When a washing machine crashed through my ceiling a week earlier, it had been somewhat disconcerting. But now I had become oddly used to squeezing past the hunk of Hotpoint determined to get between me and my breakfast cuppa.
Right after they completely destroyed my kitchen, Lorraine and Vi had promised they would have it all sorted out before the weekend, but after a failed attempt at trying to pick it up and drag it out to the street on our own, I’d been living with what could have passed as modern art to some people, and a huge hole in my ceiling, for more than a week. On Sunday morning they’d lowered down a basket of pastries and, after that, it was fair to say I wasn’t nearly as upset about the situation as I could have been.
‘Good morning!’ Vi called through the Hello Hole as we’d christened it. I waved back and grabbed a Tetley teabag out of the pot and tossed it into my travel mug. You could take the girl out of England, etc. ‘Sweet outfit. Big day at the office?’
‘Trying to make a good impression.’ I flipped the ends of the black ribbon I’d tied in a bow around my neck and prayed the white silk shirt wasn’t a mistake. ‘Do I look presentable?’
She squatted down to take a closer look and I gave her a quick twirl.
‘Very nice, the shirt is smart, the skirt is sexy, everything’s working for me,’ she gave me a thumbs-up and I poofed up my little black mini. ‘Great getaway sticks, lady.’
‘And now it’s black tights season again and I don’t have to shave every day, you’ll be seeing a lot more of them,’ I replied, returning her thumbs-up as the kettle boiled.
‘And if all else fails, you can just spill water on your blouse and call it a day,’ Vi suggested. ‘Your boss is a dude, after all.’
‘Note to self, buy water,’ I said. ‘Thank you.’
‘I’m sorry it’s taking so long to get everything figured out.’ She pulled at the hem of her Harvard T-shirt as she folded over to sit on the floor. ‘Lorraine’s brother’s best friend is a builder and he specializes in restoring townhouses and period places. I’m really hoping he can come and take a look tonight.’
I poured boiling water from the kettle into my travel cup and swished the teabag around until the water was more or less brown before removing the bag and tipping in half a pint of milk. My mother would have died if she could see what passed for tea in this house these days.
‘Any chance he’ll be able to clear this out?’ I asked, tapping the washing machine with my black Saint Laurent pointed pump. ‘If I’m honest, a great big washing machine in the middle of a small kitchen is more of a problem than the Hello Hole.’
Naming the gaping chasm in the ceiling had probably been a bad idea. It now felt more like something from a Nineties sitcom than a potential structural disaster.
‘You’re telling me,’ Vi sighed. ‘I’ve got Lululemon leggings in there – no way I’m going to be able to save them now. I guess it’s better not to try and force it open, though, right? In case it explodes or something?’
I chose not to tell her how I’d spent fifteen minutes trying to jimmy the door open with a butter knife three nights earlier. It was late, I couldn’t sleep and curiosity had got the better of me. Bloody thing would not budge.
‘Well, it is a washing machine, not a nuclear bomb, but I think we should probably leave it alone,’ I said, sipping tea as weak and feeble as I was.
‘I’ll text as soon as I know when the builders can start.’ She rolled upright and waved through the hole. ‘Have a great day and show that boss man who’s really boss.’
‘It is actually him,’ I replied with a wave of my own. ‘He’s been quite clear about that.’
‘Eurgh, patriarchy,’ she muttered as she vanished from sight. ‘Catch you later.’
‘I wish I was a lesbian,’ I mumbled, staring up into Lorraine and Vi’s beautiful kitchen. There was an actual herb garden in the window box. The only thing in our window box was pigeon shit. ‘I wonder if there’s a course you can take.’
‘There is,’ Vi shouted, apparently still in her kitchen. ‘But they’d make you leave your hot husband and I know for a fact he does all the cooking in your house.’
‘Noted,’ I called back, my cheeks flaming red as I barrelled out of the kitchen and towards my front door. ‘Thanks, Vi.’
