Cut to Marissa, a financial a.n.a.lyst, age forty-two, breast-feeding her infant son, Connor, on her living room sofa in a Madonna-and-child-style pose.

V.O. (MARISSA).

The year I turned forty I decided I was going to do everything in my power-financially, socially, medically and otherwise-to get pregnant. I'd always wanted to have children but the right relationship just hadn't come along in time, or at the right time anyway, and now here I was, staring the possibility of infertility straight in the face. It was terrifying and to be honest, in many ways I couldn't believe it. How could I end up not accomplishing the thing I wanted most in the world simply because the timing was off? I was determined not to become one of those women who just "forgets," you know?

Cut to a shot of Marissa tenderly bathing her gurgling son.

V.O.

My son was conceived while I was on holiday at a five-star resort on a Caribbean island. I had arranged to arrive the week I was ovulating, and I'd been taking large doses of folic acid for months before. His father was a handsome guy, a successful lawyer from Paris. We hung out for a few days so I had a chance to ask him all about his family background and his own medical history. I didn't do it in an overt way, but just kind of made sure those topics came up. I doubt he ever suspected a thing. We never kept in touch and I'm sure he has no idea I became pregnant. He didn't ask about birth control and I never brought it up, so there was no lying involved. Still, I'm sure he had no idea of my plan. I guess you could call me a sperm bandit (she laughs). It sounds pretty awful, but I don't regret a thing. Having Connor is the best thing I've ever done in my life....

Meredith felt her handbag vibrate beside her foot in the dark. She stepped out of the editing suite into the dazzling winter-afternoon glare. She blinked, letting her eyes adjust after several hours of tunnel vision in the small dark room. It was one of those cloudless winter days when the snow is so bright and dry the whole world seems like a frozen desert landscape. She walked toward the sandwich shop in a pair of Kodiaks, choosing each step with care. Pulling open the door, she nearly lost her balance, but managed to right herself as the door chimes tinkled.

"Afternoon," said the shopkeeper, a weedy little fellow in a white paper hat like the kind people in nineteen-fifties fast-food restaurants used to wear. "The usual?"

Meredith nodded enthusiastically. "Please." As the man sliced off four pieces of sharp cheddar, she began the surprisingly arduous task of unwrapping the scarf from around her neck and getting her coat unb.u.t.toned. She settled down on the wooden chair and watched the man melt b.u.t.ter for her grilled cheese with bacon. She'd had the same lunch every day for the past forty-four working days and amazingly, she still wasn't remotely sick of it.

Meredith pressed some b.u.t.tons on her phone. Mish's voice came crackling over the line in a stern eastern European accent.

"Hallo, Ms. Moore. Zis eez your new doula, Olga. Vee are certain you haf been steeking to your streect diet of ze organic mung beans and doing your Kegel exercises regularly. Ozerwise ze bebbe vill be born visout a moral core. Understood? Yes? Zat is good." This was followed by some unexplained b.u.mps that may have been Mish dropping the phone and retrieving it from the floor. Then her normal voice. "Hey, Mama. You dropped the brat yet or what? I'm hopping on a plane as soon as you do, so call me the minute your water breaks. Unless of course it happens in public, in which case you might want to take a minute to clean up first. Ha ha. Just kidding. Actually, no, I'm not kidding at all. I'm being extremely serious. Anyway call me. Things are nuts around here. It's rained for the past eight hundred days straight. I swear to G.o.d. Barnaby and Shane say hi and"-m.u.f.fled background noises-"what was that? Oh, they want me to say you might consider the name Barnaby-Shane if it's a boy. How's that for a.s.shole narcissism? Anyway, later."

Beep. Next.

"Moo, it's your mother. Would you be a dear and call me as soon as you get a chance? These North American toasters are quite beyond me." A screeching smoke alarm in the background. An irritated guttural sound, then Irma raised her voice above it as though nothing remotely out of the ordinary was happening. "Ucchh. As I was saying, they don't make any sense at all. Could you call me? It's your mother. I can't believe you're still working. Could you please call me? Thank you, dear. Goodbye."

