Conditional Love

by Cathy Bramley

  My hands were shaking. I thought he was one of the good guys! I was so disappointed in him. Of all people. And after how he’d reacted when I told him about Spike and Jess! Talk about double standards!

  I was glad we hadn’t managed to talk privately before now. In fact, Phil Strong had done me a favour. Nick wasn’t the man I thought he was and I would tell him so.

  Marching with determination, I retraced my steps towards the ladies’ loos. I rounded the corner and skidded to a halt.

  Nick hadn’t moved, but draped around his neck with her lips millimetres away from his was Frannie Bloody Cooper!

  All of a sudden, I’d had enough. Of him, of her – definitely of her – and of the whole damn night. I was nothing to him, I’d been deluding myself, and he was nothing to me.

  Nonchalant, act nonchalant.

  With head high, I tottered past, calling out a casual ‘Goodnight’ as I drew level with the pair.

  ‘Sophie!’ exclaimed Nick, extricating himself from Frannie’s clutches.

  ‘Wait!’ he yelled as I picked up pace towards the hotel lobby.

  ‘It’s not how it looks!’ he shouted as I flagged down a taxi.

  ‘It never is with you, is it?’ I shouted back.

  forty-two

  Giving the taxi driver my address, I pulled my pashmina tight and let my body relax. Hot milk and a digestive biscuit when I got in. No, make that two. I’d barely touched my dinner and I wouldn’t be able to sleep if I was hungry.

  The flat would be empty when I got back, the girls would be in London by now. I checked my phone for texts. Not a dickie bird. Enjoying themselves too much to spare a thought for little old me and my bruised ego. I had no one to moan to.

  God, I hated that Frannie. I wished I’d not taken Nick along. There was something to be said for that never-mix-business-with-pleasure rule of his. No way was I attending the Property Awards again. Next year I would make sure I was out of the country.

  I opened up Facebook on my phone and stabbed out a quick status update.

  Worst night of entire life. St Valentine’s Day massacre meets A Nightmare on Elm Street. Client Frannie Cooper – ha – Freddy Krueger more like. Hate men. Hate clients. #IHateMyJob.

  In the split second that I pressed send, I was distracted by a call coming through from a blocked number. It occurred to me that it might be someone off the telly to say that I’d been pranked and the whole night was one big joke.

  I braced myself and said hello. It was Emma. She and Jess hadn’t made it to London.

  Shivering with goose pimples, I batted the glass screen open between me and the taxi driver.

  ‘Queens Medical Centre please, quick as you can.’

  I ran as fast as my stupid heels would let me and found Emma and her dad, Jack, in the foyer of the hospital. Hard not to miss; Jack was wearing a bright yellow, high-visibility jacket that clashed with his eyebrows and Emma’s hair. They were slamming coins into a drinks machine. The money kept reappearing and the machine was proving to be the perfect target for their frustration.

  ‘Stupid thing.’

  You’re not doing it right, press the green button!’

  ‘It’s your dodgy money.’

  If I hadn’t been so worried about Jess, I would have smiled; they were like two peas in a pod. It was easy to see why they clashed.

  I sidled up to them and inserted a pound coin gently into the slot. The vending machine seemed to sigh with relief and slowly clunked into action.

  The two faces that turned to me were creased and glowed a greeny white under the hospital’s low energy lighting.

  ‘What’s happened?’ I asked. My heart was thudding in my chest as if it already knew the answer.

  Jack collected his drink and blew on it, avoiding eye contact.

  ‘She’s lost the baby,’ said Emma gruffly. I closed my eyes and held onto her tightly. Hot tears soaked into my neck.

  ‘She’s in surgery now,’ said Jack.

  I led Emma to a row of plastic seats fixed to the wall and we all sat down.

  ‘Dad picked us up and drove us to the station. We went down onto the platform. Dad came with us to carry Jess’s bag because she had a pain in her stomach. She went to the loo and realised she was bleeding.’

  ‘So we whipped her in here,’ said Jack.

  ‘And there was no foetal heartbeat,’ said Emma.

