The Year of Taking Chances Read online

  It made her think, though. Siblings. Had Alison Wendell had any babies after her? Or before? There might be a whole clan of Caitlin-alikes up in Scotland, tall and clumsy, with big noses and fine hair. She couldn’t help a tiny smile at the thought. They could hang out together and have a good old bitch about the crap genes they’d inherited, and then be best big-beaked friends forever and ever.

  The thought tore at her. She’d always wanted a brother or sister. Hadn’t she always longed for one?

  Two gins into the evening and the situation felt decidedly unreal. Should she? Dare she? Her fingers hovered. Her heart boomed.

  What the hell, she thought, clicking back to the Adoption Search Reunion website that she’d looked at previously. She would just register her name and see if it linked to anybody else. It didn’t mean she had to go and meet them, if she bottled out later down the line. It wouldn’t commit her to doing anything she didn’t want to.

  Taking a deep breath and a last swig of Dutch courage, she began to type.

  Chapter Thirty

  ‘Can I have a word please, Saffron? In my office.’ Charlotte’s voice was so icy it practically etched a pattern of frost across the agency windowpanes.

  ‘Sure,’ Saffron replied, sweat beading between her shoulder blades. She put an arm self-consciously across her stomach as she walked across the room. This didn’t bode well. Had Charlotte guessed her secret? It was a distinct possibility. Now fifteen weeks pregnant, Saffron was bulging in a way that even the loosest, swingiest tunic tops and blouses couldn’t hide. But until she had the amnio next week and knew what the future held, she didn’t want to start discussing her condition with her unsympathetic boss. It was hard enough to get through each day while the test was hanging over her, let alone have to confide in someone who had all the bedside manner of a viper.

  Legally, she cannot sack you for being pregnant, she reminded herself, taking a deep breath. Don’t let her push you around.

  Charlotte’s office was like a boutique hotel in miniature, with soft lighting, dark textured walls, a huge vase of fragrant white lilies, a leather sofa and a wall of inspirational quotes in different fonts:

  Whenever she saw this wall, Saffron always had the urge to add in some of her own favourite quotes in marker pen, but so far hadn’t quite dared. IF AT FIRST YOU DON’T SUCCEED, GIN AND CHOCOLATE’S WHAT YOU NEED.

  Maybe not.

  ‘Have a seat.’ Charlotte waved a hand at the leather sofa and Saffron sat, assuming her boss would join her at the other end. Instead, Charlotte walked around behind her desk so that however high Saffron tried to pull herself up, her boss was still a good foot higher. No doubt this was intentional. ‘So.’ Charlotte steepled her fingers together and gave Saffron an inscrutable look. ‘You’ve been working hard lately.’

  ‘Yes,’ Saffron replied guardedly. ‘Yes, I have.’

  ‘Your phone’s been ringing a lot. I’ve seen you typing frenziedly over at your desk.’

  Saffron had the uneasy feeling she was walking into a trap. ‘Yes,’ she said again.

  ‘Yet when I took the liberty of checking through the system, I couldn’t find any evidence of what you’ve been doing.’ Her voice was silky smooth. ‘Very few emails sent from the company account. Very little saved to the hard drive, in terms of press releases or strategy plans.’ Her pastel-pink lips twitched as if she was dying to smirk at her own cleverness. ‘Perhaps you can tell me exactly what you have been doing lately?’

  Saffron quailed. What she’d been doing, of course, was running around trying to help Gemma with her PR, but she couldn’t fess up as much to Charlotte. ‘Well . . . ’

  ‘You mentioned something about a new client. Have we signed this person up to our books?’

  ‘Not exactly.’

  ‘But I trust you are in the process of drawing up a contract and agreeing terms?’

  Saffron faltered, lowering her gaze. ‘N-not yet.’

  Triumph flickered across Charlotte’s face and her smile became steely. Time seemed to elongate as she held Saffron’s gaze, a fox eyeing a rabbit. ‘Make sure you get a contract out to this client today then, and start billing them at once. I’ll expect to see the paperwork very soon. Yes?’

  ‘Yes,’ mumbled Saffron. The fox had pounced, jaws open.

