The Spin Doctor's Wife: infidelity, infertility and infamy

By Theresa Miller

Megan is desperate for a baby, running hard on the IVF treadmill and heading for the edge. Meanwhile, her PR spin-doctor husband, Laurie is distracted by very different desires. Enter Carla, an ambitious young singer, who can give them both what they want—at a price.

For years, Megan was a much-loved schoolteacher, but her world falls apart after she’s unfairly dismissed. She hopes having a baby will fill the void. Instead, her discovery that Laurie has secretly fathered a child, adds insult to injury. Finally, Megan devises a plan to take back control of her life.

How far will Megan, Laurie and Carla go to get what they want?

Set in Sydney against a backdrop of corporate cover-ups and the cult of celebrity, The Spin Doctor’s Wife is fast-paced, heartbreaking and funny.

“Theresa Miller perfectly captures her characters with empathy and insight. If you enjoyed Allison Pearson’s, I Don’t Know How She Does It, you’ll love The Spin Doctor’s Wife.”
– Petronella McGovern, bestselling author of Six Minutes

• Language: English
• Publisher: millerink
• Release date: May 28, 2019
• ISBN: 9781925786538

Theresa Miller

Theresa Miller has twenty years’ experience in the media. Her first job was as a reporter for Channel Nine News in Adelaide. She then moved to Europe for six years where she worked as a producer for Good Morning Britain, BskyB’s 24-hour news channel, and The European Business Channel, and reported for the CNN World Report. Since her return to Sydney, Theresa has freelanced as a reporter, presenter, and producer for Channels Nine, Seven, SBS, and ABC TV. In 2000, Theresa was a media adviser to the Sydney lord mayor during the Olympics. Since then she’s worked as a media trainer and journalism lecturer, and produces for ABC Radio National’s ‘Life Matters’. Theresa has also appeared in numerous theatre productions, TV soaps and commercials. She and her husband Stuart live in Sydney with their IVF daughter, Zoë, and their recently born ‘home grown’ baby, Sienna.

Book preview

Copyright

Chapter 1

Warning: Low Battery

The problem is that your eggs are too old, Dr Christine Farrer said, pointing her pharma-brand pen at a cluster of cells on a slide.

Megan tugged at her necklace. Couldn’t it be my husband’s sperm?

Dr Farrer looked at her notes. We’ve done the tests. There is nothing wrong with his sperm. It’s your eggs; they’re lacklustre.

Yes, of course.

Megan imagined her eggs as a string of vintage pearls, which had lost their sheen. She estimated the doctor was around 50 years old and peri-menopausal. These days Megan automatically categorised women by their reproductive status.

There was a moment of silence and then, as if she had just remembered her recent seminar on ‘building patient rapport’, the embryologist stuck out her hand and smiled. Please call me Christine.

They both looked again at the computer image of Megan’s eggs. In the early days of IVF this sight would have filled her with hope. But Megan knew that when the specialists summoned you to a meeting on level five, the news was rarely good. It was a world away from the brightly-lit nurses’ station downstairs, where women came every morning for their routine blood tests, injections and ultrasounds. Up here, there was no friendly banter or pin-up boards with thank-you cards from grateful parents and photos of wrinkly, red newborns.

I’m afraid the mitochondria in your cells is compromised, Dr Farrer said.

Megan thought it sounded as if her eggs were spies.

In other words, their batteries are run down and they don’t have the energy to spark life.

Megan imagined a wind-up egg slowing down and falling over. She fiddled with her wedding band and looked at the family photos on the desk. In one frame Dr Farrer, smiling and holiday-casual, was flanked by two stocky, blonde children, whose faces bore the same unmistakable stamp of their heritage: large teeth and full lips.

Do you understand what I mean, Mrs Sutcliffe?

Megan nodded slightly, her eyes still fixed on the family photo.

From this last egg harvest only three of your 10 eggs fertilised. If these last three embryos don’t work, I highly recommend donor eggs.

Donor eggs?

