1. There’s a man looking out at his garden. The front garden. His garden. A youngish man, not much above thirty. The garden is neat. Tidy. There’s a row of Double Delight roses along the front, and behind that camellias and gardenias. The centerpiece is a concrete statue—not at all gaudy—of a woman standing in a small pond. It has vaguely Celtic overtones, or so he thinks. A pagan goddess swathed in delicate green moss. There are waterlilies in the pond, though they are yet to flower. She is holding a vase. Perhaps it’s more Roman or Greek in aesthetic. Either way, he likes the effect. The lawn needs water, but there are restrictions. It’s a tough breed of grass, a kind of buffalo, but it’s browning off in places. And the water in the pond has receded. He has not noticed that until now. He frowns. There is a kind of unsightly scum around the inside edges where the water level has shrunk. He thinks about draining the pond and scrubbing it clean. Yes, that would be good. The thought of that makes him feel better.

2. The man, Jonathan, is now in the kitchen of the house. He’s looking out the window again. This time at the back garden. His wife’s domain, really, though there’s nothing official or prescribed about it. It’s mostly lawn, but smack in the middle is a large raised vegetable garden. Alena’s not bothered with flowers. “I like to grow things I can eat,” she says. It’s productive, he has to give her that. But to look at—such a rambling chaotic mess. He shudders and turns away, then turns back when he hears her voice. She’s talking to the cat again. The imaginary cat. The cat he won’t agree to get, though a small part of him is weakening. It’s a brown Burmese, this imaginary cat, and she’s named it Aung San Suu Kyi – Suu Kyi for short. They argued over this recently. He told her she should change it, given the situation in Myanmar. The ethnic cleansing. At the end of the conversation she said with a smirk, “You do realize that the cat’s not real, don’t you?”

3. Jonathan and his wife, whose name is Alena, are preparing to attend a party. On the harbor—or rather—at a house that backs onto it. His wife’s boss’s party. Alena’s boss is called Steve. Steve acts as if he owns this house that’s worth squillions because he’s hugely successful, but the truth is, Alena says, he’s an only child, and his baby boomer parents were considerate enough to drop dead earlier rather than later. “So lucky,” she says, whilst putting on her earrings, the gold-rimmed freshwater pearl ones he gave her last anniversary. That Steve gave her, not Jonathan. On the fifth anniversary of her employment. Which seemed excessive to Jonathan. “Besides,” Alena continues, now pulling on her black ankle boots, “the business isn’t doing that well.”

4. In the previous weeks, Alena and Jonathan have had many conversations. Jonathan realizes it’s the same conversation. Alena comes home from work and tells him about her day. Complains, really, about who did what, who’s saying what, who has annoyed her the most. Sometimes it’s about Steve and how stupid he is. Jonathan has a hard time listening to this and is at times provoked enough to say, “Well, if you dislike it so much you should leave.” This irritates her, and they argue, or she turns from him with a scowl and says, “I’m just downloading, for God’s sake. Don’t tell me what to do.” Then she slinks off. The conversations they are not having are always the same too. Those are the conversations about children. The lack of them, the desire for them. They both want one, or two—or so he thought—after all, they were agreed on this when they married though it’s proven to be less easy than they imagined. There are difficulties to overcome, and neither of them wants to discuss it. There’s been too much talk already, months and months of it, and they are at an impasse. So, they talk about work and the garden and sometimes, the cat.

5. At the party she ditches him at the door. He’s used to that. Alena likes to mingle, to socialize, whereas he likes to stand back in a quiet spot where he can lean against a wall and watch. He’s not shy, just disinterested in small talk. He’s happy to chat to anyone with something useful or informative to say, but that’s not common, especially at a harborside party where everyone is drunk or high well before they even arrive. This time, though, as he makes a beeline for the wall, a man with a ballooning belly corners him, starts boring on about Sydney real estate prices and housing bubbles and falling apartment sales. “I’m warning you, mate,” the man says, “it’s an overheated market.” He belches in Jonathan’s face as he says this and gruffly apologizes. “Sorry, mate, sorry. Raw tuna. Oh, that’s awful. Had sushi before I came; it always repeats on me. Sorry. I’m Troy, by the way.” Jonathan shakes Troy’s hand and excuses himself, looking around to see if he can find Alena.

