The Year of Taking Chances Read online

  She squirted some of her favourite banana conditioner into her palm as she pondered this, but in the next moment felt her stomach contract at the smell. Oh no. Not again.

  Dripping wet and naked, she burst from the shower unit, just in time to throw up into the loo. Uggggh! And again.

  Shivering and spitting and wiping her nose and mouth, she knelt there on the cold lino, her optimism faltering as she waited for the nausea to pass. Who was she trying to kid? Max was already a father – he’d been there, twice over. If he had any sense, he’d steer well clear of being saddled with a vomiting new baby-mother. And who could blame him?

  From: Saffron@PhoenixPR

  To: Max@Faster

  Subject: Drink?

  Hi Max, Hope all’s well with you. I’ve got a client meeting in Denmark Street Thursday afternoon – would be great to see you for a drink afterwards, if you’re free?

  Cheers

  Saffron x

  Later that morning Saffron leaned back at her desk and read through her email again. That would do, she decided. She sounded perfectly normal and grown-up. Hey, we shagged like lusty nymphs several times last year, and then I went a bit weird on you, but see how civilized and mature I can be now!

  Something like that anyway. Well, it was the best she could do, and now her phone was ringing and she had a million other things she should be getting on with.

  ‘Hello, Phoenix PR, Saffron speaking?’

  ‘Saffron, there you are – this is Bunty. I’ve just had a splendid idea about a book. Maybe a memoir, or possibly a sort of self-help thing, for women who want to be more like me . . . ’

  Only half-listening, she pressed ‘Send’ on her email and watched the screen change. Sending . . . Sent.

  ‘. . . So if you could set up a few meetings with publishers for me, start the ball rolling, that would be marvellous, dear. My Bountiful Life – that’s one possible title. Or Halsom Is As Halsom Does – you know, a little play on my surname. Thought that was rather witty, don’t you? Saffron? Are you still there?’

  Max replied an hour later with a rather businesslike email suggesting they meet at the Pillars of Hercules on Greek Street. This was a small pub she knew to be crowded and noisy – not the most conducive spot for a heart-to-heart, but she seized on the opportunity with gratitude. At least he was giving her a hearing. Now she just had to work out how to tell him.

  At nearly twelve weeks pregnant, Saffron’s figure had definitely changed. Half her smart pairs of trousers were now too tight around the waist, and the buttons of all her work blouses strained across her inflated chest. Jumpers and forgivingly stretchy leggings were fine at home, but this wasn’t the sort of outfit she could get away with at work. Out had come her range of ‘fat-day’ clothes: the slightly looser, more shapeless tops in her wardrobe, teamed with the high-waisted skirts that flared over her belly, disguising the small rounded beginnings of a bump. She could just about get away with her favourite jackets, although she could no longer button any of them up properly. There was no escaping it: maternity wear loomed unpleasantly ahead on the horizon, elasticated waistbands and all.

  No shapeless clothes today, though. Not when she had to get Max onside. Instead she wore a drapey black wrap-dress in soft jersey, which gave her an impressive cleavage and made her feel confident and womanly. She’d been in flats all day at work, but changed into her favourite black kitten-heels before she left the office. Her tired legs wouldn’t thank her for it, but this was all in a good cause.

  Max was already ensconced at a table with a pint and the sports pages of the Evening Standard when she arrived at the pub. He was wearing reading glasses, she noticed; another thing she didn’t know about him. Did this mean the baby might be long-sighted? A picture flashed into her head of a chubby round-faced baby with a pair of spectacles on its cute button nose, then she pushed the image away as Max looked up and saw her. Get a grip, Saffron. Get a bloody grip!

  ‘Hi,’ she said, approaching his table. ‘I’ll just grab a drink. Do you want another?’

  ‘I’m fine with this, thanks,’ he said. Obviously not planning on staying long then, she thought, nodding brightly at him and joining the crush at the bar. The place was already filling up with clusters of post-work drinkers, with loud conversations and bursts of laughter all around, mingling scents of perfume and sweaty armpits. She imagined having to bellow her news in order to be heard and cringed at the thought. Maybe this wasn’t the time or place after all.

  ‘Yes, love, what can I get you?’

