Stop the Clock

by Alison Mercer

  The taxi drew up outside her house within minutes and she gave the driver a tenner and told him to keep the change. He hadn’t tried to talk to her, hadn’t broken the spell; that in itself deserved rewarding.

  She let herself into the empty house. Richard wouldn’t be back for hours. What to do? She stuck Adele’s drawing in the back of the wardrobe and ran a bath.

  She just fitted in it. Her belly reared up in front of her, enormous, slippery, unavoidable. She couldn’t see her crotch. But it was still her body; under occupation, but unsurrendered. She knew it could still be forced into pleasure, in spite of the ordeal that was looming.

  Natalie got out and dried herself and hung the towel over the rail to dry. She went into the bedroom and hung back from the window as she pulled the curtains. She sat on the edge of the bed, and then carefully lowered herself down on one elbow until she was lying on her side. She closed her eyes and imagined herself thin, light, supple and implacably erotic.

  3

  Overlooked

  ONE BY ONE, all of Tina’s longstanding office buddies had married eligible men and stopped working at the Post. Each one, on leaving, had said, ‘I’ll miss you,’ and Tina occasionally wondered if they ever did.

  She certainly missed all of them, but it was necessary to adapt, and so, when her thirty-sixth birthday passed without a card from her colleagues landing on her desk, she told herself it was no surprise; why should anybody remember? It wasn’t as if she’d publicized the occasion. What was the point of making a big deal about getting older?

  Anyway, a couple of days later there would be another, arguably more important milestone to celebrate: the tenth anniversary of her first day in the office. She knew that wouldn’t go by unmarked. Her boss had sent out a department-wide email in advance, suggesting that they commemorate the occasion with a lunchtime drink.

  On the morning of the big day she got in at a quarter to nine, the optimum, irreproachable time, just in case anybody who mattered was paying attention. Not so early as to suggest mental derangement, but a safe, professional distance from being late. As she pushed through the revolving doors she felt light years removed from her younger, less certain self, who had passed through this same entrance ten years ago with her heart in her mouth, terrified of making some appalling blunder that would result in her being sent back into the outside world before the day was out, never to return.

  The older and wiser Tina Fox had a decent suit and handbag, good shoes, her own column, and a degree of confidence in her ability to cope with whatever the day might have to throw at her. She had not only survived, she’d thrived, while her peers had fallen by the wayside – well, the women among them had, at any rate.

  The lobby was in the process of being tarted up, and smelt strongly of fresh paint. The workmen were adding the finishing touches, hanging framed editions of notable front pages on the walls. An older colleague of Tina’s, Anthea Trask – a willowy Post veteran who’d had five children and still had the figure of a girl? had pointed out that it was usually a sign of trouble when an organization started doing up its reception area. But Tina thought Anthea’s scepticism was unfounded. The Post’s testy, grumbling persona had such a well-established place in national life that it was impossible to imagine it being abandoned by its readers and falling on hard times.

  As she headed towards the lift the front page mounted on the adjacent wall caught her eye. ‘Women warned: “Don’t wait to have babies”. Scientists reveal fresh insights into the fertility time bomb’.

  That was one of the great contradictions at the heart of the Post – it liked to give mothers a hard time, especially those who were single, working or in any way removed from a hazy 1950s ideal of domestic bliss, but at the same time, it was uneasy about women who weren’t mothers, and it particularly didn’t like young females to disport themselves too freely, without fretting at least a little about the potential consequences of their actions.

  It occurred to Tina that she had been effectively set up – that if she used her column to acknowledge the downsides of being a thirtysomething spinster, she’d look like a loser, and however much she advocated the joys of the single, childfree life, in the end it would all just come across as so much special pleading. Her readers would conclude that she was lonely and jealous of her more fecund friends, as the letters and online comments she’d received so far had tended to suggest.