Park Slope was one of my favourite parts of New York and not just because I lived there. It was post-Halloween and pre-Thanksgiving, meaning the giant cobweb decorations and animatronic skeletons were gone but the pumpkins remained. Every single stoop was covered in gourds, plastic, ceramic and even some real ones. If you’d left real pumpkins on the doorstep in my village when I was growing up, someone would have lobbed them through the neighbour’s greenhouse by the next morning – we just wouldn’t have known what else to do with them. The streets all round mine were wide and tree-lined and all the houses looked like they’d come straight out of a Woody Allen movie, usually complete with a neurotic man chasing a much-too-good-looking-for-him younger woman to boot. There was the odd modern concrete block dotted here and there, but, for the most part, our neighbourhood was all elegant brownstones and townhouses. It looked like the New York I knew from the movies. That was the strange thing about my city, even if you’d never stepped foot in the place, you already knew it by heart. The skyline, the streets, the parks and the subways, New York belonged to everyone.
Sipping my tea as I walked down to the 9th Street subway station, I let myself dream of buying a townhouse all to ourselves one day. Our apartment was one of two in the building; we had the ground floor and the basement while Lorraine and Vi had the top two floors. Maybe if I didn’t get fired, I’d become the editor of Belle someday and that dream would become a heavily mortgaged reality. Or perhaps Alex and the guys would get back in the studio and write a blockbuster album that made oodles of money. It had to be a possibility, didn’t it? Coldplay didn’t seem to be hurting for cash and Adele could definitely afford to spare a bob or two. I turned the corner past my favourite Mexican restaurant and the fancy underwear boutique next door, then nodded to the man inside the neighbouring juice bar, promising my liver I’d go in and get one tomorrow. There just wasn’t time today, it had nothing to do with the fact I couldn’t deal with even the thought of a green juice when my stomach was full of tea.
Just as I was about to put my foot on the steps down to the subway, my phone started ringing. Mother. I considered not answering but the passive-aggressive voicemail I’d have to listen to when I got to work didn’t bear thinking about.
‘Ahoy hoy,’ I answered, holding the phone between my shoulder and cheek as I patted myself down for my MetroCard. ‘How’s life at sea?’
‘Your father’s had enough,’ my mother announced from wherever they might be. There was no time for pleasantries when you were sailing around the world, it seemed. ‘Once in a lifetime holiday, this. Round the world cruise and the silly old bugger has decided he doesn’t like boats. Will you talk to him?’
‘I’m actually on my way to work.’ I leaned against the wall of the bodega and cursed myself for answering. I could have just deleted the voicemail. ‘Can I call you back? I’m going to be late and I’ve got a meeting.’
‘Why are you leaving for work so late?’ she demanded. ‘You can’t be messing around, popping in when you feel like it. They’ll sack you as soon as look at you, these days. Lesley, from the library, her son worked for Thomas Cook for twenty-two years and one day his car broke down so he couldn’t clock in on time and when he got to work, they’d put all his things in a bin bag in the car park.’
‘I’m almost certain that’s not true,’ I said wearily. It wasn’t even eight thirty and I was already exhausted. ‘But I do need to go.’
‘Speak to your father and then get yourself to work,’ Mum ordered before bellowing at the top of her lungs in my dad’s general direction: ‘David, it’s Angela. She wants to talk to you and hurry up with it because she’s late for work.’
‘I don’t want to …’ I closed my eyes and waited for Dad to come on the line. There was no point arguing.
‘Angela?’
‘Hello, Dad.’
‘Why are you late for work? What’s the matter? Is there an emergency? Do you need us to come to America?’
I’d have been offended by the hope in his voice if I didn’t know he just really wanted to get off that bloody boat.
‘I’m not late yet, everything’s fine,’ I told him, ignoring the disappointed sigh on the other end of the line. ‘I just haven’t heard from you in a while.’