If you have a close friend or a sister who is under 35 and has completed her family, you may consider asking her to donate her eggs. They’ll still be fertilised in a petri dish with your husband’s sperm of course, and then after a few days they’ll be transferred to your uterus. We’ve had a lot of success with donor eggs.

Megan’s eyes slid back to the photo of the embryologist and her two carbon copies.

But the baby wouldn’t be my biological child?

No, of course not, Dr Farrer said, flicking through the slides of dividing cells. She looked up and forced a smile. I know this is a lot to take on at once. Here’s a brochure on donor eggs to take home and discuss with your husband. There’s more information on our website. We can set up the counselling and screening if you want to go ahead. Do you have a sister or a friend who would be suitable?

No, I don’t. Megan fingered the glossy brochure. What about buying eggs?

Dr Farrer’s eyebrows furrowed. It’s illegal in Australia to buy and sell gametes.

Yes, of course. I knew that. Megan bit her lip. What chance is there that I might fall pregnant with my own eggs?

No more than one in 10, and then of course at your age there is a higher risk of miscarriage.

But there’s still a chance? Megan crossed her fingers tightly behind her back, a habit she’d had as a schoolgirl.

Statistically the chances are slim. But yes. Dr Farrer looked at Megan’s notes again. You’re booked in Monday for one embryo transfer. We’ll freeze the other two as back up.

The embryologist looked back at her screen and Megan realised she’d been dismissed. On the way out she picked up the waiting-room copy of Gourmet Traveller with the baby Sherpa on the cover; she slipped it into her handbag and left.

Chapter 2

The Crimson Thread

Carla clocked him as soon as he walked in. He was tall with dark curly hair and a strong, confident gait. He surveyed the Bondi Junction terrace crowded with the usual affluent and arty mix: vegan film producers, public radio journalists and life coaches. He grabbed a vodka shot from a passing waiter and threw it back. Their eyes met and he held her attention for a fraction too long. Carla felt a quickening in her stomach.

Normally, she wasn’t attracted to smooth-looking corporate types like him. In fact, he was just the sort of bloke she usually disdained.

Spying over her friend Lindy’s shoulder, she admired the way he worked the room. There was a palpable poise in his tall, sinewy strength. He waved at someone and smiled with a blast of whitened teeth. While he talked, Carla watched him from the corner of her eye, fascinated by his strong jaw and the way his dark hair curled around his ear. Then, as he listened, one eyebrow flew up and bounced back. When he smiled, a half-moon dimple appeared in his left cheek. He threw back his head to laugh and his Adam’s apple bobbed in time. Carla’s sudden girlish crush appalled and enlivened her.

He appeared to be watching her too. As the night wore on they circled the crowded room like a chessboard knight and queen.

Carla imagined people were connected by threads, which could only be seen by a gifted few. Different colours denoted the type of connection – green for family, blue for friends, black for enemies and, of course, red for lovers. Looking at him across the room now, she wondered if anyone else could see the pulsing crimson light between them.

The hosts had pushed the couches back against the walls and draped them with Indian silk cushions and Persian cashmere throws. The ceiling-high built-in shelves were crammed with dog-eared books, including Barack Obama’s Dreams From My Father and Janet Balaskas’ Active Birth. There were also a few copies of the host’s out-of-print book: Chad Granger – A Collection of his Most Popular Newspaper Columns.

Seeing Carla’s interest stirred, Lindy reminded her that she had been invited to the party to sing, not hunt. Carla brushed off her friend and wondered where this man fitted into this scene of well-preserved middle-aged professionals. The older this crowd got, the more triathlons and ocean swims they did, and the more eccentric their diet obsessions became.

I’ve been on the 5:2 diet for a month and I’ve lost eight kilos, a man in a green shirt said.

I could never fast for two days. I’m doing the paleo diet and I feel 10 years younger and stronger, said an angular man in his fifties.

I know a woman who has gone raw vegan and has cured herself of a raft of ailments the doctors said could only be fixed with surgery and drugs, said a platinum-haired woman with large green eyes.

Laurie, mate! Chad shouted above the crowd. Don’t forget you’re making a speech – don’t get too hammered!

So that was his name. Laurie.

