The Pile of Stuff at the Bottom of the Stairs by Christina Hopkinson

stage. Should I have bought a present? What would I bring Cara? Some sort of bespoke olive oil?
    Becky opens the door to the flat and the couple smile politely and give her their coats while waltzing past.
    “God, who are they?” I whisper to Becky.
    “I don’t know them and they evidently don’t know me. Do I look like the hired help?”
    “Totally,” I say, checking out her ill-advised attempt at cocktail chic, which does nothing to flatter her rangy figure and generous boobs, the ones she’s always talking about getting reduced.
    “I’m so glad you’re here,” says Becky and I realize she’s slightly drunk already, an impression not dispelled by the way she grabs a flute of champagne from a passing woman—one who is, in fact, the real hired help, brought in for the evening. “It’s full of Cara’s work contacts. You asked me what this was in aid of, and I can tell you: fattening Cara’s client list. So many boring financial journalists and businessy people, you wouldn’t believe it. You’ve got to come to the lav with me.”
    I leave Joel, who shrugs and goes in search of a stranger to talk to with confidence, and follow Becky into the loo.
    “What’s up?”
    “I had an ultrasound scan yesterday.”
    “Oh?” She’s pregnant? Or, oh my god, cancer?
    “I was referred by my doctor. They wanted to see if I’ve got polycystic ovaries.”
    I compute this. “Oh, that—thank god. I thought you were going to say polycystic fibrosis. That’s the one with the lungs, isn’t it? The one you’ve got is the one with the ovaries?”
    “No shit, Sherlock.”
    I dredged through a mental file index of health pages in glossy magazines. “Polycystic ovarian syndrome, isn’t it? It affects your fertility.” What else? “Is it the one where you put on weight and become hairier?” How awful would that be?
    “That’s the one. Hairiness is one possible symptom, yes. Book that session at the beauticians, why don’t you—PCOS and I’m a lesbian. Hairlessness was never an option.”
    “Becks, I’m sorry.” And I am because she doesn’t deserve any pain, ever. “What does it mean, in practical terms?” I hate not being near the Internet when faced with any medical diagnosis. My fingers itch for a consultation with Dr. Google.
    “Getting pregnant might be more difficult or impossible. I don’t ovulate every month, you see. And I just thought I was lucky to have such light and irregular periods.” She gives a rueful little laugh. “It means I ought to get going on it.”
    “On what?”
    “Trying for a baby.”
    “I never knew you wanted children. It’s not something we’ve ever talked about.”
    “So if we don’t talk about something, it means I’m not allowed to think it? Or is it that I’m not allowed children, is that what you think?”
    “God, no, that’s not what I meant. I just didn’t know, that’s all. You’d be a brilliant mother.” Would it be crass to ask who would be the father? “So you’d do it, like, on your own? Proverbial turkey basters and stuff?”
    “Ideally not.” She sighs. “I don’t know what to do about Cara. It’s only been a year, so it seems too soon to be discussing children, but at the same time I don’t feel I can hang around waiting.”
    “Do you need her permission? Can’t you just go ahead and get the sperm or whatever and go for it?”
    “On my own? Is that what you’d do, if you hadn’t met Joel, at our age?”
    “I don’t know. I think I’ve always seen children in the context of a relationship…”
    “And what makes you think I’d be any different?” Becky snaps. “Why would I not want my children born in the context of a loving relationship?”
    “I didn’t mean that.” Though I suppose I did. I meant she was going to have to acquire the sperm anyway, so I wasn’t quite sure how Cara’s role was as central as that of Joel. “What does Cara think about children generally?”
    “She doesn’t think about them much at