‘There’s not that much to tell you, love,’ he replied, his voice mopey. ‘I must have walked every inch of this boat a thousand times and if I never see the sea again, it’ll be too soon for me. Did your mother tell you it’s fish at every meal? Every meal! And not proper fish like at home, weird fish. Big ugly things with their eyes still in. And who eats prawn cocktail at breakfast? It’s not right, I’m telling you.’
‘How long have you been on board?’ I asked.
‘Four days,’ he replied.
‘And how long have you got left?’
‘One month, three weeks, two and a half days.’
Hmm.
‘You know, if you really hate it, you could just get off and stay in a hotel,’ I suggested. ‘But I think you should try to give it a couple more days at least. See if you can’t get your sea legs.’
‘I’ve no interest in sea legs,’ he replied with uncharacteristic grumpiness. ‘If we were meant to be at sea for weeks on end, we’d have fins and gills. Have I got fins and gills? No, I haven’t. It’s nonsense. And there’s no one on board who gives a monkey’s about the cricket.’
‘Well, that’s just terrible,’ I said, checking the time on my watch. Eight thirty-six. ‘I’ve got to go, Dad, but I’m sure it’ll be better soon. It’s a once-in-a-lifetime cruise – you’ve been looking forward to this forever.’
It wasn’t true. Mum had been looking forward to it forever and Dad had been looking forward to Mum shutting up about how she’d been looking forward to going on a cruise forever. Poor old bastard.
‘Are you sure you’re all right?’ Dad asked. ‘You sound tired, love. Are you getting enough rest?’
‘We both know there’s no such thing,’ I answered with a yawn to prove my point. ‘Just busy with work and home and everything. I promise I’m fine and Alex’ll be home soon so he can take over the household duties.’
‘Angela, you know I love you, but let’s not pretend you’ve become any more familiar with the Hoover just because Alex has been away. I bet there’s dust an inch thick on every surface.’
‘Never thought I’d say this but can you put Mum back on, please?’ I said. ‘Go and enjoy your breakfast prawns.’
‘Annette,’ he shouted without moving the phone away from his mouth, deafening me in the process. ‘She wants to say goodbye.’
‘Tell her I said bye and to get to work,’ Mum barked back. ‘I’m having a wee.’
‘She says—’
‘Yep, I heard,’ I said, pressing my index finger into my ear to stop it ringing. ‘Talk to you both later, love you.’
I hung up and dropped my phone into my bag just as the downtown F train began to rumble down the tracks and into the station. If I could make that train, I’d be at my desk before nine. Sprinting down the steps and along the corridor, I swiped my MetroCard and hurled myself through the open doors of the train just before they closed. Coughing, I straightened my jacket and lowered my head to avoid sharing my victorious grin with my fellow passengers, assorted commuters, students and, for some reason, a man dressed as a clown. Face paint, curly wig, giant shoes, the whole shebang. I tried not to stare. New Yorkers don’t stare and they don’t smile in public.
The last thing I wanted was for the clown to think I was a weirdo.
I knew my journey had been altogether too smooth when I arrived at Spencer Media and the lift doors opened for me as soon as I pressed the button. Inside, I was greeted by my new brand director, sharp as Cici’s nails, in a three-piece suit with a coffee cup the size of his head.
‘Hi, Joe.’ I raised my own travel mug up in his general direction and hoped none of the buttons of my blouse had come open en route. ‘Happy Wednesday.’
He squinted at me like I was making a joke he didn’t understand.
Oh god, I thought, trying to look down without making it obvious. My buttons had come undone.
‘It’s Tuesday,’ Joe replied slowly.
‘Sorry?’ I blinked, trying to shrug my jacket closed over my shirt, just in case.
‘Today,’ Joe said. ‘It’s Tuesday. Not Wednesday.’
‘Is it?’ I pursed my lips as I checked the little screen on the inside of the lift. Sixty-three degrees, no chance of rain and well, bugger me, it was in fact Tuesday. ‘So it is.’
‘Yes,’ he confirmed. ‘All day.’