Laurie embraced the host in a manly bear hug, and then kissed Chad’s wife, Ellie, on the cheek. On seeing Laurie, two others joined them. Carla recognised one as the local Greens candidate and the other as an ABC TV presenter. Laurie made a joke and they all laughed.

While he definitely wasn’t her type, Carla had to admit that so far her preferences for men hadn’t exactly been successful. All her boyfriends had been the sweet spineless breed of ‘boy-men’ — unemployed mural painters and bongo drummers who wore crocheted berets and wispy goatees and had names like Mungo and Jaffa. Her last boyfriend had lived in the back of his kombi van at Bondi Beach and travelled around on his skateboard to save petrol. He’d abandoned her when she fell pregnant. Lindy had driven her to and from the clinic for the termination.

Carla decided it was time to trade up – perhaps to a guy like this one. He looked like a man of means, with charisma and contacts. And, God only knows, in this town that’s what mattered. She promised herself she wouldn’t make the first move. Alpha males liked a chase.

As if on cue, Laurie looked over the host’s shoulder and smiled at Carla. He seemed to be moving towards her. She blushed, looked away and downed her glass of champagne too quickly.

But when he failed to appear, she looked up to see him hugging a young, slim, redheaded girl; her manicured hands draped proprietarily around his neck. She was laughing loudly at something he was saying. Of course he was attached. What was she thinking? A man that good-looking could never be single. Her faced burned and she looked around for Lindy. Why were all the good men in Sydney either married, gay or both?

The crimson thread between them went cold and limp. She pushed past a couple of ‘yummy mummies’ in floaty designer dresses and escaped to the wooden back deck. Sitting on beer crates amongst the mosquito coils and potted herbs were three renegades lighting up, their faces obscured in the dim light. Carla scored a ciggie from one and briefly caught a flash of her face as their cigarette tips touched and ignited. It had been three months since she’d given up smoking this time. She inhaled deeply.

The only other person outside was a teenaged girl in a halter-neck dress, slumped on a swinging wicker chair and snoring softly. She looked like a flat-faced Persian cat, only vampire-pale.

The screen door creaked behind her. She turned to see Laurie stride out on to the deck. He turned the full beam of his high voltage smile on her. Carla imagined wrapping her arms around his neck, like the redhead had done.

So that’s where you got to, he said. His voice was rich and mellifluous. She stubbed out the cigarette in a pot plant and fished in her handbag for a mint.

But when she looked up, Laurie was at the end of the porch leaning over the sleeping girl in the swing. He hauled the teenager to her feet; one of her skinny arms flopped over his muscled back.

Uncle Laurie, she mumbled. I feel sick.

He hoisted the kid onto his shoulder and walked back inside. As he passed Carla, he winked. She’s my goddaughter – what can I do?

Carla smiled despite herself. The scarlet thread between them reignited before he disappeared back into the house and the door banged shut behind him.

It’s hard not to notice him, isn’t it? said one of her fellow smokers.

I guess so. Who is he? She tried to sound nonchalant.

That’s Laurie Sutcliffe. He runs a big PR agency. Represents TV celebs, sporting stars and corporate high-flyers.

Carla arched her eyebrow, stood up and smoothed down her dress. She deftly reapplied her lipstick without a mirror. It was showtime.

The party guests were crammed into the living room for the speeches. Carla watched Laurie as he stepped onto the heavy Indian teak coffee table. He waited for the room to become quiet.

Many of you know that Chad and I grew up together on the Northern Beaches. Even though we went to different schools we hung out every weekend – surfing, skateboarding and riding our bikes. And then we went to Uni and studied the ancient, dying art of journalism.

There were a few titters from the audience. He used the power of pause for dramatic effect.

And Chad, being an idealist, became a poor but honest writer. I, on the other hand, having actually grown up poor, started my own PR agency and became a rich bastard.

Chad hooted with approval.

But I still love him! Laurie pulled his friend into a bear hug.

Normally Carla would sneer at such arrogance. But like everyone else in the room she was swept away by his charisma. Tiny alarm bells rang inside her; it thrilled her.

