January 29 EIGHT YEARS BEFORE . . .
January 29
E IGHT YEARS BEFORE . . .
6.00 A . M .
Madeleine had been given permission to work from home, to deal with a medical emergency. She’d promised to be back on site and on top of her game in no time. Thankfully, her request had been met without too many questions or lengthy interviews to ascertain why. And for the last week she had been ensconced in her childhood bedroom in her parents’ flat. Surprisingly, it proved to be conducive to work – without a commute, the many tasks assigned by the design team, and being at Captain’s beck and call, she had more time and used it to harness streaks of super-productivity. Sitting against the velour, foam-covered headboard with her laptop on her knees, she poured her time and energies into the Old Berlin project. During any low moments when the reality of why she was there at all nudged out excitement over the job she had been tasked with, she would go deeper into her creative space and the hours would fly by, yielding results that she knew would both please and impress Rebecca – two things that motivated her.
It did her good to think about her boss’s reaction when she first showed her the mood board and her idea for the revamp, presented, as instructed, after the Christmas break. At first, the woman said nothing, but placed her palm on her chin and her gold-framed spectacles on her nose, studying the images as if she were looking at art or trying to figure out a puzzle, tilting her head this way and that. Eventually, she removed her glasses and turned her attention to Madeleine.
‘You’re very good.’
These the three words that saw the kindling of ambition she had carried roar into a fire that warmed her body and awoke her soul!
‘Really? I ... I don’t know what to say!’
‘Okay.’ Rebecca nodded. ‘Let’s give it a go. You can join the design team. Shadow Suzy, ask lots of questions. I’ll show her these and square it away.’
‘Really? Are you joking right now? I can’t believe it!’
She hadn’t meant to cry. In fact it was the last thing she wanted to do in front of Rebecca, who was as cool as ice.
‘But, but I . . . Only, I can’t . . .’
‘Okay, I’m going to give you some advice, Madeleine.’ It was the first time she’d used her name, and there was a particular thrill in it. ‘Never feel unworthy of an opportunity that’s offered to you. Always raise your chin, retain eye contact, and simply say, “Thank you,” confirming not only that it’s your right and that you are capable, but also reassuring the person making the offer that they’ve made a smart move.’
Gathering herself, Madeleine sat up straight and, retaining eye contact, lifted her chin.
‘Thank you.’
‘You’ll be an asset, I’m sure.’
‘Thank you.’ It was easier, the second time. ‘There is one thing I need to ask.’
‘Never be afraid to ask questions.’
Madeleine nodded and swallowed the nerves that threatened to wash away any poise.
‘I will need to work from home for a bit – not long, a ... a couple of weeks or so. Or I can take it as leave, around the end of January. Unpaid, of course, and I wouldn’t ask if it weren’t unavoidable, but I can work from home – I want to work from home, it will keep me sane.’
Rebecca gave her a hard stare and Madeleine thought she might have blown it. Her heart sank.
‘If you are working from home, then why would you suggest we don’t pay you? Lesson two, value your craft, and understand that what you do is of importance. There will be people throughout your career who will want to cut you down or devalue your efforts. Remember this speaks volumes about them and not you. But don’t aid them, rise above, keep your cool and always know your worth.’
Her words had resonated with Madeleine. She was determined, in a work setting, to always keep her cool and to know her worth.
Having returned home, it was odd how in such a short space of time the dynamics of her relationship with her mum and dad had so changed. Marnie was nervous around her, fluctuating between love-bombing her, smothering her with affection, bringing her soup and fruit, and sobbing into her hankie every time she saw her, as if the whole world were coming to an end.
Her quiet dad was harder to read – the man who wanted a calm, happy house. He was clearly torn, outwardly and willingly supporting his wife through her tears, but his side glances and stolen tight-lipped smiles suggested he was on Madeleine’s side. Not that there were sides to be taken. But she certainly loved him all the more for his unconditional love and acceptance. She wanted to explain to her mother during her bouts of hysteria that her reaction was far less helpful, and to remind her that this was not a situation Madeleine had manufactured or designed. Marnie’s meltdowns didn’t make Madeleine question her plan, which she was certain was her mother’s intention, but only served to make the atmosphere even more strained and made drifting off to sleep trickier than it needed to be. Technically the blame lay with her, of course it did, but had she planned for this, engineered it? It was in fact about as far from her intention, her dream, and the idea of her future as it was possible to be.
She might have had eight short weeks to get her head around the situation, but she had failed miserably. No matter how frequently she studied the leaflets, devoured blogs, and posts online and read accounts of people like her who had experienced what was known as a “stealth pregnancy” or a “cryptic pregnancy”, she still did not fully believe that at the end of the whole episode she would be giving birth to a small human.
