The Year of Taking Chances

by Lucy Diamond

‘Yeah. Quite a nasty bump. The painkillers don’t seem to touch the throbbing he says he has at the front of his head. I guess that would be enough to drive anyone nuts.’

  ‘It’s just . . . Well, it could still be the concussion. That can alter your personality quite radically. Did the doctors say anything like that?’

  Oscar was back again, bright-eyed with triumph as he dropped the ball at Gemma’s feet and gave a short, excited bark. ‘What do you mean?’ Gemma asked, picking it up and throwing it once again. ‘Not really. He was kind of confused for a while, but it didn’t last long. I thought concussion was where you lost your memory and stuff?’

  ‘Concussion is a brain injury, basically, and it can be really mild – say, a bad headache, that clears up quickly – but there can be complications.’ Caitlin foraged mentally through all the medical textbooks she’d ever studied, and all the patients she’d treated. Minor injuries had been her thing: treating burns, bandaging sprains, cleaning festering wounds, with the occasional bit of stitching for good measure. The more serious stuff – head injuries, chest pains, breathing difficulties and major trauma cases – was always whisked straight past the likes of Caitlin to the doctors. ‘I’ll find out for you,’ she told Gemma. ‘Post-Concussion Syndrome, it’s called. It’s quite common after a head injury.’

  ‘And can they treat it? How long will it go on?’ Gemma turned pale. ‘Will I ever get him back again?’

  ‘Let me look into it,’ Caitlin said, not wanting to dish out false reassurances before she, d checked her facts. ‘Don’t worry. I’m sure he’ll be feeling better soon.’ But even as she spoke, she wasn’t certain of her own words. And judging by Gemma’s face, she wasn’t convinced by them, either.

  Life was so fragile, Caitlin thought to herself, once she was home again and making lunch. Look at her dad, collapsing with a stroke while he mowed the lawn, the lawnmower chewing right through a bed of lupins as he toppled to the ground. Look at her mum, felled by a rogue infection that had raged through her body with deadly efficiency. Look at Spencer Bailey, the life and soul of his party on New Year’s Eve and now housebound and depressed after one false move.

  Talk about sobering you up. Talk about shaking you by the scruff of the neck and reminding you that life was passing you by. Hello? Big wide world out there, calling Caitlin Fraser. Activate. Activate!

  The message from her New Year fortune-cookie bubbled up in her mind with sudden clarity: Your destiny is within your own grasp. Take a chance!

  But what should she do? she thought helplessly. What did that mean?

  She glanced down at the small tin of baked beans while she waited for the electric ring on the cooker to heat up, as if seeking guidance. Serves one sad lonely fucker, said the label, or it might as well have done. Beans for one. Was this what her life had been reduced to these days?

  Come on, stupid crap cooker, she thought, her hand hovering over the still-cool ring. Then a thought occurred to her. Take a chance, urged the fortune-cookie, rustling temptingly at the back of her mind. Take a chance!

  She turned off the cooker and ate the beans cold out of the tin with a teaspoon instead, thinking hard. Should she? Dare she?

  Oh, sod it, she thought. Why the hell not?

  From: CaitlinF@fridaymail

  To: Saffron@PhoenixPR

  Subject: Baby-food website

  Hi Saffron,

  Thanks for your email – I’m really pleased Casey is happy with the website. I’m attaching my invoice herewith. Cheers!

  I’d love some more work, yes please. I must confess, I don’t know a huge amount about baby food, but I’m willing to find out. Tell me more!

  Larkmead is . . .

  She paused and glanced over at her open diary, where she’d scribbled an appointment just now on Thursday’s square, following her phone call. Harry, 2.30, it said. What? It was perfectly legit. He was an electrician, after all, and her cooker needed fixing, didn’t it? She typed on, feeling absurdly cheerful:

  . . . full of daffodils and small children on bikes. And guess what: I’m actually following the guidance of my wise old fortune-cookie, and ‘taking some action’. I’ll keep you posted!

  Love Caitlin x

  Chapter Fifteen

  A letter was the answer, Saffron decided. Her attempt at telling Max about the baby face-to-face hadn’t worked, what with the whole unexpected girlfriend-on-knee development in the pub. Emailing him the news would be crass; a text even worse. The thought of all the awkward silences that could unfold within a phone call – pregnant silences, even – ruled out that possibility also.