Chad then introduced Carla and she felt unusually nervous knowing Laurie was watching her. She waited for the chatter to die down. The moment before she sang was sacred. She imagined the audience stood expectantly, in her power, willing her to entertain and beguile them. In these few moments the crowd coalesced into one. She told herself they wanted her to succeed; it was a trick she used to combat nerves. She needed it more than ever tonight.

Behind her stood Rick on double bass and Alex on saxophone. She stretched the moment out for a just a tad longer than was comfortable, to draw the audience in. She could feel Laurie’s eyes on her like laser beams.

Then, acknowledging her faint nod, Alex began a soulful plea from his saxophone, transporting the room to a 1960s jazz bar. Rick picked his notes confidently and quietly, weaving them between the saxophone’s sighs. And then Carla’s voice rose, rushing to fill her ribcage and throat, and poured into the room the Ella Fitzgerald song ‘Summertime’. With outstretched arms, she turned slowly, showcasing the sheen of her hair, her unblemished olive skin and the way her red satin dress clung to her hips before swishing down to her strappy high-heels and crimson-painted toenails. Delicate golden bells hemmed her long skirt.

Carla imagined Laurie’s eyes drawn to the vibrating hollow in her throat and the bewitching vortex of her womanly power.

After the speeches and songs, the hosts turned up the music and pulled back the rug for dancing. Unshackled by wine and music, people flocked to the dance floor. When the music switched to a sexy Latino number, Laurie sidled over to her and breathed into her hair, Wanna dance?

She flushed and held out her hand. They moved onto the little patch of floor where other couples were dancing the salsa. She could smell vodka and toothpaste on his breath.

I enjoyed your singing, Laurie said and spun her around.

Do you sing or play music? she asked.

No time these days. I used to play guitar in a band at Uni.

What was the band?

The Toe Jammers.

Mmm lovely, she laughed, swooning like a teenaged fan.

We were punk.

Any good?

No. But we played the pubs and Uni bars and the audiences were too smashed to care.

This is good, Carla thought. He doesn’t take himself too seriously. And he’s played music. His touch on her skin seemed to radiate heat. She swivelled her hips in a lazy figure-eight, enjoying his eyes on her.

So, you’re a spin-doctor?

Thought-leader would be more accurate, he raised his arm as Carla pivoted on her heel.

You know how to lead, she said.

Always, he smiled.

He led her into a slow rhumba. His arms crossed in front of her waist and his stomach pressed into her back. Why wasn’t a man like this married? Maybe he was divorced. She hoped he didn’t have kids.

Where did you study music? Laurie said.

Adelaide Conservatorium.

City of churches.

City of serial killers, she said.

He laughed. That dimple was ridiculous – it should be illegal on a face that handsome. She imagined kissing him.

So why aren’t you singing at the Opera House instead of birthday parties?

Girl’s gotta pay the rent. But I am working on a recording with my a cappella group. She was lying – the group had split up months ago. We sing Bulgarian folk songs and African gospel hymns.

He spun her again.

You are a cut above the hoi polloi, he said.

Cut above hoi polloi, she corrected. Hoi polloi is Greek for ‘the people’. You don’t need to say ‘the’; it’s redundant.

Laurie rolled his eyes and drew her closer to him. His shirt was crisp and sweet-smelling.

You’re a Greek scholar too, he whispered in her ear. It tickled. She pulled away and laughed.

I love the Greek Islands. Have you ever been?

Yes, we went … a long time ago.

He must have gone there with an ex. She could make him forget.

"The Greeks live with passion," she said.

Is that how you like to live – with passion?

Carla leaned forward and whispered into his ear, "Life’s short. I don’t want to miss anything!"

She took his hand. He pulled back. Ellie, the hostess, was looking at them from across the room. He said under his breath, I’ve got to say goodbye to a couple of people. I’ll meet you outside on the street corner in 15 minutes.

* * *

The smell of cold pizza hit them as Carla and Laurie came up the narrow staircase to her flat. There were takeaway food containers by the door and dirty dishes in the sink.