  ‘If I ever get my hands on that copper, I’ll wring his ruddy neck,’ said Jack, rubbing his thumb and forefinger round and round his eye sockets.

  ‘She had a choice, she could have had medication,’ said Emma. ‘But she opted for surgery to remove …’ She clenched her fist and swore under her breath.

  Poor Jess.

  My own problems shrank down to the size of an amoeba as I thought about what she was going through. Although her pregnancy was unexpected and had been the cause of her break up with Spike, she had thrown herself enthusiastically into the role of mother-to-be and altered her plans for the future to accommodate the new life growing inside her.

  She would be devastated. The grief on the faces of her family was bad enough.

  For the next half an hour, Jack paced up and down, while Emma and I sat huddled under his yellow coat, waiting for news.

  Finally, a wafer-thin nurse with Minnie Mouse feet approached us.

  ‘Jessica Piper’s family?’

  We jumped to our feet. ‘Yes,’ we replied.

  ‘All of you?’

  We nodded.

  She eyed us warily and pointed to where we could find Jess. ‘Mobile phones off please. Five minutes max and don’t upset her.’

  How many patients had visitors whose sole intention was to upset them? I wondered.

  Wafer-thin muttered something about Piccadilly Circus and marched off.

  Jess was on her own in a side room. The main light was off and a reading lamp above her bed cast ghostly shadows across her face. She was almost unrecognisable; her eyes were glazed, her skin devoid of colour and her body limp. She didn’t stir when Jack and Emma each claimed a hand and stroked it.

  ‘I want my lemon,’ she croaked.

  There was water on the cupboard next to the bed. Nothing else.

  Jack leaned over his daughter and she sobbed into his jumper. His shoulders were shaking too.

  ‘Lemon?’ I frowned at Emma.

  ‘That was the size of the baby at fourteen weeks,’ she whispered. ‘It would have been a navel orange next week.’

  I squeezed in closer and held a tissue out to Jess.

  ‘I’m so sorry, lovey,’ I said.

  She managed a wobbly smile.

  ‘At least I know I can have babies. Hopefully next time, I’ll be with the right man and it’ll all work out.’ Her chest heaved with a huge sigh. ‘Perhaps it’s for the best.’

  Nobody could bear to speak. I was paralysed with hurt for her, she was being so brave.

  ‘Anyway, how did it go?’ she sniffed, dabbing at her cheeks.

  What could I say?

  ‘It was great,’ I said, hugging her so that she couldn’t see my eyes. ‘I’ll tell you all about it when you come home.’

  Then Jess gasped and pushed me off her. Before I had time to be insulted, she reached out a hand to Emma.

  ‘Your award thingy! Promise me you’ll get on a train in the morning. Promise me you’ll still go.’

  Emma clamped her lips shut and shook her head. ‘No way. Not leaving you.’

  ‘Dad will go with you, won’t you, Dad? Mum will have arrived by then.’

  Their mum was on a girlie break in Gran Canaria. By now, she would be at the airport, at the check-in desk, demanding that someone fly her home immediately. Jack looked frantically from one of his girls to the other. I felt for the poor man; what a choice to make.

  ‘I’m not going to the crappy awards without you and that’s final,’ proclaimed Emma. ‘I never expected to get this far, so as far as I’m concerned, I’ve already won.’ She shrugged. ‘And there’s alw
ays next year.’

  Jack reached across the bed and grabbed Emma towards him, planting a kiss on her forehead. Emma made a show of wriggling away, but I saw her mouth twitch into a smile.

  ‘I’m so proud of you. You’re a winner, all right. I don’t know what I’ve done to deserve two such talented daughters. I could cry.’

  He was crying.

  I hung back, watching as Jack squeezed both of his daughters’ hands. The strength of their family bond brought a tear to my eye and I realised how much I had missed out on. When life knocked us back, it was family we needed the most. I felt a pang for my own father and after hugging them each in turn, I left them to it.

  It was after midnight and the taxi ride home only took five minutes.

