by Tina Seskis
As the tube storms into Oxford Circus I physically shake my head to rid myself of these thoughts, and my expensively-streaked bob swings into my eyes. I smooth my hair, compose myself, put the past back where it belongs. I battle my way off the train, shuffle with the throng along the crowded platform, glide up the escalator (on tiptoes to protect my heels, mentally practising my cheery hellos all the way) and then I step out into the too-bitter Spring day.
23
Caroline looked at the thin blue line on the white plastic stick and she let out a soft breath of – what? Fear, or anticipation? She was still only 22, but she’d just graduated from St Martin’s, had a flat off Brick Lane, a good-looking boyfriend, a promising job in a designer store. She’d been pregnant twice before, and neither time had felt right, but this time? She wasn’t sure. It surprised her how fecund she’d proved to be, despite having starved her body as a teenager, and she resolved to be more careful in future, she couldn’t keep having abortions. Dominic was taking her out later, maybe she could sound him out then about how he’d feel about having a baby. She put the cap on the pregnancy test and stored it at the back of the bathroom cabinet, then she showered and put on her favourite outfit, she found she wanted to look her best today. She felt close to this starter-baby, unlike the others – maybe because she could see herself loving its father this time, after all he was her boyfriend, not just some random sexual partner where things had got out of hand. Caroline looked down at her belly, beneath the orange pop art T-shirt, and imagined it swelling and rounding with a beautiful little baby inside. Someone for her to love, who would love her back, unconditionally. She found she liked the thought.
Caroline finished dressing and smoothed the silver eiderdown over her bed instead of leaving it unmade like usual. The walls were painted fuchsia pink and were covered in pictures she’d bought off friends from art college: abstract naked women with their legs apart, black and white photos of muscly men wearing sadomasochistic collars and belts, a blood-spattered sunset. She loved that the pictures were so outrageous, and who knows they might be worth something one day. Although the room was nice enough the bed was so huge she would barely fit a cot in there. She'd probably need to move before the baby’s born, she thought. Maybe she and Dominic could get a place together, somewhere a bit more child-friendly, Islington perhaps, or even Ealing. Caroline put on her shoes – gold platform trainers that were almost impossible to walk in – and went into the kitchen. The flat was in the eaves of a converted house, so the walls sloped into her and the cabinets were at crazy angles, but the room was bright and light and Caroline felt blessed, euphoric, as she looked out to the Virgin Mary-blue of the sky. She put some coffee on and went to light a cigarette, and then remembered herself – she was pregnant – and so she picked up yesterday’s newspaper instead, and even the bad news seemed good today and she thought about ringing her mother.
No, she'd wait to tell Dominic first, she thought, in fact she'd call him now. She dialled his number, and it rang and rang but didn’t flip to voicemail. She checked her watch, still only 9.30, she’d try him again later. She settled down to watch daytime TV, she didn’t need to be at work until 12, and she flicked channels until she found her favourite show – uncouth people screaming and shouting at each other about falling out with their sister, or sleeping with their mother’s lover, or their boyfriend not being the father of their child. Caroline may have developed a hard persona, a “don’t fuck with me” veneer, but somehow when she watched these shows she always cried, it seemed the distilling of human emotions into these undignified shouting matches moved her in a way little else did. Glen from Sheffield was just about to find out whether or not he was the father of his two year old daughter when Caroline’s phone went and she hesitated to pick up, and then she saw who it was.
“Hi Dom,” she said, and her voice was free of the sarcastic drawl that so alienated people, put them on high alert for attack.
“Hi gorgeous, saw I missed a call from you?”
“Yeah...” She went to speak, blurt it out, and then she changed her mind. “Er, I was just wondering what time you were coming over tonight?”
“About 7.30? Is that cool? I thought we could get something to eat in town and then head over to Danielle’s birthday drinks.”
“Sounds great,” said Caroline. “See you later.” As she hung up she thought how much better it would be to tell him to his face, after all. She turned back to the TV but it was too late. She’d missed poor weasel-faced Glen’s fate – proud father or humiliated cuckold? – but as she lifted the strong black coffee to her purple-glossed lips she found she didn’t even mind.
