Chapter 9
CHAPTER 9
SOPHIE
I ’m still seething when Julian’s cries wake me up for his nightly feed, and even when he rouses in the morning. I go through my morning routine on autopilot: feed Julian, make coffee, eat some oatmeal, brush my teeth, straighten the few stragglers of golden hair around my face. Throughout the whole thing, I’ve got only one thing on my mind: William fucking Béchard.
Not only does he happen to be the one guy at Royal Growth Consulting who can help me, but he’s good with kids, too? Now that’s just unfair. Because when he was bouncing Julian against him last night, holding him with so much care and tenderness, it did something to me I’m not proud of.
Sure, I’ve always been able to recognize that Will is objectively attractive. But the moment he made my best friend cry at that bar, I started to find him repulsive. Yet, last night, the sight of him soothing my son made me feel things in my lower belly that I haven’t felt since?—
Ugh. I need to shake this off.
Before I start getting today’s work done, I get dressed for a jog and strap Julian in his sports stroller. This morning is a bit cold, but I don’t care. I jog a few laps around the neighbourhood, trying to erase the image of Will holding Julian from my mind.
That jerk. I’ll show him. He really thinks I can’t do this by myself? I’m not some damsel in need of being saved. I’m Sophie C?té. People come to me when they need their asses kicked into gear. When they need a dose of reality thrown in their face. Or when they need one hell of a party.
There’s nothing I can’t do.
I’m suddenly out of breath, so I stop in front of a park for a quick rest. I’m panting and sweating despite the cool air; I’ve pushed myself a bit too far to drown out the anger. From the front of the stroller, Julian coos.
I’m just about to get back to it and head home when my phone starts ringing. Without wasting a second, I take it out to answer it; it’s my assistant, Rosalie. “Hey, what can I do for you?”
“ Hi , Sophie, good morning,” she sing-songs. Immediately, I can tell something’s off. Rosalie is hardly a morning person, and even though she’s lovely to work with, she’s never this bubbly. “How are you doing?”
“Uh … I’m fine,” I answer. “You?”
“I’m doing amazing!” Why is she this happy? What is this about? “Actually, Sophie, that’s why I’m calling.”
A sinking feeling suddenly takes me over, and my tone goes dry when I say, “What is it?”
“I hate to do this to you, and I am so, so grateful for the opportunity you’ve given me.” Oh no. This can’t be good. “But?—”
“Are you … quitting?” I interrupt. Despite the jog, my body has gone cold.
“I’m going to hate myself forever if I don’t take this opportunity,” she drones on. There we go. She’s quitting. “My cousin is doing this thing; she’s going to travel the world for a year, and she asked me to come with her! It’s something I’ve always wanted to do, but I never had anyone to do it with, and now?—”
“Rosalie,” I interrupt again, squeezing the bridge of my nose with my fingers. “Okay, okay, I get it.” I keep my tone professional despite how angry I am. “When’s your last day?”
“That’s the thing,” she continues. Her tone isn’t so jolly anymore. “This just came up, and she’s leaving tomorrow, so …”
This can’t be happening. She’s got to be kidding.
“Tomorrow?”
“Yeah. I’m so sorry, Sophie. And I want you to know how much I’m grateful for your mentorship, and how much I respect you, and?—”
“You’re leaving me high and dry. Do you know how unprofessional that is? How disrespectful?” I try to keep the venom out of my mouth. There’s no use berating her; she’s already made up her mind. But I need to be clear about the consequences of what she’s doing. “And what do you intend to do after this year abroad, Rosalie?”
“I guess I’ll see where life takes me,” she answers, her voice airy and dreamy.
“Legally, I can’t stop you,” I explain. “But let me make this clear, Rosalie—do not expect me to act as a reference the next time you’re looking for a job.”
“Wow,” she spits out. Is she … offended? “I thought you’d be more understanding.”
I close my eyes and take a deep breath through my nose. Stay professional. “And I thought you’d do me the courtesy of giving notice if you ever decided to leave.”
“Life isn’t all about work, you know,” she replies with an air of superiority. “And you?—”
“Goodbye, Rosalie.” I hang up without giving her a chance to upset me further.
