I turn back to my computer screen, trying to focus on my work. I’m still waiting for a response from David after our meeting and I’m back to checking my emails every thirty seconds, like I did in the days after my first interview with KAMU. I even woke up at 3 a.m. this morning and checked them on my phone, just in case. David’s in New York this week and I’m wondering if he might be running it all past the big shots while he’s there. But still no updates. In the meeting he seemed surprised by my nerve, asking for a promotion outright, but there was definitely part of him that was impressed, too. How could he not be, with the results I’ve achieved? But still, I know it all hinges on Helena. She’s the key to everything, the one who holds all the power.
She’s not even here yet. No wonder Toby resigned. They say you don’t leave your job, you leave your manager. Helena seemed genuinely upset when he told her he was off to work on the Beauty Trade Show, the biggest and most boring competitor in our market. But he’s no great loss.
And anyway, what does she expect? She’s not inspiring anyone any more. How can she, when it’s half past nine and she’s still not here? She’ll be busy with her mortgage advisor or solicitor. She’s been all excited lately, banging on about her and Jack buying a new place in the sticks. Spending her weekends driving around gawping at village pubs and Instagramming the shit out of them. Apparently, Jack’s decided to ‘part ways with the City’ and is going to spend the rest of his life making chairs. Or something. Her decision to move out of London amazes me, despite her insistence they’ll be moving to somewhere commutable. After all, she struggles to make it in on time as it is.
She hasn’t replied to any of my emails since 4 p.m. yesterday afternoon. I feel like phoning her and asking her where she is. A few months ago I might have done, but I’m beginning to realize I don’t actually need her most of the time. In fact, I’m not entirely sure what she does all day long, apart from suck up to David. I’m amazed how much power she still seems to have over him. I know she’s attractive, but I can’t believe men are so pathetic, really.
There’s a noise from the other end of the office, and I look up. Helena is racing towards me, her hand clutching a Caffè Nero cup, her hair scraped back in a bun that’s too severe for her small features. Probably never heard of a Croydon facelift. Her mouth is opening but I have to force myself to listen to what she’s saying.
‘Morning!’
She pants slightly as she sits down at her desk, her top lip sparkling with sweat.
‘Missed the bus?’ I find myself saying, trying to make a joke of it.
‘Something like that,’ she replies. ‘Listen, can we have a chat – go for a coffee in a bit?’
‘You’ve already got one,’ I say, nodding towards the cup. ‘But sure.’
Suddenly, I feel cheered up. I open up the spreadsheet I was working on – analysis of KAMU B at the end of Q1, something else that Helena should really be doing, but she might not think of it – and my brain finally starts working again.
Every now and then I think of the note that was left on my desk, wondering how on earth he got into the building. I think of David’s radio silence. At 10 a.m. exactly, I look up and Helena is already standing, a silk scarf tied around her neck in a bow, like an old woman.
‘Let me just save this . . . cool, ready,’ I say, getting up and following her out of the building. We walk to the coffee shop in silence and I wonder whether now would be a good time to bring up what I discussed with David. Probably not. Don’t want to jinx it.
‘What do you want to drink?’ I ask, as she stares up at the blackboard behind the counter. ‘Flat white?’
‘Er, no . . .’ she says, frowning. ‘Just water for me, please.’
‘So,’ I say, because she’s suddenly gone all quiet, and is staring at her drink as though she wishes she’d got something else instead. I’m reminded of that time at Ted’s, when she first told me her plans for KAMU B. ‘What’s up?’
‘Something strange has happened,’ she says, rolling a packet of sugar between her fingers. ‘It wasn’t expected, but . . . I’m just going to come right out and tell you, before I tell the rest of the team, because you’re my second-in-command, after all.’
Second best, always second best. I flinch slightly. Don’t I know it.
‘The thing is . . . I’m pregnant.’
I sit back in my chair.
‘Is this a wind-up?’ I pause, breathing out. ‘I don’t know what to say.’