  A massive vodka. A strawberry daiquiri. A glass of red wine with a whisky chaser. All three, with a ginormous bag of Kettle Chips for good measure.

  ‘A Diet Coke, please,’ she said with a little sigh.

  ‘So how’s work?’ Max asked, folding his newspaper as she returned to the table. He had a lovely wide smile, Max. He was wearing dark-blue jeans and a mossy green shirt she hadn’t seen before, rolled up at the elbows. Seeing the dark hairs on his forearms gave Saffron a pang of longing. Those arms had held her in a clinch not so long ago, his bare skin pressed against hers. God, he was handsome.

  ‘Good, thanks,’ she said haltingly. ‘How about you?’

  ‘Yeah, pretty good, too. I thought of you the other day actually – I had to take a client out rally driving, like you do. This footballer we’re trying to sign up for our new ad campaign – him, his agent and a couple of us from the office down at Silverstone. Total adrenalin-rush. Have you ever tried it?’

  By happy coincidence she had, although it had been with a previous boyfriend who sulked all the way home because Saffron had beaten him in every race. Before long she and Max were comparing notes on lap times and handbrake turns, and he was telling a funny story about the footballer’s agent whose legs had gone to jelly after the ‘hot lap’ at the end, and who actually fell over, quite embarrassingly, at the trackside, once out of the car.

  Saffron felt her body unclenching as she laughed. It was as if that strange, awful New Year phone call had never happened. And he’d actually said ‘I thought of you’ without pulling a sick face. This was a promising start. Now all she had to do was deliver her news.

  ‘So,’ she said when there was a pause in the conversation. Her mouth went dry. Here we go. Mistakes can become adventures, and all that. ‘I’ve been meaning to get in touch because—’

  ‘Max! I thought you might be in here. Team Faster!’

  Two women and a man had appeared by the table, all talking at once with animated expressions and much gesticulating. Both women had excellent haircuts and wore bright, short dresses, big parkas and thigh-boots, while the man was shaking off an enormous black military overcoat to reveal a lurid purple-and-yellow Hawaiian shirt.

  ‘Have you heard?’ cried the first woman, who had cheekbones to die for and a mahogany bob. ‘We got Mtulu. We got Muh-freaking-tulu!’

  ‘Abe is like totally stoked, he’s given us the company credit card,’ added Hawaiian dude, who had a goatee and artfully tousled hair. He waved a silver Amex card above his head. ‘Drinks and dinner out for Team Faster. Yeah, baby!’

  ‘You should have been there – everyone was cheering and screaming, it was totally epic,’ said the other woman, who had almond-shaped green eyes. She punched the air and beamed at Max. ‘Can you believe it?’

  Saffron felt as if she had become invisible in her chair, a dowdy shadow in a bulging black dress who couldn’t compete with so much naked exuberance. Meanwhile Max’s face had lit up. ‘Fantastic,’ he said, high-fiving Mr Hawaii. ‘Bloody amazing!’ Then he turned back to Saffron, belatedly remembering she was there. ‘Mtulu’s the footballer I told you about, star player for Man City. Looks like he’s going to be fronting our new campaign!’

  ‘Great,’ said Saffron, trying to sound enthusiastic, but her voice was lost amidst a new round of cheers and self-congratulation.

  ‘Let’s get a bottle of something fizzy,’ said Mr Hawaii. ‘And what the hell: pork scratchings all round. Jonty’s booki
ng us a table somewhere fabulous for dinner; he’s going to text me the details.’

  ‘I’ll give you a hand,’ said Almond-Eyes, linking a skinny arm through his and tottering along beside him. ‘Just in case we decide to get two bottles . . . ’

  That only left cheekbones woman, who sat herself on Max’s lap, curling cat-like into him and kissing him full on the lips. ‘Looks like we’re celebrating tonight,’ she said with a naughty smile, tracing a finger down Max’s face.

  There was a lipstick print on his mouth and Saffron stared at it stupidly for a too-long moment, her heart thudding. Oh no. Was this what she thought it was?

  ‘Saffron, this is Mia,’ Max said, shifting in his seat and looking somewhat uncomfortable. Mia still had one arm twined possessively around his neck and she turned to bestow a brilliant smile upon Saffron. He’s mine, darling, the smile said, without any doubt. ‘Mia, this is Saffron from Phoenix PR. We worked together on the launch of the Gold range, back in the autumn.’

