by Jade Beer
Mmm, a congratulations card from someone at work, maybe? Christ, I can’t open it in front of Marianne – that will take way too much explaining.
‘Oh. How weird. Maybe it’s for Lulu and Will and they just got us confused?’ I’m casually reaching for it across the table but not quickly enough.
‘Only one way to find out!’
Before I can say another word, Marianne tears the envelope open and is reading aloud the gold-embossed card that’s inside:
* * *
Nick & Helen
Would love you to join them for
Christmas Eve drinks & canapés
The Hamilton Penthouse
Corinthia Hotel
6.30 p.m.
RSVP: [email protected]
* * *
‘Do you know a Nick and Helen? You’ve never mentioned them before?’ Marianne has put down her toast and is eyeing me. She knows something’s not quite right but I’m not about to give her any more opportunity to dig.
‘Nope.’ I snatch the invitation from her. ‘I’ll ask Lulu if it means anything to her.’ I can see from the sideways stare she’s giving me that my flatmate doesn’t believe a word. To be fair, I probably wouldn’t either. But I’ve got more important things to worry about this morning, so I drain my coffee cup and head out to the tube station, filled with a sense of impending doom.
* * *
Midwives are amazing. That’s what I’m thinking as I’m being physically body-bumped away from the last remaining seat on the eastbound District line by a man who is using his hard, rectangular briefcase as a battering ram. I feel it connect sharply with my hip bone and wince. I turn, expecting an apology, but he’s already in the seat, flapping open his newspaper and pretending to be unaware of what he just did. He probably aims to sit in that same seat every morning and can’t handle a day that begins any differently, throwing him off his naturally comforting course.
As exhausting as work can be, I do love it. In many ways it centres me, even in the most testing situation – and I never know when that might come. Today, I might assist in a water birth; position myself just back from the pool and watch as the woman surrenders her swollen body to the warm cocooning effect of the water. I’ll barely be needed at all, until it’s time to ease the baby gently up to the surface and into the arms of Mum. Or I might be running alongside the bed as a woman is wheeled into theatre for an emergency C-section. The last time this happened, the mum was stuck at four centimetres dilated and we needed to get the baby out. The problem was, by the time we got her to theatre and onto the operating table, she had rapidly progressed to being fully dilated: the baby was coming. I’ll never forget that day. We got his head out but his shoulders were stuck, for eleven minutes – too long. We had to resuscitate him – sadly, not quickly enough to save his delicate brain from damage. I cried all the way home on the tube that night. Baby Archie stayed with us for four months until he was well enough to go home, and I loved getting to know him. He liked having his neck tickled. I was the first person he ever smiled at. I felt on top of the world that day, like there was nothing that could bring me down. How could it, when his mum was fighting so hard to keep her little family together?
This is all going to make my confession to Jean much harder. I don’t want her to think I don’t care, that I can’t be trusted. I need her to know it was one stupid mistake that I will never make again. It’s just getting the first words out that will be difficult.
* * *
Jean is waiting for me. I was not expecting that. I can tell from her face that she already knows. I won’t get a chance to put this right myself now. She looks stern but also massively disappointed, like she knows she’s got to unleash hell on me but really doesn’t want to and now despises me even more for putting her in that position. I can also tell that other people know. I don’t even make it as far as the staffroom. The second I lock eyes with our receptionist, I see how hers widen and flick straight to Jean – as if to say, here we go.
‘Can you step into my office please, Jenny.’
A wave of pins and needles radiates up my back and everything physically sinks downwards inside me. Oh my God, I’m going to cry before I even get in there. If she sees how upset I am, might she go a little easier on me? But the sobering effect of the fear I’m feeling is cancelling out all my tears. What if I just say, No, I can’t come in. Sorry. I don’t want to. Is that an option? I seriously consider making a grab for the mobile in my pocket and pretending there’s an urgent call I need to take. A big family problem that will mean I have to go home, right now.
Why am I behaving like a child?