  A letter, then. She could take her time over a letter, be clear, honest and articulate. He would be able to read it in privacy and mull over his reaction before responding. A letter was the grown-up, measured way to do this, reminiscent of Jane Austen, Thomas Hardy and all the best love stories. Now she just had to write the bloody thing.

  Dear Max, she began, stretched out on her sofa, still in pyjamas. It was Sunday and a milky sunlight was filtering through the grimy windows of her flat. Outside a car alarm had been going off for almost an hour and she was starting to fantasize about taking a dirty great sledgehammer to it. She chewed the end of her pen, trying to think how best to phrase the bombshell:

  It was lovely to see you the other night. I’m glad things are going well at work. The reason I called you in the first place was because there’s something I need to tell you – something important.

  She paused and read it through again. So far, so good.

  I wanted to tell you in person that night, but didn’t have the chance, unfortunately. Congratulations on your new girlfriend, by the way.

  Ugh, no, that sounded bitchy. She crossed out the last sentence just as her mobile started ringing. Caller: Bunty. On a Sunday morning, for heaven’s sake. Hello? Boundaries? Sending the call to voicemail, she returned to her letter:

  I have no idea how you will react to the news I’m about to give you – I don’t know you well enough to predict whether you’ll be happy, angry, freaked out or completely indifferent.

  She felt her heart constrict at the last word. Surely nobody could be indifferent when told they were to be a parent, even if it was third time around for him? Was it insulting of her even to include the word in her list, implying that he was some kind of robot?

  Her phone started ringing again. Caller: Bunty. With a flash of irritation, she pressed the Ignore button and threw the phone to the far end of the sofa.

  I completely appreciate that this will be a shock – it was to me, too. There’s no easy way to say this, but, Max, I’m pregnant. It’s your baby. I know you’re already a dad. I know you’ve been there and done it, and probably thought you’d made enough of a contribution towards the continuation of the human race. But

  Bunty was ringing again. Aargh! What was this woman’s problem? Making a low growling in her throat, she grudgingly pressed the green button to accept the call. This had better be life-and-bloody-death, she thought. Death, preferably.

  ‘Hello?’

  ‘Ah, Saffron. Bunty here. I just need—’

  ‘Bunty, it’s Sunday,’ Saffron said crossly, before she could stop herself.

  ‘Yes, dear, I know, but creativity doesn’t stop for a day off, does it? I’ve had a wonderful idea for a new thing. The Bunty Bra! So many other people have done lingerie collections, haven’t they, but the problem is: no boobs. A couple of fried eggs in two scraps of lace – I mean, come on! Let’s have some proper bosoms here. And who’s got the best knockers this side of Channel 5? We both know it’s me. So, I’ve been thinking.’

  She drew breath and Saffron leapt in. ‘Bunty. Let’s talk about this tomorrow. I’m right in the middle of . . . ’ she glanced around for inspiration, her gaze landing on her small, bare white feet at the end of the sofa, ‘ . . . a pedicure. I can’t chat now. Send me an email and I’ll get back to you tomorrow morning. Or maybe just talk to your agent?’ Like a normal person would do? Rather than badger
your long-suffering PR person, who has completely zero interest in Bunty Bras?

  ‘She’s not answering her phone.’ Bunty tutted. ‘Sometimes I don’t know what I pay that woman for. I made her, you know. I made that agency what it is.’

  ‘Bunty.’

  ‘Okay! Pedicure, yes, got it. I’ll email you. I mean, I’m happy to do matching knickers too, obviously, but I think boobs are where it’s at. Bunty’s Bouncers. Bunty’s Baps. No, too coarse. Bunty’s Bosoms . . . Anyway, you’re the expert, you can spin it for me. So why don’t we—’

  Saffron could swear that her blood was actually starting to fizz with irritation. ‘Bunty, I’m going now,’ she said loudly over the top of the braying voice. ‘Goodbye.’

  She ended the call, feeling worn-out. Bunty was like a steamroller on steroids. No wonder she had got through so many husbands and love affairs. Those poor men, honestly.

  Back to the matter in hand: the letter. But her phone was already buzzing with a text message, Got it. Bunty’s Boulder-Holders!!!!

