“Of course. I’d never let the team down.”
The tangible relief on the other end of the line is delicious.
“You’re a lifesaver,” he says, and for a moment I forget that the opposite is true.
It takes longer than usual to get myself ready; I’m still drunk, but it’s nothing some prescription eye drops and a cup of coffee can’t rectify. I drink it while it’s still too hot, so that it scalds my mouth; a little pain to ease the hurt. Then I pour myself some cold white wine from one of the bottles in the fridge—just a small glass, to soothe the burn. I head for the bathroom and ignore the bedroom door at the end of the corridor, the one I always keep closed. Sometimes our memories reframe themselves to reveal prettier pictures of our past, something a little less awful to look back at. Sometimes we need to paint over them, to pretend not to remember what is hidden underneath.
I shower and choose a red dress from my wardrobe, one with the tags still attached. I’m not a fan of shopping, so if I find something that suits me, I tend to buy it in every color. Clothes don’t make the woman, but they can help disguise the cloth we are cut from. I don’t wear new things right away; I save them for when I need to feel good, rather than feel like myself. Now is a perfect time to wear something new and pretty to hide inside. When I’m satisfied with who I look like, I wrap her up in my favorite red coat—getting noticed isn’t always a bad thing.
I take a cab to work—eager to get my old self back to my old job as soon as possible—and pop a mint in my mouth before stepping into reception. It’s been less than twenty-four hours, but when I stare down at the newsroom it feels like coming home.
As I make my way toward the team, I can’t help noticing how they all turn to look up at me, like a group of meerkats. They exchange a series of anxious expressions, neatly carved into their tired-looking faces. I thought they would look happier to see me—not all news anchors pull their weight the way I do to get a bulletin on-air—but I fix my unreturned smile, and grip the metal banister on the spiral staircase a little tighter than before. It feels like I might fall.
When I reach for my chair, the editor stops me, putting her icy-cold hand on top of mine. She shakes her head, then looks down at the floor, as though embarrassed. She’s the kind of woman who regularly prays for a fat bank account and thin body, but God always seems to muddle up her prayers. I stand in the middle of the seated team, feeling the heat of their stares on my flushed cheeks, trying to guess what they know that I don’t.
“I’m so sorry!” says a voice behind me. It seems ludicrous to describe it as brushed velvet, but that’s exactly how it sounds: a luxurious, feminine purr. It’s a voice I did not expect or want to hear. “The nanny canceled at the last minute, my mother-in-law agreed to step in but managed to crash her car on the way over—nothing too serious, just a bump really—and then, when I finally managed to settle the girls and leave the house, my train was delayed and I realized I’d forgotten my phone! I had no way of letting you know how late I was going to be. I can’t tell you how sorry I am, but I’m here now.”
I don’t know why I believed Cat Jones was gone for good. It seems silly now, but I suppose I had imagined a little accident of some sort. Just something to prevent her from presenting the lunchtime bulletin ever again, so that I could step back into her shoes, and be the person I want to be. I am redundant now that she is here, and I can already feel myself start to crumple and fold into someone small and invisible. An unwanted and unnecessary spare part in a newly refurbished machine.
She tucks her bright red hair behind her ears, revealing diamond studs that look far more genuine than the person wearing them. Her hair color can’t possibly be natural, but it looks perfect, just like her figure-hugging yellow dress, and the set of pearly white teeth revealed when she smiles in my direction. I feel like a frumpy fraud.
“Anna!” she says, as though we are old friends, not new enemies. I return the smile like an unwanted gift. “I thought you’d be at home with your own little one on your first day of freedom, now that I’m back! I hope motherhood is treating you well. What age is your daughter now?”
She would have been two years, three months, and four days old.
I’ve never stopped counting.
I guess Cat remembers me being pregnant. It appears nobody ever told her what happened a few months after Charlotte was born. Everything seems very still and silent in the newsroom all of a sudden, with everyone staring in our direction. Her question sucks the air from my lungs and nobody, including me, seems able to answer it. Her eyebrows—which I’m quite certain have been tattooed onto her face—form a slightly theatrical frown.