by Anna Bell
Marissa laughs. ‘I love that idea of a Lion King moment, but I’m such an impatient person. Plus I quite like the idea of doing a big gender reveal.’
My parents’ faces are blank.
‘It’s when you do a big announcement on social media revealing to everyone what you’re having,’ Marissa explains.
‘Very different these days,’ says Mum again. ‘It’s like these baby showers, will you have one of those too?’
‘I don’t know,’ says Marissa. ‘Usually they’re organised as a surprise by your friends.’
She looks at Becca and I with a small smile on her face.
‘Well, you know, they’re supposed to be a surprise,’ I say with a forced laugh, thinking that I’m an awful friend for not realising I’d need to do this. I throw Becca a WTF look and she looks similarly concerned. I start mentally calculating her due date to work out if we’ve got time to organise one.
The waiter takes the heat off me by bringing us our drinks and taking our food order.
‘Your mum’s so excited about the baby,’ Mum says. ‘She was wearing an “Expectant Grandma” T-shirt at Zumba the other night.’
‘Hmm,’ says Marissa, unimpressed. ‘She’s been wearing that since we told her, even before we’d announced it officially.’
‘I guess she’s trying to get her money’s worth,’ I joke.
Marissa doesn’t look so sure.
‘How much maternity leave are you taking?’ asks Mum.
‘I want to take off the full year, but I think we’ll have to wait and see how it goes with money,’ she says shrugging, trying to make it seem like less of a big deal than it is.
Marissa’s a recruitment consultant and a lot of her money comes from commission. I know she’s worried that they won’t be able to afford for her not to work. The only saving grace is that her mother lives nearby and she’s offered to help out with some of the childcare.
Mum gives Marissa a sympathetic nod.
‘It’s hard these days. You mothers are under a lot more pressure than we were. It’s a shame though, as I do think you should spend every second you can with them. It goes so quick.’ She takes a large sip of wine and I know that I’ve got to distract her from thoughts of Ben as a baby.
‘So they’re playing The Goonies at the classic cinema in Newbury in a couple of weeks, if any of you fancy coming with me?’
‘Is that that one with the sword-fighting that you and Ben always watched as kids?’ asks Dad.
‘No, it’s the other one we saw loads with the kids and the pirates.’
‘Don’t look at me,’ says Marissa, ‘I never got that movie either.’
‘Becca, are you in?’ I ask.
‘When is it?’
‘Two weeks today.’
She pulls up the calendar on her phone.
‘Oh, I can’t, sorry. I’m going to a wedding.’
‘That’s exciting,’ says Marissa. ‘Whose?’
She pauses and then swipes on her phone again.
‘Just someone,’ she says with a shrug.
‘You know you haven’t said anything to me about it; sounds to me like you’re making an excuse,’ I say, laughing. ‘Are you sure you’re really going to a wedding?’
‘Actually, it’s one of Gareth’s cousins, I’m going as his plus one.’
‘Oh,’ I say. ‘That’s big, going to a wedding.’
She nods and takes a sip of her wine.
I feel awful that I can’t get any excitement into my voice. It’s a huge milestone in a relationship and I desperately want to be a supportive friend like I would with anyone else. We’ve grown even closer over the last two years yet all of a sudden a chasm seems to have opened up between us and I can’t breach it.
‘I’ll bet it will be lovely,’ says Mum; she’s putting on a brave face too.
‘Thanks,’ she says. ‘I’m so nervous, it’ll be the first time I’ve met most of his family.’
‘Don’t be nervous, they’ll love you,’ says Mum, taking Becca’s hand and giving it a squeeze. ‘Any family would.’
‘Thanks, Dawn,’ she says and I see her blink back a tear.
‘Oh my God,’ says Marissa suddenly, pushing her seat back and clasping her little bump.
‘What’s wrong?’ I say.
A huge smile breaks out over her face.
‘I felt it kick, the baby actually kicked,’ she says, and I can see her eyes sparkling as she moves her hands over her bump.
