The Puzzle of You

by Leah Mercer

  Charlotte had been hesitant to tell Miriam of her decision to return to the office, but her mother-in-law’s response came as a surprise . . . and unnerved her. Instead of the haranguing Charlotte had anticipated, Miriam had patted her arm.

  ‘I’m happy to help out as much as you need me,’ she’d said. ‘I know the past few weeks have been trying, but you are such a good mother to Anabelle. That won’t change just because you go back to work – Anabelle will always be the most important thing in your life. It’s just part and parcel of being a mother.’ She’d smiled, and Charlotte had forced a smile in return as uneasiness gripped her gut. Could she still be a good mother to her daughter? She’d need to put in long hours for the next few months, at the very least. And what would happen when she made it to a position where she’d need to travel and be away from home for a week here, a week there, then back in the office for hours on end?

  That won’t mean Anabelle isn’t important, though – or that I’m a bad mother, she’d reassured herself through the pangs of guilt. After all, her mother had worked like a demon and Charlotte had never doubted her love. Charlotte might be a different kind of mother to the one she’d been before – and the one she couldn’t remember – but Anabelle would know she loved her, just as Charlotte had with her mum.

  Predictably Charlotte’s mother had been overjoyed to hear her daughter would be working again. She was furious that she’d accepted a junior position, but she believed just as strongly that Charlotte would climb back to where she had been before – and rise even higher. The only one who was really upset about her return to the office was Lily, who Charlotte dropped round to see on her last free day. Lily had stared at her as if she didn’t know her; as if she’d morphed into someone unrecognisable.

  ‘But you always said you’d never go back!’ Lily cried, once she’d closed her gaping mouth. ‘Won’t you miss Anabelle dreadfully? Won’t she miss you? You’ve been practically glued to each other since she was born. It’s going to be a huge adjustment for you both.’

  Charlotte had kept a smile nailed on, even though every word was like a boot to the gut, punching holes where guilt poured in. It would be a huge adjustment, and of course they’d miss each other. But how could she explain to a new mother completely besotted with her baby that it wasn’t enough for her?

  Give her time, Charlotte had told herself. Liam was only a few months old. Maybe after a while, Lily would feel the pull of her old self again, too . . . or maybe not. As her mother had said, people changed. Charlotte wasn’t going to judge her friend any more than she would judge herself. Every mother does need to make her own way through the minefield of competing needs to strike a balance that works best for her.

  ‘You’d better get going if you don’t want to be late,’ David says, shaking her out of her reverie. ‘I’ll wait here until Mum comes.’

  Charlotte nods and leans down to scoop Anabelle into her arms, not caring now about the cereal and milk combo. She bites her lip, remembering Jemma’s nightmare goodbye scenario with Felicity. Please God may Anabelle not be the same.

  ‘Bye bye, sweetheart. Be good!’ Her gut tugs and she steels herself for Anabelle’s tears and heartbreak. Instead, though, her daughter gives her a quick cuddle then scoots away.

  Right, then. Charlotte stands still for a second, feeling curiously let down for some reason. She laughs and shakes her head as she walks down the stairs and out into the busy street. What, does she want Anabelle to kick off each time she leaves? She should be proud that her daughter is so secure. She breathes in the air, savouring the mix of diesel and flowers from the hanging pot on the lamppost above her. Then she strides towards the bus stop, eager to jumpstart her career, but still thinking of the little girl she’s left behind.

  CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

  22 June

  Lily is pregnant! After years of trying and I don’t even know how many rounds of IVF, my best friend is going to have a baby. I couldn’t be happier for her, and I can’t wait to share everything I’ve learned over the past two and a half years. This is our chance to really connect again . . . not in the same way as before, of course, but as mothers.

  We met up last night in our old haunt in Shepherd Market, and I couldn’t help thinking back to the time when I’d told her, just tables from where we were now sitting, that I was pregnant. A rogue wave of guilt washed over me at the memory of my pregnancy, but I pushed it away. I’m not that person who put her daughter at risk, thank goodness. Not any more, and never again.