I glance across the hallway to the staffroom and see several heads turn. They all know and have obviously been waiting for my arrival. Would it have killed someone to text me a warning?
‘Have a seat.’ Jean shifts a couple of box files off a chair so I can sit down and I hope for a fleeting moment that she’s going to ask me about wedding cake trends. As it happens, I’m quite up on that. The flavours of the English countryside are super-popular right now – red apple, elderflower, peach, strawberry and anything rose-scented. Oh God, focus Jenny!
‘You know why you’re in here, don’t you?’ Jean sits down too, in the chair opposite me. Her office – actually more of a storeroom – is so small our knees are nearly touching, which is just making this even more awkward.
‘I think so.’ I’m holding out, allowing myself futile hope.
‘She came back in. Very early this morning and in a total panic that something dreadful was going to happen.’
That confirms it. Why didn’t I just say something there and then in the bar when it first occurred to me? Yes, it would have sucked the life out of the evening, but anything is better than this, than looking incompetent and uncaring. She would have seen for herself how mortified I was. But it all seems a bit hollow now, like I’m apologising purely because she’s caught me out.
‘I’m so sorry. It was so busy yesterday when she left. I was looking forward to the drinks and it just completely slipped my mind.’
‘It’s always busy, Jenny. That can’t be an excuse for doing a less than vigilant job. She managed to remember. A brand-new mum, full of worry, on no sleep, and she still remembered. Which means there really is no excuse for you forgetting, I’m afraid.’ She’s looking over the top of her specs at me in proper headmistress mode.
‘I know. I’m sorry. Should I call her?’ I really don’t want to do that. I don’t want to hear anyone else be cross with me and I’ve got nothing satisfying to offer her by way of an explanation. After she gave me such a lovely gift, too.
‘No, I’ve dealt with it. But I’m disappointed. It’s a silly mistake to make and one you know could have had very serious consequences if it hadn’t been picked up. The fact that it wasn’t picked up by you only makes it worse.’
I can’t even tell her I knew now, otherwise it poses the even more stupid question of why I still didn’t say anything. I just thought I could get in here and put it right before this conversation had to happen.
‘Whatever is going on in your private life, it can’t detract from the very important job you do here. I thought you knew that.’
‘Of course, yes.’ If only she knew how much of my headspace this non-wedding is taking up – having to plan, or rather unplan; it is so exhausting.
‘I am putting you in room six today with Mrs Marshall. Her waters broke twenty-four hours ago, no spontaneous labour. She’s had the prostin gel and was moved to the delivery suite very early this morning. Lucy has just set up the Syntocinon drip and she’s one centimetre dilated, only very mild contractions so far. Go and relieve Lucy, she needs to go home.’
To the untrained, this statement would mean nothing. But I know what Jean is saying: she is asking me to look after a woman who will, in all probability, take hours and hours to start labour fully. While her husband sits mute in the corner, eyes never looking up from his phone screen, my long, laborious job
will be to watch the CTG that monitors baby’s heartbeat. I’ll take hourly blood pressure readings, and check the epidural level to make sure it is still strong enough. Then every fifteen minutes I’ll record the foetal heart rate and any contractions she may be having. It will be long, slow and drawn-out. It’s continuous and repetitive monitoring and I’ll have to get someone to cover for me if I need so much as a wee – and knowing how busy we always are, how likely is that to happen?
Some days you’ll hit it off with the woman and the two of you can have a lovely chat. This is when I feel really useful, dispensing endless advice on the best nappies, making the transition from breast to bottle, sleep routines. I feel needed and valued. Others, like today, I walk in the room and she’s fast asleep and he can barely manage a grunt in my direction. I enter the room at 9.35 a.m. and by ten o’clock, I am climbing the walls with frustration. My mind flicks back to the invitation and how I am going to navigate my way around that one. I’d love to go to Helen’s drinks. I’ve got nothing else to do on Christmas Eve with Dad, Lulu and Marianne all away. And it sounds so luxurious; all that five-star spoiling is something I’m never likely to be offered ever again. Couldn’t Will just be busy? How believable is that?
