The Year of Taking Chances

by Lucy Diamond

  The weekly team meeting would be under way by now and she’d completely failed to show up for it, let alone give any word of excuse or explanation. ‘She just said she was meeting a client,’ she imagined Kayla shrugging in that dippy, who-me? kind of way. Charlotte was no doubt livid and calling her all the names under the sun, but Saffron struggled to even care. There was no room in her brain right now for thoughts about meetings or clients or conference calls. All she could think about was Marie’s sympathetic face as she broke the news to her. A one in thirty-six chance. Genetic abnormalities. You’re going to have to wait another four weeks to be sure, though.

  Saffron couldn’t remember ever feeling so confused and alone. She had read through the leaflet from the stenographer several times now and it made for very difficult reading. First of all, the amniocentesis itself sounded absolutely horrible – a long needle inserted into the womb to take a sample of amniotic fluid from around the baby. Her arm curled around her belly protectively at the thought. She didn’t want anyone sticking needles anywhere near her baby, thank you very much. Worse, there was a small risk of miscarriage, caused by the test itself. In other words, by having the amnio she could actually be putting her baby’s life at risk. How could she live with herself if that happened, if she made the wrong choice?

  The worst bit of all in the leaflet – and, quite frankly, there were several to choose from – was the section headed ‘What If My Test Is Positive?’ Reading it just made her cry all over again. Children born with Down’s syndrome can lead very happy lives, it assured her:

  However, parents should be aware that they do risk potential health issues, such as heart problems, reduced hearing and poor vision. Other complications may include digestive problems, cervical-spine dislocation and blood disorders.

  Poor little babies, she thought in anguish. As if life wasn’t hard enough anyway. Then the leaflet got even harder to read:

  You might choose to:

  • Continue with the pregnancy and use the information from the test results in order to prepare for the birth and care of your baby

  • Continue with the pregnancy and consider adoption; or

  • End the pregnancy (have a termination).

  Not a decision that anyone would find easy. She gnawed on her fingernails, pushing the leaflet aside, wishing she’d never gone for the scan at all. Then her phone rang and she let out a deep groan of despair as she saw the caller ID on screen. Oh, go away, Bunty. Really not the time, mate.

  Sending the call to voicemail, she lay on her bed, wiped out. She should really ring the office and apologize for not being at the team meeting, lie about some terrible illness that had come upon her all of a sudden. Otherwise Charlotte would be calling for her head on a block and there would be a P45 in the post. But how could she even string a sentence together, when her head was swirling with so many fears and questions?

  The only person who could comfort her now was Zoe, and she was halfway round the world, fast asleep on a warm Perth night, one tanned arm flung across Alexa, no doubt, without a care in the world. She couldn’t speak to her parents about this – no way. How they would fuss and flap; her mum would be on Google in a nanoflash, scouring forums for stories, suggesting a second opinion, crowding Saffron’s head with unhelpful information she’d discovered, articles she’d read in the Telegraph. All stemming from kindness and concern, undoubtedly, but with so much hand-wringing and sadness – ‘Our poor little grandchild’ – it would only make Saffron feel worse.

  As for Max . . . Tears filled her eyes. Maybe it was just as well he hadn’t come with her to the scan. He already had two healthy children, hadn’t he? If he’d been at the scan today and heard the news, he’d probably blame her for her crap DNA or aged ovaries, even if he didn’t say it out loud. He might even have backed away, hands up in surrender. Sorry, but do you know what? I can’t actually go through with this.

  Ugggh. She couldn’t even drown her sorrows with a bucket of wine.

  She wiped her eyes, blew her nose and took a deep breath, just as her phone started ringing again. Bunty. She let out a howl of frustration, sent the call to voicemail once more, then glared suspiciously at her phone as yet another new email pinged in. Get away from it all for the weekend! the subject line said enticingly.

  Yes please, Saffron thought. Getting away from it all sounded exactly what she needed. She thought longingly of her solitary New Year break in Suffolk – the long walks and open skies, the freedom to do whatever she pleased without anyone hassling her, a little bolthole away from London, clients and Max.