‘Right, right,’ I said, searching for a way to save the conversation. ‘Doing anything nice for Thanksgiving?’
‘I’m leaving for my family’s house in Vermont this evening.’ He edged slowly away to the other side of the lift as it chimed softly to announce our arrival at the twelfth floor. ‘We’re going hunting.’
‘Of course you are,’ I replied with a forced smile, not at all hoping he would get run through by a moose. ‘That sounds …’
I couldn’t even fake my enthusiasm to finish the sentence. It sounded appalling.
‘I’m looking forward to our meeting next week,’ Joe said as I held the door open on my floor. ‘I have a lot to discuss with you.’
What kind of sadist said something like that right before he left the state?
‘Can’t you just tell me what’s happening now?’ I asked. ‘You can’t leave me in suspense over Thanksgiving, surely?’
‘No,’ he replied. ‘Enjoy your long weekend, I’ll see you next week.’
‘Not if I see you first,’ I said with a wink, immediately regretting it as I stepped out and the lift doors slowly closed on Joe’s horrified face.
Most of the team was already busy at their desks as I made my way over to my glassed-in corner, shaking my head at my own ridiculousness. Five days out of every seven for the last four years I’d managed to maintain a general sense of professionalism, more or less. And in just one week and only two interactions, I was fairly certain I’d convinced my new boss that I had all the professionalism of a blind skunk.
‘I got you a coffee and a bagel.’ Cici snuck up behind me, making me jump as I opened the door to my office. ‘I need to talk to you before the morning meeting.’
‘It’s Tuesday today,’ I said.
‘Yeah, it comes after Monday, right before Wednesday,’ she replied, making herself comfortable. I noticed she was wearing her fake glasses again. ‘It’s about the Generation Gloss party.’
‘Bring me that bagel and we’ll talk,’ I bargained, dumping my bag on the filing cabinet and taking off my jacket to reveal my perfect, professional outfit. Hadn’t done me any bloody good so far. Stupid Tuesday. ‘And can you tell everyone we’re pushing the morning meeting back an hour?’
‘What’s going on?’ Cici asked, a flicker of genuine concern on her face as she took in my shirt and skirt combo. ‘Why are you wearing adult clothes? Did you have an interview this morning?’
I looked down at myself and smiled. That was almost a compliment.
‘Don’t worry about it,’ I said, covering up another yawn. ‘Sorry, I’m not sleeping that well at the moment; it’s only because Alex is away.’
‘Right, probably, gross, whatever,’ she nodded, tapping away at her iPhone. ‘So, about the party.’
‘About the bagel,’ I countered. ‘I’m starving.’
I turned on my computer and an alert popped up to let me know Cici had already rescheduled the meeting. I automatically reached for a handful of gummies. If I had any teeth left by the time Alex got home, it would be a miracle.
‘Here,’ Cici tossed an unappetizing paper parcel on my desk before settling down in the chair across from me, a notepad and pen in her hand and a small plastic container in her lap.
‘You’re eating?’ I said, shocked. I couldn’t recall ever seeing Cici eat before. Drink, yes. Juice, possibly, but consuming actual solids? Unheard of.
‘I started working out with a new trainer,’ she said, wrinkling her nose at the container in front of her. ‘He says I have to eat more.’
‘Oh, what a nightmare,’ I commiserated, opening up the squished bagel and taking an enormous bite before I’d even swallowed my gummy sweets. I was a monster. ‘What’s going on with the event?’
Cici opened up her notebook while I ate, one eye scanning my inbox as my emails loaded. Nothing from Alex, three from Jenny and only one spending alert from my credit card. I had to tell them to stop messaging me every time I used my card – it was almost putting me off shopping.
‘The venue is all confirmed and I’ll have the quote from the security firm by the end of the day. We have three different Snapchat geofilters and a dedicated Instagram sticker, Selena confirmed, and Justin declined so that all works out. The only issue right now is the drinks sponsor.’
