The Year of Taking Chances Page 9

  ‘You daft cow,’ Caitlin said aloud to herself at the thought. She shoved the last few books into the box and got to her feet. Enough wading through the past for one day, she decided. She’d go out to the shop, stock up on bin bags, food and wine, and try again tomorrow.

  Down in Larkmead’s Spar, Caitlin was just paying for her groceries when she heard the distinct sound of someone crying over the cheesy background muzak. Pocketing her change, she hesitated for a moment, then ducked back into the dingy aisles of the shop to see who it was. There, in the Household Miscellaneous section, leaning against a shelf of washing-powder boxes, was Gemma Bailey with tears streaming down her face.

  Caitlin’s mouth fell open in a silent O of shock at this very public show of emotion. Gemma was the last person she’d expected to see weeping over a Persil display. She had that perfect golden life – a big house, gorgeous husband and children. What did she have to cry about?

  Caitlin cleared her throat, feeling self-conscious. ‘Is everything . . . Are you okay?’

  Stupid question. Oh yeah, I’m great, that’s why I’m sobbing over laundry powder. Have a medal, Captain Observant.

  Gemma’s shoulders heaved and she wiped her eyes with her knuckles. ‘No,’ she said baldly. ‘Not really.’

  ‘Can I help? Do you want a cup of tea? Mum’s place is just round the corner, if you want a chat?’ A cup of tea, for heaven’s sake. She was so bloody British. But what else could you offer a weeping woman in the Larkmead mini-mart? Gin? Valium?

  Gemma took a long, shuddering breath. ‘Would you mind? I can’t face going home right now.’

  Caitlin tried to hide her disquiet. Couldn’t face going home? What on earth . . . ? ‘Sure thing,’ she said. ‘Of course I don’t mind.’

  They left the shop and began walking up the hill. It was the first week of February now and the snowdrops and crocuses were shyly unfolding their petals, welcome splashes of light against the wet ground and grey skies.

  ‘I suppose you’ve heard all the gossip,’ Gemma said dully.

  ‘No,’ Caitlin said, feeling stupid and apologetic for not being more in tune with the village news. They’re splitting up, she thought with a wrench of sympathy. Oh no. They had seemed so happy at New Year! The way Spencer had looked at Gemma, his eyes soft and glistening with love, it was something Caitlin could only dream of. ‘What’s happened?’ she added cautiously.

  ‘Oh. Well, Spencer’s been in an accident. He’s a bit mangled and battered, but home now at least. The doctors say he’ll be fine again eventually, but . . . ’ She sighed, huffing out a cloud of breath. ‘I’m struggling, that’s all. We’re all finding it hard to adjust. He’s so unhappy – nothing I do or say seems to make a blind bit of difference.’

  They’d reached White Gables now and Caitlin opened the front door, hoping the cottage didn’t smell too musty. She’d been sorting through all her mum’s kitchen appliances recently and some of them – the elderly ice-cream maker, for instance, and the fondue set that looked as if it had come from the Ark – didn’t seem to have been touched for years.

  ‘Speaking as someone who used to be a nurse,’ she said, ‘it’s often the case that the loved ones suffer almost as much as the patient, after a serious accident.’ Aargh, the kitchen was messier than she’d thought; the table covered with ageing crockery, piles of cookery books and a heap of photos. ‘Sorry about all of this, by the way. I’m having a bit of a clear-out.’

  ‘No worries,’ Gemma said, shrugging off her grey wool coat and sitting down at the table. ‘I didn’t know you were a nurse.’

  Caitlin filled the kettle. ‘I’m not any more. I went into it, really, to please my parents, but I bailed out about five years ago and started designing websites instead. Better money, no more having to remove strange implements jammed into orifices, and no one showering you in puke on a Saturday night.’

  Gemma had picked up an old family photo and suddenly her face cleared. ‘Wait – your mum was Jane? The midwife?’

  ‘Yes, that’s right. Why, did you . . . ?’

  ‘She delivered my babies! Both of them. Oh, Caitlin, she was such a lovely woman, I’m so sorry.’

  For some reason, whenever anyone said anything nice about her mum, it seemed to sap Caitlin’s energy, as if she was forced to realize all over again just what she’d lost. ‘Thanks,’ she said, sagging against the worktop as she made them each a coffee.