We’ve been so distracted during Marissa’s pregnancy talking about the outfits that she can dress him or her up in and how it will make her Insta blow up, but seeing the look of utter contentment and wonder on her face it really hits me that she’s going to be a mum.
It almost moves me to tears. I look around the table and it seems I’m not the only one.
‘He or she is moving!’ Marissa says. ‘This shit just got real.’
I lean over and give her a hug. ‘It certainly did.’
Not only is Marissa’s baby the exact thing that this table needs as a distraction from all the awkward undercurrents, she or he will remind us of how life goes on and at times how wonderful it can be.
Chapter 14
I stare at my computer screen and the words start to blur in front me. I’ve been reading and re-reading the same paragraph for the past ten minutes, unable to concentrate.
I keep thinking about the meal with my parents. Everyone seems to be moving on with their lives, Becca with Gareth, my parents and their trip to Asia, Marissa and her baby. It’s made me realise how much my life has stagnated.
I’m really behind on my work today. Not only has my mind been elsewhere, we also had another round of the Great Office Bake Off this morning. It was ‘free-from’ week, so bakers were challenged to come up with a cake that was either gluten free, dairy free or vegan. Mrs Harris created a rose and pistachio masterpiece that tasted wickedly indulgent and a little bit exotic. She sailed through to the next round with flying colours which means she should be happy, but she’s done nothing but moan and groan since.
‘I think I’ve got food poisoning,’ says Mrs Harris, clutching at her stomach. ‘It was that vegan cake that Sandra in Legal made. It’s made me feel proper queasy.’
‘Are you sure it’s not the fact that you sampled so many cakes?’ says Cleo, in my opinion, quite bravely.
‘It’s important to sample the competition.’
‘There are fifteen of you left; did you eat fifteen pieces of cake?’ says Cleo, aghast.
‘They were only small pieces,’ Mrs Harris says with a groan. ‘At least there’ll only be fourteen in the next round. I was surprised that Marco from Statistical went out. I thought his Italian flair would see him further.’
‘Yes, that was a disappointing loss for the competition all right, I’m going to miss him,’ says Cleo, fanning her cheeks and making it obvious it’s his looks and not his baking abilities she’s going to miss.
‘You can always wander through his floor,’ I say to Cleo.
‘Oh no,’ she says, shivering. ‘You have to walk through the underwriters to get there and there’s something creepy about them.’
‘You do know they’re underwriters, not undertakers?’
‘I know but in my head they’re all those Mr Burns types creaking their fingers and trying to swindle everyone out of everything. They’re the ones who never want to pay up.’
I laugh and turn back to Mrs Harris.
‘What’s the brief for next week then?’ I ask, changing the subject.
The only people taking this Bake Off more seriously than the bakers are the HR department that dreamt up the idea. After the contestants make it through to the next round they get handed a gold envelope with next week’s baking challenge.
‘Next week it’s unleavened bread.’
She gives Colin a look and I see him visibly turn purple as the ‘b’ word is mentioned.
‘You better not even look in the bread’s direction,’ she say
s to him stroppily. ‘Even if it’s as flat as a pancake, I’m sure you’d still be able to break it.’
Colin carries on typing, but even from here I can see that he’s typing nonsense.
‘You know, I think Colin’s more than said he’s sorry,’ I snap. It’s hard enough to concentrate on my work as it is without this unnecessary drama.
Cleo gasps and Mrs Harris gives me a dirty look as if I’d been the one to break the leg of the bread flamingo. We all find Mrs Harris amusing but this joke has gone too long.
‘I’m just saying that it’s been at least two months, if not more, and I don’t think he should be ostracised anymore.’
‘Are you making a bird pun to remind me of the hurt he inflicted?’ she says, folding her arms over her chest.
I stand firm. ‘Bad choice of words, but come on, it was an accident that any one of us could have had. You and Colin are going to be sitting next to each other for the foreseeable future and this is not a very healthy work environment. This has gone too far, Mrs Harris.’