Cici peeled the top off her breakfast and pulled out a small, sad-looking flatbread, covered in some kind of brown paste.
‘The vodka company pulled out but I have a friend who does PR for Kiki, it’s a new organic tequila? And she says they’ll cover us. Does that work? I think they’re a good brand fit.’
The smell of her food hit me like a slap in the face. Without time to run, I doubled over and retched into the bin under my desk.
‘Works for me,’ I replied grimly. ‘What else?’
‘Oh my god!’ Cici squealed, pushing her chair backwards and cowering in fear, even though she was clearly several feet away and on the other side of a bloody massive desk. ‘Are you wasted?’
‘Stone-cold sober.’ I grabbed hold of a tissue and dabbed my mouth. ‘What are you eating? It smells revolting.’
‘I was eating leftover tapenade crostini from Fig & Olive,’ she said, putting the lid back on the container and dumping it in the larger bin by my door. ‘But now I’ve lost my appetite, thanks. My trainer is going to be so mad when I don’t gain weight this week.’
‘You can tell him I gained enough for both of us,’ I assured her, taking a small sip from the bottle of water on my desk. ‘That explains it, I can’t stand olives these days.’
Cici closed her notebook. ‘Smelling olives makes you throw up?’
I gestured towards the puke station that had previously been my bin.
‘I’ve never liked them, but yeah, just the smell completely turns my stomach at the moment.’
She sat back down and stared at me.
‘You’re pregnant.’
The second virtual slap of the day. I looked up at Cici and the room rushed towards me. Overtired, overworked, yes. Up the duff? Absolutely not.
‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ I said, almost ready to puke again at the very thought. ‘So you want to use Kiki Tequila? That should be fine, it’s not like we’re wedded to vodka. I like a margarita as much as a martini and why are you still staring at me like that?’
‘You’re pregnant,’ Cici repeated.
‘I am not,’ I told her, slowly lowering one hand to my stomach and trying to remember when I’d had my last period but I had no idea. Just like I had no idea what day it was.
Oh.
‘Come with me,’ Cici instructed, beckoning for me to stand up then taking hold of my wrist and dragging me out to her desk.
The entire office was empty. As soon as Cici had sent out the email delaying the morning meeting, they’d all scarpered to Starbucks before I could change my mind. Only Jason was still at his desk and he kept his eyes on his screen. He barely tolerated Cici’s existence at the best of times and expended a considerable amount of energy that could have gone into his job, simply trying to pretend she did not exist.
‘Which one do you want?’ she asked, dropping onto her knees and opening a huge draw full of colourful boxes. ‘I’ve got First Response, Clear Blue, Equate … I’d say it’s a little late for Plan B but just in case I’m wrong, I always have a stash if you need it.’
She looked up at me, sooty black lashes framing her eyes perfectly behind her glasses.
‘But I’m not wrong because you’re definitely pregnant.’
‘Shut up,’ I whispered, glancing over at Jason. There was no need to worry, he had his headphones on and was furiously typing something to someone, determined not to acknowledge me or my assistant. ‘Why have you got all this? It’s like a bloody branch of Boots in there.’
‘I might not have been a Girl Scout, but I do believe in always being prepared,’ she replied as she fished through the morning-after pills and jumbo packs of condoms and pulled out three different pregnancy tests. ‘Let’s go.’
The ladies’ bathroom on the twelfth floor was always busy. We were right next to the canteen, and even if they weren’t planning to eat (and most women at Spencer weren’t), our toilets saw a lot of traffic from people pretending to get food when, really, they just wanted to take a break or, worryingly often, enjoy a small cry. Instead of using the regular loos, Cici led me to the individual bathroom around the corner, meant for families, people with wheelchairs, and women who needed to pee on a stick in peace.
‘You know how to do this, right?’ she asked, tearing open the boxes and handing me three different white plastic wands. I shook my head, even though I did. My thoughts and actions weren’t quite matching up.
‘It’s easy,’ Cici said, miming the whole procedure. ‘You literally hold them under you while you go, that’s it. You ready?’