  ‘And she saved Darcey’s life, you know. My little girl. She really did. I rang her when Darcey was three days old and didn’t want to feed, and she leapt into action. Phoned the hospital to say we were on our way, and drove me there herself.’

  ‘Really?’ Caitlin loved imagining her mum swooping to the rescue like that. A capable, practical woman, with her sleeves permanently rolled up, Jane had often returned from a night-shift in tired triumph. ‘A lovely wee boy this morning, eight and a half pounds, beautiful home birth,’ she might say, helping herself to a slice of toast from the rack, as Caitlin and Steve ate their breakfast. Or ‘A bonny baby girl for the Finches, such a head of hair on her.’ Her eyes would shine with the announcement of each infant, safely brought into the world. It was amazing that she hadn’t had twenty babies of her own, she loved them so.

  ‘Really,’ Gemma said. ‘We spent four days in hospital, with Darcey on a drip and me fearing the worst, but she was fine eventually, thanks to Jane’s quick response. She was an absolute angel when I needed help.’

  An absolute angel. Everyone had loved Jane. All those mothers she’d helped, the babies she’d saved, the way she’d taken lonely old Gwen next door out to bingo and Zumba every week. It was a shame she hadn’t passed on the angelic gene to her awkward, antisocial daughter.

  ‘What happened with Spencer, then?’ she asked, changing the subject. ‘Sounds like you’ve been through a bit of a trauma.’

  ‘Fell from a first-floor building – shoddy scaffolding gave way,’ Gemma said. You could tell she’d had to recount this a number of times; her voice had become brisk and emotion-free. ‘Bust his ankle and a few vertebrae, massive bang on the head. Not great, basically.’ Her mouth twisted unhappily.

  From what Caitlin remembered of Spencer at school, he’d been boisterous and energetic, playing on the football team, bombing around on a BMX, the sort of person who’d leap off a wall for a dare. He was the boy who, aged eight, climbed to the top of the highest tree in the school playground and got stuck. Mr Winch, the deputy head, had to scramble up there after him to bring him down; it had been the most exciting thing ever to happen at Larkmead Primary. ‘Poor him,’ said Caitlin. ‘And poor you.’

  ‘Thanks,’ Gemma said with a wan smile. ‘He’ll be all right, and so will I,’ she went on. ‘He’s just not a very easy patient to live with right now, and I’m probably the worst nurse. But it won’t go on forever, right?’ She tapped the photograph of Jane. ‘As your mum said to me when I was screaming blue murder in the throes of childbirth, “You won’t remember the pain once it’s over.” And she was right. Hopefully that goes for injured husbands as well.’

  Caitlin smiled back. ‘Undoubtedly,’ she said.

  ‘By the way,’ said Gemma, perking up a little. ‘I hope you don’t mind me asking, but is something going on with you and Harry Sykes?’

  Caitlin’s heart leapt, like an over-enthusiastic Labrador. Stupid heart: stay where you are. ‘No,’ she said. ‘There’s nothing going on with me and Harry Sykes. Why?’

  ‘He just mentioned you the other week. Said something about going to Cambridge? We were on our way to the hospital when he told me, but I wasn’t really paying attention.’

  Did that mean ‘just mentioned’ or ‘just mentioned’? Was his tongue in or out when he said her name? Now she was thinking about Labradors again. Get a grip, you moron. ‘He gave me a lift,’ she said. ‘Helped me move my stuff out of my ex-boyfriend’s flat.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘And nothing. That was it. He said something about giving up proposing to wome
n, as his New Year’s resolution. He’s got a new Ten-Date Rule, apparently.’

  Gemma snorted. ‘I’ll believe that when I see it.’ She drained her coffee and checked her watch, then got to her feet. ‘I’d better go,’ she said, winding a fluffy silver scarf around her neck and tucking it into her coat. Then she paused. ‘So he didn’t try it on with you, then?’

  Caitlin shook her head, unable to help feeling a twinge of disappointment. Had the monobrow and moustache scared him off? She ran a finger self-consciously along her now-bleached upper lip. ‘If he’s the village Casanova, then maybe I had a lucky escape,’ she said with a little laugh as she showed Gemma to the door, but her words lacked conviction. Whatever his reputation, Harry seemed lovely. She couldn’t help hoping that their paths would cross again soon.