24
As I cut through the back streets, past Liberty’s, along Great Marlborough Street (I long ago learned to avoid the tourists on Oxford Street) I try again to ignore why I’m thinking about my old life today, why although I have tried and tried and tried, now it is actually May I cannot forget that the anniversary is this Friday. That’s why the timing of this new promotion has been good for me in some ways – I’ll have three accounts to manage, two people reporting into me, and I’ll have to work directly with the fearsome Tiger Carrington. I won’t have time to dwell on what happened almost a year ago.
“The cat and the tiger,” Simon had laughed over lunch the day it’d been announced, and I had shushed him crossly. “It’s not funny,” I’d said. “I’m sure she hates me.”
“Cat Brown, no-one could hate you,” Simon had said, and I’d known that wasn’t true, what about all the people in the office who thought I’d shagged my way up the agency? What about my husband?
As I arrive in front of the soaring glass doors, with the four names etched high above my head, I no longer feel intimidated, out of place, like I did that first Friday, in my dreary black dress and borrowed scarf. Now I can sashay as well as the other girls, I’m fully made up, my look is expensive and sleek, I’ve been seduced by the gloss in a way that surprises me. Yes, I’m a fully-fledged fake these days.
I walk like I own the place into the lobby, past the weird-shaped furniture, past the latest beautiful receptionist, and I get in the glass-walled lift up to the third floor. I’m the first one in, and I sit down at my desk, power up my laptop, check my schedule although I already know what it says. Deodorant client status meeting this afternoon, creative presentation for car account Wednesday morning, awards do Friday.
Friday.
I don’t want to go but I know that I have to, Tiger will expect it and I can’t think of an excuse, not one I can tell her anyway. We’re up for an award for Frank, the deodorant brand, for a TV commercial we shot in Spain, up in the hills behind Malaga. I’d been glad then that I’d stayed legitimate, had chosen to go back to my maiden name – it meant I could use my passport, after all it said Catherine Emily Brown already. I’d still been a wreck going through customs though.
That trip to Spain had been the first fun – proper, memory-free fun – I had had in months. The sun had shone, and everyone had got along, helped by the Sangria of course, and on the last day the main character (the sweaty one) had been dumped into a bush by the pony he was meant to be riding, and once it was clear he was OK we’d laughed until it had hurt, especially as it had all been caught on camera.
I feel rather than see Tiger stalk in. She has silver lowlights and surely her tan is fake, but she manages to look classy, groomed, in fact she looks absolutely great, she must have had Botox. She wears designer classics rather than the latest trends and they suit her – in fact I’d like to look like that at her age. I find these days that I often think quite freely of the future, assume that I will still be in it after all, and again I wonder at how I’ve turned my life around, over that first week, these past months – although I don’t like to think too much how, into what.
“Morning,” snarls Tiger.
“Hi Tiger,” I reply, more cheerily than I feel. I try to think of something to say, she still makes me nervous. “How was your weekend?”
; “Fine,” she snaps and I know that it wasn’t and regret asking. Although she’s never told me of course, Tiger is going through her second divorce and I think she’s in the process of moving house, out of the family home in Barnes into a swanky apartment block behind Harrods. I feel sorry for her, but I can’t say anything, I’m not meant to know. I only do know because Simon has told me, it’s not common knowledge in the agency, but I’m good at keeping my mouth shut and so Simon tells me most things. I’m like his stand-in wife these days, the person he should be able to share his hopes and fears and office gossip with, someone who can comfort and counsel him. But his real wife seems so selfish she’s only interested in her latest renovation project in one of their homes, or her twice-weekly tennis lessons, or what new car she should get to replace her year-old Porsche. I’ve never met her, only spoken to her on the phone, but Simon tells me all this and what with how she speaks to me I assume it’s true. Their eight year old son is at boarding school so she doesn’t even have to worry about him, and I wonder at a 21st century mother who can leave her little boy alone, fending for himself in an out-dated institution – and then the irony bites and the tears stab, and I’m back in Monday morning.
