Perhaps I’ve still got it, after all.
But his eyes dart away uncomfortably, and his lips part as he expels a pained sigh, like he’s sort of . . . baffled.
I do not want to own the kind of breasts that baffle men. And cannot believe his nerve. See, this is exactly why I avoid places like this!
Grace dismounts her equipment and checks on me too. As does Purple Pants. All three are examining me now, like a team of beautifully toned specialists in the ED.
Grace clears her throat, and nods at my chest. But the tingling is already alerting me to the problem.
Of all the times for my dodgy milk supply to rally, it’s chosen now? Two ever-increasing wet circles radiate through my blue tank top while the four of us stand there, in the middle of the gym, in our very own private circle of hell. Nobody knows where to look except Purple Pants, who can’t keep her eyes off me as if this whole experience is thoroughly educational. As for the man, he’s impassive and walks off towards the locker rooms.
‘You’ve got to admit, this is a little bit funny, Kate,’ Grace says, hiding a smile. I’ll admit no such thing. All my insecurities rush in at once. This isn’t just about an embarrassing moment; those are a dime a dozen in my world. It’s about the struggle I’m having, again, to feed Charlie. The fear of being solely responsible for him while Cam’s away. The sight of all the uber-fit bodies here, compared with the squishy model I’m in, and a sudden inferiority complex at the thought of all the glamorous European women with whom Cam is about to professionally mingle, while I’m here, looking like this, being like this . . .
Grace notices me wobbling and puts a hand on my shoulder in comfort, just as the treadmill guy jogs back over from the locker room. I wipe my eyes and pull myself back together.
‘Here.’ He passes me a clean T-shirt. Brumbies rugby. I hate rugby. But in this moment, I love him. So does Grace. So does Purple Pants.
I pull it over my head and it falls onto my body, bathing me in the scent of Cold Power.
‘Thank you. Really.’ Words are inadequate.
‘OMG. Hashtag dad hack,’ Purple Pants gushes. ‘You must have kids?’
He shakes his head.
‘Girlfriend?’ she ploughs on.
‘Not really.’
‘String of one-night stands, at the very least?’ She says this with a hand on his bicep and a silent contract to assist in that department, if desired.
He laughs at this. ‘Probably nothing as entertaining as you’re envisaging. Anyway, it’s been, um . . .’ He looks at me, lost for words about how it’s been. ‘Goodbye,’ he settles on eventually. ‘And good luck.’
‘You too,’ I answer nervously. What am I wishing him luck for? His one-night stand? ‘I’ll return your shirt to reception?’
But he’s already walking away, and the three of us stare after him – Daft Punk’s ‘Harder, Better, Faster, Stronger’ pumping, gym equipment clanging around us.
‘Not all heroes wear capes,’ Purple Pants says dreamily. And she picks up her drink bottle and chases him out.
9
I’m nervous as hell walking into my job interview a few weeks later.
The philanthropy team is based in one of Acton’s red-roofed, white weatherboard heritage cottages, built over a century ago when the capital city was first established. I wish we were meeting in one of the futuristic, towering, glass-walled buildings near the main student hub. You can be anonymous in a building like that. This cottage is the sort of place you’d expect to order Devonshire tea and buy a souvenir tea towel. The floorboards creak, announcing my arrival as soon as I cross the threshold, and a very big part of me wants to abort this mission.
I used to find fundraising hard. I was the kind of person who had to buy all the charity chocolates myself rather than sell them, because I hated asking people for money. But, over the years, I just found my way with it. Turns out it’s all about stories. People’s personal experiences, shared respectfully, drive up donations. The families I worked with felt like they were contributing in an area where they once felt powerless. I ended up in quite a senior role at the Institute and thrived in it. And, as Grace reminded me, I won awards for it.
But that was all before becoming a mum. Having a baby really knocked the wind from my sails. It took us years of trying before Charlie finally came along. Infertility shredded my confidence, and eventually the complicated process of bringing a baby into the world just sort of swallowed me whole. By the time he was born, by emergency C-section after a difficult labour because he was breech, I already felt like I’d failed as a mother several times over. And that was before the milk came in and he refused to attach while I scavenged for truth among so much conflicting advice that I barely knew which way was up.
‘You must be Kate,’ a young woman says, coming out into the corridor from one of the office areas. She’s vibrantly dressed in a neon yellow blouse, swishy black pants and bright red boots to match the frames of her glasses – fashion choices that seem out of place in the heritage surrounds. ‘I’m Sophie Lawrence. They won’t be too long. Would you like a cup of tea? Glass of water?’
‘Scones with jam and cream?’ I say, forgetting she wasn’t aboard my earlier train of thought. ‘This is that kind of building, isn’t it?’
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.