The Year of Taking Chances

by Lucy Diamond

  Karen tapped her nose and winked a turquoise-lidded eye. ‘I need to think ahead,’ she said. ‘I’ve got my next big adventure to work out, haven’t I?’

  This was the first Gemma had heard of it. ‘What’s that then?’

  ‘Maybe a bar,’ Karen said with an airy shrug. ‘I’m thinking Corfu. Love a bit of Greece. Feta and olives, and all those white-sand beaches.’ She winked at Darcey – a sluttish, knowing sort of wink; highly inappropriate for a grandmother. ‘As for the Greek men . . . don’t get me started, darling.’

  ‘But I thought . . . ’ Gemma began, then shut her mouth, hearing the accusatory tinge in her own voice. Already? she felt like shouting. You’re going already?

  ‘I’m not one to hang about,’ Karen said, and picked up the wine bottle. ‘Who wants another?’ she asked. ‘Just me? You bunch of lightweights!’

  Darcey giggled. ‘Grandma,’ she said. ‘I’m only nine, you know.’

  ‘Are you? You look at least seventeen to me.’

  ‘Probably because you’re pissed again,’ Will muttered under his breath and Gemma shot him a look.

  She got to her feet, wondering why everything had to be so complicated. At times like these, there was only one thing for it. ‘Who wants pudding?’ she asked.

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  ‘Max Walters, please,’ Saffron said, her heart giving a thump of anticipation. Determination had marched her all the way to the brightly lit reception area of the swishy sports company where Max worked in Covent Garden, and she wasn’t about to leave again until she’d done what she’d set out to.

  ‘Do you have an appointment?’

  ‘No, I don’t.’ She gave the receptionist a quick, businesslike smile. Pregnant woman here on a mission, love. Don’t mess, if you know what’s good for you.

  The receptionist had scraped-back hair and flawless makeup. ‘Can I take your name? I’ll see if he’s available.’

  ‘It’s Saffron Flint.’

  ‘Thank you. Would you like to take a seat?’

  Saffron did want to take a seat. Her ankles had taken to puffing up whenever she stood up too long in high heels. She lowered herself cautiously into one of the bright-orange bowl-shaped designer chairs, hoping she’d be able to haul herself up and out again. Then she clasped her hands in her lap and prepared to wait. This was it. Cards on the table. Bump on display. News told, however badly it might be received.

  The receptionist was murmuring into the phone. ‘No, she didn’t say . . . Well, she’s sitting here in reception, so . . . Okay, great, thanks. I’ll tell her.’ She caught Saffron’s eye as she hung up again. ‘He’s on his way down.’

  ‘Thank you.’ Saffron’s mouth immediately went dry. Her armpits felt wet. She wished she’d blow-dried her hair properly after swimming, rather than pulling a comb through it and tying it back in a ponytail. Still, she had chucked on her nicest wrap-dress at least, a red jersey number that was forgiving on the bump, teamed with some black opaque tights, although during the adrenalin-pumped walk from the bus stop here, these had ridden lower and lower. Right now, they were balanced perilously low under her belly, prone to rolling down her hips at any given moment. A pair of tights around the ankles was an ice-breaker, she supposed.

  There was a soft chiming sound and then the lift doors to her left opened, and out he stepped. Handsome Max, shirt sleeves rolled up, his hair standing slightly on end as if he’d just raked a hand through it. Bloody hell, he’d only gone and grown a little silvery goatee beard on his chin. It looked absolutely ludicrous. ‘Hi,’ he said. ‘This is—’

  With a bit of effort, she pushed herself up and out of the chair, her black wool coat falling to the sides to reveal her belly. He stopped mid-sentence as he noticed the new shape of her, and then his face blanched.

  ‘Hi,’ she said after a moment. You could practically feel the atmosphere electrify, crackling with the static of myriad unspoken messages.

  Is that really what I think it is?

  Yes. It is.

  She cleared her throat, aware of the receptionist in the background, who was unashamedly goggling at the unfolding drama. ‘Is there somewhere we can talk in private?’

  ‘Uh . . . sure.’ His eyes flicked between her belly and her face and then to her belly again. He looked dazed and panicky. ‘Yes. Right. Let’s go and grab a coffee.’

