The Puzzle of You

by Leah Mercer

  No, she tells herself, to placate the growing panic. It’s probably down to everything that happened after Anabelle’s birth. She was probably in such a state that she wasn’t thinking clearly.

  Right, back to the CV. Her fingers hover over the keyboard for a minute as she contemplates adding something to cover these past three years. But what can she put? ‘Wonderful stay-at-home mother’? ‘Skilled at tidying up, constructing Lego towers and overseeing strategic park ventures’? She tilts her head, thinking of the fact that she’d pulled up her CV a couple of years ago. Perhaps she had run a playgroup or volunteered. If so, at least it’s something to add.

  ‘Hey.’ David creeps into the flat and throws his briefcase on the sofa.

  ‘Hey.’ Despite her anger and hurt, she longs to lean her head on his chest and cuddle him close like she used to; to do something to break through to him. Instead she steels herself against him, staring at the screen, and he disappears into the bedroom.

  ‘David . . . did I do anything in the past three years?’ she asks in a businesslike tone when he emerges in trackies and T-shirt. ‘Any volunteering, starting new groups, anything like that? I’m just working on my CV.’

  David frowns. ‘No, not that I know of. I mean, you were pretty involved with the playgroups and you met up with the mums a few times, but nothing that you yourself organised, no.’

  ‘Okay.’ God knows why she’d been poking around in her old CV folder, then, but it hardly matters.

  ‘I wouldn’t worry too much about taking a few years off,’ David says, and Charlotte’s heart lifts that he’s actually reassuring her about something. ‘You were the most dedicated and passionate employee, and I’m sure anyone you talk to will pick that up straight away. They’d be a fool not to take you on.’ For just a split second he sounds like his old self, and Charlotte can’t help smiling. Then she remembers about Exeter and her stomach squeezes painfully.

  Focus on the things you can control, she tells herself. Things with David might be far from ideal, but at least she’ll have her career back on track.

  Somehow, though, even that doesn’t feel like much of a consolation right now.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  2 November

  It’s amazing how quickly the blanket of false security can be yanked from you. How one minute you’re carrying on with your day, merrily believing everything is fine. And then you’re jerked to another place, a place of fear and dread. A place I know so well, but whose memory had dimmed – dimmed enough to let me start to think beyond it, anyway, and to crave more than what I have . . . more than my daughter. It’s been revived now in shades so intense they scald my eyes, my brain, my heart.

  The beeping of the monitor. The hiss of the oxygen. The harsh fluorescent lighting that burns through your eyelids, even when they’re closed . . . even when you’re so tired, so desperate to grab just one minute of slumber.

  The terror. The guilt.

  Anabelle has pneumonia. I was so relieved to hear it’s ‘only’ pneumonia; with her heart issues, it could have been something much worse. Even so, for a child that young who had such a tough start, pneumonia’s no joke. Thankfully her breathing is stable and her temperature started dropping as soon as the antibiotics took hold. But seeing her so helpless, lying there with tubes coming out of her nose and arms, was a terrible throwback to the time when we really weren’t sure if she’d live or die.

  When the doctor said they’d admit her to the ward because they didn’t want to take chances, my gut twisted and I thought I might be sick. Because although I’d been vigilant – she’d had a runny nose for days, a bit of a cough and a very slight fever – I had taken chances. I hadn’t been as present, as all-in mentally, as usual. My brain was off cycling through recent job adverts I’d seen, being bombarded with images and thoughts of how to return to work.

  David couldn’t have been happier when I’d told him I wanted to go back, even sending me links to websites he thought would be helpful. Instead of pretending to be asleep when he came home from the office, I found myself waiting up for him, eager to show him the latest adverts I’d found, wanting to discuss the latest opportunities. It felt like a bridge had been built between our two separate worlds, drawing us closer together again.

  The more job adverts I read, the more I couldn’t wait to get back to work. I could almost envision myself striding down the street towards the bus stop, clad in a suit and high heels. I could feel my fingers clicking over the keyboard, and hear the ping of my email as someone summoned my opinion.