6. He walks out into the terraced lawn that overlooks the water. The house is old and in need of renovation work, but the view is spectacular. There is a dilapidated cubbyhouse and rusting swing-set in the yard, echoes no doubt from Steve’s childhood. A pool that hasn’t been cleaned in a while. Jonathan makes a few mental notes as to what would be needed to bring this place into order. The swing-set has lichen growing on it. Jonathan knows about lichen cleaner; he’s used it before. Calcium hypochlorite. Pool cleaner. Caustic stuff, but effective. The day after they’d seen the doctor at the fertility clinic, he’d found Alena in the garage, throwing out the cleaning products—the ant poison, the weed killer, the rat bait, the bleach. When he attempted to reason with her, she turned on him, ranting about how he’d poisoned himself, how his obsession with cleanliness was ruining their chances. The calcium hypochlorite bucket split open as he wrenched it away from her, and even though he’d rushed to the tap, his hands had blistered and burned. She sat on the floor, sobbing, the only time he’d seen her break down. At the clinic, she’d held it together. The doctor had spoken in that kind-but-impersonal way medical staff assume when delivering negative news. A slight deepening of voice pitch and a delivery half a second slower than normal, all designed to make the listener lean in and pay attention. “It’s an unfortunate combination,” she said. The combination being him and Alena. She continued, “You, Jonathan, have what we’d describe as a borderline sperm count, and Alena, you have extensive scarring from your prior terminations. Either one on its own could perhaps be overcome, but together—well—it makes things difficult. The best advice I can give you at this point is to carefully consider your options.

Options?” Alena had said. “What options?” The doctor waved her hands in the air. The tone in the doctor’s voice shifted, turned a little flinty, as if explaining this sort of thing to people again and again was all a bit much. “Oh, you know,” she said, waving her hands again, “artificial insemination, IVF, donor sperm, possibly a donor egg. Surrogacy. Adoption.” She put her hands on the desk and leaned forward. “Go home, take some time, think about what you really want and what you’re prepared, and what you’re not prepared, to do to get it. None of these options are easy. You have to be sure.”

7. At the party, it’s getting quite late. Couples are staggering down to the waterline, spilling their drinks and giggling. Jonathan wonders where Alena is. She usually comes to touch base with him at these things but not tonight. He remembers watching her dress, the extra care she seemed to take. He’s suddenly suspicious. He has cause—she’s been unfaithful before. Only once, and he paid her back by sleeping with her sister, though she does not know that. Her twin sister, though they don’t resemble each other at all. Alena is lithe, slim, and though pale-skinned, has chestnut brown hair she dyes black. Erica is short, blonde, and dumpy. Whenever anyone stared at them disbelievingly, Alena would hiss, “For fuck’s sake, we’re fraternal twins,” and stalk off. Erica is the reason they got together in the first place, a fact she delights in reminding them of now and again. When Jonathan moved to Sydney, he crashed on a friend’s sofa. His friend was meant to go to a music concert with Erica but fell ill, so Jonathan took his place. Afterward, Erica introduced him to her sister and so on and so forth—that’s how they met. Not an issue for Erica, who is gay even though she insists on calling herself bi in the presence of their parents, who, whilst trying to be tolerant, hold out hope that Erica might one day settle down with a man. “It keeps them happy for now,” Erica said in response to a sarcastic comment of Alena’s on the matter, “and once you and Jonathan provide them with grandkids, it’ll be a non-issue. I’ll be off the hook. You’ll see.” Alena had gone silent then, but Erica, who wasn’t the most observant sister, or perhaps was too observant—Jonathan was unsure which—continued to stuff her face with Jonathan’s excellent risotto and didn’t appear to catch on at all. To this day Jonathan didn’t know why she’d slept with him that one time. Sure, she’d been somewhat drunk, and it was only afterwards that he got a hint of something, some slight comment she’d made that he can’t remember now, that hinted that she too might have been seeking payback. But for what? Being the less hot sister? That seemed implausible to Jonathan, but thinking of it now he concluded he couldn’t rule it out.

