The Rival

by Charlotte Duckworth

  I look around. We’re in a particularly unlovely part of North London, but I can see a park a little further ahead.

  ‘Let’s just go and sit in the park for a bit.’

  The park is little more than a patch of scrubland, but there are a few benches along each side, and we find one and sit down. I still have the scan picture in my hand. Jack takes it from me and sighs.

  ‘I never believed people when they said they had accidents,’ he says. ‘Not like this. What are the chances? One in a million or something?’

  ‘One in a million,’ I whisper, taking the picture back from him.

  ‘Fate,’ Jack replies.

  I think of Ash again, the sheer balls of her, asking David for a promotion. I think of all the new clients, the way they signed up to our ethos, to what we believed in. I think of the staff, most of whom have only been working with us for a few weeks. I think of my finances. I think of David, and KAMU’s derisory maternity leave.

  ‘I don’t know what I’ll do about work,’ I say. ‘We’re struggling to get the site off the ground as it is. I think we need a bigger marketing budget. There’s something that’s just not gelling, and the brands are picking up on it. If they find out I’m off on maternity leave, I’m scared they’ll lose all faith. And I can tell Ashley isn’t impressed.’

  ‘What does it matter what she thinks? She works for you, remember. Don’t let her upset you.’

  I smile, and squeeze Jack’s hand. Easier said than done. Every time I tell her I’m not feeling great, every time I rush off to the toilet to be sick, she pulls a face.

  ‘She’s been promoted, you know,’ I say. ‘Events Director. Imagine that! With absolutely no experience in events before. It’s almost a joke.’

  ‘Job titles mean nothing, you know that. David’s just trying to keep her sweet. You’re still in charge, you’re still her boss. Listen,’ he continues, ‘you know the Pembury house? The one we saw two weeks ago. They’ve reduced it again. It’s ridiculously cheap, Helena. Maybe, maybe it’s a sign . . . We could try. It’d be good to be nearer your family, wouldn’t it?’

  He’s wary, his voice shakier than usual, but with a steady determination that somehow reassures me that everything is happening for a reason, that it’s all intended, that the universe knows what it’s doing, and I just have to relax and stop fighting it.

  ‘Yes,’ I say, ‘it would.’

  Jack straightens up, his body tensing next to mine.

  ‘That’s great,’ he says. ‘I’ll call the agent back in a bit, say we’re interested . . . and listen . . . I don’t like to interfere in your work – I know you know what you’re doing – but remember, this site was your idea. Your idea. You had all the contacts, you got the ball rolling, you plucked Ashley from her internship, or whatever it was she was doing, and gave her the opportunity. You were at KAMU first, and you have all the experience. Don’t let her push you around. Promise me, darling. Promise me you won’t.’

  THEN

  Ash

  Something must be wrong, because Gran never phones me.

  ‘Are you OK?’ I say, slowing my pace to a quick stroll as I press the remote on my headphones and answer the call. I’m out of breath, and she notices straight away.

  ‘Oh, duck, are you busy?’ she replies. ‘I shouldn’t have interrupted you, with all your important work.’

  ‘No, Gran, it’s fine,’ I say, impatient for her to get to the point. ‘I’m just out running, it doesn’t matter. What’s wrong?’

  ‘I can call back later,’ she says, ever self-sacrificing. ‘Or how about you give me a call when you’re done? I know you have a lot on your plate.’

  ‘Gran,’ I say, holding my temper back, but only just. She’s right, I don’t like being interrupted when I’m in the middle of something, but being interrupted by someone who just wants to tell you they’re going to interrupt you again later is even more annoying. ‘I just told you, it’s fine. What’s the matter?’

  ‘It’s your brother,’ she says, her voice faltering. ‘I don’t know what to do with him, Ashy dear, I really don’t . . .’

  I listen as she gives me all the details. Him turning up drunk, trying to climb in the kitchen window. ‘We only leave it open for the cat to do his business, you know that, but stupid, wasn’t it? Like Grandad says, I’m always so stupid, dear . . .’ Then getting frustrated and smashing it with a brick, before grabbing Grandad’s keys and trying to steal his car. Of course, the racket ‘woke Grandad, who went downstairs with his cricket bat’. A scuffle broke out during which Grandad pushed my brother against the dining-room wall, meaning ‘four of my lovely plates ended up broken, one of which was the Princess Diana . . .’