  Once in my pyjamas, I microwaved some milk and sat down at the kitchen table. I blew on the hot liquid and sipped at it, hoping it would make me sleepy. Not a chance. The thoughts in my head were whizzing round like lettuce in one of those salad spinners. The more I tried to push them away, the faster they went, getting more and more battered.

  Why was it, I wondered, that when the Piper sisters suffered some sort of knock back, they dusted themselves down and bounced back all the stronger for the experience? Take tonight for instance. Even after losing her precious baby, Jess was still positive, certain that she would get her happy ending one day. And Emma. Declaring herself a winner – quite rightly – even though she had missed out on the awards ceremony.

  Whereas I was a completely different kettle of fish. With me, one stumble and it was game over.

  Maybe I was being a bit hard on myself? After all, I’d done more in the last twelve months than I had in the last twelve years. If I had my time again I would do things differently. When Mum was given the all-clear and had gone back to Spain, I should have given London another go. I should have pushed ahead with my plans and persevered with a future in interior styling.

  I wriggled my toes under the table; they were going numb with cold. What I needed was some thick bed socks, or some warm slippers.

  Listen to yourself! You’re thirty-three, not ninety-three!

  It wasn’t too late, was it? I could still go for it. Look at Mum! She’d changed countries and careers. Since Christmas! I had options, that financial advisor had told me so. I had assets thanks to Great Aunt Jane and a nest egg thanks to years of saving for a future which I was too cautious to reach. I had nothing and no one to stop me.

  Don’t think about Nick.

  I flicked the thought away angrily.

  Some things were not meant to be, however much I wanted them to work out. But perhaps, in the future, when none of this mess hurt quite so much, I could do some more design work for him, who knows?

  It was nearly one o’clock in the morning. I slipped my feet into the oven gloves for warmth, switched on my laptop and began to type.

  forty-three

  Despite the fact that I was physically and emotionally drained, had a crick in my neck from sleeping with my head over the edge of the bed and my hair looked more like road kill than hair, I made it through The Herald’s revolving doors as the clock struck nine.

  There was an unwritten rule for attending work events: you could dance on tables, drink yourself into a coma, even stay out all night if you so desired, as long as you weren’t late for work next morning. Not turning up on time was a big no-no.

  I wished Fiona on reception good morning and thought I saw a flicker of excitement on her face. Blimey, she’d looked up from her Hello magazine – that had to be a first!

  ‘Morning Sophie,’ chorused two identikit women in navy suits and pearls from human resources. They collapsed into giggles as soon as they passed by.

  What? Why was I a Person of Interest this morning? I was too tired for this game.

  I checked I didn’t have my skirt tucked into my knickers again.

  Simon from classifieds got into the lift with me.

  ‘Freddy Krueger,’ he muttered under his breath, as if he’d just heard the punch line to a good joke.

  Freddy Krueger? Where had I heard that recently? I shook my head. It had gone. I had the brain of Winnie the Pooh today. I frowned at Simon as I exited the lift.

  Remembering what I had in my bag, I snaked my hand inside and curled my fingers round the envelope. My stomach lurched. It had seemed such a good idea last night, now I was riddled with nerves. Best get it over with. I would go and see Donna straight away and then I would phone the hospital and check on Jess.

  I paused to get myself a cup of grey sludge from the machine and yelped as the scalding liquid burned my fingers, as it did every day.

  Such was my concentration, trying not to spill my tea, that it took me a while to notice the tension in the air. I looked over at my desk. A semi-circle of colleagues stared back. What were they doing there? There were two from accounts, an editorial assistant, a guy from sales, the new one from classifieds and the girl from the picture desk. Maureen was at her desk, her eyebrows practically plaited together. Jason was in place too, barely concealing a smirk.

  This wasn’t normal. Not normal at all.

  I wetted my lips.

  ‘Have you heard how Edward is?’ I said, ignoring the crowd.

  Maureen nodded her head vigorously. ‘Fine,’ she said in a trembling voice. ‘Flat battery in his pacemaker, that was all.’

  ‘Miss Stone. A word.’

  That didn’t sound good.

  The loiterers around my desk stepped closer together and gave a collective gasp.

