The Year of Taking Chances

by Lucy Diamond

  Her hand wandered down to her belly and squidged it. Caitlin had always been tall enough that she could eat whatever she liked and didn’t have to worry about putting on weight, but that was before she spent days lying on the sofa watching endless daytime TV and stopped leaving the house. There was a definite creeping roundness to her tummy and hips, and a new tightness to her jeans. Much more of this lifestyle and she’d become a hairy, wobbling beast, half-ape, half-blob. Attractive – said nobody, ever. If she didn’t pull herself together, make an effort and re-enter the human race soon, she’d end up being carted off to a freak show.

  Her eyes drifted around the room, as if seeing the place for the first time. It wasn’t only her that needed a spruce up and polish; the cottage did, too. There was dust on the mirror; an open suitcase containing a jumble of clothes; cold, mouldy cups of tea and coffee along the chest of drawers and a row of tights drying on the radiator, toes dangling, like the ghosts of a cancan girl troupe.

  Downstairs was even worse. She knew without stirring that there was an embarrassing number of congealing, sticky Chinese takeaway boxes silting up on the draining board (‘Ah, Miss Caitlin, how are you today?’ the woman at Golden Dragon had taken to saying. ‘Chicken chow mein and prawn sesame toast, yes?’) Something in the bin smelled as if it was in its death-throes and there was a pool of strange green liquid collecting at the bottom of the fridge. If Jane was still alive, she’d have a fit at the state Caitlin had let the place get into.

  She’d never even meant to stay in Larkmead this long. Once it was clear that she and Flynn were no more, she’d planned to tidy up White Gables and sell it, then move somewhere completely new and start over. The weeks were passing by, though, and she’d achieved very little so far.

  Sorry, Mum. I’ll get it sorted. I really will. Any day now.

  First, though, she’d just shut her eyes and go back to sleep. Well, why not? She was unemployed, she was single, and it was at least an hour before This Morning with Phil and Holly was due to begin. She rolled over, pulling the musty-smelling duvet over her head, and wriggled into a more comfortable position. You couldn’t rush these things, after all.

  Later on she padded downstairs, made a coffee, turned on the TV and arranged herself on the sofa, tucking her dressing gown around her bare feet to keep them warm. Her phone chose that moment to ping with a new email and she reached out a hand for it automatically. Probably just spam, or another grumpy message from Flynn, but she might as well have a look, while the ads were on.

  From: Saffron@PhoenixPR

  To: CaitlinF@fridaymail

  Subject: Web design

  Dear Caitlin,

  I don’t know if you remember, but we met at the New Year’s Eve party in Suffolk – I was the one from the holiday cottage next door who gatecrashed!

  I’m just emailing because you mentioned you were looking for web-design work, and one of my clients has asked me to source a designer who can overhaul her website. Might you be interested? The client in question is a young singer who’s launching her debut album in the spring.

  Give me a ring if you’d like further information. The fee we can offer is . . .

  There followed a figure so exorbitant that Caitlin had to shut her eyes for a moment, then look again, in case she’d imagined it. No, she hadn’t.

  Wowzers. Was this seriously the going rate in the music industry? No wonder they all looked so pleased with themselves, if they could waft the dosh around with such ease. She read the email again, feeling a prickle of interest. It had been ages since she’d done anything creative or constructive and, with this kind of budget, she could pull together something really spectacular.

  If she could be bothered, that was. If she could actually get off her ever-increasing bum, turn the telly off and knuckle down to some proper work.

  She sat up a little straighter and muted the celebrity chef who was about to make a superfood-smoothie, for all of the January dieters. Then she grabbed her phone and dialled before she could change her mind. What the hell. Chances like this didn’t come along every day.

  ‘Saffron? Hi, it’s Caitlin Fraser here, from Larkmead . . . . Hi! Yes, thanks so much, I’d love to hear more about the job . . . ’

  Chapter Nine

  ‘She did what? She gave you Bunty? Oh, man. She really does hate you.’

  Saffron nodded, feeling weary and long-suffering. ‘Yep. That was my reaction, too.’

  It was a Thursday evening and she was in a Dean Street bar along with hordes of sharply dressed media types and Kate, her former colleague. Saffron had suggested a drink to see how Kate was faring following her redundancy, but also, if she was honest, because she was desperate for a good old bitch about her latest client.