Shit.
I quickly make a run-through of the day ahead to calculate what I’ll need to shift around. Rosalie was supposed to finalize the purchases for the Nelson party as well as give me a first plan of the Rodriguez event. And that’s only the tip of the iceberg. There are a bunch of other tasks she needed to do before the end of the week, and even more so next week, when I’ll have the girls again.
Now it’s all back on me.
Dread crawls through me, planting goosebumps across my skin. Maya is an amazing assistant, but she has no experience with party planning. Her skills are invaluable, but they don’t escape the scope of administration. If I want to fulfill all the contracts I’ve snagged, and keep doing the work required to acquire more contracts, I need to find a replacement for Rosalie as soon as possible. But I also need to do her work for her.
And start planning and executing a growth strategy.
All at the same time. I feel dizzy and grip the handle of the stroller tightly in an effort to keep myself steady. Every possible scenario of the next couple of weeks flashes through my mind as I try to make it work—make it fit somehow.
Catering for the Nelson event isn’t finalized yet. Those revisions on the mood board for the Rodriguez event are still pending. There’s that new client I still need to get a head-start on—what was the name? If I stay up late, ask Mom to help out after work to put the girls to sleep, and focus all my time on fulfilling these projects, it’s all doable.
I can do this.
I can do this.
I cringe. Shit, I can’t do this.
There is no possible scenario in which I can fulfill all this work, find another qualified planner quickly, start growing the business, and keep myself plus all three kids—including one baby—alive and unscathed. Even if I remove the business growth aspect from the equation, I still don’t see how I’m going to pull this off.
Theoretically, I can find the hours in the day. I could cut on sleep to make it work. But I know that will just make me crash and burn. The quality of my work will suffer. And there goes my perfect reputation. There’s no way I’m half-assing an event plan because of my bad judgement with an employee.
I took on these projects because I had Rosalie to rely on. Did I know that her quitting was a possibility? Of course. But I never imagined she’d leave me high and dry like this. I expected better.
Guess my taste in employees isn’t much better than my taste in men.
“Settle down,” I whisper to myself. There’s no use letting this get to me. First, I need to get back home so I can sit down and think properly and figure out how to get myself out of this without sacrificing my clients, my reputation, or my sanity.
So that’s what I do; I jog back home with less enthusiasm than before. Julian, on the other hand, is as happy as can be, not a care in the world. Looking down at him all settled in the stroller, I feel a pang of love and tenderness. There’s a part of me that wishes I could keep him like this forever—carefree, oblivious to every nagging thought haunting his mother.
But every parent knows that’s not how it works.
By the time I’m back home, the dizziness and slight panic have faded away, leaving room for calm to settle over me. I lean back against the couch to breastfeed Julian and begin to focus.
I’ve got a few options. And I like … absolutely none of them.
Option one: I drop and reimburse one of my clients. I’ve only just started with the Latraverse project, for instance, so there’s not much sunk cost to worry about there. What I am worried about, on the other hand, is a frazzled client who will bad-mouth me for cancelling. Right now, I’ve got a solid reputation around the city. I’m seen as creative and reliable, which is a hard combo to get. And if I want to keep growing this business, I can’t do something that’ll taint how people see me.
Option two: I ask my mom to handle the girls—and Julian for the most part, except for feeding him—for all of next week; drop-offs, pick-ups, dinner, bedtimes, the whole shebang. The worst thing is that I know she’d say yes if I asked. But she’d also have to take several weeks off from work, which would hurt her cash flow significantly. And that wouldn’t be an issue if she accepted my financial help at all, which she does not.
Option three: I hire a full-time, short-term nanny with the cash I would have used to pay the fees for Will’s help. But in all honesty, finding someone I trust on such short notice would be nearly impossible. And I’m not willing to throw my children into the arms of someone I haven’t carefully vetted.
Finally, there’s option four. My least favourite option which, unfortunately, seems like the best option.
I call Will back and tell him I need his help. The thought alone sends a bout of nausea through me. I don’t know if Julian senses it, because he fusses at my chest and starts wriggling. I do my best to reposition him as I think through this option carefully.