  The receptionist belatedly remembered her job just then and glanced down at a diary in front of her. ‘Max, just to remind you, you have Anil Bhatia coming in at four-thirty?’

  He waved a hand. ‘Just . . . sort it out. Get Nicky to cover for me or something. Thanks.’ Then he turned back to Saffron. ‘Shall we?’

  She nodded. ‘Let’s.’

  Outside on the street Max said, ‘I suppose alcohol’s out of the question then? Christ, sorry. I don’t know what to say. I’m kind of in shock.’

  ‘I’m sorry, too,’ she said. ‘Sorry to spring the news on you like this, I mean. I thought you knew; I wrote you a letter about a month ago, but I’ve been such a flake recently. I only just found it, unposted, this afternoon.’

  ‘So it’s mine?’ he said. ‘The baby’s mine?’

  ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘The baby’s yours.’ They were on St Martin’s Lane, with black cabs honking, a couple pausing in front of them to snog each other’s faces off, and tourists crowding round a silver-painted street entertainer pretending to be a statue. Saffron would have preferred not to be having this conversation right there in the street, but it seemed too late to press Pause. ‘I tried to tell you in person too, that night we went out, but we got interrupted.’

  ‘We did.’ He passed a hand over his eyes. ‘Oh God, Saff. How do you feel about all of this?’

  How did she feel? It was hard to know where to begin. Frightened, excited, joyful, alone? ‘Up and down,’ she said, after a moment. A woman in a red mac talking loudly into her phone barged between them just then, almost knocking Saffron off the pavement. ‘Look, this is ridiculous. We can’t do this here.’ She gestured to a pub across the road. ‘Let me buy you a brandy or a coffee, or both. Whatever you want. It’s the least I can do.’

  He seemed to be working something out as they entered the dingy pub and went to the bar. ‘I wondered what had happened, to make you go quiet on me like that,’ he said slowly, not taking any notice of the barman, who glanced up from where he was stacking the glass-washer and came over, drying his hands on a tea-towel. ‘Is that why you blew me out on the phone?’

  Saffron felt self-conscious with the barman standing opposite them, waiting for their order. First the receptionist, then the hordes out on the street, and now him . . . Was it too much to ask, to have this conversation in private? ‘I’ll have a lime and soda, please,’ she said. ‘Max, what do you want to drink?’

  ‘I knew something weird was going on,’ he said, not listening. ‘I knew it. It seemed completely out of character. We’d got on so well before that moment, and then for you to turn so offhand overnight . . . Oh, pint of Doom Bar, please, mate. Cheers.’ He drifted into a reverie. ‘Shit.’

  ‘Yeah.’ She waited until their drinks were poured and paid for, then they found a small corner table and sat facing each other on uncomfortable bar stools. He still looked stunned, as if the news hadn’t yet sunk in. She stirred her drink, ice cubes cracking together, and tried to find the right words. ‘Listen, I know this is a shock. I know you’ve moved on since me, and that’s fine.’ She thought of the way he’d been with his foxy female colleague in the Pillars of Hercules pub, how she’d felt like Gooseberry of the Year. ‘I know you already have children, and this might be the last thing you want. And that’s fine.’

  ‘So you’re having the baby.’

  ‘Yes. But I can manage on my own, if you don’t want to be involved.’ How tough and determined she sounded. She wondered if he had any idea how scared she felt inside.

  ‘You’re having our baby.’

  ‘Yes.’ Her foot jiggled under the table, a sudden attack of nerv
es. ‘I can’t work out if you think that’s a good thing or a bad thing. Please will you just tell me?’

  He frowned at his pint. ‘The times we went out together at the end of last year – they were the most fun I’ve had for ages. I felt like we really clicked.’

  She allowed herself a brief smile, but still couldn’t tell where he was going. Answer the bloody question, Max. ‘Me, too,’ she said. It seemed so long ago now, that carefree whirl of excitement. Now she had a bump and he had a beard; they were like completely different people.

  ‘Yet, realistically, we barely know each other. All this has been happening to you, and I had absolutely no idea.’

  ‘I know. I’m sorry. I didn’t know what to do.’

  His eyes softened a fraction and he looked at her. ‘A baby, Saff. Fuck! Talk about a . . . a . . . grenade through the window.’