  ‘Grandad’s gone to see if next door have any superglue,’ she says, forlornly, at the end of her speech. ‘But I don’t think there’s much hope for them.’

  ‘Jesus, Gran,’ I say, but I’m not cross with her, not really. And she already sounds better just for telling me the whole saga. Most of the time I think she’s just lonely. ‘What did he want?’

  ‘Your brother? Just money, I think, duck. Well, the car, but like I said—’

  ‘Did you give him any?’

  ‘He took my housekeeping from the jar in the kitchen, but there was nothing in my purse, so he went away rather frustrated, I’m afraid. Grandad wanted me to call the police, but I talked him out of it. He’s still family, after all.’

  I take a deep breath. Without realizing it, I’ve walked home. So much for today’s 15km.

  ‘I’ll have a word with him,’ I say. ‘He’s been on at me lately, too. I think he needs some money for a deposit on somewhere to stay.’

  ‘You know, Grandad won’t have him in the house, not with his temper as it is,’ Gran says, her voice shaking again. I don’t know whose temper she’s talking about – Grandad’s or Jason’s. They’re both as bad as each other. ‘If it was up to me . . .’

  ‘I know,’ I reply, furious. ‘It’s fine. Don’t you worry about it. I’ll try and get hold of him, tell him to steer clear. I’m sorry you had to deal with this, Gran.’

  I end the call, telling her I’ll be down to visit her at the weekend. I don’t want to go, and I have no idea what I’ll tell Joel. If he knows I’m going home, he’ll certainly want to come along, and meet the family. But it’s been ages since I saw her – and I’m all she’s got, these days. She’s the only person who sees the good in me, who understands the way I struggle, who knows I’m just trying – just fighting – to make something of myself in a world that deals you a bad hand for the fun of it.

  No time like the present.

  I rummage about in my bag, find the note that Jason left me last, dialling the number on it, checking I’ve got the digits right. But when I hold it to my ear, it doesn’t ring; instead, it goes straight to a pre-recorded message.

  The number you have dialled is no longer in service.

  I hang up. Jason’s not going to make it easy for me, then. I roll my eyes at my own naivety. Of course he’s not.

  I’m pacing now, turning back and forth on the street outside my block of flats, looking like a crazy person. I hear a noise, and I turn to see the skinhead, standing right behind me, lighting up. The dog has gone. At least that’s one thing dealt with. At least he’s not in pain any longer. Before the owner has a chance to speak to me, I push my headphones firmly back in my ears, turn on my music and head back towards the park.

  THEN

  Helena

  I keep thinking back to last night, to the dream I had. I was in a lift, and it kept going up, higher and higher, gaining speed as it went, but I wanted to go down. I needed to go down. There was something waiting for me on a lower level, but no matter how many times I pressed the buttons for the ground floor, it kept rising. Up and up, quicker and quicker, digital numbers scrolling to impossible levels, as though the building I was in had no top. In the end, I was cowering in the corner, curled up with my arms wrapped around my knees, begging and whimpering, but
still it wouldn’t stop. I knew it was going to hit the roof and explode out of the top, and that I would die as it did so, along with my unborn baby. Before it had the chance, however, my alarm woke me up and I wrenched myself groggily back from oblivion.

  Unlike most dreams, this one stayed with me throughout my journey on the Tube. And here I am, at 10 a.m., still mulling it over in my mind.

  The GP is running forty minutes late for my check-up. Which means I will be forty minutes late – at least – for our first meeting with MollyMoo since the mess-up with Jess. Come on, come on! As I twitch anxiously on the plastic chair, scrolling through Twitter to distract my addled brain, I see a tweet advertising a new position at KAMU B. Events Assistant. Minimum one year’s experience in a client-facing role. I am about to phone Ash and ask what on earth she thinks she’s doing, advertising a job we had not only not discussed, but one that David hasn’t signed off. But I don’t get the chance, because just as my shaking hands start to press the buttons, my name is called, and I have to follow the GP down a sterile corridor into her room.