The idea of willfully spending my valuable time with that man sends my heart racing. I can just imagine his self-righteous smirk and the patronizing look he would give me. The last thing I want to give him is the satisfaction of asking for his help.
I glance at Julian, who is quietly drinking with his eyes closed. I caress his soft blonde hair and revel in the feather-light feeling of it. My chest wants to explode with all the love I feel for him. And for my girls.
I can’t let my ego make decisions for me. I must think of them. After all, none of it matters if they’re unhappy. If they’re not properly cared for. What kind of mother would I be if I let my fear of wounded pride stand between me and what’s best for my kids?
Closing my eyes, I take a moment to savour the present. The last instant where I get to pretend I’ve got it all under control on my own. It’s a blissful moment, even if it’s built on lies.
I wait until Julian has had his fill and is settled on his tummy time mat in front of the couch, then I go stand by the large window at the end of the room and reluctantly pull my phone from the pocket of my leggings.
I take another deep breath before dialling Will’s number. I hate that I still have it.
He picks up but doesn’t immediately speak. A few seconds go by before he only says, “Sophie.” His voice is deep and steady, unwavering.
“Will.” I pinch the bridge of my nose and take a deep breath. “I hope I don’t have to specify why I’m calling.”
“Actually,” he starts, “please enlighten me.” From the sound of it, he’s got a huge smile plastered on his face. Dick.
I sigh loudly. “I … need your help.” The last word comes out as barely more than a whisper.
“You need … what?” he says. “I’m sorry, I couldn’t quite hear you.” My cheeks flush; I hate how much he’s enjoying this, and a sudden urge thunders through me to hang up and throw the phone as far away as I can.
But a quick glance at Julian, who’s happily playing with a rattle, reminds me of why I’m doing this. With newfound resolve, I repeat my statement: “I need your help.” This time, I’ve left no room for misunderstanding.
“I see,” Will replies. “Hmm … so, it seems like my schedule is pretty packed for the upcoming weeks.”
My stomach twists itself in knots, and my jaw hangs open. “What?”
“Yeah. I’m in pretty high demand—what can I say?” He’s speaking in an exaggerated tone. I’m not sure if he’s playing around with me or if he’s serious. “But maybe if you ask nicely, I can move things around and fit you in.”
What I’d like to tell him is I’ll see about fitting my fist in your face, but I swallow those words and clench my teeth.
He wants me to beg for it.
My heart starts to race and a bead of perspiration forms at my hairline. I don’t know what else I expected. Of course he’s not going to make this easy for me. I breathe through my nose and exhale the anger—or at least try to. But it doesn’t make much of a difference.
“Will,” I begin, trying my best not to scream, “will you help me with my business … please?”
“Hmm.” I don’t particularly enjoy how suave his hum sounds over the phone. “Sophie, it would be a pleasure for me to help you. Now … was that so hard?”
Heat rushes through my face again. “Don’t push it,” I say through gritted teeth. “So how will this work? I assume I have to sign some documents? When should I expect the bill?”
“I’ll let Rob handle that stuff,” Will explains. “No need to worry. My goal is to get you where you want to be. Speaking of which, we’ll need to have our kick-off meeting so I can get what I need to establish a plan for you. Are you available …” There’s movement on the other end of the phone. “… this Friday at 1 p.m.?”
I glance at Julian, who’s still happily playing with his toys on his mat. If I can get another spot at the halte , that’ll work. If I can’t, then I’ll have to resort to asking Mom for help. “Sure.” A strong need arises within me to gain back at least some semblance of control over this situation. “But I pick the place.”
“Of course. That won’t be a problem. This is your project. I’ll send the invite to your business email and you can update it with the details.”
“Great.”
“Great. I’ll see you on Friday, then, Sophie. And thank you for trusting me.” He hangs up before I can.
I hang up, pressing the phone to my chest. Is it just my imagination, or did I hear sincerity in this voice? He sounded genuinely thankful. In fact, as soon as he agreed to help, his entire tone changed.
Well, maybe he is thankful in his own twisted way. Maybe this is his sick way of getting off on some sort of power trip. I can only imagine how satisfied he must feel knowing that I basically begged for his help.