  Saffron didn’t really like the image of her baby as an explosive device, but she got where he was coming from. ‘Yeah. I realize it’s not ideal. And it’s fine if you don’t want to—’ she began again, but he held up a hand, jaw clenching.

  ‘Stop saying that – about me not having to get involved. I’m not a total bastard, you know.’

  ‘Sorry.’

  ‘And you don’t have to keep saying sorry, either. I was the one who failed us on the contraceptive front.’

  A moment passed where she remembered the last time they’d had sex: on the stairs at his place, frenzied and horny, devouring each other with lust. The joyful kind of sex where you just couldn’t keep your hands off each other, where you were confident there’d be plenty more where that came from, where you were just too damn passionate to think about sensible things like condoms. She wondered if he was remembering it, too.

  ‘Well.’ She shrugged. ‘These things happen, don’t they?’ She sipped her drink, aware that she was holding back a vital piece of information. ‘Max, before you say anything else, there’s something I need to tell you.’ Haltingly, her heart thumping, she explained the situation – the scan, the risks, the amnio lurking on the horizon like a dark cloud.

  He listened intently, and she rushed to the end of what she had to say, fearful that he was going to shake his head and tell her: sorry, but do you know what? He’d never signed up for any of this, it was too much; he’d bung her a few quid in the name of child maintenance, but that would be his lot.

  ‘So now you know,’ she finished lamely, terrified of his response. She looked down at the table. ‘Sorry to tell you everything at once like this. Your head must be spinning. I wish things were different, that I didn’t even have to have this stupid test, but . . . ’

  He didn’t say anything immediately, then reached over the table and took her hand. ‘Don’t then. Why don’t we just . . . not go?’

  She glanced at him, fearful that he hadn’t fully understood what she was saying. ‘Well . . . don’t you want to know?’

  He looked deep into her eyes. ‘It’s not that I don’t care. I do. But sometimes these things can put such a strain on you, it’s almost not worth doing.’ His brow creased. ‘When Jenna was pregnant with Leo, our son, they said at the second scan that he had very short legs, and made this enormous fuss about it. We spent the rest of the pregnancy having lots of tests and extra scans and worrying ourselves sick.’

  ‘And was he okay? What happened?’

  ‘He was absolutely fine. He was perfect. But Jenna had been so stressed, it made her ill and she couldn’t enjoy the pregnancy at all.’ His expression was far away for a moment. ‘I don’t want that for you – or me. Especially if there’s a risk that the amnio might actually harm the baby.’

  They were silent for a moment. Why don’t we just . . . not go? Saffron kept hearing in her head. It hadn’t occurred to her that she could opt out altogether, and the thought of not turning up for the dreaded test made her feel light-headed and giddy. It wouldn’t be a case of hiding her head in the sand. It would be taking a stand, saying, I’ve weighed everything up and I want this baby, full stop. I don’t care what the amnio says, thanks all the same.

  Max looked worried, as if he might have said too much. ‘Of course, if you really want to have the test, then I’ll go with you,’ he assured her. ‘And we’ll cross any bridges when we come to them, right?’

  ‘Seriously? You mean it?’

  ‘I mean it. We made this happen together. We’ll see it through together as well. Okay?’

  Don’t cry. Do not cry. You are forbidden to start blubbing. She swallowed hard and tried her best to control herself. ‘Okay,’ she said with a watery smile. ‘Thanks. Let’s both have a think about it and decide in a few days. I realize this is a lot for you to take on board.’ She blew her nose, feeling better than she had done in weeks. After all her worrying, this meeting had been so easy. If only she had plucked up the courage earlier! Then a smile quirked her mouth. ‘By the way,’ she said. ‘What’s with the beard?’

  He looked startled at the question, then stroked it defensively. ‘What do you mean? Don’t you like it?’

  ‘I . . . I didn’t say that.’

  His eyes twinkled and suddenly he was Max again, the man she’d fallen head over heels in love with back in the autumn. ‘You hate the beard, don’t you? Admit it. You hate the beard.’