‘I think the customary response is “congratulations”, but I understand your surprise,’ she says, smiling – actually smiling. ‘It wasn’t planned . . . it’s been a shock to both of us . . .’
It wasn’t planned. We don’t live in the dark ages. How can a pregnancy not be planned?
‘. . . but we’ve decided to keep it,’ she is saying.
My ears begin to ring.
‘I know the timing isn’t brilliant, but seeing as KAMU’s maternity policy is so shocking, anyway, I was thinking I’d only have three months off, then come back part-time, and then full-time after six months. We’d get cover in, and I’d still be online all the time, I’d still be available . . . the baby’s not due till the end of December, anyway, which is ages away. Who knows what might happen before then? But I wanted to tell you first, just so you’re not worried . . .’ She tails off.
‘You mean . . .’ I begin, although I can’t even believe what I’m about to say, ‘you’re keeping it?’
Her eyes are saucers.
‘I just said,’ she says, after a pause. ‘Of course I’m keeping it.’
‘But . . .’ I say. This doesn’t make any sense. ‘What about our team? The Americans are actually impressed with us! The timing couldn’t be worse. You’re the only reason David even let us do this in the first place. If you leave, they’ll just shut down the whole thing!’
‘I don’t think that’s true,’ she says. ‘Listen, I know it’s probably a big shock – it was a big shock for me, too – but it doesn’t have to be a catastrophe. KAMU are invested in this project, it won’t go under just because I’m not around for a few months. And it’s not like I’ll be disappearing tomorrow – I’ll still be working for months. It’s all manageable.’
She sounds like she’s trying to convince herself.
‘Jesus, Helena,’ I say.
‘I know it’s a shock . . .’ Her eyes begin to fill with tears. ‘But . . . please, try to be supportive. I’d appreciate it.’
‘I’m sorry,’ I lie. ‘It’s just a lot to wrap my head around. I really wasn’t expecting it.’
‘You and me both,’ she says.
‘How far along are you?’ I ask. Perhaps it’s all a storm in a teacup. Perhaps her period is just a bit late.
Must. Stay. Calm.
She’s just taken an entirely selfish course of action, no remorse about what it means for me, no concept of how much more difficult it makes my life. In fact, it’s worse than that. She doesn’t even care. What if David decides to pull the plug on the whole idea? Where does that leave me? Jobless, and marked as part of a failed, very public experiment. But she couldn’t care less. She doesn’t care how frightened I am, she doesn’t care that I’m twenty-five and I already feel like I’m carrying a ton of weight on my shoulders, she doesn’t care that I’ve never done anything like this before, that I’m learning as quickly as I can. She thinks she can swan off and play happy families – and who gives a shit if I lose my job because of it?
‘Nearly four months,’ she says. ‘I wanted to tell you sooner but . . .’
The question lingers on the tip of my tongue, but I know I can’t ask it. She’s watching me and she knows what I’m thinking. She knows, because she’s thinking it, too.
Who is the father?
THEN
Helena
‘Helena Brenton,’ David says, drumming his fingers on his desk. ‘Well, well, well. You are certainly full of surprises.’
‘I’m . . .’ I begin, but then I stop myself.
No, I am not going to apologize for being pregnant. ‘I appreciate that the timing is not ideal, but as you’ve always told me, everything is workable.’
‘Hmmm.’ David stands up and paces towards the window. ‘What did I tell everyone when we first started working on this shiny new ship? No getting pregnant until our IPO! There’s no denying that you like to keep me on my toes. Always one step ahead of me, eh? In all seriousness, though, and just to make sure I stay on the right side of legal action, many congratulations.’
I give a tight smile, grinding my fingers into the sides of my thighs and wondering what I ever saw in him.
‘Thank you, David.’
‘I expect you’ve seen how meagre the maternity policy here is?’ he asks. ‘Nothing I can do about that, I’m afraid.’
‘Yes,’ I say, determined to stay professional. ‘I’ve read my contract and seen it’s just the minimum statutory amount.’