  It was so strange being out late at night. Well, when I say ‘late’, I mean past eight. That would have been early back before I had Anabelle, but now I’m usually tucked up in front of Netflix or reading about potty training as my eyes sag closed, before I drag myself into the bedroom to sink into oblivion around nine. It sounds so dull, but I actually want my evenings to be like that. I couldn’t bear a repeat of what happened last month on a ‘girls’ night out’ – more like ‘mothers on a binge’. God, I feel sick just thinking about it.

  David was late coming back from work, and I’d somehow been roped into organising a night out for the playgroup mums. The very last thing I wanted was an evening out, let alone planning it, but Jo had begged and pleaded, saying she was going to kill herself if she didn’t drink something other than Ribena. Even Jemma had joined in for once, saying she could do with a dinner that didn’t involve clients or husbands. I’d stayed silent, thinking how I didn’t really have anything to complain about, telling myself over and over how lucky I was to be able to stay at home with my daughter. It really was a privilege.

  Somehow, my silence nominated me as the person in charge of choosing the restaurant, making the reservation and organising RSVPs in our newly minted ‘Night Out!’ WhatsApp group. Judging by the number of yeses flying in, these women were ravenous for the outside world . . . or alcohol. I really didn’t want to leave my daughter, but David had agreed to be home by half six and I’d put Anabelle to sleep before I left. She wouldn’t even know I was gone.

  I spent ages cobbling together an outfit, feeling ill at ease in my too-tight jeans and clompy high heels. The minutes ticked by as I waited for David to come home. I sat on the sofa trying not to mess up my hair, the jeans cutting into my waist, fielding messages from the women who were now minutes from the restaurant – and from emptying the place of its booze.

  Even though I hadn’t been keen to go, the later David was, the more upset I became. Why wasn’t he here? I never asked for his help. I’d given up everything to take care of our daughter . . . because I wanted to, yes – but still. Surely the least he could do was make it home at a reasonable hour one night?

  When he responded at last to my increasingly furious texts, saying Miriam would come and babysit since he’d be late, I was practically shaking with anger. The intensity of it unnerved me, and took me by surprise.

  By the time I was sitting at the restaurant table, I was gagging for a drink – for something to quell the storm inside me. I gulped my wine as the other women competed over who’d had the worst day, complaining about how relentless being a mother is, how thankless it is, how tiring. Their children were diabolical, their husbands were useless, and they didn’t know how they’d make it through the next ten years without losing it. They couldn’t wait to go back to work – at least they’d get to use the bathroom in peace.

  I sat there and drank, their voices only feeding my anger. The more they spoke, the more I couldn’t bear it. Their words were like hot pokers, stirring the flames inside me into a full-blown fire. I tried to block them out by drinking more. Another glass, and then another, repeating under my breath how I should – how I do – appreciate every minute with my child. I wasn’t like these ungrateful women. I wasn’t.

  Suddenly I couldn’t sit there any longer. I grabbed my handbag and pushed blindly between the tables and the chairs, my eyes focused on the door as if it was an escape hatch. I rushed back up the street and towards my daughter, desperate now to burrow into he
r and breathe her scent, to drown out those voices still ringing in my ears.

  ‘Oh!’ Miriam said as I entered, both she and David looking up from the TV blaring out the news. ‘Is everything all right?’

  ‘Char, I’m sorry,’ David said, getting to his feet and running a hand through his hair. ‘I got tied up in a meeting, and I couldn’t get away.’

  I stared at their faces like they were strangers, unable to take them in. There was just one person I needed to see. Without responding, I rushed into the bedroom and over to the cot. I knelt down beside my daughter and grasped the bars, my heartbeat slowing and anger fading as I took in her sleeping form under the soft blankets.

  I was safe. Safe from what, I didn’t know, but nothing could touch me now.

  When Lily told me she was having a baby, she took my hand and said she hoped she’d be as good a mother as I am – that she wants to be as patient, as dedicated, as happy as me. She looked at me full of hope, love and joy about her future, and my insides ached with a mixture of pride and regret. I finally believe that I am a wonderful mother. I’ve come such a long way, and I’m proud of what I’ve become. But at the same time, part of me longs to go backwards, to urge my former self to enjoy my pregnancy, as Lily is clearly enjoying hers. To look forward to having a baby, not as a project that needs to be managed, but as a human to love and cherish.

