Eleven Weeks

by Lauren K. McKellar

  “I …”

  “You need a new outfit. That’s what you’re about to say, right?” I grab Kate’s wrist and pull her closer to my side. I’ve been so caught up in my own crazy, I haven’t really been there for her as much as I could. As much as I should.

  “I guess?”

  “Of course you do. We need Michael to report back to Dave how hot you’re looking.” I charge forward, heading for the store exit. I may have beaten the vomit monster for now, but I know if I don’t get to a bathroom quickly, she’ll have her revenge.

  I glance behind me. Kate is standing stock still, right where I left her.

  My phone buzzes.

  Michael: Your hair? Amazing …

  Tears well in my eyes. I need to vomit, I’m feeling so much for Michael, I’m worried about Kate, I’m hormonal and pregnant …

  “Kate?”

  She grabs a tube off the shelf and takes it to the cashier for payment. “You forgot your candy pink.”

  “Thank you,” I say, and throw my arms around her neck. I’m still not sold on the lipstick.

  But sometimes you look into someone’s eyes, and you see that they’re lost. You see that they need something to anchor them, to bring them back down to earth and reassure them that everything’s going to be okay.

  And then you realise you’re only seeing that, because it’s mirrored in yourself.

  And you wish like hell someone would hold you like that.

  SEVEN WEEKS. That’s how long it’s been since I’ve had this person growing inside me, this tiny human that I’ve Googled and found out is roughly three centimetres in size right now.

  It’s strange how something so small can change your life so drastically. Now, instead of spending my summer uncertain of my future, I have a plan.

  Ish.

  Or at least, that’s what I tell myself as I rock up for my fourth job interview in four days, only twenty minutes late after my emergency shopping trip for Kate.

  I run my hands over my “You’ve ruined it, now” (thanks, Shae) hair, and bite my lip. I can do this. I will get this job. I will support the small human.

  Pushing open the door, I walk inside an unmarked building to a white reception desk. Fluorescent lights illuminate the space and showcase every freckle on the woman behind the desk. And she has so many, you could play join the dots.

  I walk up to the counter and clasp my hands on the top, smiling down at her.

  “May I help you?” she purrs. Her voice is smooth as silk, and kind of … kind of sexy. I guess as someone answering the phone all day, she really does have the skills for the job.

  “Hi, my name is Stacey Allison. I have a job interview with Mischa?” I ask.

  “Sure, take a seat.” The woman nods to a black leather chair behind me, and I turn and sit down. I drum my fingers nervously on the black display folder I have on my lap. Not that it says anything particularly impressive inside; just a copy of some of my most recent school exams, a reference from the guy who owned the local store I used to work at—before he went broke—and a nice note from our year advisor, Mr Hilman, who scribbled down some notes about my talents as cheerleader two years ago.

  “Stacey.” I look up. One of the most glamorous women I’ve ever seen struts toward me on what must be at least four-inch heels. She extends her hand, complete with perfectly manicured French-tipped fingers, and I scramble to my feet to take it.

  “Hi. I’m Stacey,” I say, then bite my tongue. Yes, you idiot, she just called you that!

  “Sorry to have kept you waiting; I was on a call. Follow me.” Her voice is like liquid gold, all melting and luscious, and I wonder if having a soothing tone like that is a prerequisite for working here. I guess this is a sales company … if most of it is done on the phone that would make perfect sense.

  I follow Mischa’s tight skirt-clad arse to an office down a hallway. She opens the door and gestures to a white leather chair situated in front of a white desk, which has another white leather chair behind it. Everything about the room is white: white-covered pens, white floor, white walls, and even a white statue in the corner, one of those odd ones where it looks like a naked couple canoodling. In fact, the only thing not white is the deep red rose in a slim vase on her desk.

  Mischa shuts the door and dances around me with complete precision to a seat behind the desk. I look down at my folder and pull my skirt forward, only to see her kick off her heels and sink her red-painted toes in to the thick white fur rug beneath her. How does she make that look so attractive?