I was not ready. To pee on the stick in front of Cici Spencer or see Cici Spencer pretend to pee on a stick.
‘Angela?’ She stooped to look me squarely in the eye. No one should ever employ an assistant who was almost a foot taller than them in heels. ‘What’s wrong?’
I didn’t answer. What if she was right? What if I was pregnant? This wasn’t how it was supposed to happen, chucking up at the first whiff of a briny snack and then pissing on a paddle with my nemesis in the office bogs. I should be in my own home, surrounded by candles and white flowers, with Alex right next to me and a gospel choir in the next room, ready to sing the bit from The Lion King when Simba is born.
‘It’s like ripping off a Band-Aid,’ Cici assured me. ‘Better to get it over with. Putting it off isn’t going to change the result, trust me.’
She placed her hands on my shoulders and gave me a none-too-gentle shove in the direction of the toilet. There wasn’t a door to close, just a screen that separated the loo from the sink, and even though I needed to do the test and really quite badly needed a wee, there was part of me that was still far too British to go to the toilet with another woman in the room. At least, not when I was stone-cold sober.
‘I’ll be right over here,’ she said, from behind the screen. ‘Just pop the cap and pee on that sucker.’
If I really tried, I could almost convince myself it was Delia.
‘Do you want me to set a timer?’ she asked.
‘Yes please,’ I squeaked. I was a woman of many talents but I wasn’t about to pee on a stick with one hand and start a stopwatch on my phone with the other. Spilling booze on a phone was shameful enough, weeing on it was something altogether more shameful.
‘Thank you.’
It turns out there is no elegant way to pull down your tights and wee on a variety of plastic sticks in the work toilet. Thankfully, I’d downed a heroic quantity of tea since waking up and I’d been practising my Kegels since year ten when Louisa brought in her first ever copy of Cosmo, so I was pretty OK with stop-start peeing. But my brain was still struggling with the situation. One minute I was running late for a meeting, the next I was waiting to find out whether or not there was a tiny human being inside me.
Clicking the cap back on the last test, I rested all three on the top of the square, metal toilet-roll holder and silently congratulated myself on not getting any wee on my hands. My mum would have been proud. My mum. Any second now, she might graduate to grandmother. And my dad would be a granddad.
‘The first time I took a pregnancy test,’ Cici announced on the other side of the stall, breaking my chain of thought, ‘Dee Dee ran out to Duane Reade and made me do it in the ladies’ lounge at Barneys. It was negative, thank god, but she made me promise, if it wasn’t, I would call it Barney. Even if it was a girl.’
I glimpsed her beautiful black patent shoes underneath the partition and made myself laugh, even if it sounded hollow in my own ears.
‘And I remember this one time, Dee Dee thought she might be pregnant but the tests kept coming back with no clear result so she made me take a cab out to New Jersey so she could get a blood test in the emergency room because she thought if she went to a hospital in New York, someone would recognize her and tell our mom.’ She paused to let out a happy sigh. ‘And that was the only time I ever went to New Jersey.’
‘That’s funny,’ I said, even though it wasn’t. She was a fool to herself; there was no sales tax on clothing in New Jersey.
‘Angela, I think it’s time to check the tests,’ Cici said. ‘Do you want me to look or do you want to do it?’
‘I’ll do it,’ I said, my voice strange and soft and unfamiliar.
With a deep, determined breath, I picked up the first test. And then the second. And then the third.
‘So?’
She looked at me impatiently as I rounded the partition, three white plastic sticks wrapped in toilet paper in my hand.
‘It’s probably against the odds that all three of them could be wrong, isn’t it?’ I asked, looking at myself in the mirror behind her. My face was pale, my eyes were wide, and my tights were still around my ankles.
‘Oh,’ Cici replied. ‘Wow.’
‘Yep,’ I replied, laying all three tests out on the sink. Each and every one was positive. ‘You were right – I’m pregnant.’