  Coming home that night from work, Saffron felt utterly fed up. Of the slow-moving crush of people dawdling through Soho and getting underfoot. Of the black cab that veered towards the pavement, sending a spray of muddy water fountaining over her from a kerbside puddle. Of the man eating a smelly burger and chips next to her on the Tube, the random nutter yelling expletives in the opposite seat, the teenage girls sassing the guy on the ticket barriers who was old enough to be their grandad. She was tired of worrying incessantly about the baby and how she would cope, of what would be revealed at the amnio and how it would make her feel.

  Most of all she was ground down by Charlotte, peering over her shoulder and checking up on her work as if she were a two-year-old who needed constant supervision. Yes, okay, so she had been spending quite a lot of time recently on matters that were not strictly company business – but give her a break! After all the shite she’d put up with from Bunty and all the Z-list celebrity clients on her books, any other boss would have cut her a large length of slack and turned a blind eye when she wanted to do a favour for a friend.

  Not Charlotte, though. As if. And they both knew she’d be as good as her word when it came to following up on her coded ultimatum: show me the contract, or face the music. What should Saffron do?

  The answer came to her as she was slotting the key into her front door: Leave. Quit. Get out before she chucks you out.

  Saffron was not by nature a quitter. She had always been a grafter, slogging through revision for exams, taking her driving test three times rather than admitting defeat, doggedly sticking out awful temp jobs in the hope of being noticed by the powers-that-be in HR; and, since working at Phoenix, sucking it up when it came to self-obsessed clients, all in the name of being professional. She’d even hung on to her marriage until it was obvious, even to a complete stranger, that the relationship was in its death-throes. She had never quit anything in her life. But this time . . .

  She wandered up the stairs to her flat, undeniably tempted by the prospect of sticking up two fingers at Charlotte. Just imagine the glee, the sheer up-yours joy. She’d have dignity and freedom again, a new source of self-respect. Unfortunately, dignity and freedom didn’t pay the rent, did they? Nor did they cover a maternity leave.

  Tipping half a carton of tomato soup into a pan, Saffron lit the gas ring, still thinking. Her job had been a millstone rather than a joy for some time now. When had she last leapt out of bed, eager to get to her desk and start work? She couldn’t remember the last project for which she’d felt genuine enthusiasm, the last client for whom she’d really rooted. Well, apart from Gemma, of course, who wasn’t a real client at all.

  She cut two thick wedges of granary bread and put them under the grill to toast, still mulling it over. Her whim about quitting was becoming more appealing by the minute. Why not? She could do it. She had some rainy-day money stashed away in an account, enough to keep her going for a while if she was careful.

  But . . . hold on. She wasn’t thinking clearly. The baby wouldn’t be here for months yet. She couldn’t blow all her money before she’d even given birth. Anyway, what was she going to do with herself all day long? The thought of her phone going silent, her diary becoming a wasteland with no meetings or client lunches or product launches to juggle . . . It felt alien and frightening, scarily empty. And there were actually some clients she would miss if she never saw them again. Well, one anyway. In a surprising kind of a way.

  She buttered the toast, wondering what would become of Bunty if she left the agency. Then she remembered how Bunty had shaken her head at the prospect of dealing with Charlotte. ‘But I don’t like Charlotte,’ she had said in alarm. ‘She looks down her nose at me, like I’m no
t good enough for her.’

  On impulse Saffron picked up her phone, forgetting all about her soup and toast as she dialled. Sometimes you just had to take a chance in life, roll the dice and have a bit of faith. ‘Bunty?’ she said when her client answered. ‘It’s me. Listen, I’ve had an idea . . . ’

  The next morning as Saffron walked from the bus stop to the office she felt herself noticing everything about the journey and mentally wishing it goodbye. Tourists clustered around an A–Z, blocking the pavement . . . farewell, you inconsiderate sods. The X-rated ‘private bookshop’ from whose doors you occasionally saw red-faced men stumbling . . . good riddance, dirty old bastards. The lift that took forever to arrive and whose doors sometimes jammed unnervingly for a few seconds . . . thank God I’m leaving you behind. Kayla on reception, slurping coffee out of her Benedict Cumberbatch mug . . . Fifty-something David, with his wife and three children, who was known as ‘Shagger’ for his bad behaviour with female clients . . . Mel, who always stank of fags and had the hardest face of anyone Saffron had ever met . . . Goodbye, all of you. This is me, signing out, right here, right now.