Now it’s her turn to gasp.
My cheeks are flushed and my heart is racing. I’m not known for my confrontation skills, but I’ve got too much on my mind and I’m not feeling very tolerant today.
I take a deep breath, feeling bad that I’m taking out my mood on other people and I’m about to apologise when the unthinkable happens. Mrs Harris looks over at Colin with her lips pursed.
‘You promise you won’t touch my baps again, or anything else I bake?’
Colin looks too scared to speak.
‘Promise?’ asks Mrs Harris.
He nods slowly whilst still averting his gaze.
‘OK then,’ she says. ‘I won’t mention bread week again. Or flamingos.’
She turns back to her screen and I look over at Colin, who’s just staring at her, shell-shocked.
Cleo looks over at me and we exchange WTF? looks. She turns back to her computer and a second later I get a ping on my work Link.
Cleo Dawson:
Go you! Look what you just did.
Izzy Brown:
Did I actually make things better, though? Is this the calm before the storm?
Mrs Harris stands up and I hold my breath.
‘Anyone want a drink?’ she asks, picking up her cup.
I’m too stunned to reply.
Cleo Dawson:
Quick, look, out the window, there’s a flying pig.
I hold up my mug and Mrs Harris takes it. She even takes Colin’s. I feel like my outburst might have upset the space-time continuum or at the very least our office dynamics and I can’t imagine how this is going to pan out.
My phone vibrates with an email. I open it and see that it’s from a marketing agency. My heart had only just started beating at a normal speed after the confrontation and now it’s racing again.
Hi Izzy!
We love your Instagram feed and your budding romance with Luke (@Lukeatmealways). We are working on a social media campaign for a well-known gin company and we’re looking for influencers to take part.
The brand wants to build relationships and would like to work on sponsored content that would be an agreed number of photos on yours and Luke’s main feeds, plus mentions on your stories.
Obviously we’d work with you in developing the creative as we’d want the brand to fit in with your content seamlessly. We’re thinking that it would be a behind-the-scenes tour of the company’s distillery and then some photos of you enjoying some gin at home – or perhaps out and about on one of your fantastic dates!
Let me know if you’d be interested and I’ll send you some further information. Also, if you and Luke have a press pack then please send it over and from there we can discuss your fees for the sponsored ads.
All the very best,
Amelia xx
Oh. My. God. I tap a quick message to Luke and tell him to meet me on the stairwell where we first met and I hurry across the floor towards the stairs.
On the way I pass Mrs Harris carrying the tray of mugs.
‘Oh, I see. I go to all the effort to get you a hot drink and now you’re rushing off and you’re not even going to drink it. Bloody typical. Remind me never to make you another one.’
And she’s back. Phew. For a minute there I thought I’d broken Mrs Harris.
I race across the office and down a flight of stairs until I reach what I now think of as ‘the selfie spot’. I pace up and down the little landing, wondering how long it will take him to get here.
‘Where’s the fire?’ says Luke as he saunters up the stairs.
‘You would not believe the email I just got.’
‘Let me guess, they’ve decided to do a remake of The Princess Bride?’
‘Why would you say something so mean?’ I say, putting my hand over my heart. ‘Like they would ever do such a thing.’
‘They remade Dirty Dancing.’
‘Yeah and look how that turned out.’
‘Look, we’re going off-topic. Who emailed you?’
‘A marketing agency who represents a gin brand. They want us to go to a distillery and do a behind-the-scenes tour and then to drink gin on our dates.’
‘And they’re paying us?’
‘Uh-huh. She didn’t say how much, but they’re going to pay us. She said to send them our press pack and register our interest and then she’d send out the particulars.’
‘Bloody hell,’ says Luke, running his fingers through his hair. I’m worried that they’re going to get stuck in his perfect quiff but they appear out the other side unscathed.
‘I know, right?’
‘And a gin company. There are pretty good hashtags for gin,’ he says.
‘I really hate gin, but you can drink mine on the tour.’