I watch the hands on the clock on the wall slowly creep round as I sit in the opposite corner of the room from the dad. The darkness is making me sleepy and I can feel myself starting to drift mentally out of the room. Have I really been in here two hours? It feels like six. I start to worry I’m actually going to fall asleep and I have to set the alarm on my mobile to buzz every fifteen minutes. I honestly did mean to put my phone in my locker – the last thing I need is to give Jean a single other reason to be cross with me – but now I’m glad I have it.
I notice a new text from Helen.
* * *
Can you call me urgently please, Jenny. I must speak to you, Helen
* * *
No kiss. She knows. She knows I’m lying to her and have been for months. She’s going to be furious. She’s going to shout at me. Will she report me to work? Perhaps she’ll think I’m so mental, my employer should know. I work in a hospital, I care for people. I can’t be unhinged or irresponsible. Lives will be put at risk. Oh, shit! I’m going to have to call her. But how?
I try to bash out a quick covert response, desperately attempting to gauge any level of anger she might be feeling, but the text won’t go. The signal is too weak in here and I know I’m not going to get a break for hours. I look at Mrs Marshall. She’s relaxed, drifting in and out of sleep and comfortable, and her readings are all fine. I stick my head out into the corridor. Who is free to cover me for fifteen minutes? No one, obviously. I sit back down. I know I shouldn’t leave her. It’s wrong and Jean will hit the roof. And rightly so. But… perhaps if I tell the dad I’m popping to the loo, I can duck down the corridor, past the staffroom and out towards the far end of the department where we store the old equipment and no one ever ventures. I just get a terse ‘yep’ from him and then I pop my head back out into the corridor. One of the student midwives is passing and I know she’s my only hope. I can’t leave her in the room alone, but I can ask her to find someone to cover me quickly.
‘Annie! Can you get someone to sit with Mrs Marshall, please? I’m busting and I’ve got to leave the room now, I can’t wait.’
‘Oh, um, right, yes. The only thing is, I’ve just been asked to—’
‘Seriously, it has to be now, please. I won’t be long. Just whizz back round to the staffroom and grab someone, will you please.’
I can’t wait for a response. I’m off, as fast as I can, without drawing attention to myself, walk-running all the way there. All I need is five quick minutes.
As soon as I round the corner on to the back corridor, I slide my mobile discreetly out from the front pocket of my scrubs and pull up Helen’s number. The second she answers, I make it clear I’ve got no time to chat.
‘Helen, it’s Jenny. I got your text. I’m at work so I’ve only got a couple of minutes…’
‘Hello! OK, I’ve got someone with me too, so let me call you back ASAP. Two minutes OK, bye.’
The call disconnects and I’m pacing back and forth, shooting the occasional glance back round the corner to check no one else is heading this way. She didn’t sound angry. Otherwise she would have just flown at me, right? But I need to be sure. Come on, Helen, come on. I lift the small silver fob watch on my scrubs and see I’ve already been gone eight minutes and it’s another six before she calls me back.
‘OK, so today is the deadline to pay the deposit for your dress. I had a feeling you’d forget. Am I right?’
Oh shit! I’m instantly regretting calling her. I could have dodged this. This conversation definitely could have waited and now I’m stuck on the call when I should be with Mrs Marshall. I don’t even need a bloody dress – not that I can tell her that, obviously. I’ll be straight off the Christmas drinks list.
‘Let me see. It’s the Hayley Paige embroidered ballgown… you decided against the extra crystal embellished belt… you need it for July 20th… and the alterations we decided on were largely to lift the hem, pull in the waist a fraction, and the shoulders needed slimming a little too. So, let me think, the total cost is going to be…’
I can hear Helen trying to tot up the figures, mental arithmetic clearly not her thing, and then she’s talking me through calendar dates.