  A tremor of fear ran down my spine. I glanced over at Donna’s office. She was standing in the doorway, arms crossed, eyeballs dangerously wild. I could feel the static electricity fizzing off her from twenty paces away.

  This had to be something to do with last night. Had somebody complained about me? Phil? Frannie? Donna couldn’t be mad because I’d left without saying goodbye, surely?

  My first instinct was to grab my bag and run for the hills. But what the hell, whatever I’d done, it couldn’t be that bad. Besides, I wanted an audience with Donna, might as well kill two birds with one stone. I took the envelope out of my bag.

  I made it over to the boss’s office on shaky legs and closed the door behind me. To my surprise, Donna directed me to her own chair. I sat down and she perched on the corner of her desk, looming over me.

  The phone rang. She lifted the receiver slightly and slammed it back down again without breaking eye contact.

  I swallowed and then caught sight of the screen on Donna’s laptop in front of me. I blinked and swallowed again as The Herald’s Facebook page came into focus.

  The latest post, made after my picture of the floral arrangements wishing our fans a Happy Valentine’s Day, was by me. My body slumped as I read the first line: Worst night of entire life, Valentine’s Day massacre … I didn’t read on.

  Bum. I’d posted my late night whinge to the company’s Facebook page instead of my own. In the dim light of the taxi, I hadn’t noticed my error. This was precisely why I never ever usually posted work stuff from my own phone. It was only because I didn’t have a separate camera with me that I did so last night.

  I rested my elbows on Donna’s desk, covered my face and groaned.

  ‘I’m so, so sorry, Donna. It was a momentary lapse of concentration. It will never happen again.’

  Donna snorted. Apology not accepted then.

  My heart was racing. Abuse of the company’s social media sites, whether intentional or not, was a sackable offence. I should know; I wrote the bloomin’ policy.

  ‘Have you any idea of the damage you’ve caused with this little stunt?’

  I assumed it was rhetorical question and kept quiet.

  ‘Ryan and Frannie are considering suing the newspaper.’

  I was dangerously close to tears. This was way worse than the whole dog’s bollocks slip of the tongue.

  ‘We’ve had over eight hundred comments so far about Freddy Krueger and nightmare haircuts at Fringe Benefits. S
everal major advertisers are threatening to pull their campaigns and there are more people viewing our Facebook page now, in our darkest hour, than since you set it up last year.’

  It occurred to me that the ‘all publicity was good publicity’ mantra that I’d heard Donna use in difficult times must only apply to our clients and not to The Herald. Again, I kept quiet.

  I shuddered as something else struck me. Our Facebook comments were linked directly to Twitter. I risked a glance at her. She had an ugly rash all over her neck and her lips were wrinkled and prune-like.

  ‘What about Twitter?’

  ‘Sixty-five retweets including The Times, Private Eye and virtually every tweeting hair salon in the county. And that cross thing –’

  ‘Hashtag.’

  ‘Whatever,’ spat Donna. ‘Hashtag-I-hate-my-job is trending on Twitter!’

  Wow! My comment was trending on Twitter! For a moment I was almost proud. My face must have given me away.

  Donna leaned forward and whispered fiercely into my face. ‘Meanwhile you – the employee, handpicked by the board and the only one with the BLOODY password – drop the company in the shit and then promptly turn your phone off.’

  It was that wafer-thin nurse’s fault. No one really needed to turn their phone off in a hospital; everyone knew that was a myth so you’d have to use their expensive payphones. But I was so flustered last night that I did as I was told. I thought about telling Donna that I’d been visiting a friend in hospital, to get the sympathy vote, but one look at the tip of her nose, which was white with fury, told me not to bother.

  Donna shoved the laptop closer to me. ‘Remove all the comments and write your password down. The IT department will do the rest.’

  Seconds was all it took to remove the Facebook post, all the comments and the original tweet. The damage was done though.

  ‘And that’s the last thing you’ll do for this newspaper.’

  I could see she was channelling Lord Sugar as she raised a pointed finger at me and opened her mouth.

  ‘Wait,’ I cried. I held my envelope out to her.

  She tore it open and her eyes scanned the contents.