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

all.” I look around at the bathroom with clear-glass double hers-and-hers sinks and open shelves that looks like a branch of a chic apothecary. “Though she once said,” Becky continues, “that she doesn’t know anyone who’s been improved by having children. That was her word, improved .”
    “Ouch. What could she mean?”
    “I think I want a child. I don’t know. Let’s say I want one and I want her. Except it’ll probably turn out that I can’t have them anyway so I’ll risk driving her away for nothing. I’ve got to get on with trying but at the same time I’m scared of trying, as then I’ll find out that I can’t, so it’s just easier not to do anything at all. But then I’ll resent Cara for making me not try when maybe she’d be happy for me to try anyway. What am I going to do?”
    “We could write a list. Of all the different options. Let’s have a think, I’ll help you. We can work it out together. I’ll write it up for you, make it all clear, then everything else will follow. Decision one: have a baby or not have one. Two: what health questions need sorting. Three: when. Four: Cara or not. Five: who’s the father. Honestly, there’s nothing in life that can’t be helped with the aid of a good list.”
    Becky snorted. “You and your lists. I’ve kept the one you did for me when I was trying to decide whether I should come out. Do you have your highlighter pens at the ready?”
    “I do my lists on a computer these days. You may mock, but it will really help you. At least we can get things straight in your mind so that you can speak to Cara. You need to talk to her as soon as you know what you need to say.”
    “You’re one to talk. Or not, as the case may be.”
    “What do you mean?”
    “You were telling me the other day that you’re going to divorce Joel because he doesn’t disinfect his socks.”
    “No, I wasn’t. I just feel there’s quite a lot of things he does that piss me off. I’m writing a list.”
    “I know you are, all about whether I should have a baby or not.”
    “Yes, that one, but another one too. I’m writing one about Joel.” Becky seems drunk enough for me to be able to begin explaining The List to her. I have to confide in someone. “A list of all the things he does that are really thoughtless, and after six months I’ll go over it and this way I’ll know my criticism of him is fair. He does quite a lot of things that make me unhappy.”
    “And he does a lot to make you happy.” Becky is now on the loo, poking at her stomach. “Stupid crusty ovaries. Name me one thing that Joel does to annoy you.”
    “I don’t know…” I pretend to be vague but I’m actually working out which of the transgressions I’ve noted so far is the most illustrative. “He leaves shit-filled diapers on the floor.” Take that—sure to freak out a childless person.
    “Having changed the diaper in the first place. Lots of men don’t ever change diapers. Does he get a point for that, then? A plus point for being the sort of man to change a diaper?”
    “What? Why should he get a medal for changing a diaper? I change a hundred bloody diapers for every one of his. It goes without saying that he should change a diaper.”
    “Yes, but you can’t just count up the negative bits of a relationship without thinking of the good bits, can you? God knows what Cara would come up with against me if she did that.”
    There is a banging at the door. Becky covers up her stomach and opens the door.
    “Cara,” she says. “How long have you been there?”
    “Long enough to know.”
    “Know what?”
    “That whoever was in here was not merely evacuating.”
    I think Cara has the most beautiful clothes of anyone I know. If Armani had made clothes in a 1940s world with no rationing, this is what they’d look like. “I had assumed it was that ghastly man doing his drugs, so I’m rather relieved to find that it’s you two, holed up cozily together.” She raises a single