“... so they’ll be expecting to see the first concepts today,” Tiger finishes, and I’ve not heard a word of what she’s said or even know which client she’s talking about.
“Huh? Yes, sure, of course Tiger,” I say, and it’s clear to us both that I’m clueless. Tiger roars.
“For God’s sake Cat, do I have to say that all over again? I warned Simon it was too much for you, you’ve got virtually no experience.”
“Sorry Tiger,” I say. “It’s not that.” I try a jokey tone but the way she’s looking at me is scaring me shitless and it comes out high-pitched. “I haven’t had a coffee yet and I’m afraid I’m a bit Monday morningish still. Would you like one?”
“OK,” she says, after a pause, and I think I’ve got away with it, this time.
25
Emily came back from the hospital in shock. She’d gone that morning for an investigation into an abnormal smear test, and although Ben had offered to go with her, she’d said no, it was fine, they wouldn’t tell her anything today, he didn’t need to miss work. That was where she’d been wrong. She’d been sat nervously on a sage vinyl chair in the harshly-lit waiting room, flicking through an ancient copy of Reader’s Digest, when the receptionist came over and asked her to fill in a form: they needed some information before she saw the consultant. Emily took the black plastic clipboard and chewed ball point pen, joined together with greasy string as if in punishment, and whizzed through it. Name, address, date of birth, any current medication (no), any other illnesses (no), any operations in the last five years (no), date of last menses (?). Emily looked at the question and her mind wouldn’t respond. When did she have her last period? She couldn’t remember. Before their summer holiday or after? Definitely not while they were actually in Crete. She just couldn’t think. In the end she put a question mark and handed the form in at the desk. She sat there, worried now, her mind trying to work back over the weeks, but she’d been so busy at work lately, she couldn’t remember having had one at all. She consulted her diary. They’d got got back from holiday, what, five weeks ago, and no, she definitely hadn’t had her period since. So it must have been more than five weeks ago. A lot more than five weeks ago. She picked up the magazine again and flicked through the grimy pages. She couldn’t concentrate. She opened her bag and took out her mobile and wondered whether to call Ben and ask him if he knew, but there were other people around, she didn’t want them to hear and she couldn’t risk leaving the waiting room, in case she was called. She thought about sending him a text, but he’d think she was mad, he’d have less of an idea than her.
“Mrs Coleman,” called the consultant, and Emily jumped up and followed her into the room, and she tried not to look at the chair with cold metal stirrups, and she tried not to think that she’d be sat there soon.
The consultant sat and worked through Emily’s form, swiftly, perfunctorily, and then she came to the final question. She looked up quizzically and Emily said, “I know, I’m sorry, it’s ridiculous but I’ve got no idea.” She paused.
“I’ve recently been to Crete,” she continued, as if that explained it, and maybe it did.
The consultant smiled.
“Would you like to do a pregnancy test?”
“What, now? Would you be able to tell me if I was?” And as soon as she said it she felt silly, everyone knew how to do pregnancy tests. Except that Emily had never actually done one, she’d always been careful, paranoid even, about birth control. After all she didn’t want to end up like Caroline.
“Of course we can do one. Can you manage it now?” Emily nodded. “Good. Let’s do that first, and then we’ll do the examination.”
A nurse took Emily into a small anteroom where she changed out of her black trousers and bright white underwear, put on the robe she’d been given, went to the lavatory next door – and then returned to the examination room clutching the jar, evidence or otherwise of potential new life.
“Up you get Mrs Coleman.” Emily climbed into the chair and reluctantly opened her legs to put her feet in the stirrups.
“I know this isn’t pleasant but can you open them a bit wider for me?” said the consultant. “That’s better. Now, this may be a bit cold.”
Emily grimaced. She hated this more than anything, not so much the pain but the feeling of vulnerability. She shut her eyes and breathed in deeply, trying to quash her need to close her knees.
Three minutes later the nurse bustled back into the room. The consultant paused and looked up. “Well, is she?” she said, as casually as if she was asking whether Emily was parked in the hospital car park.