  In her office Charlotte was reading the Daily Mail online, dipping a hand absent-mindedly into the bag of watercress that was a permanent fixture on her desk. (She was fooling no one with her saintly display of health; they all knew she’d be tucking into a blood-oozing steak and chips later, washed down with red wine.)

  ‘You’re doing what?’ she yelped, when Saffron coolly delivered her news. Charlotte swung round abruptly on her chair, nostrils flaring like a spooked horse.

  ‘I’m leaving,’ Saffron repeated, a wild dancing feeling starting up inside. She stood there – higher than Charlotte now, having decided not to sit on the leather sofa this time – and felt a thrill of satisfaction as she looked down on her boss. How she’d dreamed about this, never once imagining she’d actually have the guts to go through with it. ‘I’ve decided to go freelance and move out of London.’

  One life-change after another. It made sense for practical reasons, though. Eloise had been right – the flat was too small for an extra person, however tiny they might be for the first year. And renting any place outside London would be about a million times cheaper. But the decision wasn’t purely a sensible one – it had come from her heart, too. She had been yearning for wide skies and fresh air for months now. London had long since lost its lustre.

  ‘But . . . ’ Charlotte’s eyes suddenly became slit-like. ‘You’re not taking any clients with you. I absolutely forbid it.’

  Saffron smiled. Most of the agency clients she’d be more than happy never to see again. ‘I wouldn’t dream of it,’ she replied politely. ‘But obviously if they decide to come with me, that’s their choice.’

  She decided not to let on just yet that she’d already spoken to Bunty, and Bunty had immediately agreed to become her first client. Why pour petrol on the fire?

  Charlotte glared at her with genuine dislike. ‘You’d better clear your desk and go,’ she said. ‘We’ll pay you until the end of the month, and you’re lucky to be getting that much. Just remember that your contacts book is the property of this agency. I want it left on your desk, along with your smartphone and key-card. No funny business.’

  Well, Charlotte was certainly showing her true colours – mistrustful and paranoid until the last. Saffron bestowed a dazzling smile on her, determined to teach her a lesson in professionalism. ‘Of course. And all the best,’ she said, holding crossed fingers behind her back. ‘It’s been fun.’

  Then she turned and left Charlotte’s office for the very last time, and didn’t look back.

  Saffron took the executive decision to give herself the rest of the day off. After depositing the meagre contents of her desk back at home – her Violet and Mushy Pea Pantone mugs, her stash of pistachio nuts and peppermint teabags, hand-cream tubes and all the personal thank-you cards she’d kept pinned up on her noticeboard – she packed a swimming bag and went along to her local baths. There she spent a most relaxing hour tanking up and down the pool while a group of elderly ladies in flowered bathing hats splashed about in the shallow end, waving their arms around to the strains of 1980s pop hits in the name of Pensioner Aquarobics. This is my new life, she thought to herself, walking home with wet hair and the faint whiff of chlorine emanating from her bag. So far, so good.

  She phoned Gemma later on to warn her against calling the office line, for fear of having a belated invoice fired off to her by an irate Charlotte. ‘Whoa! You’ve quit? Good for you!’ Gemma exclaimed. ‘So what’s the plan now?’

  ‘The plan . . . Well, I don’t know exactly yet, but I’m taking Bunty on as my first client and I’m going to move house, find somewhere in the sticks before the baby comes along.’ She pulled a face, trying not to dwell on just how woolly and vague that all sounded. ‘But I was really ringing to say that I’ll have a bit more time on my hands for the next few weeks. Technically I’m not supposed to work with Bunty until she’s seen out her contract with the agency – a whole month away. So if you want me to help you at all, I’m a free agent.’

  ‘Oh, really?’ Gemma’s voice rose in pitch. ‘God, I need all the help I can get right now, Saff, especially since Spencer—’ She broke off. ‘Yes, please. That would be totally bloody amazing.’

