It’s not until a few hours later, when I come into the ensuite to clean my teeth before bed, that I find a note stuck to the bathroom mirror, using the old nickname he gave me when we met: We’ve got this, Red. x
11
Day one in the office about a month later and I’ve thrown up twice before my boss even gets in. It’s partly the morning sickness, partly the unintended briefing session I gave him about all the ways I’m sure to make a hash of this. That thing I said at the gym about slightly exaggerating my application and constantly falling short of my colleagues’ expectations has kicked in even before I’ve been given my first task. I need to have a conversation with him about all of that and clear the air, or I’ll spend eight hours a day drowning in rampant imposter syndrome. Oh, and as I can’t keep anything down, I need to tell him about the baby. Great.
‘You’re reporting straight to him, yeah?’ Sophie is freaking me out the way she’s whispering and looking paranoid and calling him ‘him’， as she motions towards his office.
‘I believe so,’ I say, breathing through another wave of nausea.
‘Everyone here would walk over hot coals for that guy,’ she confides.
Walking over hot coals seems easier than having to undo the professional ineptitude I demonstrated on the treadmill.
‘Everyone’s also got a massive crush on him,’ she adds delightedly. She’s gone full-blown fangirl over this guy like he’s Harry Styles. Then she slams down the paper she’s using to fan herself and spins her chair back to face her computer monitor. She clears her throat loudly, basically drawing attention to the fact that she, and by association me, has been gossiping about Hugh as he approaches our desks.
‘Morning, Sophie,’ he says, probably aware of what’s going on and ignoring it as he should. ‘See me in my office, Kate?’
Already? I pick up a notebook and pen, and my nerve and a handful of tissues in case of emergencies, and follow him into an immaculate office that takes minimalism to a new level. The guy needs an indoor plant or something.
‘You okay?’ he asks. ‘You look peaky.’
Tell him about the baby. Tell him about the baby.
‘Er, big weekend,’ I admit. It’s technically true, in that I ended up being rehydrated on a drip at Queanbeyan hospital on Friday night.
He looks at me as though I’ve just stumbled in from a bar-crawling bender. ‘Baby keep you up?’
Which one? ‘Something like that. How was your weekend?’
Visions immediately spring to mind of that gorgeous woman from the gym and her equally ripped posse of sensational twenty-somethings, parading through his bachelor pad.
‘Worked most of the weekend,’ he explains. ‘Kate—’
‘Hugh—’
We speak on top of each other. He tells me to go ahead.
‘About the gym,’ I begin. He shakes his head, but I insist on continuing. ‘I’m mortified about, well . . . so much. Obviously, I didn’t plan on seeing you again, or I wouldn’t have . . .’
Practically sprayed him with breast milk?
His big swivel chair creaks as he adjusts his position, awkwardly.
‘Hugh, I have to tell you something else.’ I close the office door and grab a chair, then try to centre myself. When I look at him again he seems to be reconsidering his professional choices. ‘I know it’s my first day here, but honestly I feel so nauseous, I can’t possibly keep this a secret until twelve weeks.’
He is speechless.
‘I’m so sorry about the timing. I figured out what was going on in the interview itself, would you believe, because of . . . various symptoms.’
His eyes flick to my chest, but not in a lecherous way, then snap back to my face. ‘Well, congratulations,’ he says at last, kindly. He also rubs his forehead. I think I’ve already worn him out. ‘When are you due?’
‘Oh, it’s really early days. The baby is basically the size of a green olive! We’re not entirely sure of the date officially.’ This is your boss, Kate, not the obstetrician!
I hope Hugh is not doing mental arithmetic. Exactly seven weeks have elapsed since my sex drought admission on the treadmill, and I silently will myself not to overshare the captivating little anecdote that this baby was in fact conceived while I was still wearing his rugby shirt.
‘Pretty early to be announcing it, isn’t it?’
I agree. ‘I’m just deathly sick. I can’t believe I’ve even dragged myself in here. I’ve thrown up in the staff toilets twice already.’
He’s silent.
‘I’ll understand if this is too much. Honestly, if I’d already had confirmation before the interview, I would have said something.’
‘Kate. Get your head around the legislation. It makes no difference whether you’re pregnant or not if you’re the right person for the job. Which you are.’ He considers me closely. ‘Charming though all that self-deprecation was at the gym, it’s at odds with the way you handled yourself under pressure. Your referees backed you to the hilt. Apparently, at your last gig, you were instrumental in facilitating the biggest donor grant in the institute’s history. Your interview performance was, in the main, extraordinarily strong. Once you pulled yourself together, you were the stand-out applicant, hands down. Why do you think we offered you the role so quickly? Have some faith in yourself.’
It’s probably the hormones, but I want to cry. Faith in myself has been in short supply lately. ‘Why are you looking so concerned, then?’ I ask him.
‘I’m not concerned. Just thinking. What do you need from us to make this easier?’
I don’t know what he means and it must show on my face because he continues. ‘Would it help if we set you up a home office for a while? Take away some of the stress of having to act more well than you feel?’
I have to stop myself from clambering over the top of his desk and hugging him out of gratitude.
‘We’ll have a conversation with HR about flexible hours. We could potentially spread your three days out over five if that would make things easier. Leave it with me.’
Take me to the hot coals.
‘For now, just take your time settling in. First day, it’s all about working out who people are and where everything is. I think we’re gathering for an informal morning tea soon – about fifteen people? I’ll introduce you then. We’ll meet in a day or so and talk through strategy for the donor program. How does that sound?’
I’m still back at the offer of a home office, trying to unpack his magnanimity.
‘And, Kate, if you’re too sick to be here, just let me know and take yourself home.’
I thank him profusely, for the opportunity and the support, and when I come back out of the office, Sophie catches my eye and winks. I get the fangirling now.
The real mystery is why a man like Hugh is still single. All those one-night stands must get very tedious. If only I knew a truly wonderful single woman in search of a deserving man to assist in her quest to prove the fertility doctor wrong about that five per cent chance . . .
12
Cam and I go for an ultrasound at eleven weeks because my hormone levels are a little off where they should be. We’re holding hands and feeling weak with anticipation and fear as we watch the image of our tiny child come into focus on the screen, and even though there’s a strong heartbeat and the sonographer doesn’t look worried, I can’t shake an inkling that something is off.