  ‘Oh, go away, you madwoman,’ Saffron groaned, turning her phone off before any more inane messages could appear.

  Peace restored, she picked up her pen again, determined to finish this time.

  It’s your decision, Max. If you don’t wish to be a part of this, then that’s your choice, but I’m going to have the baby. This could be my last chance at motherhood – I really want to take it. I’m not asking anything of you – I realize you’ve moved on and are seeing someone else these days, and that’s fine. But this little person will be a son or daughter to us both, so it would be great if you wanted to play an active role in their life. I’m sure we can work things out between us so that everyone is happy.

  I hope you understand my feelings. Please get in touch when you’ve had time to think this through, so we can chat. I’ve got a scan booked for the seventeenth at 2.30, in Whipps Cross – I would love it if you came too?

  Please let me know what you think, either way. Really hope to hear from you soon.

  Love from Saffron x

  There. She read it all through, changed a few words here and there, then copied it out in full, folded the paper neatly and put the letter in an envelope, ready to post the next day. Excellent. Well done, Saffron. One important thing done. Next up: something even more onerous. In exactly one and a half hours she needed to be sitting down at her parents’ dining table in Essex for Sunday lunch, and somehow she’d have to tell them as well.

  ‘Darling, come in. You look well. Oh! Such a cold face. It’s been so frosty lately, hasn’t it? Dad thinks we’re going to get snow next week. I’ve been bubble-wrapping everything in the garden in readiness.’

  ‘Hi, Mum.’

  ‘Did you get here all right? The roadworks have been terrible on the A12. We were stuck in a jam there on Thursday for – what was it, Lorraine? forty minutes? – long enough, anyway. Dear me. Anyway, come on in. Kettle’s on.’

  ‘Thanks, Dad.’

  Saffron’s older sister Eloise was in the kitchen, looking as if she had a cold, as usual – red nose, droopy face, tired eyes – as she peeled carrots. Simon, her husband, was leafing through the business section of the Telegraph at the table, but glanced up at Saffron’s entrance. ‘Ah! The Londoner arrives.’

  Simon was quirky and slightly odd, Saffron always thought. He reminded her of a guinea pig, with his earnest dark eyes and short, tufty black fur – hair, rather. He was up from his seat now, all awkward and twitchy, as if he wasn’t sure whether to shake hands with her, kiss her cheek or attempt a light, barely touching hug. She saved him the decision by hugging both her sister and then him – like it or not, Simon.

  ‘Good to see you!’ Eloise said. She was a financial adviser for a medium-sized chain of estate agents and terribly clever, always had been. Oh! You’re Eloise Flint’s sister? Really? teachers would say, frowningly, to Saffron as she followed two years behind at school, unable to believe that daffy, dreamy Saffron could possibly share any DNA with pin-sharp, test-acing Eloise. Simon, meanwhile, did something boffiny in computing; Saffron had heard him explain his job several times to different people over the years, but still was none the wiser. Even with a gun to her head, she’d struggle to explain what, exactly, he did during the average day at work.

  ‘How are you?’ Eloise asked now, post-hug.

  Well, I’m accidentally up the duff, since you ask, El. ‘Fine, thanks. Busy, you know.’

  ‘Tell me about it. Ten-hour days I’ve been working recently, trying to get our audits in. My brain aches just thinking about Monday morning.’

  Eloise’s brain must be like an enormous, bustling factory, Saffron thought: conveyor belts spinning, sparks flying from the mechanical cogs in constant motion, numbers shuttling like synapses, lightning-fast. Oh, to have a mind so efficient, so swift, so organized.

  ‘I saw that client of yours on Masterchef the other night,’ Lorraine Flint said, chopping Bramley apples for a crumble. ‘What’s her name? The one with froggy eyes who seems drunk all the time. Booby or Barbie or something.’

  ‘Bunty Halsom,’ Saffron said without any enthusiasm.

  ‘Oh God, are you working with her?’ Eloise said with undisguised horror. ‘She was in The Times yesterday, some awful piece about her and her silly little dog. I was just saying earlier what a fright she is. Wasn’t I, Sime?’

  ‘You were, and I agree. Dreadful woman.’

