Cuckoo (aka Claire, Darling)

Chapter Five

Chapter Five

I’m sitting in the waiting area of this pretentious office block, shakily clutching a glass of water. Sukhi has her arms wrapped protectively around me, and even Mr Donahue has paused his lunchtime excursion out of concern for my wellbeing. The new receptionist, Sandra, is crouching in front of me, holding some tissues. It takes me a while to realise they’re for me, and that I’m crying.

‘I’m sorry I can’t help any more. I just know that he resigned back in February, to go on to a better role. He signed an NDA, we put him on gardening leave…’ Mr Donahue is saying.

Gardening leave? My eyes are flitting back and forth, my brows knotted together in frantic search of a reasonable explanation.

‘Claire, did you really believe he was coming in every single day?’ Sukhi asks me quietly.

‘Of course I did! Where else would he be?’ I snap, my voice shrill. I let my spine collapse, slumping into the seat, not wanting to draw any more attention to myself as I notice even strangers outside of the office are gawking in at me through the glass walls with open curiosity. I must really look a mess. The heat of shame pricks the surface of my skin like needles and I wipe the tissue over my puffy cheeks as Mother’s voice rings through my head.

Claire, darling, don’t you dare cry in public!

‘Sorry,’ I tell Sukhi, ashamed of raising my voice, of losing my cool.

‘Don’t be silly,’ she tells me, patting my hand.

Mr Donahue tells me, ‘I didn’t even know he was getting married. You think you know someone…’ He shakes his head sadly. ‘I have to rush now, I’m late for a meeting, but I hope you get… all of this sorted,’ he says with a vague flap of his wrinkled hand, before half-running away from my shambolic state.

The receptionist discreetly slips away, returning behind her desk to deal with the lengthening queue while I sit, staring at a spot on the ground, my eyes glazed. Occasionally a tear drips off my wobbling chin and I feel wretched and wild, pathetic and exhausted, all at once.

‘It makes no sense,’ I tell Sukhi quietly, my voice coming out thickly.

‘Look, let’s get ourselves together. I’m going to call the office, explain there’s been a family emergency. Let’s make sure you get home okay, then we’ll get this sorted. You can’t go back to the office today, not like this,’ she says, standing up with her phone out, already scrolling through her contacts for the office number. In that moment, I am immeasurably grateful for her friendship.

‘Hi, yes, it’s me, Sukhi,’ she starts, walking outside with her head low, her voice all business.

She’ll make a wonderful, no-nonsense mother , I think sadly.

Sukhi really wants a baby. I know this because she mentions it regularly, fretting about her body clock and her endometriosis, which has made it difficult for her to conceive naturally. I’m hopeful for them. She’s only thirty-four, which is still young in my mind. Plenty of time for her to have a baby. She has a brilliant doctor, to whom her husband is related, so she’s getting the best possible advice to help them along. I always change the conversation quickly when she starts worrying about it, because I never know what to say to her when she recounts the stats and data about eggs and miscarriages. I try very hard to listen but then panic and this stresses me out, which is selfish, I know, because she’s looking for comfort and camaraderie and I haven’t been able to give her that.

If I’m honest, I’ve been having my own concerns about becoming pregnant. I’d love a little baby, but Noah has been quite reserved about it, overly practical as always. I raised it with him once, after a bit too much wine in a burst of boldness, and he gently reminded me that we were still young, that we should enjoy our time alone together and focus on our careers for a little longer before bringing a baby into the world.

‘It’s not a case of if, Claire, but when,’ he told me softly, instantly erasing any concerns I had and instead sending a lurch of excitement straight down into my womb.

He drew me into these exciting plans to travel the world before having children, and we’ve spent several evenings sharing fantasies and exchanging new destination ideas. Backpacking around Thailand, partying on the golden beaches of Brazil, sipping red wine in Californian vineyards. ‘You can’t do these trips as freely with a child,’ he always tells me, sensibly. ‘Becoming a family will just have to wait a little while longer.’ And until today, travelling the world with my true love was a sacrifice I was willing to make. But that was before I found out my true love was a liar.

With Sukhi still outside on the phone, I take the moment of solitude as an opportunity to fish my own phone out of my bag.

I’m at your office. I came with lunch. Where are you?????????????? I text Noah.

Then I reconsider, remove a handful of question marks so I seem less crazed, and hit send. I sit, clutching the phone so tightly in my hands that my fingertips begin to ache.

Sukhi comes back in and spots the phone in my grip immediately. ‘Have you heard from him?’ she asks.

I shake my head. ‘I texted him,’ I mumble.

She frowns and opens her mouth as if to say something but seems to think better of it. ‘I ordered an Uber. Let’s get you home,’ she tells me, gathering up my handbag. I notice her take the sodden tissues and, tactfully, the lunch that caused all of this confusion, and toss everything into a nearby bin.

‘Come on, Claire.’ She ushers me out, giving the receptionist a brief nod as we leave through the revolving glass doors.

I want to fling something at them, so they’ll shatter alongside the illusion of the perfect, honest fiancé I thought I had. Instead, I let go of the balloon, and don’t look back as it drifts away from us.