  I can’t change the past, though. All I can do is keep moving forward. I am happy with this life, and nothing – least of all a group of drunken women – will convince me otherwise.

  CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

  Although she only remembers being gone for a couple of months, when Charlotte enters the office, her colleagues greet her as if she’s been away for aeons. Some of the team have moved to rival companies, but many familiar faces smile and wave a greeting from behind computer screens. The office hasn’t changed: flickering lights that never get fixed, grey cubicle walls and stained beige carpet. Even the air smells the same, dust mixed with the faint scent of someone’s bacon sandwich.

  God, it’s good to be back.

  ‘Charlotte!’ A heavy-set man with jet-black hair and swarthy skin appears from Vivek’s office, and Charlotte blinks. This must be Ed – she’d have met him before going on mat leave, but she doesn’t remember him at all. Maybe that’s a good thing, she thinks as he flashes her a cheesy grin.

  ‘You’re looking well. So pleased you decided to join us, after all. It’s good to see you again.’ He gives her a swift once-over that makes her feel like she’s being assessed for fitness to work. ‘How’s the kiddie?’

  Kiddie? Charlotte grits her teeth. ‘Her name’s Anabelle. She’s great, thanks.’

  She glances at the clock, hoping Miriam will remember to give Anabelle her mid-morning snack in a bit. Anabelle gets so cranky if she doesn’t eat regularly . . . kind of like her mother. Charlotte’s stomach grumbles and she remembers that between getting Anabelle and herself dressed, she didn’t eat breakfast. She never used to have anything but coffee, but in the past couple of months she’s got used to having a bowl of cereal.

  ‘Come on, let me show you where you’re sitting.’ Ed takes off so quickly that she has no choice but to trot after him, nearly tripping in her unfamiliar high heels.

  ‘Right, here you are.’ He gestures towards a bank of computers in the corner, squeezed together so closely it’d be a miracle if she doesn’t jab her neighbour with an elbow. Her heart sinks as she remembers her roomy cubicle, complete with her very own potted plant and view of the car park. That seems downright luxurious now.

  You won’t be here long, she reminds herself. Do what needs to be done, and move up – or on.

  ‘Right, let me introduce you to everyone – well, you know most of the team, I think. Then I’ll give you a chance to settle in. I’ve booked you a session this afternoon with one of your fellow team members to refamiliarise you with everything and get you up to date on all the accounts.’

  He leads her on a speedy handshake with the rest of the team before depositing her back in front of her desk. Charlotte slides into the chair and faces the computer. She closes her eyes for a second, savouring the moment. Then she flicks on the switch, takes a deep breath and prepares to plunge in.

  The next few weeks pass in a torturous haze. It may be the same office with many of the same people, but everything has changed, from the top accounts to the pitch presentation template she’d so carefully created. Even the timesheet system is different. Her position in the company couldn’t be further from where it had been, and she’d be lying if she said she found it easy to bear. Instead of being the shit-hot star practically guaranteed to be the next VP, she’s the mum who’s taken time off to be with her daughter and, in the process, has seemingly been rendered brain-dead . . . at least if the constant mansplaining is anything to go by.

  As the sole woman in the team, it’s getting harder and harder to grin and bear the constant jokes about clients’ ‘fuckability factor’ and the laddish antics on her colleagues’ big Friday nights out – Friday nights she has every intention of avoiding after going along to the first one and getting beer poured all over her. Vivek – although not exactly a paragon of feminist virtues – would never have allowed such talk in the office, but Ed seems to be encouraging it.