‘So, if you’re paying the deposit today and we confirm the order, that gives us one, two, three…’
She’s counting out the weeks until my imaginary wedding and I can feel my breath start to shorten. ‘And how much is the deposit, Helen?’ I have to cut her off or I’ll be here all day.
‘It’s fifty per cent of the total cost, so in your case, that will be about £2,300. Are you paying on credit or debit card? Oh gosh, someone’s hammering on the door, Jenny, just give me a second.’
I hear her put the handset down. Think, think, think. As I’m considering just hanging up, she’s back.
‘OK, sorry about that. I do make it clear we’re by appointment only, but you always get someone who tries to drop in on the hop. Now, where were we?’
‘So, my dad was going to come in and pay the deposit. He’s been saving up for a while and I think it’s something he really wants to do. Is that OK?’
‘Umm. I really should take the deposit today.’ There’s a painful pause that I make no attempt to fill. Helen is obviously working out how reliable my father might be. ‘It’s the 12th December today and my last open day before Christmas will be next Thursday, 20th. He’ll need to call me ASAP. Actually, do you want to give me his number and I can liaise with him directly?’
‘Oh, it’s OK, I’ve given him yours.’ I don’t know where I think this is going or how it can possibly end well. He’s obviously not going to call. Helen’s going to chase me again. And then what? I can’t worry about that now, I need to get back to Mrs Marshall. I glance at my watch: I’ve been gone twenty-four minutes. Far too long.
‘OK then, that’s agreed. I hope to see you and Will on Christmas Eve, Jenny? You did get the invitation?’
‘Yes, of course! You will, you will! Er, although it may just be me. Let me get back to you. I must go! Thank you, Helen, bye.’
I stand there for a second, just taking a breath and composing myself, slightly terrified by the enormity of the lies I’ve just told, and hot, very hot, from the stress of it all. I can’t think about it now. There must be a way to salvage all this without losing Helen’s friendship but there’s not enough space in my head to work it out. I’ll sit down tonight and go through it all.
* * *
Was that someone shouting my name? I’m sure I heard it. Did I? I freeze until it comes again. It’s Jean. Without another thought, I belt back around the corner, down the corridor, past the staffroom and towards room six. Annie is at reception, casually chatting to another one of the students, and when she sees me, her mouth drops open and she jerks to attention. Oh
no! I can tell instantly from her reaction that she never found the cover for me.
As soon as I see the door propped open and hear the high-pitched CTG alarm going, it’s obvious something is wrong. Jean comes out with a look of sharp focus that confirms there is definitely a problem – something she shouldn’t be seeing before me. She looks straight at me and too late, I notice her gaze falls to my right hand. The one still clutching my mobile phone. I thrust it guiltily back in my pocket, but the damage is done. Her face contorts into a look that’s part confusion, part rage.
‘Call theatre now!’ she shouts at me. ‘Emergency C-section.’
As I enter the room and yank the phone from the wall I see Lucy is here too, firing details at another midwife, who is documenting everything on the patient notes. ‘Foetal heart rate 165 bpm, mum’s temperature 38.5.’ At the same time, she’s doing all the things I should be doing: turning off the Syntocinon drip and switching it for fluids to make sure Mrs Marshall is properly hydrated. ‘Time is 12.16 p.m., last recorded observations were 11.40 a.m.’ She looks accusingly at me when she says that. No one is saying it yet but we all know this is my fault.
Mum is surprisingly calm but her husband is glaring at me: he knows I should have been here. The sheepish look on my face and the quick efficiency of everyone else around me is giving the game away. The room is full of activity now. A doctor is getting mum to sign a consent form while Lucy is pulling on the knee-high white stockings she’ll wear to theatre and giving her the antacid tablet she needs. Then the anaesthetist arrives to top up her epidural. In the fifteen minutes it takes for all this to happen, I am rooted to the spot, feeling incapable of making a positive difference to anything that’s happening. My room has been taken over by people who would never leave Mrs Marshall alone.