My flatmate’s such a slob, Carla said, throwing her car keys onto the table, knocking the packet of Drum tobacco and cigarette papers onto the floor. A tawny cat jumped onto a kitchen chair and rubbed its chest against Carla’s dress. Hello Cosmo. She buried her fingers in his night-cooled fur. She felt self-conscious when Laurie looked around her small kitchen and living room cluttered with books and batik cushions. Next to a Moroccan hookah was a framed photo of her as a bright-eyed auburn-haired schoolgirl, singing on stage. Tacked on the walls were copies of Art Nouveau prints from the 1930s, advertising soap and cigarettes. There were also curling posters for bands, including one of Carla and her a capella group playing at the Tivoli Hotel at the Adelaide Fringe. She imagined it was a world away from his tastefully decorated home.

Carla came up behind him and slipped her arms around his chest, resting her head on his back. Laurie turned to face her and kissed her warm mouth. His bristles brushed her soft cheeks. There was an awkward moment when their noses bumped and they laughed softly. She liked the taste of his mouth. When she lifted her knee he captured her thigh and slid his hands to the small of her back. A strike of energy bolted up her spine.

* * *

The digital clock flashed 3.20 am as Laurie slipped out of Carla’s lumpy futon. Crawling on all fours he gathered his clothes, which were strewn across the floor. Mostly sober, he was feeling the first niggles of guilt. Alcohol always dampened his conscience and spiked his desire. Carla was still asleep, lying on her back with her arms outstretched over her head. Her hair fanned out on the pillow and he marvelled at her self-assuredness. He furtively checked a pile of unopened bills on her messy bedside table. Carla Badowski. That was her name.

Once dressed, he leaned over to kiss her. She stirred and blindly pulled him towards her.

Stay, she said croakily and then opening her eyes, sat up. Why are you going? It’s the middle of the night.

I’m meeting Chad early for an early bike ride.

So? Carla said, and began unbuttoning his shirt.

He pulled away. No, Carla. I’d love to stay but I’ve got to go, really.

Laurie stood up and stumbled backwards, tripping on one of her high heels. She laughed and pulled the covers back. After the briefest of hesitations, Laurie dived onto the bed and buried his face in her breasts. He sighed. I have to go. I’ll call you.

He blew her a kiss as he walked out the door.

Carla smiled and rolled onto her tummy, pulling one knee up under her ribs. The smell of his aftershave and sweat still lingered on her skin.

Eventually sleep overcame her and she dreamed a giant anteater was vacuuming a pile of scurrying ants with its snout. She tried to scoop up the ants to protect them but instead they swarmed over her body, entering her nose, eyes, ears, vagina and anus. Their buzz becoming deafening as the invasion intensified. Trying to free herself, Carla tore at her flesh but the ants delved deeper until they nested and colonised her abdomen. She woke with a jolt to her buzzing mobile phone.

Hello, she said foggily.

Wakey, wakey, hands off his snakey.

"Who’s this?’

Ah, how soon they forget! It’s Lindy. Don’t tell me you’re still in bed. It’s almost 11 o’clock. You were supposed to meet me for yoga at nine.

Sorry Lin. Carla sat up shakily and tucked the duvet around her chest.

There was a moment’s pause. Don’t tell me you took that dude home?

Well, actually – yes.

What’s his name?

Laurie Sutcliffe.

Are you sure?

Course I’m sure! Why?

Lindy hesitated. Nothing. Meet me at the beach cafe. I want all the grisly details.

Chapter 3

Megan’s Menu

Jagged strands of mid-morning sunlight hit the stainless steel and white marble kitchen bench tops where Megan stood scooping out mushrooms. The French windows looked out onto Sydney’s glittering harbour. She checked the ingredients in the How to be a Domestic Goddess cookbook, and listened to Mozart’s ‘Clarinet Quintet’ on the radio.

Laurie was still asleep in the spare room. Megan hadn’t heard him come in last night but figured it must have been late. She was glad she hadn’t gone to Chad’s party. She couldn’t face all those breeders. Mothers always looked at childless women with such pity.

