Douglas Kennedy - A Special Relationship

Then there was the little fact that I was in London with Tony... which made the city look even better. Tony himself also admitted the same thing, telling me that, for the first time in years, he actually 'got' the idea of London again.

He remained pretty close-lipped about his lunch with the editor - except to say that it went well. But then, two days later, he gave me further details of that meeting. We were an hour into our flight back to Cairo when he turned to me and said, 'I need to talk to you about something'.

'That sounds serious', I said, putting down the novel I'd been reading.

'It's not serious. Just interesting'.

'By which you mean...?'

'Well, I didn't want to mention this while we were in London - because I didn't want to spend our last two days there discussing it'.

'Discussing what exactly?'

'Discussing the fact that, during my lunch with the editor, he offered me a new job'.

'What kind of new job?'

'Foreign Editor of the paper'.

This took a moment to sink in.

'Congratulations', I said. 'Did you accept it?'

'Of course I didn't accept. Because...'

'Yes?'

'Well... because I wanted to speak with you first about it'.

'Because it means a transfer back to London?'

'That's right'.

'Do you want the job?'

'Put it this way: His Lordship was hinting very strongly that I should take it. He was also hinting that, after nearly twenty years in the field, it was time I did a stint at HQ. Of course, I could fight coming back. But I don't think I'd win that one. Anyway, the foreign editorship isn't exactly a demotion...'

A pause. I said, 'So you are going to take the job?'

'I think I have to. But... uhm... that doesn't mean I have to come back to London alone'.

Another pause as I thought about that last comment. Finally I said, 'I have some news too. And I have an admission to make'.

He looked at me with care.

'And what's this admission?'

'I'm not on antibiotics. Because I don't have a strep throat. But I still can't drink right now... because I happen to be pregnant'.

Three

TONY TOOK THE news well. He didn't shudder, or turn grey. There was a moment of stunned surprise, followed by an initial moment or two of reflection. But then he took my hand and squeezed it and said, 'This is good news'.

'You really think that?'

'Absolutely. And you're certain...?'

'Two pregnancy tests certain', I said.

'You want to keep it?'

'I'm thirty-seven years old, Tony. Which means I've entered the realm of now or never. But just because I might want to keep it doesn't mean you have to be there too. I'd like you to be, of course. However...'

He shrugged. 'I want to be there', he said.

'You sure?'

'Completely. And I want you to come to London with me'.

Now it was my turn to go a little white.

'You all right?' he asked.

'Surprised'.

'About... ?'

'The course this conversation is taking'.

'Are you worried?'

Understatement of the year. Though I had managed to keep my anxiety in the background during our days in London (not to mention the week beforehand, when the first pregnancy test came back positive from my doctor in Cairo), it was still omnipresent. And with good reason. Though part of me was quietly pleased about being pregnant, there was an equally substantial portion of my private self that was terrified by the prospect. Maybe it had something to do with the fact that I never really expected to fall pregnant. Though there were the usual hormonal urges, these were inevitably negated by the fact that my happily self-governing life could not incorporate the massive commitment that was motherhood.

So the discovery that I was pregnant threw me completely. But people always have the capacity to surprise you. Tony certainly did that. For the rest of the flight to Cairo, he informed me that he thought this pregnancy was a very good thing; that, coupled with his transfer back to London, it was as if fate had intervened to propel us into making some major decisions. This had happened at the right moment. Because we were so right for each other. Though it might be something of an adjustment for both of us to be setting up house together - and for us to be at desk jobs (he was certain I could talk my way into the Post's London bureau) - wasn't it time we finally surrendered to the inevitable and settled down?

'Are you talking marriage here?' I asked him after he finished his little spiel.

He didn't meet my eye, but still said, 'Well, yes, I, uh, yes, I suppose I am'.

I was suddenly in need of a very large vodka, and deeply regretted not being able to touch the stuff.

'I'm going to have to think about all this'.

Much to Tony's credit, he let the matter drop. Nor did he, in any way, pressure me over the next week. Then again, that wasn't Tony's style. So, during the first few days after we got back from London, we gave each other some thinking time. Correction: he gave me some thinking time. Yes, we spoke on the phone twice a day, and even had an amusing lunch together, during which we never once mentioned the big 'elephant in the closet' question hanging over us... though, at the end of it, I did ask, 'Have you given the Chronicle your decision?'

'No - I'm still awaiting an update from someone'.

He gave me a little smile when he said that. Even though he was under pressure to make a decision, he was still refusing to pressure me. And I could only contrast his low key approach with that of Richard Pettiford. When he was trying to compel me to marry him, he overstepped the mark on several occasions, eventually treating me (in true lawyerly style) like a reluctant juror who had to be won around to his point of view. With Tony I didn't even need to respond to his comment about 'awaiting an update from someone'. He knew that he was asking me to make a big decision, so all I asked him in reply was, 'And you still won't be going back for three months?'

'Yes, but the editor does need to know my decision by the end of the week'.

And he left it at that.

Besides doing a lot of serious thinking, I also made several key phone calls - the first of which was to Thomas Richardson, the editor-in-chief of the Post, and someone with whom I had always had a cordial, if distant relationship. As an old-school Yankee, he also appreciated directness. So when he returned my call, I was completely direct with him, explaining that I was marrying a journalist from the Chronicle and was planning to move to England. I also said that the Post was my home, and I certainly wanted to stay with the paper, but the fact that I was also pregnant meant that I would eventually need a twelve-week period of maternity leave, commencing about seven months from now.

'You're pregnant?' he said, sounding genuinely surprised.

'It looks that way'.

'But that's wonderful news, Sally. And I can completely understand why you want to have the baby in London...'

'The thing is, we won't be moving there for three months'.

'Well, I'm certain we can work something out at our London bureau. One of our correspondents has been talking about coming back to Boston, so your timing couldn't be better'.

There was a part of me that was alarmed about the fact that my boss had so eased my professional passage to London. Now I had no reason not to follow Tony. But when I informed him that my transfer to the London bureau of the Post seemed certain, I also said that I was terrified of this huge change in circumstances. Once again, his reply (though predictably flippant) was also reassuring - telling me that it wasn't as if I was going behind the veil. Nor would we be moving to Ulan Bator. And I would have a job. And if we found that we couldn't stand being behind desks in offices... well, who's to say that we were indentured to London for the rest of our lives?