  ‘How are you feeling?’ she says, briskly, one eye on the clock.

  ‘Fine,’ I say, my heart still pounding with fury. I’m as disinterested in this appointment as she is, now. Then I remember what Jack told me to say. ‘I’ve been having a few headaches, now and then. Probably work stress.’

  ‘Headaches can be normal,’ she replies, taking my urine sample from me. I had forgotten I was clutching it. ‘Let’s do your blood pressure.’

  I sit there as she wraps the cuff around my arm, trying to relax, trying not to think of Ash, and what her behaviour means. Has she decided that I’m no longer worth discussing things with? Is this what it’s going to be like when I’m on leave – her just doing what the hell she likes all the time, without even giving me a second thought? How did I lose control of this situation?

  ‘Hmm,’ the GP replies. I know from the name plate on her door that she’s Dr Barisha, but I have no idea what her first name is. I’ve never even met her before. I assumed, when you were pregnant, you’d get one person looking after you through the whole process, but I’ve never seen the same doctor twice.

  She loosens the cuff on my arm, pulls it off, turning back to my notes.

  ‘Your blood pressure is raised,’ she says.

  ‘I’m quite stressed today,’ I say, as if to give her an escape clause. ‘I just . . . I’ve had a disagreement with a colleague.’

  She nods, regards me thoughtfully.

  ‘Let’s have a look at the baby,’ she says. ‘Then I’ll test your urine. Just hop up on the bed and raise your top for me.’

  She takes out a tape measure and busies herself with measuring my stomach. It amazes me how basic this procedure is, but I suppose it’s worked for years, so there’s no need to change things.

  ‘Hmm,’ she says again, looking back at my notes. ‘I’m just going to listen to the heartbeat.’

  It takes her a few seconds but then that glorious sound fills the room. I’m not sure I’ll ever get tired of hearing those pulsating thumps, and I feel myself relax as I lie there, suddenly wishing I didn’t have to get up.

  ‘Movements been OK?’ she says. ‘Feeling at least ten a day?’

  Instant shame pierces me as I realize I keep forgetting to count. I’m a terrible mother already, and I haven’t even had the baby yet.

  There’s just been so much going on – five new clients on board this month alone, and we attended six pitch meetings for the next pop-up last week. Rather than winding things down before my maternity leave, Ash seems intent on packing in as much as possible. Thankfully, the website revenue has started to pick up – as I knew it would, eventually. It’s still nothing to write home about, but thanks to some favours from my most influential blogger friends, we’ve had a record few weeks of sales.

  ‘I . . .’ I say, ashamed. ‘I think so. She seems very active in the evenings . . .’

  Dr Barisha nods and takes the probe away, handing me some tissues to wipe my stomach. I lurch myself back on to my elbows and swing my legs off the side of the bed. She has her back to me now, and is fiddling with my urine sample.

  ‘Is this your first urine of the day?’ she says, staring at the little test stick that looks like something you’d use to work out if your pool has enough chlorine in it.

  ‘Um, yes,’ I say, feeling embarrassed and wondering what else I’ve done wrong. ‘I’m a bit dehydrated.’

  ‘It has a little protein in it,’ she says, matter-of-factly. ‘Try to always wee for a few seconds first, then put the pot under the stream. Are you able to do another sample for me?’

  ‘Now?’

  ‘Please.’ She hands me another screw-top container. ‘Toilet’s just on the left, down the hall.’

  ‘Is something wrong?’ I say, standing there, all rotund belly and swollen neck.

  ‘Let’s hope not,’ she says, smiling. ‘Try not to worry. Baby seems fine. If you could just do me another sample . . .’

  While I’m on the loo, I feel the baby thump my ribcage, as if to reassure me that she’s on my side. I want to cry. The past few weeks, all I’ve thought about is work. It feels as though I’ve betrayed my own child.

  I hand Dr Barisha my sample, apologetically, but she doesn’t seem bothered by its pitiful quantity.

  There’s a tense few seconds while she tests again, then she pours my sample down the sink, rips off her gloves and bins everything in a large metal container, before washing her hands. I wonder how many times a day she has to do that.

  ‘How are you feeling?’ she says, taking a seat next to me at her desk and scrawling on my notes. ‘You mentioned headaches?’