  Bunty Halsom was a very loud forty-something journalist and minor celebrity, who dashed off endless tabloid articles, usually about what a disgrace young people were these days and why a woman’s place was in the home, even though she preferred to hang out in the Groucho and wouldn’t have a clue how to work a Hoover, let alone cook a meal from scratch. She’d appeared on a few reality-TV programmes in the past year where she’d both shocked and transfixed the nation, first by appearing to have a mental breakdown on Celebrity Big Brother, then by launching herself at a fringe politician on the ill-fated All-Stars Nightclub fly-on-the-wall documentary. Her subtle chat-up line – ‘Bunty likes a big one’ – had gone viral, appearing in hashtags and gossip columns, and emblazoned on market-stall T-shirts across the land.

  Brazen, domineering and incredibly needy, Bunty had been Kate’s worst nightmare of a client. But now, as of this morning, she was Saffron’s.

  ‘Oh God. Well, you have my sympathy. My complete and utter sympathy. Leaving Phoenix was awful but, even as Charlotte was ditching me, I thought “No more Bunty” and suddenly felt a whole lot better. A solid silver lining, if ever there was one.’

  Saffron managed a small smile. She didn’t need reminding how dreadful Bunty was. She’d worked with Kate long enough to recognize the rictus smile on her friend’s face whenever Bunty called; the tired droop of her shoulders, the barely contained impatience in her voice when Bunty was being particularly difficult. ‘Any advice you can offer? Coping strategies? The number of a good therapist?’

  ‘Don’t let yourself be railroaded,’ Kate said. ‘Stand up to her, otherwise she won’t give you any respect. And lay down strict parameters – no phone calls after seven in the evening, or at weekends. Refuse point-blank if she starts trying to get you to pick up dry-cleaning and organize dinner parties for her. Be prepared to say no, and stick to your guns.’ She swigged back a mouthful of beer. ‘It’s like dealing with a toddler, really. Or a naughty dog. You’ve got to show her who’s boss – while maintaining the illusion that you think she’s absolutely wonderful, of course.’

  Saffron had no experience with dogs or toddlers. She’d grown up in a cat-loving family, and had no nieces or nephews on whom to practise being strict. Her heart sank. Charlotte, her boss, had spun this as a new opportunity for Saffron, a chance to push on up to a higher level of PR, but working for Bunty was sounding more like a punishment by the second.

  Noticing her silence, Kate rummaged in her bag for a square red purse. ‘You need a drink,’ she announced, getting to her feet. ‘A strong one. What can I get you? Let’s start the Bunty-proofing with alcohol. It helps, trust me.’

  Oh, a drink. That would be lovely. A bottle of beer like Kate’s, misted with cold. A massive bugger-it cocktail with a paper umbrella and jaunty dangling cherries. A knockout vodka martini just to take the edge off her day. ‘Um . . . a lime and soda, please,’ she said, pushing the temptations forcefully from her mind.

  Kate’s eyes widened. Saffron was never usually one to refuse booze. ‘On the wagon, eh?’ she asked. ‘Dry January?’

  ‘Yeah,’ Saffron said, then hesitated. ‘Actually, no. I’m pregnant.’

  The words were out before she could stop them and hung in the air. Kate sat back down. ‘God,
’ she said. ‘Wow. Wasn’t expecting that.’

  ‘Nor me,’ said Saffron.

  ‘Right.’ They exchanged a look. ‘So . . . how are you feeling? Are you okay?’

  How was she feeling? Well, not exactly radiant, put it that way. Saffron was not enjoying being pregnant very much at all, in fact. The tiredness was like being beaten down by a sledgehammer. She woke up every morning and had to leap out of bed immediately in order to hang her head over the toilet and puke. As for her rampaging hormones, they seemed to have cranked up her emotions to ‘lunatic’ level. She’d wept the other day at the sight of an elderly Asian couple holding hands at the bus stop.

  ‘Knackered,’ she said, ‘and confused. And I keep bursting into tears over the slightest thing. I cried at an Andrex advert yesterday. It’s like there’s no Off switch any more.’

  Kate put a hand on her arm. ‘Let me get you that lime and soda,’ she said. ‘I’ll be right back. I take it you haven’t told Charlotte yet, by the way?’

  Saffron shook her head.