  ‘You don’t have to tell me that,’ Saffron said, pulling a face. She sat down, leaning forward somewhat so that her jumper bagged out, disguising her rounded belly. Not that anyone seemed to have given her a second look, for they were all too busy slagging off Bunty.

  ‘I mean, excuse my language, but she’s just such a publicity whore. She really is. Sorry, Mum, but nobody is forcing her to go on all these programmes, are they?’

  ‘I don’t know – Saffron might be,’ her dad said wryly.

  ‘Nobody’s forcing her,’ Eloise repeated. ‘She can’t get enough of the limelight. Vile woman. What have you been doing with her, Saff?’

  Saffron explained, feeling, as she always did, that her career was something of a joke to her parents and Eloise. Nobody had ever said it, but she knew they all thought running around after celebrities and journalists was a silly, pointless kind of job, compared with the much more grown-up work of finance and science. Yes, all right, Saffron felt like saying, but are your jobs anywhere near as stressful as working with Bunty effing Halsom? I very much doubt it.

  Conversation moved around to the safe topic of Zoe and how much they all missed her. Then, once lunch was dished up, gravy poured, everyone around the table poised to dig in, Eloise cleared her throat and sat up a little straighter. ‘I know you’ve all been waiting to ask,’ she began, a catch in her voice, ‘so I’ll just come out and say it. No, the IVF didn’t work this time. I’m not pregnant. So there we go.’ A tear dropped onto her plate and Simon put his arm around her.

  ‘Oh, El,’ said Saffron wretchedly. ‘Both of you. I’m sorry to hear that.’ Her heart thumped and she found herself gripping her cutlery too tightly. There was no way she could tell them her news now, surely.

  ‘Darling, that’s so sad,’ Lorraine said, her mouth quivering as she reached across the table to take Eloise’s hand. ‘What a blow. I know you were hopeful this time.’

  Eloise sniffed. ‘That’s the thing. We’ve been hopeful every time. And every time it’s the same depressing result: no. However nicely the doctors say it, it’s still no.’ She dabbed at her eyes. ‘Well, that’s it now. We can’t afford it again. We’re not going to be parents, and that’s that.’

  ‘If it’s the money . . . ’

  ‘It’s not the money, Dad, it’s all the rest of it. The emotional turmoil. The desperate longing, the waiting and praying, and then the cascade of despair. We can’t do it again. We’re through.’

  ‘Have you thought about adoption?’ Saffron asked after a moment. ‘I know it’s not the same, but . . . ’
>
  ‘We’ve thought about adoption, egg-sharing, surrogacy . . . We’ve gone round and round the whole bloody circus.’ Eloise had never looked so desolate. Everything had come easily to her, her whole life: A-grades, music exams, a husband, a great career. This was the only thing that remained resolutely beyond her control. ‘I’m just so tired of it all,’ she went on. ‘We both are. Everywhere I look there are mums and babies. Six of the women at work will be going on maternity leave in the next few months. Six! And we’d be really good parents, I know we would, and I’d love our baby so much, but . . . ’ She broke off, overcome, and the sight of her downturned mouth tore at Saffron’s heart. ‘But I’m forty this summer and we’ve got to face facts. It’s probably not going to happen.’

  ‘Sweetheart, come on.’ Now it was the turn of Ewan, their dad, to reach over and pat his daughter’s back, discomfort writ large in his face. Ewan could talk for Britain about stereo systems, cricket batting averages, vegetable growing and what a mess the ruddy government was making of everything, but show him a crying daughter and he was lost for words. Pat, pat, pat. ‘Don’t upset yourself now.’

  ‘But, Dad, it’s so unfair. Why can’t we just have a baby like everyone else?’

  ‘I don’t know, love. I wish I did. I wish I could make this all right for you.’

  ‘It’s no more than you both deserve,’ Lorraine added, her eyes pools of sorrow.

  ‘They say, don’t they, that sometimes when you stop trying for a baby and just relax, that’s when it happens, when you’re least expecting it,’ Saffron said tentatively, aware of the irony in her words. Speaking as an expert here, someone who’s got a bun in the oven right now and definitely wasn’t expecting it, I mean.

  Eloise’s face twisted into tearful irritation. ‘Everyone keeps saying that. Just relax! Stop thinking about it! But how? How am I meant to stop thinking about it? I can’t think of anything else, for goodness’ sake!’