  “Thank you for coming in today,” she says, giving me a brisk nod.

  I open my mouth to speak, but no words seem to come. What’s wrong with me? Where have all my social skills gone?

  Stace, you can do this. You’re good at pretending, I internally berate myself. And besides—small human depends on you.

  “Thanks for having me.” I smile. I offer my folder across the desk to Mischa, who gracefully retrieves it from my grasp. “This is a folder with my resume, and a few letters of recommendation.”

  Mischa opens the folder and flicks through, giving small nods every few pages. “How old are you?” She snaps the folder shut with a distinct clack.

  “Twenty,” I answer confidently, chin held high, eyes wide open. Something tells me that this woman would not be impressed by my fresh-out-of-school status.

  This answer seems to satisfy Mischa, as she nods, and then says, “Let’s talk about your experience in sales …”

  “I’ve worked in sales before, for a period of three years.” Part-time, once a week, at the local store. And by sales, I really mean taking money for candy and occasionally mopping the floor. “And I take pride in giving a job my all.”

  Mischa steeples her fingers together flat against the desk. “And how do you perform when it comes to meeting targets?” Her voice is so sexy, if I wasn’t pregnant and a chick, I’d consider jumping her.

  “I have a good track record.” I dance around the question, and then, deepening my voice in the hope of sounding even the slightest bit hotter than I so far do, I add in, “And I can be very persuasive.”

  Mischa laughs, a deep, rumbling sound, and I join her. “I like your attitude, Stacey. I think you could fit in well here. Presumably, you researched us before you came in?”

  I blink. Yes. I did. Well, I researched that they had a job opening. The company itself? Once I saw the word phone, I thought it wouldn’t really matter. To me it had seemed like the perfect job, one where I could sit down all day, keep my feet up, and not stress out the bub. I rub my belly. After all, it’s not too taxing to pick up a phone.

  “Yes.” I smile.

  “And you think you can be … creative enough to fulfil the role?” Mischa asks.

  “Yes.” I don’t hesitate for a second. Even though by now, I’m having some serious concerns about this whole thing. Creative enough? Isn’t this just a sales gig?

  “I mean, as well as straight sales referrals, sometimes you’ll need to do some work yourself.”

  My mouth opens and shuts like a goldfish.

  “Oh, it’s fine. You can study, learn as you go along.” Mischa smiles, and I snap my jaw closed.

  “I came first in drama back in high school,” I say. “I’m good at making things up.” Amen to that.

  “Fabulous. I like your enthusiasm, and honestly, being a niche market as we are, we don’t get a lot of candidates, so—”

  Now, serious panic signals start going off in my brain. A niche market? What the hell is this job anyway? All I know is that it involves phone sales, an easy enough thing to deduce.

  Breathe, Stacey. How weird could the job possibly be?

  “Stacey?” Mischa tilts her head to the side and narrows her eyes ever so slightly at me.

  “Yes?” I squeak. Thoughts rush through my head. What the hell is niche and a little odd? Alligator sales? Sex toys? Mad cow disease vaccinations?

  “I asked if you’ve ever used our services before.” Mischa sp
eaks slowly. A slight frown mars her otherwise silky smooth forehead. Well, that rules out alligator salesperson.

  “N … no.” I swallow. It seems the safest answer.

  “Right, well, I’ll give you a book to take with you today. It’s important that you know a few of the basics in case you get someone who wants to consult with you on the very first call.” Mischa nods.

  My eyes widen. What if this is a phone sex place? What if I’m selling phone sex, and then sometimes, I’ll have to do it myself? It sure would explain why everyone’s voice here is so sexy and smooth.

  “I’m … I’m not really sure how confident I am at—”

  “Relax! You came first in drama. You’ll be fine.” Mischa smiles an award-winning smile, and I swallow. What the hell have I gotten myself into? “I’m willing to take you on for a two-week trial period at base rate pay, and then after that, if it all works out we can increase your wage to normal.”

  “Great! Thank you so much.” I give a weak smile. My stomach gives a little rumble, but I swallow and amazingly it calms down. It must be fate.