  She glanced back at her phone and realized that the email was a newsletter from the Cottage Holidays website, through which she’d booked her New Year retreat. Get away from it all for the weekend, she read again, clicking open the message. 20 per cent off deals for last-minute bookings. Give us a call and we’ll find you the perfect place for your mini-break!

  God, it was tempting. She could do it right now, she told herself – book a cottage somewhere, pack a few things and jump in the car. Maybe the world was giving her a little nudge, showing her what she needed to do.

  She thought about it for at least three seconds, then made her decision. If she stayed in the flat much longer, the walls would start closing in. She’d send a grovelling email to Charlotte saying she was on her sickbed with gastroenteritis and violent diarrhoea (embarrassment and Britishness should put a stop to any awkward questions), then she’d escape from London, just until she’d pulled herself together.

  Why not? What was stopping her?

  Nothing was stopping her. She pressed Dial on her phone and got her credit card ready. ‘Hello,’ she said, when a friendly-sounding man answered. ‘I was wondering what availability you’ve got for a cottage this week. Anywhere in the South-East, to be honest, although Suffolk would be lovely . . . How long? Er . . . Four nights? It’s just for me.’ She paused to listen, then smiled. ‘That would be absolutely perfect. I’ll take it.’

  Chapter Eighteen

  ‘So, what seems to be the problem?’

  She must stop thinking about dodgy old porn films, where the tradesman came to the door, all buff and hunky, and the lonely housewife let slip her sheer dressing gown and bent over the kitchen table. Oi, enough. Stop it, Caitlin!

  ‘Um . . . The cooker’s not working properly. It never gets very hot.’

  Talking of hot, Harry Sykes was looking particularly fine today: white T-shirt and battered jeans, toolbox in hand, just a fuzz of sandy stubble along his jaw. Mmm. Hello, sailor. ‘How about the kettle?’ he asked, raising an eyebrow.

  She was so busy trying to keep her composure – had she placed too much emphasis on the word ‘hot’? – that she didn’t get his hint immediately. ‘The kettle? Yeah, it’s fine. Oh,’ she said, the penny dropping. ‘Do you want a coffee? Tea?’

  ‘Thought you’d never ask,’ he said with a grin. ‘Coffee, please. Milk and two sugars.’

  She had her laptop open on the kitchen table, with the baby-food website to be getting on with – Don’t mind me, I always work in here, honest – but once she’d made them both coffees, she found herself distracted by the sight of him heaving the cooker out from its place against the wall so as to fiddle with the electrics. All the muscles in his back stood out as he did so, and his biceps bulged under the fabric of his top. Corrr.

  ‘Hey, by the way,’ he said, turning round unexpectedly and catching her perving. Embarrassing – she was totally acting like a dirty old housewife. ‘I told my sister I was coming here today, and she said that your mum delivered Clemmy, my niece. Small world.’

  ‘The One Direction fan?’ Caitlin asked, remembering the stickers all over Harry’s van.

  ‘The very same. Probably came into the world singing and dancing, that one. But yeah, my sister Sam said your mum was amazing. The most wonderful midwife ever.’

  Caitlin felt warmth rush into her face. First Gemma and now Harry gifting her these lovely shared memories of Jane. ‘That’s
so nice to hear,’ she said after a moment. ‘She was a pretty great mum, too.’

  ‘I bet. Sam said she absolutely doted on Clemmy whenever she came round. Bet you’ve got tons of baby photos piled up here, haven’t you?’

  Caitlin smiled. ‘Probably, yeah.’ She hadn’t actually got round to sorting through the photo albums yet. Another job she’d been putting off.

  Harry cleared his throat rather self-consciously. ‘Shame she’s not around any more,’ he said, bending to fiddle with a complicated tangle of wires. ‘Could have done with her help this summer.’

  Once again Caitlin was too distracted by the way his shirt strained over his broad back to register what he was saying straight away. ‘This summer? Oh!’ What? Did he mean what she thought he meant? ‘You’re having a baby?’ she asked in a too-high pitch. ‘I mean, not you, obviously. But . . . you’re going to be a dad?’