‘Better than the US team get, though,’ he replies, as though I should be grateful.
I nod, unsure what his point is. I just want to get out of this office as soon as possible.
‘I expect Jack’s thrilled?’ he says, his voice softening as he meets my eyes.
‘Yes,’ I reply, like a parrot. ‘He’s very happy and excited about becoming a father.’
David gives a deep sigh and fiddles with the blinds, straightening out the wonky slats.
‘Having children was the best thing I ever did,’ he says. ‘But I’m not sure Elizabeth would agree. Did you know she was a lawyer? Before?’
‘No.’
‘She was good at it, too. Shame. I think she prefers what she does now . . . helps out at a local charity. Can’t really call it a job, I suppose. But I guess she can go back to law one day, if she likes. Although Penny needs a lot of support, she’s a challenging child.’
He’s talking more to himself than to me. I glance over at the immaculate silver photo frame on his desk. The three of them on a pristine white beach, tangled blonde hair blowing across their eyes, smiles in perfect coordination.
‘They’re beautiful children,’ I say, pointlessly.
‘Yes,’ David says, sitting back down again. ‘They are. Well, then. Given your news, I suppose it would be pertinent for me to make a decision about your protégée?’
‘Ashley?’
‘Yes. She’s been in my Inbox for weeks. She told you, did she, about her little plan for promotion?’
I swallow.
‘I suspected something was on her mind,’ I say.
‘What do you think, then?’ David asks. ‘Let me see if I can find her email. Sixteen-page proposal, indeed – she’s certainly thorough. Here we are. All the reasons why she should be made Events Director. She’s even detailed her proposed new salary bracket, set against the specific ROI she’s brought to the brand. I’ll give her one thing, she’s a better salesman than most of that team sitting out there.’
‘She’s a hard worker,’ I say, but it feels like the words are going to choke me, and a tiny voice in my head is telling me to be careful, that I’m shooting myself in the foot. ‘Has a tendency to act before thinking at times, but she’s tenacious and she gets results. Not much of a team player, though. And she behaves like a man. Whether or not that’s a good thing is down to your perspective.’
‘Reckon she could cover your maternity?’ David says, scrolling through her PowerPoint presentation as though he’s choosing what takeaway to order.
‘I don’t think she’d want to,’ I say, then stop myself. I have to fight for this. ‘I mean, she’s shown very clearly that her focus is on the pop-ups, not the website. She likes all the fuss, the kudos, the buzz of live events. I don’t think she’s actively contributed to the site at all. Which is strange, given that we hired her initially for her enthusiasm for digital.’ The last sentence comes out a little more cutting than I intended.
‘Hmm,’ David says. ‘Right. Agreed. We’ll think carefully about who covers you when you’re off. But in the meantime, let’s reward her for her hard work. I keep hearing from people about the pop-up, everyone’s excited about the next one and it’s what’s got Brian and the rest of them all a-flutter over the pond, after all. Don’t want her getting tempted to go elsewhere.’
‘Fine.’ I don’t care about Ash’s job title, or her salary. But one thing I do know is that I don’t want her covering me while I’m away. ‘But I’ve thought about my maternity leave,’ I say, my breath coming more quickly as I speak. ‘And I’m going to take the minimum three months. I’m passionate about this job, about this role, and we’re at a really critical time. I don’t want to be away for longer than I need to be. Like I say, I’ll be back here before you know it.’
‘I’m glad you’re so eager to return,’ David says, his eyes wrinkling as he smiles at me. ‘But you haven’t even gone yet. Don’t make decisions about the future before you’ve lived it. You may feel quite differently once the baby arrives. And there’s no need to rush back. We can survive without you. Right, I’ll speak to HR about bunging your Ashley some extra cash. You can tell her the good news.’
I smile, nod again, and leave the office.
I know his words about not rushing back were meant to be comforting, but somehow, deep down, they feel like a threat.