  It was only then that she noticed Dan Cargill, her office sparring partner, occasional rival and, unfortunately, one-time lover, standing with his back to her and waiting for the lift. Up until that drunken night a couple of weeks ago she would have gone up to him and teased him about the pattern on his tie, or the report about Snookums the baby elephant he’d had in the paper the previous day, or about being in early for once. But she had made a mistake, and now she was just going to have to avoid him.

  Even as she veered away she noted the details of his appearance that most irritated her. Which was worse: the unpolished shoes, the lightly creased chinos, or the rumpled, quite possibly unwashed hair? No, surely the chief offender had to be the jacket, which was one Dan wore often. It was an indeterminate shade of brown reminiscent of nicotine-stained pub walls, its bulging pockets doubtless crammed with notebooks and cigarettes and recording devices.

  He was just such a hack. Not much of a successor to the Rt. Hon. Justin Dandridge QC, MP (Con.) for Wellerby South and Shepstowe. Justin had always been so dapper – so impeccably well groomed, with his three-piece suits and handmade brogues . . .

  How on earth had she let down her guard enough to cry on Dan’s shoulder – let alone to tumble into bed with him? Thank God she’d at least retained the self-discipline not to tell him exactly why she was so upset. She didn’t imagine for one minute that he would have treated pillow talk as confidential information. If she’d given him even the faintest hint that she’d just emerged from a long-running affair with a married MP, he’d almost certainly have seen it as an opportunity to coax the whole story out of her and write it up as a dazzling exclusive.

  She hurried away from him towards the stairs and up towards their office on the third floor, taking the steps two at a time. Honestly, what was the point in getting in early if you couldn’t even beat Dan Cargill to it? If he was raising his game, she would just jolly well have to raise hers too. After all, she was the one who had survived the Post’s restless newsroom politics, backstabbing and power struggles for a whole decade, and had earned the cachet of her own column. Whereas Dan had only showed up a year ago, fresh from a stint on a medical trade mag; not long before that he’d been covering stories about parking and rubbish collection for a local rag in the West Country. She was an old hand; he was virtually an ingénue.

  Which made it all the worse that she had inadvertently slept with him . . . and then, adding insult to self-injury, had deluded herself into thinking that their obviously doomed encounter might be the beginning of a viable relationship! What a fool she’d been . . . inviting him over to dinner, and even going so far as to tell Natalie that she’d met somebody new.

  Some date it had turned out to be. They’d barely started on the steaks before Dan began to quiz her about how long she’d worked at the Post, and where she’d been before that. She’d filled in the chronology for him happily enough – she’d even been grateful that someone was finally showing an interest in her career. But then, as he continued to press for detail, alarm bells had started ringing, and she’d challenged him: ‘Dan, if you want to know how old I am, why don’t you just come out with it and ask me?’

  ‘Because that would be rude,’ he’d said.

  ‘Why? Do you think I’m old enough for it to be a touchy subject? How old do you think I am?’

  ‘Twenty-eight,’ Dan had said without missing a beat.

  ‘Oh, spare me – I’m thirty-five.’

  ‘Really? You look younger.’

  She could almost hear the cogs turning: So she’s panicking about her fertility, in thrall to her bio
logical clock; she’ll be pushing for at least cohabitation, or preferably insemination, within six weeks of starting a relationship . . . tick-tock, tick-tock . . .

  ‘How about you?’ she’d asked.

  ‘Me? Thirty-three.’

  Then he’d made an awkward crack about cougars, and she had cleared the table and rolled a cigarette and he had lit up too, and they had both sat there smoking and silently cringing. The conversation hadn’t really recovered, and by the time they finished coffee it was clearly game over. She could see it in his eyes: the nervousness, the reluctance, the desire to let her down gently, and then he’d made his excuses (an early start the next day, to report on a conference about osteoporosis) and left.