Luke pulls a face.
‘I hate it, too.’
‘What? We can’t both hate it. Are you sure you don’t like it a tiny bit?’
‘Are you sure you don’t? Is this like your “I don’t like Mexican food”? And then you’ll have it and really like it?’ he says.
My cheeks flush a little at my lie.
‘No, and I’ve actually conducted many tastings of gin to make sure, and I really hate it.’
‘But if they’re paying us, I’m sure we could keep it down long enough for a photo?’ Luke looks hopeful but my stomach is lurching at the thought.
‘Or perhaps it’s like wine tasting when you can spit it out?’
‘Who actually spits the wine out though?’ he says. ‘Surely that’s the point of those tastings – to get drunk?’
‘True. You know this is probably the only thing we’ve got in common: our mutual dislike of gin,’ I say, and he looks a little taken aback. ‘Just think: our first sponsored post.’
‘Let’s hope it’s the first of many,’ says Luke, holding out his hand for me to high five him. ‘You know, I was also thinking that it might be good to do something for charity too. It would raise our profile.’
‘And help out the charity?’ As per usual he’s missing the point.
‘Of course, that too. We could do a run or something.’
‘Or something is definitely preferable,’ I say, thinking that I keep starting Couch to 5k and not making it past the first week’s training.
‘I see that you always like Heart2Heart’s post, I guess because of your brother, so I thought I’d approach them.’
I know his motives aren’t exactly saintly, but I’d be over the moon to help them out.
‘Yeah, that would be good.’
‘I’ll look into it,’ he says.
We hear a door open and the clip-clop of a pair of heels on the stairs.
‘Meet me at the usual place after work and we can reply to her?’ I say.
‘OK,’ he says as I hurry back up the stairs practically jumping for joy.
When I make it back to my desk I’m positively beaming.
‘Your tea’s nearly cold now,’ says Mrs Harris before I’ve had a chance to sit d
own. ‘I would make you another but you know I’ve got my dodgy ankle.’
‘Still warm,’ I say, taking a sip. It’s a bloody good cup of tea. Perhaps I should stand up to her more often.
I turn my attention back to my computer. It was hard enough focusing on my work before but now thoughts of sponsored posts are buzzing round my mind. A brand wants to work with us – us! It wasn’t one of those standard emails either; the marketing contact knew about our relationship and everything.
I always felt that becoming an influencer was a pipe dream, but all of a sudden it doesn’t feel so out of my reach. All of a sudden it feels like it might just happen and maybe my life might be getting back on track along with everyone else’s.
Chapter 15
I pull at the hem of my sweatshirt, wondering if it’s too much to go to see The Goonies with ‘Truffle shuffle’ emblazoned on the front. It was a Christmas present from Ben and Becca but I know Ben would have chosen it.
I practically lived it in it after he died. Some people mourn in black but I mourned in the novelty T-shirts and sweatshirts he’d bought me over the years. I don’t know when I stopped wearing them, but it feels like the right time to dig it out again.
Between that and my hair that I let dry naturally curly this morning, I feel really self-conscious. I’d gone to dry it straight as I usually would, and then I thought about Aidan complimenting my curls and I ended up leaving it. I’m trying not to worry that he’ll think I did it just for him. It’s a ridiculous thing to think when a) I’ve made it clear I’m not interested in dating and therefore I shouldn’t care what he thinks, b) he mentioned he had a girlfriend and c) he’s a man so probably wouldn’t overthink the significance like I am. Even still, I’ve tied my hair up in a ponytail to make the curls less obvious.
I walk towards the entrance of the cinema and groan when I see that the usher on the door is the one that threatened to kick me out last time.
I keep my head down in the small queue, wishing I’d left my hair down for a disguise, and when I reach the door I hold out my ticket without looking at him.
‘Thank you,’ he says taking it and tearing off the stub before he hands it back to me.
‘Thanks,’ I mutter and I’m just about to shuffle past when he holds his arm out to block my path.
