Even though the comment wasn’t directed at Clare, she couldn’t help stiffening at Mary’s words. She was going down—Mary was everything people loved about mothers: warm, kind, and nurturing. Maybe Debs would back her up? She hadn’t seemed supportive initially, but the woman was more apt to have pet tiger cubs than children.

  But her hope deflated with Mary’s next few words.

  ‘And you, Debs? How’s your little princess? It was such a privilege to be her maternity nurse for her first months in this world.’

  Debs’s face shone with a warmth Clare hadn’t seen unt
il now. ‘Isla’s fantastic, thank you. You’ll have to come by and see her soon.’

  ‘Back in thirty seconds! Please take your places, everyone.’ The floor manager cut in before Clare had the chance to introduce herself to the older woman, and the two of them took a seat on the curved sofa directly across from the presenters. Mary nodded at her briefly as she crossed her legs, and before Clare knew it, the floor manager was counting them in. She wiped the beads of sweat from under her nose, feeling her cheeks flush from the heat of the lights. What on earth had she got herself into?

  ‘Hello again.’ Dennis shot a toothy grin at the camera and put an arm on the back on the sofa. ‘Well, nowadays, more and more young people seem to be making the decision not to have children. Are we witnessing the decline of the family unit and society’s traditional values, or quite simply a rise in the importance of the individual?’

  ‘Sounds philosophical for so early in the morning,’ Debs interjected, smiling.

  ‘That’s not something I’ve ever been accused of.’ Dennis laughed heartily as he leaned forward. ‘Let’s cut the mumbo jumbo and get right to our guests. With us today, we have Mary Crowley, a former nanny, a mother herself, and an expert on families. And alongside her, Clare Donoghue, the founder of a new organisation to celebrate child-free living, the No-Kids Club. Welcome, ladies.’

  Clare managed a nod, a trickle of sweat sliding down her spine. Beside her, Mary looked cool and collected, as if she’d done this a million times before. She probably had.

  ‘So, Clare, we’ll start with you. Tell us, what is there to celebrate about a life without kids?’ All three heads swivelled to stare intensely at Clare.

  She paused, wondering how to answer in a way that wouldn’t antagonise this trio clearly in favour of children. ‘Well’—her voice came out quavery and uncertain, and she cleared her throat—‘it’s not so much to celebrate that way of living, but to provide a social network for people who don’t have kids.’ There. That was innocuous enough, surely.