*
There was some mix-up at the hospital, and I’m four months pregnant by the time I have my first NHS scan. We had a private one at eight weeks – Jack had insisted – but there wasn’t much to see then, really, just a blob on the screen, with a reassuring heartbeat, meaning my risk of miscarriage was low. I’m excited to be here, in the hospital waiting room, about to see my baby looking like an actual human being.
Jack is playing a game on his phone, seemingly carefree, but I can tell by the way his leg is twitching up and down that he’s nervous. I stroke my stomach. There’s nothing much there yet, of course, nothing but a bit of water retention. I try to imagine something inside, moving around, but it’s difficult. I’ve nothing much to show for this pregnancy, so far – other than sore breasts and an all-consuming desire to eat carbs. I reach in my bag for another cereal bar. Eating constantly is the only way to stop myself from feeling as though I’m stuck on a dinghy in the middle of a huge thunderstorm.
‘Helena Brenton?’
I look up at the sound of my name. The sonographer smiles and Jack and I both follow her into a room opposite the waiting room.
‘Hello,’ she says. ‘I’m Frederica. If you just lie down on the couch there, and lift your top for me. Right . . .’ She looks down at my notes. ‘It’s your first pregnancy?’
I nod.
‘Okaaay, then, let’s have a look.’
It’s just like in the television programmes. She squirts gel on to my stomach and then places the probe on top of it.
‘Excellent,’ she says, moving it around. Within seconds I can see a fluttering grey blur on the screen. ‘There’s baby.’
I look over at Jack.
‘Is it OK?’ I say, staring at the screen, trying to make sense of what I’m looking at.
‘Everything looks absolutely fine,’ she replies, pressing some buttons on the machine. ‘Let’s have a listen to the heartbeat . . .’
The room is suddenly filled with an alien-like sound, loud and pulsating.
‘Lovely,’ she says.
I start to cry again, just like last time. Jack looks at me.
‘Hey,’ he says, reaching out and taking my hand. ‘It’s OK! Look. It’s amazing, darling, it’s amazing.’
I nod, swallowing. For some reason I can’t speak.
‘All looking great,’ Frederica says. She looks as though she loves her job, but what on earth must it be like when she has to give people bad news? I can’t even imagine it. ‘I’ll just take some measurements, and then we’re all done.’
She continues pressing buttons and clicking on various areas of the screen. Then she takes the probe away from my stomach and hands me a huge wodge of paper towelling.
/> I sit up and wipe my stomach clean.
‘So, everything is looking perfect. Your risk for chromosome abnormalities is very low, lower than the average for your age, so we won’t be suggesting you have any invasive tests. The heartbeat is great; it’s growing right on track. Now, here’s your picture . . .’
She pulls out a grainy black-and-white photograph from the bottom of the machine and places it into a cardboard frame, handing it to me with a beam.
‘Thank you,’ I say, looking at the strange seahorse-shaped creature in the picture. I stroke it with my finger.
‘And we’ll see you back here again for your anomaly scan at twenty weeks, or thereabouts. Now, do you have any questions?’
I shake my head, my eyes fixed on the image of the baby.
‘So everything’s OK?’ I hear a voice behind me. I’ve momentarily forgotten that Jack is even in the room. ‘The baby’s healthy?’ His voice is strangely high-pitched.
‘Yes, everything looks absolutely perfect,’ she says, smiling at him. ‘You just take good care of mum.’
He nods and stands up, handing me my coat.
‘Thanks,’ I say, taking my notes back from her. ‘Thanks so much.’
We leave the hospital and, without speaking, start to walk towards the high street, Jack gripping my hand. With the other, I hold the picture tightly, trying to connect it with my body, my stomach, my womb.
‘It feels . . . more real now,’ Jack says.
I nod.
‘I can’t quite believe it’s an actual baby,’ I say, stupidly. ‘Thank God everything’s all right.’
He laughs and puts his arm around me, kissing the top of my head.
‘Now, how do we celebrate?’ he asks. ‘Where shall we go?’
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