  ‘Yes,’ I say, suddenly wishing I hadn’t. ‘But they’re not terrible. I sometimes think I’m just not drinking enough. Was my second sample OK?’

  ‘Yes,’ she says, still writing. ‘NAD. Sorry . . . no abnormalities detected. But your blood pressure is very high, for you, and you’re measuring slightly behind. I’d like you to go to the hospital for a scan. They’re open till five p.m. today.’

  ‘Measuring behind?’

  ‘Yes,’ she says, putting down her pen. ‘As far as I can tell, the baby hasn’t grown since your last appointment, so I’d like them to check that there’s nothing untoward occurring.’

  ‘But . . .’ I say. ‘I’m so much bigger – how is that possible?’

  She looks at my bump, then down at my feet, wedged into the only pair of shoes that still fit me.

  ‘Your feet are swollen,’ she says, as if this is something else I should have told her.

  ‘They’ve been like that since I was about twenty-four weeks. The midwives said it was normal.’

  ‘I’m sure there’s nothing to worry about,’ she says, closing my folder and pushing it towards me. ‘I’ve written a note for the hospital. If you go along to the scanning department, they’ll see you as a priority.’ She smiles again, giving my arm a little squeeze, and I wonder if this is why they do it, why they mess around with people’s piss every day. The chance to reassure someone, to be kind and calming. ‘I’m sure everything’s fine. Try not to worry.’

  THEN

  Ash

  I’ve called her five times, but all I get is her voicemail.

  Hi, this is Helena, sorry I can’t take your call . . .

  I hang up.

  ‘I’m so sorry,’ I say to Paula, who’s glaring at me. ‘She must have got held up. Why don’t we just start? I’m sure she’ll be along shortly.’

  ‘Pregnant, isn’t she?’ Paula says, and her voice, with its hint of transatlantic accent, is cold as metal.

  ‘Yes,’ I reply, because actually, it’s not my job to defend her. ‘She had a doctor’s appointment this morning. You know what it’s like . . .’

  Paula rolls her eyes. She looks like she’s in her mid-forties, and unmarried, if her ring finger is anything to go by. There’s a touch of bitterness that feels familiar – I understand her – and then I
realize: she reminds me of my mother.

  ‘Never understood why they have to see the doctor so often,’ she says, one side of her lip curling up to meet her nose in distaste. ‘It’s not as though they’re ill.’

  I smile and take out my iPad.

  ‘Let’s go through last month’s report,’ I say, as pleasantly as I can manage, but as I call it up I notice I have a new email. Just a few lines from Helena.

  I have to go to hospital for a scan. May be late for meeting. See you when I see you. Sorry.

  The apology feels tacked on, insincere, and I feel myself burn with rage as I realize she’s dumped this shit on me, that I’m going to have to deal with Paula and her fury alone. Couldn’t she have gone to the scan after the meeting? Priorities, Helena. I’m receiving you loud and clear.

  ‘Last month’s report,’ Paula says, her voice a sarcastic hiss. ‘Indeed. Can you tell me why I’m paying you so much money for these sales figures? Do you think I’m a moron, is that it?’

  I take a deep breath, look her squarely in the eye.

  ‘We explained in our first ever pitch that these things take time to build. And we’ve explained on the phone since,’ I say, reminding myself of Jason, and Mum and all the other arseholes I’ve had to deal with in my life. I won’t be intimidated by you, bitch. ‘As our activity increases, the whole thing snowballs, you’ll see the results start to increase—’

  ‘The quality of your work is appalling,’ she says, interrupting me, and it’s then that I accept I’m on a road to nowhere. Nothing I can do or say now will be enough for this witch; she wants out. How can Helena have left me to face this alone? It’s not fair, it’s really not fair. ‘The pop-up shop worked all right for us, yes, but this website . . .’

  ‘Our writers are highly trained professionals,’ I say. ‘They—’

  ‘Pfft!’ she says, snorting. ‘I could write better English than that, and I’m dyslexic!’

  In the corner of the room, her assistant shrinks behind square-framed glasses, glancing at me in sympathy. What a place to work. Mixing up organic skincare in one corner of someone’s kitchen.