  I even got as far as pulling up my CV – my most recent one, the one I’d put together just after I’d won the biggest contract of my career. I stared at the sentences in front of me, reading them over and over as desire bubbled up inside.

  I was with my daughter 24/7, but my heart wasn’t.

  If it was, maybe I’d have noticed sooner. Maybe I’d have picked up on the fact that Anabelle only pecked at her breakfast, or just wanted to watch her favourite cartoon rather than head to the park. Instead, I flopped down beside her, only too glad of a second to surf websites and drool over yet another job. I put her down for her nap, pleased that for once she fell asleep without much fuss, and went back to my browsing.

  But when I went to wake her up . . . her little face was red and her breath rasped in and out. Heart pounding, I put a hand to her cheek. Panic swept through me at the heat radiating from her skin. My hands shook as I took her temperature, the familiar fear washing over me when it was over forty. I scooped her up and she lay her head on my shoulder, not even having the energy to do her usual happy wiggle. I could feel her chest heaving against me, and I grabbed our coats, my keys and mobile and went down to the street to hail a cab. I was going straight to A&E.

  It was only once we were in the waiting room that I thought to call David. I’d been locked in this life with my daughter for so long, it almost felt like there were just the two of us – like everything that happened to her was down to me. Well, it was.

  And so, we’re back. Back to where all this began. Back to the hospital where I became a mother, where I pledged to keep my daughter safe . . . to never take her for granted.

  I haven’t followed through, have I? One phone call from the outside world and suddenly I’m jetting off on a different track . . . a track towards the place where I damaged my child, where the part of me that claimed I’d never be satisfied ‘just’ being a mum has been reignited. Looking over at my sleeping daughter now, I want to kick myself for thinking of wanting more. For God’s sake, Anabelle isn’t even a year old yet. We could have lost her, if the pneumonia had progressed. We would have lost her a year ago, if it wasn’t for open-heart surgery. How many more reminders must I be given to treasure my child?

  Anabelle needs me. She’ll always need me, to watch over her and to be fully present. This illness is a kick to the desire that was starting to spiral out of control. It has jolted me back to the place where everything fades away – everything but the child in front of me . . . the child etched firmly into my heart, so deeply that every flutter of the eyelids, every twitch of her lips makes me ache with love.

  I need to protect my daughter, not just from outside forces, but – once again – from me, too. I’d thought that by quitting Cellbril, I was safe, but that’s clearly not enough. It’s not the office, or the job. It’s me. I need to change myself – to purge any trace of the person whose ambition and drive threatens my daughter. I’m an all-or-nothing woman. I can’t do things by halves. Not when it comes to jobs, and not when it comes to life. And now, it’s time to commit to the most important position I’ll ever have.

  Not just commit, actually. To become a new person, consisting of only one thing: mother.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

  With David at work and Anabelle engrossed in watching some random woman open Kinder Surprise Eggs on YouTube, Charlotte decides to hit the job sites . . . just for a half-hour or so. She’d pledged to engage more with her daughter today, but
the urge to get her search started is overwhelming, and no child ever died from thirty minutes on the tablet, right? Charlotte used to spend hours watching TV, and she turned out fine.

  She’s still not thrilled with the state of her CV, but it seems there isn’t much more to add, so . . . well, she’ll just have to blow them away in the interview. She’s yet to track down Vivek for a reference – his mobile number isn’t working – but she has managed to get through to one of her old line managers, who promised to send one through. It’s been ages since they worked together, but something is better than nothing.

  Anyway, all of that is just fluff. Experience and a proven track record are the most important things, and Charlotte has both of those in spades.

  She logs on to the website where most of the pharmaceutical jobs are advertised, hope and optimism flooding into her as a multitude of posts fill the screen. It’s a booming industry, thriving despite the uncertain economy. ‘Everyone needs drugs,’ Vivek used to say, and judging from the demand for employees, that certainly seems to be true. If there’s such a high demand, maybe she could even start work next week!