8. He spots Alena and Steve by the water tank at the far end of the property. It’s just out of the way enough from the main party to go largely unnoticed yet close enough to slip back in without being obvious. Steve is filling Alena’s glass from a champagne bottle; Jonathan notices with some small satisfaction that the brand is a cheap one. Alena’s right: Steve is a wanker. Jonathan watches them from the edge of the covered patio, watches Alena tip over her glass as she laughs and overbalances. Steve grabs the glass, then her, and she allows herself to fall onto his chest. They kiss long and slow, and as they do so Steve tosses the glass on the lawn and slides his hand up under her skirt, then leans into her, lifting her up and pushing her against the corrugations of the water tank. Jonathan watches, transfixed, and is alarmed to find he is becoming aroused. He turns away. The sheer slick maneuvering of Steve has shocked him, how quickly and smoothly he moved from that kiss to full penetration. The assured ease of it, the assumed consent. He turns away, his heart pounding. He knows what it means, that confidence. It’s not the first time they’ve done this. He stumbles back into the house, his mouth dry, feeling invisible, and continues through the labyrinth of rooms and stairs until he ends up outside on the narrow road at the top of the steep yard. It’s dark on the street, one of those poorly lit old eastern suburbs. He can’t even remember which one. He stands there, not sure what to do. His heartrate slows. He thinks about what the doctor said, that you need to be sure.

9. Two weeks later they are at Erica’s house. She has offered to be a surrogate. Jonathan is startled, was unaware she even knew, and is surprised to find out that Alena has mentioned their fertility troubles. Sisters are so erratic, he thinks. Erica is talking: “We could use your sperm and your egg, or your sperm and my egg, or donor sperm and either egg. Whatever you guys want.”

Alena looked at her suspiciously and said, “And what do you want in return?

Erica doesn’t take the bait, just smiles sweetly and says, “Well, I’d like a cat,” she said. “You can get me a cat. Not a moggy—I want a purebred. Maybe a Persian. I don’t know. Something     expensive and exotic. Not too skinny, that’s all. You decide.”

In the car on the way back home, Alena is silent.

“So, what do you think?” Jonathan says.

After a while Alena says. “No way. I’d never hear the end of it. Every birthday, every family function it’d be the story of how she carried our child to term, how she donated her egg, or whatever—it’d be intolerable.” She turns to Jonathan. “I’d rather adopt. Less mucking around. You know how I hate needles and hospitals. Let’s adopt—some poor kid from somewhere—there’s plenty of them.” Jonathan grips the steering wheel tighter, stares out the window. A few big blobs of rain hit the windscreen, then stop. It’s enough to smear the view.

“I don’t know, Alena. I don’t know,” he says. She turns toward him. He keeps his eyes on the road. She leans across and rests her head on his shoulder. “I’m leaving my job,” she says. “You were right. But I still want the cat.”

10. Some time has passed, but not much, really, in the scheme of things. Jonathan and Alena are returning from a pet shop with a brand-new cage and dry cat food that cost a bomb. Inside the cage are two kittens, a British shorthair with a flattened face and orange eyes, and a sleek brown Burmese. One for Erica, one for Alena. They have refused Erica’s offer but bought her the cat anyway. “That way,” Alena says, “she’ll have to mind our cat when we are traveling. They’ll be friends.” The kittens play rough, hissing and scratching at each other. Like sisters, Jonathan thinks. He looks out into the back garden. He’ll have to construct a cat run now, to protect the birds, and keep Suu Kyi from shitting in the vegetable patch. He notices the pond around the statue. It’s almost empty, and the moss on the goddess has dried to a flaky gray crust. He’s not sure if the waterlilies are still viable. He decides he ought to clean it out completely next weekend. The Double Delight roses are doing well though—he’s made sure of that. There has been no more talk of children, or Steve. Alena has a new job. Jonathan thinks he might sleep with Erica again, at least twice, perhaps three times, just to even things up.

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