  ‘Great. You’re on. Just let me know what you need me to do.’

  ‘You superstar. Thank you. I could do with some good news. Will it freak you out if I tell you I actually seriously love you? I mean it!’

  Saffron laughed. ‘You’re welcome.’ Was Gemma all right? she wondered. She sounded kind of manic.

  ‘Oh, and hey, this is just a totally random thought, but you could always come and stay here, if you want? We’ve got plenty of room, if you don’t mind undecorated granny-chic, that is. We’ve set up a bit of an office, me and Caitlin, you’d be welcome to join us.’

  Saffron paused for thought. Stay in Larkmead? She had made the offer assuming that she would tackle any work remotely, from her laptop in the flat, but the prospect of a return to the Suffolk village was tempting. Larkmead had become something of a haven for her this year. She could immerse herself in Gemma’s business, pop over to her mum’s for Sunday dinner, indulge in Rightmove fantasies about where to live next . . .

  ‘Sounds perfect,’ she said without needing to think about it any more. ‘Are you sure? It won’t be until next week anyway, but I can always ring Bernie and—’

  ‘Don’t be daft. We’ve got room here, and it’s the least I can do after all your help. Listen, I’d better go, I’ve got someone coming for a fitting in ten minutes – a TV newsreader, can you believe? You know where I am anyway, so just turn up whenever. See you soon!’

  ‘See you soon.’

  In for a penny, in for a pound, Saffron decided. Without pausing to weigh it up, she rang the estate agent through which she rented her flat and briskly gave a month’s notice, just like that. Putting the phone down afterwards, she felt exhilarated by her own recklessness, as if she’d just crossed a rope bridge and cut it loose behind her. No turning back now. She was doing this.

  Besides, she’d never truly loved this flat, had she? It was the place she’d come to, broken-hearted after the end of her marriage, the ‘this’ll-do, handy-for-the-Tube’ flat that she had never bothered to decorate. The very walls were papered with unhappy memories, the bedroom echoed with sighs. She would find somewhere better and move out, she vowed. She’d like a garden, after living up in an apartment block with only one window that opened. Fresh air and friendly neighbours. A spare room that could be either a cheerfully painted nursery or a crash-pad for visiting friends.

  Carried along on a wave of energy, she began packing up. She filled a suitcase with all the work clothes she could no longer squeeze into and wouldn’t be wearing again for a while, then started filling a box with books. Her eye was caught by the pile of self-help manuals that her mum had lent her when she was last there for that fraught Sunday dinner. She
still hadn’t opened any of them, having just dumped them on a side-table when she returned. Maybe she should use her newly acquired free time to read up on mindfulness and inner calm, she thought, lifting them up and scanning their blurbs with a new sense of zeal and self-improvement. Besides, if she . . .

  Her train of thought faltered and promptly crashed into a siding, as she glimpsed what lay under the books. Hold on a minute. What the hell was that?

  As if in a dream, she reached out and picked up the letter that must have been hidden there all along – several weeks now. The letter she’d written to Max, telling him about the pregnancy. The letter that, as it turned out, she had never actually posted.

  Her knees buckled, her mouth gaped open and she sank onto the sofa, stunned at this new discovery. This changed everything. There she’d been, assuming that Max hadn’t turned up to the twelve-week scan because he wasn’t interested, when in actual fact he had no idea whatsoever that she was even pregnant.

  ‘Oh my God,’ she said aloud, her voice hoarse, her breath juddering. All the anger and hurt she’d felt, and he didn’t even know. Because she’d been so bloody airheaded that she’d never managed to get the letter in the post! How could she have been so thick?

  She was holding the letter so tightly it was already crumpled in her grasp, and she began smoothing out the creases, before checking herself. No. It was too late to send this letter. Way too late. She wouldn’t write another one, either, and risk it becoming lost in the post or undelivered, or falling from a postman’s sack into a muddy puddle and ending up in the nearest dustbin.

  The time had passed for leaving things to chance. She couldn’t risk it any longer. It was half-past three in the afternoon; it would take her about forty minutes to reach Max’s office in Covent Garden.