  He shrugged. ‘Looks that way.’

  The erotic home movie of electrician-meets-lonely-designer (Sparks Will Fly!) abruptly stopped playing in her head, as if the movie reel had spun off its axle. Oh shit! Damn it. Was it the stiletto-stamper who was up the duff? Bollocks.

  ‘Congratulations,’ she said after a too-long pause, remembering that this was what you were supposed to say in such situations. ‘Does this mean you’re going to break your New Year’s resolution about not marrying anyone?’

  He shrugged again. For a father-to-be, he didn’t exactly look over the moon about this development, it had to be said. ‘Dunno,’ he mumbled, selecting a screwdriver from his toolbox. ‘Me and Jade had split up before she found out, which kind of dumps on the whole romance-vibe. But anyway, it is what it is. She’s happy. I’m . . . happy.’

  He so wasn’t happy. It was the first time she’d seen him without any kind of smile. ‘Right. Good. Excellent,’ she said, busying herself with a tricky piece of code. Inside, her mind roiled as it tried to digest this major piece of news. Now was definitely not the time to start trotting out the flirty lines of banter she’d planned. By announcing his imminent parent status he’d politely drawn a line in the sand, over which she was forbidden to tread. Maybe the whole spiel he’d given about her mum was a load of cobblers, and merely a means of getting round to the subject of babies.

  She glanced at her laptop screen where she’d typed a string of utter gibberish. Take a chance, the fortune-cookie had said, but she was barking up the wrong tree here. A tree that was already taken.

  You stupid bitch, you are MENTAL, Flynn gloated in her head, the words from his letter leaping out at her again. Do you think anyone else is going to want you? You’re not even attractive. You’re a fucking JOKE.

  ‘Ah,’ said Harry just then, leaning forward and twiddling his screwdriver. ‘Gotcha.’

  He gave her a triumphant grin and she forced herself to smile back at him. Idiot, she thought, feeling dejected. Look at him, will you? He’s bloody scrumptious. Way out of your league. Don’t kid yourself he’d ever be interested in the likes of you, Lanky-legs.

  Still, if nothing else, at least she’d get a working cooker out of today. She’d go crazy and celebrate with another can of beans, piping hot this time. ‘Woooo,’ she muttered under her breath. Living on the edge.

  Once Harry had gone, she abandoned her pretence at doing any website work – she couldn’t concentrate – and went on with her mission to sort out the cottage. With Gemma’s help, she had sorted through her mum’s wardrobe earlier in the week and cleared out all of the clothes and bags stuffed in there. Gemma, who was always on the lookout for interesting material, had taken lots of the clothes with her, and the house felt lighter without them, as if a heavy emotional layer had been lifted away.

  The living room was her next port of call, and boy, did it need help. The wallpaper – cream vinyl, with a repeating pattern of roses – was scuffed in places and peeling away above the window. The three-piece suite was in dusty plum-coloured velour, worn on the armrests, with cushions so flattened they looked as if they’d been lounged on by a family of elephants. The carpet was cheap and manky – brown-and-white swirls – and had been there for as long as Caitlin could remember. She had perfected headstands on this carpet, her feet against the wall, and could still remember the giddy feeling of delight as the room swung upside down. But now it all had to go.

  She heaved and hauled the furniture into the dining room, where she crammed it in, higgledy-piggledy. The faded, dusty curtains were fit only for the dump, and came down, and then she ripped the carpet from its spiky grippers and began rolling it up, revealing lovely wide floorboards beneath.

  While she was doing this, the disappointing conversation with Harry replayed endlessly in her head. Thank goodness he’d said it, really, before she’d done something rash, like throw her bra at him. (Take a chance!) Imagine the humiliation if she’d actually come out with a cheesy pick-up line and he’d knocked her back. Er . . . wow, I’m really flattered, but, like – you know, NO. You weirdo.

  Yeesh. She should be grateful she’d spared herself that little moment at least.