  ‘Good,’ said Kate. ‘Keep it that way.’

  Saffron leaned back against her uncomfortable, trendy plastic chair while Kate weaved through the crowd of designer-clad twenty-somethings en route to the bar. It was weird, releasing her big secret after weeks of secrecy. ‘I’m pregnant,’ she said again under her breath. She’d half-expected the sky to fall in, but the world was still turning.

  ‘Here you are,’ Kate said, putting the drinks on the table and sitting down again. ‘So, what are you going to do? I can’t tell from your face whether you’re happy or sad, or plain old freaked out.’

  ‘I’m still at the freaked-out stage,’ Saffron confessed. ‘I mean, me and Max, we were barely even a couple. I’d only been out with him a few times before this happened.’

  ‘But you liked him, didn’t you? I remember all those flirty phone calls. What does he say about this?’

  ‘Um . . . ’

  Kate’s forehead puckered. ‘You haven’t told him?’

  Saffron lowered her eyes and sipped her drink. God, lime and soda really was the most boring, joyless drink in the world. ‘I’m not sure how to,’ she admitted eventually. ‘Maybe it’s kinder not to tell him anything at all. I mean, he’s got two kids already, and I hardly know him. I don’t want him to feel tied to me in any way, or responsible, if he’s not interested.’

  ‘Yeah, but he is responsible, technically,’ Kate pointed out. ‘I guess it depends on whether or not you’re planning to keep the baby. Tell me to mind my own business, obviously, but . . . well. Are you?’

  The biggest question of all. Answering it, when she knew that Kate had three beloved children of her own, felt like tiptoeing through a minefield. For all she knew, Kate might strongly disapprove of abortions or giving babies away to be adopted. Saffron had always vaguely disapproved herself, until she’d found herself in this predicament and realized just how many shades of grey there could be. ‘I didn’t have myself down for a mum,’ she replied slowly. ‘I’ve never even held a baby before, let alone looked after one myself.’ She swallowed. ‘Sometimes I think it would be easier just to . . . ’ she waved a hand across her belly, avoiding Kate’s eye, ‘ . . . to make it go away.’ Kate nodded sympathetically and Saffron rushed on. ‘I just can’t imagine myself with a baby, that’s all. Pushing a pram. Singing nursery rhymes. Changing nappies.’ She bit her lip. ‘But then again, I’m thirty-eight now. Ovaries shrivelling by the minute. This could be my last chance.’

  The mood had turned sombre and Saffron was starting to wish she had left this particular can of worms unopened.

  ‘Anyway,’ she said quickly. ‘How are you? What have you been up to, work-wise?’

  As Kate talked about making a go of a new freelance career from her dining-room table, Saffron found herself only half-listening. Meanwhile her head teemed with anxious thoughts about money and babies and Max. Nine weeks into the pregnancy now, according to the website calculator she’d looked at that morning. The baby was the size of a grape.

  Time was running out. The grape’s life hung in the balance. She had to make a decision soon. And I will, she thought fiercely, as Kate went on about social media and agency work. I have to. Just . . . not today.

  It was raining hard as Saffron left the bar and walked towards Oxford Circus to get the Tube home, shoulders hunched under her thin coat. Puddles swelled on broken paving slabs, rainwater gushed and swirled along the gutters, and the bus wheels sent up fountains of dirty spray.

  Ugh. January, you suck.

  Once at the station, she hurried down the steps towards the warmth of the Underground, longing to be home. But the concrete steps were wet and slippery and all of a sudden she lost her footing and fell in a terrifying rush, landing heavily at the bottom of the stairwell. Ow. Ow.

  People hurried past, shoes tapping urgently. Some actually stepped right over her, as if she wasn’t there. She tried to manoeuvre herself gingerly upright, but felt a sharp pain in her abdomen, followed by a pulling sensation low down. The baby. The grape.

  ‘Are you okay, dear?’ An elderly lady bent over her, reaching out a hand. ‘Can I help you up?’

  Tears pricked Saffron’s eyes. The indignity, the pain, the shock . . . and now the kindness of a stranger. It was all too much. ‘Thank you,’ she said, grabbing the handrail with one hand and taking the old lady’s blue-gloved hand in her other. She heaved herself up, bruised from the hard floor. ‘Thank you very much.’