  Chapter Twelve

  Saffron was feeling the heat of having Bunty Halsom as her client. Remembering her friend Kate’s advice, she’d been determined to go in hard, making it clear from the outset that she had a busy client list and wasn’t about to be Bunty’s new patsy. None of her tricks had worked, though. Not one. Whenever she tried keeping Bunty waiting in the agency’s small reception while she finished sending out the new Yummy Mummy press release or whatever, Bunty lost patience and simply marched past the startled receptionist and through the office, braying, ‘Saff! I’m here, darling, what’s keeping you? You didn’t forget about our meeting, did you?’

  Then, when Saffron arranged a series of press interviews to herald Bunty’s forthcoming appearances on Celebrity Masterchef, she prepped her extensively beforehand on Tyler Starr, the spiky gossip columnist known for winding up his subjects until they lost their cool. But any hopes of keeping her client on a tight rein fell by the wayside as Tyler baited her with unexpected, intrusive questions about plastic surgery, and Bunty’s complexion turned increasingly brick-red with ill-disguised irritation. Before Saffron could leap in and rescue her, the interview came to an early end, with Bunty throwing a glass of water over Tyler and storming out in an indignant huff. Of course the very next day the main article in Starr’s column was spiteful speculation about how much cosmetic work Bunty had had done. ‘Would you pay to look like THIS?’ sneered the headline above an unflattering picture of her, with mottled cheeks and at least three chins, squeezed into a too-tight dress at some party or other. (‘The little bastard,’ Bunty hissed savagely. ‘He’ll get a slap in the chops if I ever see him again.’)

  And even though Saffron thought she had spelled it out perfectly clearly – several times – that she had better things to do than run around picking up dry-cleaning or organizing pet-sitters for Teddy, Bunty’s ridiculously over-indulged teacup Pomeranian, guess what? It didn’t make a blind bit of difference. Every day there’d be a new email or answerphone message that made Saffron’s fists clench in rage:

  Saff, darling, be a poppet and sort me out a dress for the TV Quick Awards. Anything glittery and fabulous. Try Temperley or Stella McCartney? If you could bike a selection round to my Notting Hill flat, that would be perfect. By midday, ideally.

  Saff? Saffron? You really should answer your phone more often, dear. Listen, I’ve had an idea – see if Mercedes want to do some kind of promo with me. I rather fancy that sporty little number they’re advertising now. See if they’ll lend it me for the Masterchef launch. What a hoot it’ll be, me driving up in that – the paps will love it!

  Saffron, I’ve lost my phone. Could you get me a new iPhone? Maybe one of those blingy cases to go with it; they’re rather fun, aren’t they? I’ll be at Minty’s for supper, so do send it there.

  On and on it went, a never-ending stream of vapid, shallow, self-obsessed requests. Politely at first, and then with incremental degrees of curtness, Saffron tried pointing out that none of these tasks fell within the remit of her job, but she might as well have been talking to the wall. You had to admire someone with such determination, really. Admire them, or hire an assassin to deal with them, anyway. As for her new client’s self-esteem, Saffron had never met anyone with such stratospheric confidence levels. Look at Bunty, deluding herself that she and Mercedes were the perfect client match, when in reality she would be far better suited to advertising a cheap-and-cheerful Fiat. And at five foot two, with knockers that could smother a man and a bum that needed its own postcode, Bunty didn’t have a chance in hell of squeezing into any designer frocks. Not that Saffron would dare burst her bubble by pointing this out.

  Still, she was busy at least. While Saffron was running around trying to keep her new client happy – and herself sane, if possible – she had little time to think about the tiny being inside her, which had now apparently bloomed from the size of a grape to that of a fig, according to the pregnancy app she’d installed on her phone. For something so small, it was certainly having a big impact on her body. Her limbs ached as if her bones had turned to lengths of lead piping. Her eyelids felt so heavy she had to battle to force them open for the duration of her Tube journey home. Her diary – previously crammed with drinks, dinners and get-togethers with mates – became a blank wilderness as she made excuses and cancelled everything, due to zero energy levels.