It did, however, make her feel marginally less stupid to know it wasn’t as uncommon as she had imagined. The response, from the few people she had told – her parents, Trina, Jimmy, and a woman in the queue behind her at the checkout in Tesco who had smiled as the day caught up with Madeleine and she’d blurted out her whole sorry situation – whilst sympathetic had certainly, if only briefly, carried expressions of a querying nature, as if she must surely have known but had simply chosen to keep it secret. Her question to them, had they been brave enough to ask such a thing outright, would have been why in the world would she? The situation in which she now found herself was preposterous, unimaginable and the scariest thing she had ever had to face.
Her body had changed a little, but no one looking at her would guess she was pregnant, let alone had reached her due date. Tiredness was the one giveaway, the bone-deep fatigue that dogged her every waking moment. Jimmy hadn’t been to see her, not that she wanted or expected him to, but he had phoned to see how she was doing and once again had offered to assist or be there for whatever she might need. It had taken all her strength not to ask if he might be able to build a time machine so she could go back to a day in May and not drink too much and vomit up her contraception. Or better still, go a little further back and not bump into him on Oxford Street when – with her rum goggles firmly attached – she’d taken one look at his luscious locks, his muscled arms and hey presto! Her pants had fallen off. Instead, she thanked him kindly and agreed to keep him posted. The thanks were sincere, but as for keeping him posted? She wasn’t so sure.
The conversation with him had once again ripped open the wound she felt at having hurt Trina. Her best friend had popped in only once and it had been awful. So much so that when the girl left after their stilted conversation in the hallway, her desire for a speedy exit obvious from the fact that they had barely been able to look each other in the eye, Madeleine very much wished that she hadn’t bothered. It was worse somehow, confirmation that their once beautiful friendship was now no more than cobwebs; frail, insubstantial and something that with one clean sweep would be gone for good. If she hadn’t had much bigger things to worry about, her devastation at the fact would have hit her even harder.
It was one of the only times she had given in to the self-pity that she largely managed to keep at bay. No sooner had she watched Trina walk through the door, heading out into the world without the burden that was Madeleine’s alone to bear, than she stumbled into her room, coiled on the bed, and cried great hot tears that left her feeling spent. She had woken in the early hours with a desperate need to pee, a red, puffy face, sore eyes and a feeling of loneliness that sat like a dark hole in the glorious future she envisaged, once she’d got over this hump.
Marnie had insisted she stay home near her due date. And here she was, holed up in the flat, trapped, lonely and staring at the walls. Despite her initial reluctance to be cloistered inside the peach woodchip of her old room, in these latter stages of her confinement, she was thankful for it. Having her mum and dad within hollering distance made the whole prospect slightly less daunting, but only slightly.
It was also hard to navigate the kind words of encouragement and hopeful looks that Marnie threw her way, refusing to believe, even at this late hour and despite her claims to the contrary, that Madeleine would give birth and hand the baby over.
And maybe she was right. What kind of woman could do that?
A woman like me ... came the answer. A woman like me ...
It felt easier to stay in her room and while away the days. Sleeping, daydreaming, trying to get comfortable, working on the glorious Old Berlin project, and nesting the tiniest of bumps, while both dreading and thrilled by the prospect that soon the whole ordeal would be over and she could pick up where she had left off and go build her life.
She woke early to the sound of a car revving its engine in the car park below and the slam of a car door. Someone, it seemed, who wasn’t best pleased to be up at this ungodly hour had decided that the rest of the estate should suffer as a result.
Something felt a little off and instantly she was aware of and horrified by the wet patch that soaked her pyjamas. Relief was instant when she touched her fingers to the damp and found that it wasn’t blood. This realisation was quickly followed by the low rumble of an ache that intensified as she threw back the duvet and stood. A bit like menstrual cramps, it was an ache that flashed to pain once or twice but was bearable. Pleasant, almost, as it spoke of nearing the end.
Filled with something close to excitement – not for the arrival of her child, not that, but to know that it was nearly over – she knocked gently on her parents’ bedroom door. She did so with a scrunched-up nose, knowing she had to wake them, but feeling far from good about doing so and the disruption to their day.
‘Mum ... Mum ...’ she whispered, a little louder the second time.
‘Youallrightlove?’ Her mum came to, head barely lifted from the pillow, hair mussed, and in the throes of semi-sleep slurred her words.
‘Yes, sorry to wake you. I just, erm ... I think it’s ... it’s happening.’