  Saffron got to her feet, feeling Mia’s cool, interested gaze on her the whole time. ‘I’d better go,’ she said, her face turning hot. What a muppet she was. As if a gorgeous, charming bloke like Max would stay single for very long. Mia and Max. They even sounded good together.

  She brushed an imaginary crumb from her skirt so that she didn’t have to look at either of them, then pulled on her coat. It wasn’t as if she’d seriously expected that she and Max would become a couple again, just because of the baby, but, you know, it might have been nice to at least have had the option . . .

  ‘Oh,’ Max said. ‘Okay. Well, nice to see you.’

  Mia was teasingly trying to kiss him again, even though he was speaking. Rude, thought Saffron, picking up her bag. Bloody rude. ‘Bye,’ she said abruptly, leaving them to it before she did anything embarrassing like cry.

  She walked towards Tottenham Court Road Tube station with swift, urgent strides, ignoring how painfully her shoes pinched. So that little conversation hadn’t gone exactly to plan. Why had they wasted so much time talking about rally driving and gossip, for goodness’ sake? If only she hadn’t wussed out for so long! A better, braver woman would have announced it the second she sat down: cards on the table, boom.

  But now Max had a new girlfriend, the very last thing he’d want to hear was that his previous fling was accidentally pregnant. Nice and friendly though he’d been, nobody wanted a hormonal ex hanging around like a bad smell.

  It was damp and foggy and a horrible hair-frizzing drizzle was falling, soft and speckling. Saffron put her head down and marched on, pulling her coat more tightly around her. Well, she’d tried to do the right thing at least, nobody could say she hadn’t. The question now was whether she could face trying all over again – or whether she should cut her losses and move on, leaving Max Walters far behind in the past?

  Chapter Thirteen

  For the first time ever, Valentine’s Day came and went with barely a mention in Gemma’s house. In the past Spencer had pulled out all the romantic stops: a massive bouquet of flowers, breakfast in bed, a night away in a glamorous hotel . . . He’d once even serenaded her in a restaurant, much to her embarrassment and the other diners’ hilarity. Down on one knee, the works, ending with a red rose between his teeth. Everyone had cheered. Oh, he liked his big gestures, did Spencer. Unfortunately this year the only gesture he seemed to be making was two fingers. He hadn’t even bothered to get her a card.

  ‘Valentine’s? Is it?’ he mumbled when she presented him with a full English and a Buck’s Fizz that morning, a crimson envelope propped up against the champagne glass on the kitchen table.

  Her face fell. ‘Yeah,’ she said quietly. ‘Not to worry.’

  He sat down, drowning the contents of his plate with brown sauce, and didn’t look at her. When had he last shaved? she found herself wondering, noticing the dark stubble all over his chin and throat. Three days ago? Four?

  ‘I’ve booked us cinema tickets for tonight,’ she said, with forced brightness. ‘Dad said he’d babysit. We could even splash out a bit and go to the Thai place first, maybe? If you want.’

  She bit her lip, waiting for his reply, but he was chewing an enormous mouthful of sausage.

  ‘Spence?’ she prompted after a few moments. ‘It’s that new thriller, the one Harry was going on about. With that guy, what’s his name – matey from Game of Thrones – and . . . ’ She was babbling. ‘If you fancy it, anyway.’

  Her optimism was draining away. Why wasn’t he answering? Why wouldn’t he even look at her? It had been weeks since they’d gone out anywhere together, other than for a hospital appointment, and she’d been hoping that an evening out might take his mind off the recent traumas and make him feel more human. She’d imagined them holding hands in the cinema, a carton of buttery popcorn between them, resting her head on his shoulder in the cab ride home. She’d even secretly made the most beautiful dress ever for tonight, a gorgeous red number that nipped in at the waist, accentuated her boobs and gave her a real wiggle when she walked. It was hidden away at the back of the wardrobe and she’d been looking forward to modelling it for him. He’d never been able to resist her in that kind of outfit.

  Well, before the accident, anyway. Nowadays he barely even glanced in her direction.

  He gave a grunt. ‘Maybe,’ he said, forking in another mouthful.