  She scans the screen, noticing that most of the adverts are placed by recruitment agencies and headhunters. Back in the day, she’d been a desirable candidate for them, fielding phone call after phone call as they tried to lure her from her job on behalf of competitors. In fact, there was one recruiter she’d become friends with – well, telephone friends, anyway – through their almost-daily conversations. Whenever something juicy popped up, she’d call Charlotte first. And while Charlotte was content to stay at Cellbril, it was nice to know she was such a good catch.

  What was that recruiter’s name? Charlotte taps her fingers as her brain works. Ah yes, Kirsty, that was it. From Top Executive Search. Charlotte googles the company name and finds the phone number. A huge smile grows on her face as she calls and the phone rings. She asks for Kirsty then scoots into the bedroom, crossing her fingers that Anabelle stays quiet.

  ‘Hello, Kirsty Jensen speaking.’ The voice is exactly as Charlotte remembers: chirpy and enthusiastic.

  ‘Hi Kirsty, it’s Charlotte McKay. I used to be in business development at Cellbril?’ She clears her throat, cursing the note of uncertainty in her tone.

  ‘Charlotte!’ Kirsty screams. ‘Oh my God, it’s been a while! What have you been up to? We tried to reach you at your old job, but they said you’d moved on.’ She laughs. ‘So cheeky, looking for a new position without even letting me know! I could have got you something stellar. Never mind, though. Bygones and all that. I’m very confident we can find you something now.’ She pauses for breath, thank goodness. Charlotte can hardly keep up.

  ‘What is it that you’re looking for at the moment? Did you move up into an executive position at your last place of employment? We’ve just had a VP of business development post come through at a pharma company that I think you’d be perfect for. Oh, I’m so pleased you got in touch! What wonderful timing!’

  ‘That sounds fantastic, and just what I’ve been looking for.’ Charlotte wants to punch the air.

  ‘Brill. Absolutely brill.’ She can hear Kirsty typing. ‘I’ll just email their internal HR right now to set up the interview, but I know they’ll love you. When can you come in?’

  ‘Any time.’ The words pop out before Charlotte can stop them, and she bites her lip. She doesn’t want to sound desperate, even though that’s exactly what she is. But a VP position! She’d die for that.

  ‘Great, great . . . and we’ll need you to send us through an updated CV . . .’ Clack, clack, clack. ‘While I’m speaking to you, why don’t you tell me a bit about your current position? It’ll help me sell you to the company even better, not that you need any bigging up!’

  She laughs, and Charlotte grips the mobile. Shit. Well, she’d known this was coming. ‘My daughter was born with a heart condition, and I took some time off to be with her.’ No one can fault that, can they? Even though she can’t even remember making the decision, suddenly she feels incredibly defensive about it.

  ‘Oh, I’m so sorry.’ Kirsty stops typing. ‘I had no idea you were even pregnant!’

  Charlotte stays silent, thinking that she probably hadn’t wanted to make a big fuss about it.

  ‘Is your daughter all right now?’ Kirsty manages to make it sound like she’s personally interested, but Charlotte knows what she’s really thinking: anyone with a poorly child is not the right candidate for a busy, demanding position.

  ‘Oh, she’s perfectly fine. Completely healthy.’ Charlotte peeks around the side of the door, where Anabelle is now watching an animated music video featuring dancing sharks bopping along to some anodyne tune.

  ‘Right.’ Kirsty pauses. ‘And so . . . your daughter is how old?’

  Charlotte knows she’s more interested in figuring out how long she’s been out of work. ‘She’s three now,’ she responds. ‘And while I may not have been in the office, I’m up to date on all the industry regulations, mergers and developments. As you know, I secured Cellbril’s biggest contract ever. I’d be a real asset to any company.’

  ‘Oh, I know, I know. That’s one of the reasons we were chomping at the bit to have you. But listen, my love. I’m just not sure the VP position is—’

  ‘If you don’t think the VP position is a good fit, then I’m open to something else at the director level,’ Charlotte says, her heart beating fast. ‘I can guarantee I’ll grow the client list within weeks if I’m just given a chance.’