Meredith was about to call back when an automated voice informed her that an extra message had been added to her mailbox. She pressed one, and a smile crept across her face as Joe's voice filled the receiver.

"Hey, it's me. Just wanted to let you know that everything's, uh, under control with your mother. She just had a little mini-emergency in the kitchen, but one fire extinguisher later and everything is completely under control. She's a funny one. You sure you two are related? Anyway, I was thinking we could order in roti or something tonight. Hope things are going well with the doc. Call me when you get a sec."

Meredith's grilled cheese arrived just as she was hanging up the phone, and she resolved to eat before returning her calls. Eating had become a whole new priority for her over the past several months. The crumbs didn't even make it to her lap now, so she spread her napkin across her belly. The pregnant part of her was st.u.r.dier than she had imagined it would be, kind of like a giant inverted oil drum attached to her middle. She could feel the baby's foot nudging under her rib cage. Any day now, Joe said. She felt absurdly fat. Meredith looked around for something to read and the shopkeeper tossed the latest Us magazine on the table in front of her. She thanked him and flipped to a random page.

On one page was a trend story about male celebrities growing beards. Below that was a large photo of Kathleen Swain in a wraparound sundress walking down a city street with two small dogs. The editors had circled her swollen middle in red, highlighted by a large cartoonish arrow. KATHLEEN SWAIN'S MYSTERY b.u.mP! screamed the headline in eighteen-point font.

"Kathleen Swain, forty-five, is showing signs of pregnancy after a long, difficult battle with infertility," read the text. "The aging starlet (who plays the lead in an upcoming as-yet-unt.i.tled Victorian costume drama) has been desperate for a baby for years. According to one friend, 'It had become an obsession that ruled her life. We were very relieved to find out that things had finally worked out for her. She's beyond happy.' Swain was recently seen shopping for pink and blue singlets at Barney's in L.A. and chowing down on an organic tempeh dog (and fries!) at her local greasy spoon. No word yet on who the father is, but a spokesperson for the actress confirms it's someone she knows and trusts. 'Kathleen would never have a baby with a stranger. At this point she's decided to keep the ident.i.ty of the father a family secret. She's a very private person.'"

Meredith closed the magazine and finished her sandwich. Thank G.o.d for cheese. She leaned back in her chair and closed her eyes to rest-just for a moment-before returning to work.

Inside her, someone stirred.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR.

LEAH MCLAREN: This is not my first novel. When I was eight, I wrote a book called The Enchanted Lighthouse and self-published it on twelve pages of stapled-together yellow foolscap. It was a bodice--ripper romance about a sailor who gets shipwrecked on a mysterious island in the middle of the English Channel and starts up a torrid love affair with the beautiful red-haired lighthouse keeper's daughter, who also happens to be...a ghost. Although critically well-received (my mother called it "interesting"), the book had a very short print run (1) and was soon after remaindered in the bas.e.m.e.nt filing cabinet. After my first brush with literary disappointment, I made the difficult decision to return to school and complete third grade.

A couple of decades later I found myself a gainfully employed writer-though not of fiction. After studying English literature at McGill and Trent universities, I got a job as a columnist and feature writer at the Globe and Mail, Canada's national newspaper. (Have I mentioned the fact that I'm Canadian? It's a lot like being American, except with higher taxes, free health care and prime-time hockey. All the Canadian stereotypes you've ever heard are total c.r.a.p-except the one about hockey. We are, all of us, completely obsessed.) In 2001 I went to live in London, England, for a while. During my stay I sc.r.a.ped by writing for British publications such as the Spectator, the Telegraph and the Times of London and filing dispatches back home about public autopsies, weirdo aristocrats and the trouble with dating English men.

Returning home to Canada a couple of years later, I set to work on this-my second-novel and now here it is in your hands. From yellow foolscap to paperback. And to think it took me only two dozen years.

I really hope you like it.

5 signs your biological clock is ticking:.

1 When the first date becomes a great opportunity to collect a DNA sample for genetic testing.

2 That loud, persistent ticking sound that seems to follow you everywhere.

3 When ugly babies start to look cute.

4 A sudden, overwhelming desire for a puppy.

5 The urge to serve your dinner party guests formula and mashed bananas.

end.