  Once home, she would eat like a horse and then topple into bed by nine-thirty. She had never slept so deeply or heavily in her life. Oh, and the pregnancy dreams were absolutely crazy! Just the other night, she had dreamed she was in an operating theatre, in labour, pushing, pushing, PUSHING . . . only for the doctor in green scrubs to pull out a Jack Russell from between her legs. ‘It’s a dog!’ the doctor announced, deadpan. The weirdest thing was, instead of freaking out that she’d given birth to a fully grown dog, in her dream all Saffron was worried about was whether to call him Jack or Russell.

  ‘Jack, of course,’ her sister Zoe laughed, when Saffron woke the next morning and Skyped her straight away in order to tell her about it. ‘That’s a really cute name for a boy. Hey, have you thought about names yet?’

  Saffron smiled back at her sister’s tanned face on her laptop screen. It was early evening in Australia, and the height of summer there. Zoe was in a white halterneck vest-top, with a ceiling fan whirring in the background, while Saffron was still in thermal pyjamas under an Arctic-tog duvet.

  ‘Not really,’ she replied. ‘I’ve got my twelve-week scan coming up in a few days, though. I don’t know if I should find out if it’s a boy or a girl. What would you do?’

  ‘Oh, don’t find out,’ Zoe said at once. ‘Give yourself something to announce on the big day.’ She peered into the camera. ‘Christ, Saff, your boobs look gargantuan in those pyjamas. Jealous!’

  ‘I know,’ Saffron said, giggling despite herself. ‘I can’t stop looking at them. I’m going to have to get a new bra, Double-Melon size.’

  ‘Fruity,’ said Zoe and wolf-whistled. Then her face rearranged itself into something more serious. ‘Saff – have you said anything to El, yet? Only I spoke to her the other day and she was really down. Gearing up to do another round of IVF apparently. They’ve taken out a loan this time; she said it was their last chance.’

  Saffron sighed, Double Melons forgotten, as a wave of guilt swept over her. Poor Eloise. She and her husband Simon were so desperate for a baby. According to Mum, Eloise had even started going to church and praying for a miracle. How could Saffron bring herself to announce that oh, by the way, she was accidentally pregnant a few weeks into a new fling? Impossible. ‘Not yet,’ she said glumly. ‘You and my friend Kate are the only ones who know so far. I’m building up to Mum and Eloise next.’

  ‘What about the Jack Russell’s dad? When are you going to mention it to him?’

  ‘I’m building up to that, as well,’ Saffron mumbled.

  Ending the call a few minutes later, she dragged herself out of bed and into the small dingy bathroom. The mirror showed a new swollen silhouette to her belly that made her feel like a softly ripening fruit. Hey – and this was the second morning on the trot that she hadn’t immediately sprinted out of bed in order to vomit. Might thi
s be the blooming, radiant stage of pregnancy that she’d read about? She very much hoped so.

  Her sister’s question about Max had struck a chord and she turned on the shower feeling thoughtful. Zoe was right: she had to let him know, and the sooner, the better. Today in fact. Yes, today she would contact him and arrange to meet. It was only fair that she put him in the picture. If he wanted nothing to do with the baby, then so be it. She was prepared for that reaction; it was a real possibility.

  But there was another possibility, too – that his face would light up in delight, that he’d take her hand and gaze into her eyes. It could happen, couldn’t it? And then he’d understand why she’d been so offhand about the kite-surfing, why she’d gone quiet on him since Christmas. Whoa, he’d say. I wasn’t expecting that.

  Nor me, she’d reply. I have to admit, I was kind of surprised, too.

  Those beautiful dark features of his would scrunch up as he thought. It’s unorthodox, I guess, but we could make it work, couldn’t we? The two of us, parents together?

  She washed her hair, trying on the fantasy for size. Mummy, Daddy and baby, living happily ever after. It felt like cheating somehow, as if they’d be leapfrogging a whole line of traditional relationship milestones. She barely knew Max. She had no idea about his favourite film, the books he liked, whether he preferred fish and chips to a curry, if he had siblings or allergies, let alone how he’d man up in a screaming, bloody childbirth situation. As for living together, for all she knew, he was a complete lazy slob who left dirty clothes on the floor and the toilet seat up; a middle-of-the-tube toothpaste-squeezer, who’d never cleaned an oven in his life. He’d been married before, after all. There had to be a good reason he wasn’t married now.