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time in my life, with a deep desire to physically conceive, to procreate, to make a baby. It was so beautiful. Crossing over into one another, imagining the pleasure of orgasm as a kind of nurturing magic field for the moment of conception. A molecular union. Lovefucking for our child . And today I remain thankful for those experiences. But it was impossible to sustain, that keenly pitched sacred pleasure. As month after month passed and I did not fall pregnant the obligation to make love on the days around my time of ovulation became wearisome. One month Paul had a conference in a country town at “that time” and I traveled up there to be with him so that we could try. We stayed in a chintzy bed’n’breakfast. I can’t remember exactly how it happened but we were meant to make love in the morning before our early departure, at around 6 a.m. That was the opportune window. I had no genuine bodily desire whatsoever but was amenable to a pragmatic quickie. Paul tried—with no luck. Too much pressure. A situation that for the two of us was equal parts frustrating, humiliating, chintzy, and bathetic. It cast a pall over the day. He didn’t like—and nor did I—how our lovefucking had become so colored by the desire for a child, as if that were now its solepurpose. We agreed we’d try to take the pressure off and not be so focused on my menstrual cycle. All that meant was we didn’t talk about it while I remained acutely aware of exactly how near or far I was to ovulation.
    There came a day when I reached a sunken crossroad. My film—miraculously—got its coveted green light, the full financing was committed. What to do: how could I direct a feature film and become pregnant at the same time? The stress of making the film would be bad for the baby; potential health complications would be bad for the film. Which-way, which-way, which-way. Where were the omens? After a week of sleepless nights I told Paul I wanted us to stop trying to get pregnant, I said I would take precautions for six months until the film was shot and I was in the edit. He was disappointed and though he didn’t say as much I worried he saw my choice as a betrayal. It made him wary, and wariness, in retrospect, is poison in a union. Even if he’d tried to persuade me to drop the film I don’t think I would have done so. Sometimes I wish I had been less fearful.
    I completely immersed myself in making the film and I neglected my husband. There were repercussions.“You’re so busy I might as well not be here.” One night during the shoot he repeated his trick of ordering me out of the house (at the time we were living in a new apartment we’d bought together). A few days later he left to spend time with his son who was now 14 and living in Ireland with his mother. The film wrapped: he didn’t call. On the day of his return we had a fight. His anger was frightening and intolerable. I took half of my stuff and moved back to my old place which was just around the corner. I can’t stand it! There followed a complicated tangle of emotions—hurts, desires, everything else. Bamboozling at the time. Two people in love and at odds. A Gordian knot would have been child’s play. I’m not sure I could ever explain it. He said he didn’t sign up for me putting my career ahead of everything else, he said I was blind to how my work bled into our lives and obscured all the good things. He wanted more balance. A few weeks later he issued me with legal papers for a full property settlement through the family law courts, to be effective immediately. He wanted the title deed to our new home transferred into solely his name: he’d pay out my share. He wanted to undo all our joint bank accounts and other assets, a complete financial separation. In other words, a divorce. But he refused to call it a divorce. Hewanted us to live together “under two roofs.” He wanted a