  She pressed her lips together, trying to hide her disappointment. Maybe it was just as well. It wasn’t like they could really afford to go out anyway.

  Will slunk into the kitchen then, eyes down. Not him as well, Gemma thought, with an inward sigh. ‘What do you want for breakfast, love?’ she asked.

  ‘Not hungry,’ he said, grabbing his packed lunch from where she’d left it on the side. ‘See you.’

  ‘Will, wait. You need to eat something now. All the research shows that you learn much better if you—’

  ‘Yeah, whatever.’

  ‘Darling, wait, I’m talking to you. Don’t walk away from me when I’m—’

  The front door slammed and she flinched at his vehemence. Too late. He was angry with her, because the night before she’d told him that he was going to have to pull out of the school trip to Normandy that summer.

  ‘What? Why?’ he’d asked, his head snapping round in surprise. They were in the dining room together, Will doing some maths homework, Gemma at the sewing machine, mending his torn blazer. It was the second time this year it had ripped all the way up the back.

  She took her foot off the treadle to give him her full attention. ‘I’m sorry, love, it’s just too expensive. We can’t afford it any more.’

  ‘But everyone’s going! I’ve got to go. For fuck’s sake, Mum!’

  Her jaw dropped. She couldn’t believe he’d opened that luscious red-lipped mouth and said ‘For fuck’s sake’. To her. ‘Don’t you dare speak to me like that!’ she cried. ‘Look, while Dad’s off work there’s less money coming in. We’ve all got to make sacrifices.’

  He sneered at her. He actually curled his lip and sneered, her lovely doe-eyed son, the same boy who’d once spent hours gluing tissue-paper flowers to Mother’s Day cards for her. ‘Yeah? What sacrifices have you made then, Mum? I don’t see you going short.’

  Her hands shook from this unexpected attack. The sacrifices she had made? Well, only my marriage it seems, sweetheart. Only my bloody sanity! ‘We are all having to miss out on things,’ she said, trying to keep her voice even. ‘We haven’t paid off Christmas yet, and we’re still waiting for the money to come in from Dad’s last job.’ The money she’d been chasing for weeks now, only to be fobbed off by the developers each time. Whenever she looked at their dwindling bank balance and thought about all those months ahead with Spencer off work, she felt frightened. They’d had a few phone calls from ‘no-win, no-fee’ lawyers, trying to persuade them to sue the scaffolding firm for ridiculous amounts of money but Spencer had told them, in no uncertain terms, to get stuffed. ‘Bloody vultures,’ he glowered each time as he
hung up. Meanwhile the mortgage company had agreed to give them a month’s breathing space, but Gemma knew they might not be so obliging if she tried asking for any more. ‘Look, I’m sorry about the French trip,’ she had said gently, ‘but I’m afraid there’s no way round it.’

  ‘You don’t understand,’ he said, kicking at the table leg. He shoved his homework book away and got up suddenly. ‘You’ve got no idea!’

  ‘I have,’ she said, stung. ‘Will, come on, don’t be like that.’

  ‘Oh, shut up, Mum. Just shut up!’ And off he went, pushing past her out of the room.

  She gulped as the door slammed. ‘And you can stop wrecking this blazer, too!’ she found herself yelling after him, knowing it was random, but feeling the need to wrest back some control. ‘Because you’re not getting a new one, you know!’

  They hadn’t spoken since. He’d turned away from her when she came in to say goodnight later on. And now he was refusing breakfast, to make some kind of point. Great. A hunger strike was all she needed. Well, she didn’t have time for another argument; he’d be halfway down the street by now and she wasn’t about to run after him in her dressing gown and slippers. ‘Darcey!’ she yelled up the stairs. ‘Hurry up! Breakfast’s getting cold!’

  At some point this week she’d have to tell Darcey that they could no longer afford her riding lessons, either, and that she would have to downsize her birthday list that currently began: 1. Disneyland trip. But not now. Not this morning. She didn’t think she could cope with three members of her family hating her at once.

  She sipped her coffee – the cheap, own-brand stuff she had started buying (they all had to make sacrifices) – and wrinkled her nose at the unpleasant bitterness. Poverty is no disgrace, she remembered from the New Year fortune-cookie. Maybe not, but it tasted bloody awful sometimes.