But it can’t be as nearly satisfying as it felt to watch me stay blissfully unaware for months about Matthew’s infidelity. How superior he must have felt. I can almost hear the words he must have been thinking during all those months Matt was cheating: I know something you don’t. I have knowledge that could destroy your entire life in the palm of my hands.
I shake my head to rid myself of the image of Will’s mocking face in my head and bend over to pick up Julian, who lets out a satisfied coo when I hold him close. For a moment, I only focus on him, rocking back and forth on the balls of my feet. I close my eyes and feel a singular tear roll down my flushed cheek.
“Thank God I have you,” I whisper to my son with my eyes shut. It’s all so much, all at once. The weight of everything I have to do today—and every single day until further notice—presses down on me like I’m deep in the ocean’s abyss, my entire being threatening to snap under the pressure.
For the last year, I’ve been on a never-ending Ferris wheel, and it seems like there’s no stopping in sight. Yes, motherhood makes time pass by in a blur, but it’s been so much worse since Matt and I split. Now the days melt into each other, leaving me with too much to do and too little time, suffocating me with all the responsibility weighing on my shoulders. And the repetition of it all is eroding my spirit, little by little, smoothing down the edges that give me … well, my edge.
When Matthew and I were together, it wasn’t so bad because I had someone along for the ride. Another grown-up trudging through the drudgery that’s required to make a household run. And even during the periods when the girls were babies, and I could barely function as a human being, Avery was here.
Unlike some of my other friends, Avery never made me feel like I was ‘too much’ when I brought the girls to an outing. She also always went out of her way to adapt her plans to make them child-friendly, even though I never asked her to. Not a single time.
Because I didn’t have to.
This time around, it’s different. The time I spend with other grown-ups is for work, and even though these moments light me up, it’s not the same. I can’t even remember the last time I hung out with a friend, except when Avery visited last week. That’s the worst part of it. Avery doesn’t even live in the same country anymore. Right now, she and Logan are in Singapore, and it still seems like I get to spend more time with her than with the friends in my city. It’s ridiculous.
But there’s no use lamenting over this. The more time I spend feeling sorry for myself, the less time I’ll have to tackle my to-do list.
I spend the rest of the day catching up on work that Rosalie should have been doing—although, it’s a slog since I need to take a break from time to time to entertain Julian. Even though I do babywearing for most of the day, it’s not enough at this age anymore. He needs more stimulation than just being stuck against my chest for hours at a time.
By the time I need to make dinner for myself, I’ve managed to do the minimum amount of work required to not fall behind on the projects Rosalie was handling. But I didn’t get around to doing any of the marketing or prospecting tasks that were on my plate. Although that shouldn’t be too much of an issue, since we’ll be fixing that once I start working with Will.
I frown, chastising myself for putting too much hope on Will. I shouldn’t put all my eggs in one basket. But by now, I’m completely drained, and there’s no chance I can get anything else done without completely butchering it.
As I’m in the middle of cooking myself dinner—acorn squash soup—with Julian held against me in a sling, my phone vibrates against the counter. I drop the chef’s knife and check who it’s from.
My shoulders relax when I see it’s from Tania. I could really use a friend right now.
Tania
Hey, so I’m headed to DFA tattoos for a new piece - wanna tag along?
As I process the message, my heart deflates. There’s no way I have the energy to go sit in a tattoo shop, let alone bring Julian along. All I want to do is crash on a couch—I’d even settle for a cheap plastic chair—and talk. About anything. I really don’t care. I just need to take my mind away from my endless work to-do list … and from Will’s smug face.
Maybe she’ll be open to changing her plans. I’ve changed mine so many times to fit into her no-kids lifestyle, after all.
Sophie
Any chance you’d want to just have a coffee or a drink instead?
I hit send and wait, hardly blinking as I stare at the screen. My stomach knots when I see the three dots appear, then disappear, then appear again.
Then, finally, after what feels like forever:
Tania
Can’t, it’s an appointment, not a walk-in, so I can’t really cancel :( maybe next time?
A frustrated groan escapes my throat. Looks like I’m spending another evening alone.
Perfect.