The Last Love Note(22)
She’s not entirely sure.
‘Thanks, Sophie. I’m fine.’ I smooth the creases in my black jacket nervously and take a seat on a brown leather couch. Dressing in a business suit this morning had felt like a game of pretend. The clothes had also felt considerably tighter than last time I’d worn them, which was right up until I started showing with Charlie at fifteen weeks. Maybe I should join Grace more regularly at the gym. Avec breast pads next time.
When I’d arrived home after the gym incident in a strange man’s rugby top, Cam thought it was hilarious. He’d tried to drag me along to games once or twice, before we mutually agreed it would be more fun for both of us if I wasn’t present. I’d felt so guilty about the ‘sex drought’ admission at the gym that I’d initiated a ‘one-night stand’ of our own before his Italy trip. Given the infrequency of opportunity before or since, and the threat of interruption throughout, it had all the hallmarks of a few stolen moments with a stranger, which after seventeen years was quite something. Every time I think about it, I can’t wipe the smile off my face . . .
‘They’re ready for you now,’ Sophie says, pulling me out of my reverie. She guides me down the corridor towards what must have once been a formal dining room, which is now being used as a small boardroom.
Three people stand up to greet me. One of the women introduces herself as Angela, Head of Advancement, which was the word on the tip of Cam’s tongue the other week. She gives me a strong, welcoming smile, and I like her on sight. The man, Simon, is from the Human Resources Division. The other woman is the scribe, and she shoots me an encouraging smile, as if she’s zeroed in on my obvious nerves.
They all seem very nice and I’m about to sit down, when a second door into the boardroom opens. I turn around. And I feel sick. In my defence, the man walking in looks equally disconcerted. He pales briefly at the sight of me, then pulls himself together and extends his hand for me to shake.
‘Hugh Lancaster,’ he says as he holds my gaze with the dark blue eyes I’d last observed darting away from my chest during #lactationgate. ‘Head of Development.’
‘Kate Whittaker,’ I respond, dazed and following his lead. Officer in charge of Perpetual Mortification.
Our hands shake for slightly too long, as if they’re supposed to be causing a diversion while we regroup. I’ve heard legends about this city’s ‘one-and-a-half degrees of separation’ but hadn’t believed it until now. Eventually he lets go of my hand, pulls out my chair and motions for me to take a seat, while I have a flashback to him throwing me his rugby top. I wonder if he’s always this chivalrous. And then my flashback takes a turn for the worse and leaps to my conversation with Grace on the treadmill. A conversation during which I basically armed him with a professional horror story about myself, right down to the highly contagious skin infection I planned to spread around the office like some kind of biological terrorist.
I want to throw up. Or run. Or both.
Hugh reaches across the table to pour a glass of water for me. And one for him. I wish it was something stronger. I’d even take orange juice at this point for the sugar hit. But thinking of orange juice makes me nauseous again. My goodness, I haven’t felt that way about juice since . . .
Oh my God.
An unspeakable thought barges into my brain. But could I be? Surely not. Cam and I only had our one-night stand a couple of weeks ago. No, it was longer than that. Before Italy. And he’s already been back a fortnight . . .
Accidentally getting pregnant is not in our playbook. Our narrative is that we struggle. We have to throw everything we have at the task, financially, emotionally and physically. Even then, the odds are low for us. And isn’t it true that you’re less likely to get pregnant while you’re breastfee— Oh, holy . . . The nursing strike.
‘Could you perhaps begin, Kate, by telling us a little about yourself?’ Angela says warmly. She has no idea what she’s asking. Hugh does. He looks frightened.
I think I’m pregnant, I want to say. I haven’t had a period in months. You hear of these people who struggle with their first and then fall without even trying second time around. Are my boobs sore? This can’t be happening . . .
But instead of saying any of that, I clear my throat and wonder if it’s too early to ask for pain relief.
‘Kate?’ Hugh asks. He’s looking at my hand plastered to my chest, no doubt wrongly guessing my problem and thinking he’s running out of clothes to throw at me. I’m way beyond that, Hugh. Thinking of upgrading to a people-mover.
I stare at him, horrified. There is a great pause, into which I am supposed to be inserting a dazzling explanation of my experience. Hugh nods, as if he’s trying to will me on. I’ll forget what I overheard on the treadmill if you can, he seems to be saying.
‘Angela, perhaps I should speak a little about the role, first?’ he says, in response to my silent existential crisis.
I take the glass to my lips for a sip of water but feel like it’s going to come up again if I swallow, so I place it back on the table without drinking anything.
Angela looks confused, and jots something on the paper in front of her.
‘We deliver strategic, large-scale annual appeals designed to build the university’s capacity to respond to some of the world’s biggest challenges,’ Hugh begins.
Like the fact that Cam and I are operating on a twelve-month sleep deficit already, which we’re about to compound.