Megan had the luxury of having the whole day to prepare for tonight’s dinner party for Laurie’s clients. Since she had sworn off alcohol while trying to get pregnant, she was a better hostess. Red wine made her argumentative and increased her ‘jokelepsy’ as Laurie called it.

But without alcohol, the client chitchat bored her to tears. She found solace in cooking – it was one of the few things she could control and it temporarily took her mind off IVF. Part of the fun was tracking down the very best and freshest ingredients, even if it meant crisscrossing town – caperberries from the Italian delicatessen in Leichhardt, salmon from the Pyrmont fish markets, kipfler potatoes from the farmers’ markets in Redfern. Megan would make pastry from scratch and stew plums from her garden. The eight-seater Tasmanian oak table was oiled and ready to be dressed with her best tablecloth – a wedding present from Laurie’s aunt – and the candelabra she’d inherited from her grandmother. Should she use the square white plates with the soft green leaf serviettes or the patterned Izmir set from Luxembourg with the matching damask napkins? Megan looked down her ‘to-do’ list: clean windows, iron tablecloth, polish glasses, scrub kitchen floor.

Why don’t we get a cleaner, for goodness sake? Laurie often said. It’s not like we can’t afford it. But Megan had sacked the past three cleaners – no one took as much care as she did in polishing and scrubbing. Now she was home more often, she had time to notice the way the cleaners cut corners. One of her favourite books was 101 Old-Fashioned Methods for Fool-Proof Cleaning. There was something very satisfying about mixing up a brew of bubbling bi-carb soda and vinegar to remove a stubborn stain.

Even Megan had admitted to her counsellor that her latent OCD tendencies had escalated. While she was teaching, she’d funnelled her energy into interpreting the syllabus texts and encouraging her students to excel in their exams. Their impressive results were a credit to her and her reputation had attracted students to the school. Graduates still stopped her in the supermarket to thank her.

But since losing her job, Megan’s compulsions were less worthy. Anyone opening her wardrobes would be struck by the uniform neatness of her severely pressed clothes. The skirts were arranged from the shortest to the longest; her shoes were kept pristine in their original boxes with Polaroids of each pair taped to the outside. There was an apartheid system to her underwear: two drawers of tightly folded bras and underpants, one for white and one for black. The rest of the house was similarly organised. The towels in the bathroom hung only and always on the third rung of the towel rack. There were never any messy shampoo bottles or creams on display; they were all filed away in their designated places in the gleaming cabinet with stark, silver handles. The shocking sight of a single hair lying curled in the bottom of a drawer drove her to immediately empty the entire contents and scrub it clean.

When setting the table for dinner, even if it was for just her and Laurie, Megan would measure the distance between the placemats and cutlery to ensure perfect symmetry. She abhorred dirty dishes or glasses left in the kitchen sink. The elegant flower arrangement on the dining room table was changed every Wednesday when she went to the farmers’ market.

She eschewed alcohol, caffeine, dairy and wheat. She did Pilates on Mondays, walked along the beach on Tuesdays, swam on Wednesdays after visiting her father, practised yoga on Thursdays and did weights on Fridays. She was fit and lean, but despite her efforts, the only thing she was unable to control was inside her.

For years, she’d endured the countless injections to make her ovaries swell and produce multiple eggs as if she were a battery hen, followed by endless rounds of blood tests and ultrasounds. While she grimly tolerated all of this, the microscopic group of cells with so much invested in them had repeatedly refused to bed down in the walls of her womb; instead they simply slipped away in a stream of blood.

Megan had a part-time job marking English essays and exams online, which gave her time for her clinic appointments and allowed her to follow blogs and online forums from other infertile women trying to get pregnant.

From the yard next door, she could hear their neighbour Matthew playing with his kids on the trampoline.

‘Ring a ring o’rosie/

a pocket full of posies/

a-tishoo! a-tishoo!/

we all fall down!’

The girls squealed. Again, Daddy, again!

The sound of high-fluted children’s voices cut her to the quick. She closed the French windows. Matthew waved to her as she did. Megan smiled and turned away to clear the dining room table. The brochure on the donor eggs caught