  It’s just for a few months has become her mantra, and often she catches herself sitting at her desk in the midst of updating client data for the rest of the team, wondering what Anabelle and Miriam are up to. Sometimes she even steals away from her desk to the storeroom for a quick call to check in. Anabelle has adjusted well to Charlotte’s return to work, loving her action-packed days with Miriam, who has taken her to almost every museum within the M25. And David’s usually able to be home by Anabelle’s bedtime, taking over from Miriam and putting their child to sleep. Sometimes, Charlotte’s only interaction with their daughter is over breakfast, often while she’s flying through the lounge with her coffee on the way to the door.

  This is exactly the life she would have been living if Anabelle hadn’t been born with a heart condition: with a busy job, a husband helping out and a daughter who doesn’t disturb her working routine. But it’s not really the life she’d be living, is it? Because she’d have been VP by now, not toiling away in a position she would have held ten years earlier. She’d have been happy at work, not chomping at the bit to do something – anything – to move up a rung. She’d have been dreadfully busy, yes, but she’d have had more control over her time, instead of taking orders from a man who should be her junior. And she’d have had a partner to share her life with, not a stranger who’s just biding his time until he can leave.

  Would all that have made up for practically missing out on her daughter’s childhood? Or would she still have felt the same tug at her gut every morning as she kissed Anabelle goodbye, knowing she wouldn’t be home again until her daughter was fast asleep?

  The only way to find out is to get back to where I left off, Charlotte tells herself as the bus lurches towards the office in the 7 a.m. gloom. What other choice does she have? She can’t stay in this position for much longer without self-combusting, and she can’t stay at home, either. All she can do is to keep moving, keep hauling herself up a jagged cliff, keep fighting the feelings of guilt and sadness and keep praying that soon, it will be worth it.

  Charlotte steps off the bus and on to the busy pavement, her pace quickening as an idea hits. There’s a big pitch coming up next week in Berlin for a potentially massive account – a company she’s worked with in the past. She volunteered to help out during the last team meeting, but Ed had ignored her, as usual, assigning the presentation to a ‘very sexy’ colleague from their Birmingham office. But maybe . . . maybe if she puts together her own presentation, based on her experience, she can show them she should be on the pitching team, too. It’s not much, but it’s a step in the right direction.

  She nods at the receptionist and slides into her chair, her brain ticking over as she pulls up the bid informatio
n on the computer. Bingo! Excitement rises as she realises the project manager at Freen, the German company, is someone she knows quite well; they’ve even gone out for drinks together several times after meetings. She should be pitching for this project . . . or, at the very least, she should be included in the meeting. If Ed has half a brain, he’ll have to recognise that.

  Right, that settles it: this is her chance to leapfrog forward – to show she’s in top form, that her mind is still sharp and that her industry experience and connections are still relevant. She’ll prepare the best pitch presentation known to humankind and make a case so solid for her presence in Berlin that even Ed can’t deny it. Her heart sinks when she realises that, on top of all her other work, she’ll need to burn the midnight oil, as well as work all weekend. She’s promised Anabelle a ride on the carousel on the South Bank, then hot dogs and ice cream afterwards. Charlotte’s been looking forward to it almost as much as her daughter.

  But this is too good an opportunity to pass up. There will be other weekends, and David will find something fun to do with Anabelle. Charlotte leans back in her chair, resolve flooding through her. She’s found a foothold on that jagged cliff now, and she’s going to pull herself up as high as she can.

  CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

  13 December

  I’m shaking. I’m shaking with excitement, with potential, with a new idea that’s entered my mind, stemming from the unlikeliest conversation. A baby. A new baby, to add to our family. It’s funny I hadn’t thought of it until now, but I suppose that’s how it goes when your first child has had such a difficult start and you’re just focused on getting her through the hours.

  Today started off as one of those days that inevitably crop up, despite my relentless upbeat thinking: a day where everything seems so complicated and takes so much time. Anabelle’s three now, but sometimes, instead of getting easier, it seems . . . a little trying. I love that she’s so chatty, but I’m tired of talking, explaining, convincing. I’m fed up with asking her not to chase the poor pigeons, of telling her to be careful not to get her feet wet in puddles, of trying to grasp her little hand before she wriggles away. I’m exhausted from the constant nonsensical negotiations (no, you can’t have another scoop of ice cream because your favourite colour is blue. What the—?).