  ‘I’ve no doubt you could,’ Kirsty says. ‘I’ve no doubt you could. But . . .’ She falls silent, and Charlotte can almost hear the recruiter’s mind ticking. ‘If I’m being one hundred per cent honest, it may be a little difficult to place you in the positions we have available. They’re mostly at a senior level, and I can’t parachute you in there with such a big gap in your résumé. Surely you must know that?’ Her tone softens.

  ‘But . . . but . . .’ Charlotte’s mouth is dry. ‘I have solid experience. I can get results. I’ll work as long as they need me to; hell, I’ll sleep under the desk if I have to. Please, just—’

  ‘I’ll let you know if we do come across anything suitable,’ Kirsty interrupts in an apologetic voice. ‘Lovely speaking to you again, Charlotte. Take care.’

  And with that, she’s gone.

  Charlotte collapses on the bed, anger flaring as she replays what happened. She knew the gap in her CV would be a problem, but she’d thought . . . well, that her experience and results would count for something. How is she supposed to wow them in interviews if she can’t even get a foot in the door? God, this is so unfair. If she could, she’d go back in time and not only hire all those women she’d turned away but give them medals of courage for running the gamut of biased employers.

  ‘Mummy!’ Anabelle calls from the lounge. ‘The tablet stopped working!’

  Charlotte draws in a deep breath and gets to her feet. Okay, so maybe she’s been a little naïve to think she could start right where she left off. She’s willing to go down a level – not as far as a junior position, but maybe to account manager level. Once you get to that stage, it’s all semantics anyway, isn’t it? Maybe Kirsty won’t help her, but there must be other recruiters who can. Taking a bit of time off doesn’t mean she’s lost her edge. If anything, she’s readier than ever to prove herself.

  Charlotte fixes the tablet and gives it back to her daughter, the hours ticking by as she sends out more CVs, leaves more messages with recruiters and scans job sites. At last her eyes blur over and she sits back on the sofa. She’s done everything she can for now – the calls and emails will start streaming in any day, she’s certain. Now that she’s started down this road, the longing to get back to work is like a physical ache.

  ‘Mummy?’ Anabelle’s voice interrupts her thoughts and Charlotte jerks towards her daughter. God, she’d almost forgotten Anabelle was there! ‘Mummy, I’m hungry.’

  Charlotte glances at the clock, stunned to see it’s ho
urs past lunchtime. No wonder her daughter is hungry! Guilt filters through her as she realises she was so engaged in her job search that she completely neglected her daughter . . . not just emotionally, but physically, too. If she’s like this now, what will she be like when she starts working again?

  It’ll be fine, she tells herself as she hurries to the kitchen to knock up some pancakes for lunch. She quirks an eyebrow and smiles. ‘Knock up some pancakes for lunch’? This mothering gig has definitely taught her some new skills.

  But it’s not just new skills, she thinks, deftly mixing flour and egg. Life since the accident has opened up a new view into herself, too. She’s learned how much fun it is to be silly, and how she treasures the time spent outside every day. She’s discovered how much she enjoys creating things and using her imagination, from painting watercolours to telling stories at bedtime. And while she may never want to dedicate her life solely to her child, she’s realised that being a mother isn’t the horror show she’d imagined it to be. It’s gruelling, often boring and definitely not always instinctive, but to have a child love you with all their heart . . . well, that’s pretty special, even if it is a huge responsibility. She may never feel that overwhelming tidal wave of love and emotion, but she knows now that she can be a mother and an okay one, too – when she’s not forgetting to feed her child lunch, that is.

  She and Anabelle wolf down their food, and Anabelle helps her clear away the plates. Charlotte glances out the window, where the white stucco terraces gleam in the streetlight like frosting on cakes. After sitting inside all day, every inch of her longs to get out of this stuffy flat, to stretch her muscles and work off the restless energy coursing inside her.

  ‘Come on, Anabelle. Let’s get some exercise.’

  ‘Exercise?’ Anabelle slides in her sock feet across the floor, turns and slides back again. Charlotte grins. Looks like they both have excess energy to work off.