  “Fabulous. Ask Candy at reception for one of our instruction manuals, and then I’ll see you for your first shift on Tuesday.” Mischa turns and opens up her laptop—a white MacBook, of course—and starts tapping away. I stand, and walk out of the room, a little unsure of what has just happened.

  On the plus side, I got a job. On the down side, I have no idea who I work for. Or in what industry.

  I shuffle through the corridors back to reception where Candy twirls a phone cord around her finger. Her long, blonde hair is swept over her shoulder, and I bite my lip. She’s repeating a series of numbers to whoever is on the other end. Well, at least it seems like she’s not having phone sex.

  She finally hangs up and turns to smile at me. “Can I help you, sweetie?”

  “Yes. Yes please.” I nod. “Mischa said I was to ask you for an instruction book, or something?”

  “Oh! The guide.” Candy wiggles her eyebrows rather dangerously. “So you’re going to become one of us?”

  Yep. It has to be phone sex. I’m going to be making money to support my child selling myself on the phone. I can’t do this! It’s like instead of changing my life to become more responsible, I’ve somehow managed to become less.

  “Looks that way,” I mutter, because it seems a hell of a lot easier than saying something insulting such as Well, now that I’ve realised what the hell it is you guys do, I am not on board. I had accidental sex once, okay? I’m not a complete skank.

  Candy opens a desk drawer and pulls out a thick, spiral-bound book with a plastic sheet covering the top of it. “Study this,” she says, thrusting it into my hands. “Learn everything.”

  “Thanks.” I offer a weak smile. “See you soon.”

  I turn and walk toward the big glass door, pushing it open with the book facedown in my hands.

  “Oh, and Stacey?” Candy calls. I spin back to face her. “You can use that stuff in every day life, too.” She gives a salacious wink.

  I run to the car and unlock the door, the keys not seeming to want to make it inside the lock. What is wrong with me? Why didn’t I research the company first?

  My heart plummets, and I’m right back where I was when I finished high school. Of course I’ve gotten a job as a phone sex worker. I can’t believe this is the only interview I somehow managed to ace.

  I shake my head. I’ll just—I’ll email them and tell them I’m not interested. I have a baby to look after. I can’t be a mother and do this.

  It’s not until I pull up out the front of the park down the street from my house that I flip the book over. I plan on throwing it in the bin there, ensuring my parents don’t see it. The disappointment … Ugh!

  I step out of the car, the weighty tome in my hands, and open the lid on the metal trashcan. I go to toss it in—

  And then I see the title.

  I haven’t just gotten a job as a phone sex worker.

  Apparently, I’ve landed a role as a pet psychic saleswoman.

  Dear Small Human,

  It looks like I’ve done it! I’ve found a job, and I’m going to be able to earn enough money there to save up and buy you all the things you need, like a crib, and one of those fancy prams that you can take on the beach so I can jog in the sand with you, and maybe a tummy tuck for me! (Joking)

  I am starting to worry, though. I think I’m still covered under Mum’s health insurance, but will that cover all my doctors’ stuff in the future?

  Right now, I’m feeling the pressure. I’m having to … to make some big decisions in life. Sometimes, you really want something, but you have to let it go. You have to realize when things are not going to work. It can be just as important as striving for your dreams.

  Of course, I’m not talking about you. I can’t wait till you’re born. When you’re born, we’re going to do so many fun things. Walks on the beach. Play group with other babies. Swimming lessons.

  I’m not silly, of course. I know it’s going to be hard. But what isn’t hard that’s worth it? The best things in life you need to work for.

  I can’t wait to teach you to read. We can practice with these letters. You’ll snuggle up to me, and I’ll open a book, and in my lap you’ll look at the pictures while I read the words aloud.

  Sometimes, you’ll make mistakes. But you know what? You’ll learn from them. Or they’ll make you grow.

  No single mistake can ruin everything, Small Human. Always remember that.

  Mum xx

  “WHAT IF they don’t come?”