  Which was really a blessing in disguise. What if he’d started snooping? He was a journalist, after all; he was bound to be nosey. Given half a chance he’d probably have gone through her drawers, or rummaged in the wardrobe, and could she really trust him to be discreet about anything he might find? What if he’d come across something that could have led him to Justin?

  No – if she was going to get together with anyone, it would have to be someone who was less inclined to ask questions. So it was just as well that it was all over before they’d really had a chance to get started.

  The only saving grace was that, as far as she was aware, he hadn’t told anyone else at work about their one-night stand. She certainly hadn’t noticed anybody looking at her differently, or suddenly going quiet when she turned up in the canteen or approached the water cooler – but if that were to change, she’d make sure that Dan regretted it. Hell hath no fury like a woman spurned – especially if she’s spurned because she’s deemed too desperate to make use of her ageing ovaries.

  She went into the newsroom and saw that her mad dash up the stairs had paid off; Dan was not yet at his desk. She settled down in front of her PC, turned it on and opened her desk diary to peruse her to-do list. A moment later Dan came in. But instead of slouching past her as if she didn’t exist, as had become his habit in the fortnight since Agegate, he trudged slowly towards her, as if struggling to make his way through an invisible force field, and came to a halt facing her, for all the world as if he expected her to actually stop what she was doing and talk to him.

  Whatever next! He was clearly about to attempt an exchange of words! She looked him up and down with all the superiority she could muster.

  ‘Morning, Vixen,’ he said, and attempted a smile.

  Oh God, why did he have to go and call her that? It had been Justin’s pet name for her – she’d suggested using it as a title for the column as a sort of private joke, hoping that when he glanced through the paper he’d notice it, and be touched, perhaps, or amused, or even a little bit impressed. But no – he’d just become even more preoccupied and unavailable, until she’d finally lost her temper and presented him with an ultimatum. Surprise, surprise, when it came down to it, Justin had opted to stay with his wife, who also happened to be the mother of his children.

  Dan waggled his fingers at her as if attempting to break her out of a trance. ‘Hello, earth to Tina? “The Vixen Letters” is the name of your column, right? I haven’t just walked into some alternate reality where it’s called something completely different?’

  She scowled at him to let him know he’d been too familiar. Truth to tell, when he said it, she wasn’t sure if she liked it. It sounded kind of hard and trampy. Not much like anything worth giving chase to.

  ‘What can I do for you, Dan?’ she asked.

  ‘Well, uh, I know things have been kind of awkward the last few weeks and I . . . wondered if you were free at lunchtime, if I could buy you a coffee, or maybe even a sandwich as well, and we could kind of smooth things over.’

  ‘Sorry, I have plans.’

  ‘Oh come on, Tina. Just ten minutes, that’s all I’m asking.’

  ‘I’m going to be in the Queen’s Head, celebrating my ten years at the Post. Jeremy emailed everyone about it last week – perhaps you overlooked it. Maybe I’ll see you there.’ She glanced at her watch to let him know she had made a major concession just by hearing him out this far, and was really much too busy for any further discussion.

  ‘Oh. Right. Yeah, I remember. Congratulations.’

  He was about to turn and move on and she really should have left it there, but she couldn’t resist making a parting shot. ‘Yes, well, us wizened thirty-six-year-olds have to make the most of our meagre causes for celebration.’

  ‘I guess you do,’ he said, and walked on.

  Tina glanced down at her notepad, and the list of questions she’d put together to ask the woman she was due to phone any minute now. She knew she needed to focus. Nevertheless, she found herself watching Dan as he trudged towards his desk, which was just as messy and disorganized as you’d expect. Probably a health hazard. He obviously wasn’t looking where he was going – hungover? – because he almost walked straight into the fresh-faced Scottish girl who’d just started working on the features section.

  Tina had bonded with Julia McMahon, or so she thought. They’d had a chat about Edinburgh University, which Julia had graduated from a decade after Tina, and Tina had hoped that Julia might make a suitable protégée, someone she could take under her wing. She needed a lunch-break pal to take the place of the colleagues who had abandoned her for well-to-do husbands and new lives growing organic vegetables in Norfolk, or bonding with other bankers’ wives in Zurich, or making hats in Bath.

