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“Thank you,” I say, a little mollified. He’s often a one-syllable man, so it’s weird to hear him say so much in one go.
“Izzy’s been talking a lot about having kids lately,” he says. I forget he’s her brother sometimes. “She told me how she used to push the thought from her mind when she was single, but now she’s with Hal she feels this overwhelming broodiness. So I do understand.”
I pick at the label of the beer bottle with my fingernail. “Okay.”
“I also understand why you’re reluctant to go to a sperm bank, and why you’d rather know the father. And I have to tell you, I’m hugely flattered that you approached me.”
I lift my gaze to his. His eyes are warm.
“So…” I draw out the word.
“So… I don’t like the idea of you getting pregnant by another man.” Keeping his gaze on me as if wanting to see my reaction to that, he swigs from his beer bottle again. I watch his throat constrict as he swallows. He definitely needs a shave.
He puts the bottle down. “I’ve been thinking about it all afternoon. And I’d like to help you.”
Joy fills me. “Really?”
“But…”
My smile fades. “But what?”
“I’m not doing anything in a cup,” he states.
I open my mouth to reply, but at that moment the waiter arrives with our food. My heart races, but I make myself sit calmly until the waiter retreats.
Marc puts salt and pepper on his chips, glancing up at me occasionally.
“I don’t understand,” I say eventually. “So what are you saying?”
He picks up a couple of fries and pops them in his mouth. “I’ll help you get pregnant. But I’ll only do it the old-fashioned way.”
I stare at him as he cuts into his fish, spears a piece on his fork, then dips it in the tartar sauce. He chews it for a moment before lifting his gaze to mine, and then starts laughing at the look on my face.
“You mean…” I’m not sure I can bring myself to say it.
“Yes,” he says. “I’m proposing we have sex until I get you pregnant.”
My face grows so warm, I know I’ve turned scarlet. He surveys it with a smile, but he doesn’t apologize.
“I don’t understand,” I tell him again. “My way is easier.”
He has a swig of beer. “I think that’s arguable.”
I’m completely confused now. When I first came up with the idea, I’d hoped he’d say yes because he’s my friend, but I presumed one condition would be that he remained anonymous and had no further connection with me, other than our normal friendship and working relationship at the Ark. I’m asking for his help in a way that means he doesn’t have to do anything. Hardly anything, except what I’m sure most men do on a regular basis.
“I don’t understand what you get out of it,” I blurt out.
That makes him laugh. He leans back in his chair for a moment, looking a mixture of puzzled and amused. Then he leans forward again. “You,” he said softly. “I get you, Poppy.”
“I told you, I don’t want a relationship.”
“Yes, I know. I’m not offering that; initially, anyway.”
“I said I’d pay you,” I tell him.
He looks at my plate for a moment. Then he gestures to my fish and chips. “Eat up.”
“Marc—”
“Why do you call me Marc and not Fitz?”
I frown. “I thought that was your name?”
“It is.”
“Would you rather I called you Fitz?”
“No. I like it. I meant… Oh, never mind. Eat your dinner.”
I stare at the fish, then cut up a piece and eat it. It’s amazing, probably fresh out of the sea that morning. My head is spinning.
“Let me explain a bit more,” he says. “I’ve been doing some research.”
“Into what?”
“Into getting pregnant. I’m sure you probably know most of it, because you’ve obviously looked into artificial insemination, but it was quite an eye-opener for me. Apparently it’s quite common to use what they call a personal donor—a family member or friend. It takes longer if you want to use a clinic-recruited donor because there aren’t enough, and single women and same-sex couples have to wait longer.”