  “Shush!” I hiss. Now that Kate’s new boss, Lachlan, is coming too, she’s turned from a bunch of meh to a bundle of nerves.

  “Did you definitely give them the right time?”

  “Shut up!”

  “Are you sure?”

  This last question earns Kate a kick on the ankle. Instantly, I press my lips together. Get it together, Stace. No need to lash out.

  The truth is, ever since we saw Michael this morning I’ve felt on edge, as if little thrums of electricity are motoring through my body. He came back.

  It doesn’t matter.

  But he came back.

  “Hey.”

  I look up.

  Shit.

  He’s standing there in a black button-up shirt that skims over his defined body, a pair of black jeans hanging low on his hips. I swallow. Sweet mother of tequila …

  “I didn’t know what you girls wanted to drink, but I asked my sister, and she said sweet and sparkly was the go, so …”

  I shake my head, clearing it of the clearly pregnancy-induced lust stupor I’ve fallen into. Then I stare at the pink bottle of champagne and the six-pack of beer on the table. Crap!

  “That’s so thoughtful of you.” Kate smiles at him, then looks expectantly at me. Because I love to drink. And I love sparkling wine.

  But right now, I’d really just love to vomit.

  “I guess we can always walk home.” I plaster on the widest grin I can muster, and flag over the waitress who pops the cork and returns with two champagne flutes for us. Kate pours, and the pale pink-coloured liquid fizzes into the glasses, the white head frothing over the top. It looks so tempting, so fresh, so cold … I shake my head. Am I really gonna be able to do nine months of this? Whoever said you don’t want to drink when you’re pregnant is just full of shit. I wonder if I can try the champagne-behind-the-ears osmosis trick …

  “So, is it just us tonight?” Michael slides into the booth next to me, his brown eyes widening. He sits close, close enough that I can smell him. Soap, and beer, and some kind of fresh cologne. I lean a little closer, and take a big sniff … So delicious …

  What the hell am I doing? Has pregnancy turned me into a crazy lady who sniffs people?

  “No, Kate’s friend Lachlan is coming, too,” I sing, and Kate shoots me a filthy look.

  “Where’s Lachlan from?” Michael asks.

  “We just work together.” Kate s
tudies the paper napkin folded into a crown in front of her. “That’s all.”

  “He’s a bit late.” Michael picks up the green laminated menu from where it rests in front of him. Gosh, that smell …

  This time, I catch myself before I start licking his neck.

  I look up, and there in the doorway is Lachlan. Kate’s Lachlan. “Speaking of …”

  Kate looks over to him, and you’d swear we were in a movie and the world slows down, the spotlight resting firmly on those two. Their gazes lock, and I start to feel a little uncomfortable. They’re having eyeball-sex, for sure.

  “Hey mate.” Michael jumps up, his arm outstretched. “I’m Michael.”

  “Lachlan.” Lachlan smiles. “Hi Stacey. Hey Kate.”

  The way he says her name, the way their eyes connect once more … seriously, it’s enough to make me want to buy Kate a whole pack of condoms for the trip home. I’m so freaking happy for her. After that douche Dave, and her family issues, she needs someone to look at her like that. And maybe to screw her brains out.

  “Hi Lachlan,” I say. “Why don’t you slide on in over there next to Kate?” I point over to the other side of the table, smirking when I feel a sharp kick landing on my ankle. She’ll thank me for it later.

  Lachlan sits, and the poor guy has barely had a chance to slide his long legs under the table—nice looking, I should add—when Kate opens her mouth. “We should look at the menus.”

  “Oh, come on, Kate, Lachlan just got here,” I say.

  “There’s no rush.” Lachlan shrugs. Kate’s shoulders seem to drop just a little, and I smile again. I like this guy.

  I pick up my own menu and study the list in front of me. I seriously need to check out that website on what pregnant women can and can’t eat. Seafood seems like it would be bad …

  I glance over as the waitress delivers two steaming-hot bowls of red curry to a table next to us. The scent of milk and fish oil curdle together and lay attack to my nose. My stomach churns, and I clutch at it, trying to settle it from the outside.