  There was no doubt that Julia was luscious: she had flawless milkmaid skin and long, thick, heavy, shiny, coppery-red hair, and up until this point Tina had admired these attributes. But as Julia smiled up at Dan her friendly feelings immediately dissolved.

  How irritating! Just look at her, batting her eyelashes and shaking out her hair, as if reassuring Dan that he would be perfectly welcome to walk into her any time he wanted to! She might as well just wrap herself up in a big red ribbon and invite him to untie it. Some women were so . . . so unsubtle! Hadn’t she figured out that you had to be careful about these things? That an overt flirtation with a colleague was a surefire way to turn yourself into a laughing-stock? Hadn’t she realized that Dan, the jack-of-all-trades newshound, was much too low in the office hierarchy to be worth making a play for? Oh well, Julia would learn, by the time she got her marching orders if not before. These young women – they were all so clueless! They all carried on as if they still believed, deep down, that a man really could be the solution to all of life’s problems!

  Tina forced herself back to her list of interview questions and got ready to make the call. At the other end of the line, a tired female voice said, ‘Hello, hello?’ as a baby wailed in the background. As Tina introduced herself and reminded the woman about the article she was writing, everything that had bothered or annoyed or troubled her that morning – Dan, Justin, the flirty redhead, the Post’s falling circulation, the response to the Vixen Letters, her 36-year-old reproductive system, being single for real after all those years of being surreptitiously attached – all of it just disappeared, like so much audience chitchat silenced by the clarity of a lone performer stepping out on to a stage and beginning to speak.

  The interview was for an article about tokophobia: fear of giving birth. This was a new subject for Tina, who had written various articles over the years about the cost to the NHS of women who were too posh to push, but nothing at all about women who were too scared to. When she’d wound up the call and was looking through her notes, she was prompted to think of Natalie for the first time that day.

  She wasn’t feeling great about how she’d left things with Natalie – their last, chance meeting had been kind of weird. Natalie had been pretty grumpy for someone who never usually had a sharp word to say about anyone: You know what us middle-class mothers are like. Obsessed with swotting up for that all-important practical birth exam . . .

  And the last time they’d got together properly had been a disaster, thanks to Lucy: Another couple of years and it’
ll be too late for you to have a baby even if you do meet someone! Obviously Lucy had been way out of line, but after she’d stormed off, Natalie had attempted to rationalize her behaviour, and had reminded Tina about the thin time of it Lucy had had growing up and the great job she’d jacked in to devote herself to family life. Tina had ended up feeling bad, even though she was the one who’d been attacked.

  Natalie’s due date had fallen on Tina’s birthday, at the beginning of the week. Natalie had sent a card, in which she’d written Still waiting. And probably she still was . . . but what if she wasn’t?

  It could have all kicked off: the baby could be on the way that very moment. Natalie had seemed to have everything under control, what with the assertively written birth plan and the antenatal lessons and the books. She’d certainly done her homework. But when it came to the point of being put to the test, would any of that make any difference?

  Natalie’s predicament continued to niggle at Tina over the next couple of hours. It was no good – not knowing what was going on was making it impossible for her to concentrate properly. She decided to give Natalie a quick ring and set her mind at rest; if Natalie was there and able to speak to her, then all well and good . . . and if not, like Natalie herself, she would just have to wait.

  Tina took her personal organizer out of her bag to check for Natalie’s number. Dan had teased her for storing her diary and contact numbers in such a hidebound format, but Tina liked to have things written down and tucked away. If Justin hadn’t had a knack for writing persuasive love letters, she doubted whether their relationship, with its ongoing restrictions and frequent separations, would have lasted as long as it did.

  The phone rang for a while before Natalie answered, sounding groggy and half asleep.