“Screw you, Clive,” shouts the woman after him.
I look from Clive’s retreating form back to the woman.
“You’re here for the fertility support group, right?” she asks. She pulls a pack of cigarettes out from her suit pocket and lights one. She takes a long draw and then slowly blows it out.
“Yes?” I say.
She grimaces at me, taking in my bright red winter coat and my hesitant smile.
“Well, come on then. You first. I’ll shut the door.”
I hesitate, but then I hear female laughter from the basement. Real, happy, full-belly kind of laughter and I think, maybe my stupid rambling quote to this woman was right. The true value is found within, and I won’t find it unless I go in.
So, I walk down the uneven stone steps into the basement of Clive’s Comics.
The metal door clatters shut behind me. The woman steps next to me. The entryway is dark, most of the light comes from the glowing tip of her cigarette.
“It’s down there.” She points to a shaft of light coming out of a doorway down the hall. “I’m Brook, by the way.”
I smile. “Nice to meet you. I’m Gemma Jacobs.”
“Alright,” Brook says, then she leads me down the dark, old stone-walled hallway. “Watch out for rats. They bite. And their piss will give you some freakish disease, so don’t lick the floor.”
I give her a quick look, certain she has to be joking, but she takes another puff of her cigarette and then steps into the doorway of the brightly lit room.
I stand behind her. The room is low-ceilinged, painted dark pink, and there are boxes full of comics shoved against the far wall. In the middle of the room a group of six folding chairs have been set up in a circle. Only two of the chairs are occupied.
There’s a glossy blonde-haired woman with bright blue eyes who looks elegant and poised, like she could be a model on the cover of Vogue. She’s talking in a clipped British accent to another woman who is listening to her and nodding her head intently.
The second woman has long, brown wavy hair that nearly reaches her hips and warm light brown eyes. She’s in a shirt and long skirt that look like they were hand dyed, and hemp sandals, which wow, must be cold in the winter.
Brook clears her throat loudly and both women turn to her.
“Hello, darling,” says the blonde woman.
“Brook, will you please put that out? My energy worker said that all your smoking and negative energy is blocking my chi,” says the wavy-haired woman.
Brook snorts, but she drops her cigarette to the concrete floor and steps on it.
“We’ve got another one,” Brook says. She pulls me into the room. I stumble to a stop in front of her and smile at the two women.
“Hi,” I say and give a small wave.
Brook steps up next to me. “Her name’s Gemma. She believes in never judging a book by its cover, has terrible fashion sense, and is routinely late.”
“What? I am not, I—”
“She wants to have a baby, clearly. And she’s delighted to make our acquaintance,” finishes Brook.
I give her an incredulous look. Who is this woman?
“Delighted,” says the blonde, she stands up smoothly and holds out her hand.
“This is Carly,” says Brook. “She’s a former model. Check out her nudies online.” Brook whistles and Carly gives a smile. “She married a kazillionaire and never has to work again. Unfortunately, she’s old, so her eggs suck.”
Carly shrugs and gracefully sits back in her folding chair.
I look at her and wait for her to deny any of Brook’s bio, but she just says, “That’s all true.”
“I still don’t understand why we can’t meet in your penthouse instead of this dump,” says Brook.
“Because I like this dump,” says Carly. “The pink reminds me of a uterus ripe for action.”
“You are one sick Brit,” Brook says.
The brown-haired woman covers a laugh with her hand. Then she stands and walks up to me. I smell lavender and maybe sandalwood? “I’m Hannah, it’s wonderful to meet you.”
I hold out my hand, “Gemma. Wonderful to meet you too.”
“Right. Hannah is a crunchy granola type, if you couldn’t tell. She likes almond butter, weaving her own shoes, and connecting with the energy of Mother Earth. Nobody knows why the hell she can’t get pregnant, so she spends gobs of money on weird crap like fertility crystals and magic fruit pills from the heart of the Amazon.”
Hannah rolls her eyes and sits back in her chair. “They’re legitimate supplements, Brook. And I happen to like wearing rose quartz and moonstone.” Then she looks at the expression on my face and starts to laugh. “You should sit down,” she says.