  It wasn’t until she was halfway across the living room, with the carpet and underlay in an enormous bulky Swiss roll, a thick cloud of dust swirling in her wake, that her mind snagged on something Harry had said. Bet you’ve got tons of baby photos piled up here, haven’t you?

  A perfectly innocuous comment, at face value. He’d probably not even been conscious of saying it, preoccupied with making his bombshell baby-father announcement. The weird thing was that, now that he’d said it, she couldn’t remember seeing a single picture of herself as a baby. Her mind had gone completely blank. What did she even look like?

  She stood in the middle of the room, hands on her hips, sieving uselessly through her brain. For goodness’ sake. This was ridiculous. She was having a senile moment at the grand old age of thirty-two. What did she look like as a baby?

  Abandoning the carpet, she wiped her hands on her jeans and went to remind herself. As soon as she opened the photo albums she’d surely remember, and then she’d feel like a total spanner for forgetting in the first place. Her mum and dad had documented everything else so thoroughly in her childhood – finger-painting at playgroup!, The infants’ sports day!, Sitting on a donkey at Great Yarmouth, absolutely rigid with fear!, In Brownie uniform proudly doing a three-finger salute! – that there had to be hundreds of tedious small-baby-in-hat photos. She’d probably blanked them out through sheer boredom.

  The photo albums had all been on the bookshelves in the living room, but due to her recent clear-out were now in a box on the dining-room floor. Right. Let’s see you then, baby Caitlin, in all your embarrassing naked-in-a-bath glory. She lifted out the first few and leafed through. A very early collection, with Jane and Steve in cool Seventies gear, back when they were first married and still living in Scotland. Bless.

  A much later album with Caitlin as a teenager, all white panstick make-up, curled lip and bovver boots. Like that was ever a good look.

  A book of photos of Caitlin as a toddler, most of which featured her with food all over her face and a naughty grin. Some things never changed.

  On and on Caitlin went through the lovingly assembled collections, feeling increasingly confused. There were no baby photos. Not one. Why would that be? She didn’t understand. Her mum loved babies. Given her time again, Jane Fraser would have been one of those annoying mums on Facebook documenting every last fart her precious child produced. Like!

  She reached the final photo album, but it was a fairly recent one, of Mum and some friends on a cruise, all in big sunhats, brandishing lurid cocktails. Harry was wrong. There weren’t tons of baby photos at all. She couldn’t find a single one. ‘What’s going on?’ she asked aloud, trying to ignore the sick, strange feeling churning up inside her. ‘I don’t understand, Mum. Where are all the pictures? I wasn’t that ugly a baby, was I?’

  She must have missed something. There must be a whole box of them somewhere. There just had to be.

  R
ocking back on her heels, she checked through all of the albums again, more painstakingly this time. The earliest photo she could find was when she was about two, at a guess, dressed in a corduroy pinafore dress with her dark hair falling in a shining bowl-cut. Jane was holding her, a dazzling smile on her face as she looked down at little Caitlin, real love in her eyes. Meanwhile Caitlin had the same expression she’d had on the seafront donkey: shell-shocked and kind of nervous, her body held rigid.

  Very, very faintly a bell was ringing in her head as if this picture had great resonance. But what?

  Caitlin stared at this page in the album for a long time. Then, her fingers clammy, she peeled back the protective cellophane and took the picture from its sticky backing. Turning it over, she saw in her mum’s careful cursive handwriting: A special day. June 1st, 1983. Caitlin!

  She dropped the photo as if it were red-hot. June 1st? That was Family Day, the day they’d always celebrated with Victoria sponge, fresh strawberries and champagne. Just because, Jane had said, shrugging, as if the date were a purely random selection. Sometimes it’s good to celebrate your family and think about how lucky you are. Champagne, though. On her parents’ meagre salaries! They weren’t the sort of people to splash out on champagne unless it was a special occasion.

  A really special occasion.

  She glanced at the photo again. She looked so uncomfortable in Jane’s arms. Frightened, almost. Jane was gazing at her with adoration, but Caitlin looked as if she didn’t know what the hell was going on. A special day. June 1st, 1983. Caitlin!