“Oh yes!” the nurse replied, and Emily gasped and then she put her hands over her face and started to cry and go, “Oh, oh,” in a strangled little voice. The consultant and the nurse moved either side of her then, saying, “That’s wonderful news, don’t cry Mrs Coleman,” and they gave her a hug even though her legs were still in stirrups, and through her anxiety and panic Emily thought two thoughts at the exact same time – how wonderful they were being, and what on earth she was going to say to her sister.
26
I make myself and Tiger really good coffee, I even warm the milk in the microwave but she barely looks up as I give it to her, she’s reading her emails now. I decide to leave her alone for now rather than risk annoying her further, and so I go back to my desk. By this time the rest of the team are in, and they’re comparing notes about the weekend: who shagged who, what clubs they went to, whether the latest cheated-on celebrity should leave their partner. I feel a bit awkward joining in, not because I find their conversation puerile, I quite enjoy this kind of chat these days, but because on Friday I was their peer and today I’m their boss and I’m not sure how they feel about it.
“Nice shoes,” says Nathalie. “Bet they were expensive?”
“Thanks, they were a bit,” I reply, thinking of the three hundred pounds I spent on them last week, to celebrate my promotion, and how nine months ago I’d bought a whole bedroom for the same money. I feel a tiny stab of shame.
I try to settle at my desk while the Monday morning banter continues, feeling nervous, uneasy, not really knowing what I’m meant to be doing. I decide to email Tiger to clarify what she’d asked me earlier, I don’t want to get it wrong and I’m still too scared to talk to her.
“Hi Tiger,” I write. “Just to confirm, was it for Frank that first concepts are due today?”
I press delete, in case it’s not for Frank, my deodorant client. I try again.
“Hi Tiger. I’m sorry, I know this is crap but can you confirm who’s expecting first concepts today?” Too brutally honest, too apologetic, on my first day post-promotion.
“Hi Tiger. Please can you confirm who’s expecting first concepts today. Thks, Cat.” To the point, economic with words, not a
pologetic, hopefully least likely to annoy her. I hit send.
I spend the morning chasing down what I need for my client meeting, haranguing laid back creatives, arguing with planners, amending photography briefs, putting together agendas, making sure Nathalie has ordered the lunch. By 12 I’m still feeling nervous, edgy, and although I’d sworn not to, in this week of all weeks, I find myself in the ladies, with its sleek frosted doors, white shiny surfaces, fancy liquid soap. I only have half a line, it’s all I need to get me through the afternoon, but I hate myself inside. I come back to my desk glittery and jittery. There’s an email reply in my inbox, from Tiger. All it says is, “You’re fired,” but I’m feeling sharp and invincible and assume she’s joking.
27
Andrew sat at his grey empty desk and looked at the monthly sales report in front of him and none of the figures made any sense at all. Although he was well aware of his reputation as the office sleaze-bag – his affairs had always been so blatant – until recently he’d always been well-regarded as far as his ability went. These days though he was barely making it through the day, and he knew his boss would have to do something soon if he didn’t sort himself out.
Things had started going wrong for Andrew years ago, ever since his wife had finally upped and left him. He’d become so blasé about her acceptance of his carryings on that even her disgust at his behaviour at Emily’s wedding hadn’t registered. So when in the car on the way back from Devon Frances had matter-of-factly told him she was leaving, he hadn’t believed her. And when she’d packed a suitcase and left that same night, the night after the wedding, he’d been certain she’d come back, after all where would she go? And when she hadn’t come back he’d found he didn’t know how to cope: how to work the washing machine, how to cook a meal, where the dishwasher tablets were. He didn’t even know where Frances had gone, and he rang round everyone he could think of – all her friends, her sister Barbara, Caroline, but she wasn’t with any of them. Eventually he worked it out, and he turned up at Ben and Emily’s place although they were still on honeymoon, pleading, banging on the door, but Frances refused to let him in. Andrew found out too late that his wife was the type of woman who could be pushed and pushed and pushed, but once she reached her limit that was it, over. OK, she had a spare key, but even so it wasn’t like her to be so presumptive, and he’d realised she must have been desperate.