  She giggled. ‘I don’t hate it, but . . . ’

  ‘Tell you what.’ He took her hand in his. Oh, he had lovely hands, she thought, suddenly feeling as swoony and fluttery as a teenage girl. Strong and manly, with long, shapely fingers. ‘I’ll do you a deal. I’ll shave my beard off if we can go out together again. Just lunch, nothing heavy. Just . . . getting to know each other again. What do you think?’

  She looked at him, so handsome and lovely in his shirtsleeves, even with that ridiculous tuft of hair on his chin. Her lips were just forming the shape to reply, ‘Hell, yes’ when she remembered the last time they’d met, the female colleague on his lap, twining her arms around his neck. Not so fast, she told herself. ‘I thought you were seeing someone else?’ she asked.

  He looked taken aback for a moment, then shook his head. ‘What, Mia? No. That was a bad rebound decision. A two-week fling. She’s moved on to the finance director now.’

  Saffron breathed out the last bit of tension that had been coiled up inside her. ‘In that case, lunch would be lovely,’ she said. ‘I’d really like that, Max.’

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  From: CaitlinF@fridaymail

  To: Saffron@SaffronFlintPR

  Subject: Hello

  Hey Saff,

  How are things? Gemma said you have your test at the hospital this week – I hope it goes well; fingers crossed here for you.

  Gem also said that you were planning another trip to Larkmead – excellent news! Her mum has turned up out of the blue, so we were wondering if you would like to stay at mine instead? I have a spare room and you’d be welcome to camp out here as long as you like. Just let me know when you want to come.

  Love Cait x

  From: Saffron@SaffronFlintPR

  To: CaitlinF@fridaymail

  Subject: Hello

  Hi Cait,

  Thank you, that’s so kind of you. I’d love to stay. I’ll probably set off tomorrow, if that’s all right?

  I decided not to have the amnio after all. Some people – i.e. my sister – think I’ve lost the plot, but I know it’s the right decision for me. For us. I feel so much happier now, as if a weight has been lifted from my shoulders.

  Really looking forward to seeing you and Gem tomorrow . . . I have a LOT to tell you!

  Saff xxx

  The imminent arrival of her guest prompted Caitlin to contact a charity that collected unwanted furniture, and two men rolled up that afternoon to load their van with Jane’s old mahogany table and chairs, one of the armchairs and the huge Welsh dresser, which had all been gathering dust in the dining room for weeks. With the living room still in use as their workplace, she could now rearrange the dining room as somewhere for her and Saffro
n to sit in the evening. It would make a change from perching on her bed with the laptop and a glass of red wine on her own every night.

  Up in Jane’s bedroom, she put a jug of creamy narcissi on the mantelpiece, clean towels neatly folded on the bed and opened the windows wide to let in the chilly spring breeze. Then she decided to empty the chest of drawers, so that Saffron would have somewhere to put her clothes, filling yet another charity bag with Jane’s tops and trousers, unused packets of tights and bedsocks. The bottom drawer was a mish-mash of ancient swimming costumes, pyjamas, a box full of old jewellery and . . . Caitlin’s hand paused in mid-air as she saw the stack of small leather-bound books at the back of the drawer. Diaries?

  She hesitated for a moment before taking them out – even glancing over her shoulder, as if Jane might walk in and catch her snooping. Jane had been a private sort of person after all. Perhaps Caitlin should honour that privacy and put the diaries straight in the bin, unread.

  Yeah, right, she thought in the next second. Like anyone had that kind of willpower.

  She picked up the first one – 2004, more than ten years old – and flicked through the pages, feeling a twist of sadness at the sight of her mum’s familiar spidery handwriting. What secrets did these pages hold? From the sentences that caught her eye, though, it was fairly pedestrian stuff:

  January 22nd: Delivered Anna Simms’s baby this morning – the sweetest wee girl, lots of red hair already. Breech, too, the little monkey!

  April 6th: Glorious weather, the tulips are out – stunning this year! NB ‘Ronaldo’ and ‘Negrita’ v. good, must plant more next autumn.

  May 19th: Caitlin’s birthday! Have been thinking about her all day. Jeremy’s taking her to a fancy restaurant, she said. She sounded really happy on the phone. Can’t wait to see her at the weekend.

  October 15th: Poor Gwen – Robert’s been so poorly. The doctors want him to go in for tests; he’s been coughing up blood, apparently. Only sixty-one, too.