  ‘Are you all right? Anything hurt?’ The lady was still holding onto her and put her other hand on Saffron’s back to steady her. ‘There’s a nice young man over there, one of the staff. Shall I get him to help you to the train?’

  That low, digging sensation was still there at the very base of her abdomen, and Saffron put a hand to it instinctively. Oh, little grape, are you all right? Her vision started to flicker in and out, as if she was going to faint. ‘I think I’m going to . . . ’ she murmured, lolling forwards like a puppet on loose strings. ‘I feel a bit dizzy.’

  ‘Okay, duckie, let’s sit you down again then. Hold on to me. Excuse me! Young man! This girl needs some assistance, please!’

  Saffron was dimly aware of footsteps approaching, then strong hands clasping her sides and helping to lower her back to the ground. Everything blurred before her eyes as if she was teetering on the edge of consciousness, and she struggled to pull herself back into the situation. A man with a ‘Transport for London’ ID round his neck and concerned brown eyes crouched in front of her. ‘Are you okay? Do you want me to get you some water?’

  ‘I’m pregnant,’ she whimpered, aware of a sickening wetness between her legs. Blood, she was sure. She must be losing the baby. Tears rolled down her cheeks as she blurted out her secret for the second time that evening. ‘I’m pregnant!’

  Saffron had never felt so scared in her entire life as when she was waiting in the A&E department of the hospital all alone. Her spine was tender from where she’d jarred it, landing with such a thump on the concrete; her head ached, where she must have bashed it against the wall; and worst of all, a quick visit to the loo had proved that yes, she was bleeding. The vivid splash of scarlet in her knickers felt like an accusation from her own body, as if the grape was making a stand. Well, if you can’t even be bothered to decide whether or not you want me, you can whistle, if you think I’m going to stick around.

  ‘Saffron Flint?’

  A friendly-faced nurse with a blonde ponytail scanned the waiting area. Her eyes fell on Saffron, hauling herself up from the plastic seat with exaggerated care, and she rushed over to help. ‘Easy there. Can you walk?’

  ‘I can walk, I’m just . . . ’ She couldn’t quite bring herself to say the words out loud initially. ‘I’m worried I’m losing my baby,’ she said, a sob in her throat.

  ‘Let’s get you in here,’ the nurse said, guiding her into a cubicle and pulling the curtain shut. ‘Lie down on the bed, that’s it, and make yourself comfortable. Is anyon
e with you? Can I call someone for you?’

  Saffron shook her head, wishing her sister Zoe wasn’t ten thousand miles away in Perth, wishing that Max was there to hold her hand. ‘I’m on my own.’ It had never felt more true.

  Once she’d described what had happened, the nurse asked her to pull down her trousers a little way, then produced what looked like a small microphone connected to a speaker. ‘I’m just going to listen for a heartbeat,’ she said, ‘but don’t be alarmed if we don’t hear anything, as you’re still early along in the pregnancy. Sometimes the heartbeat can’t be detected until later on, but let’s just see.’

  She pressed the end of the microphone thing quite hard against Saffron’s belly, just above the line of her knickers. The speaker made a crackling sound, and then a faint swishing was audible, an underwater sort of noise. No heartbeat, though. Oh God. Saffron shut her eyes, not wanting to see pity or sorrow in the nurse’s eyes. She didn’t think she could bear it.

  The nurse moved the microphone to a different position. Again came the crackling and then the watery ssshh-shhh sound. Still no heartbeat. But then . . .

  Saffron breathed in sharply as she heard it. A faint but distinct rhythmic beating, fast as a galloping horse. Ba-boom, ba-boom, ba-boom.

  She opened her eyes. ‘Is that the baby?’ she asked, filling with a sudden, unexpected euphoria. Little grape! You’re still there!

  ‘Sounds like a baby to me,’ the nurse said, smiling back at her. ‘We’ll give you an ultrasound too, just to make sure everything looks okay, and maybe get you to stay in for tonight, to keep an eye on the bleeding, and that bumped head.’

  Saffron wanted to hug her with relief. The baby’s heart was beating. The grape was alive! It was only then that she realized just how frightened she’d been, how desperately she’d wanted to hear that heartbeat. ‘Thank you,’ she managed to say, leaning back against the pillows. The galloping sound was still ringing in her ears as the nurse bustled away. ‘Thank you,’ she said again, this time in a whisper meant only for the grape.