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I’m not sure it’s a victory as I leave her office on shaky legs, but I decide to count it as one. This will be the first sexual harassment case I’ve handled since I became Assistant Head of HR. My experience of the other cases has been typing up notes and watching teary-eyed employees leave Lara’s office clutching a bunch of tissues. I want to make sure I do this right.
Of course, I know I can’t assume Mike’s guilt, and I don’t. I even feel a flash of pity for him, because whatever happened, I doubt he thought it would end like this.
For a second, my mind drifts back down the years, to when I was younger than Sasha, and just as uncertain and afraid. When I wasn’t sure what was right or wrong, or who, if anyone, was to blame. But then I shut down that line of thinking because I try to think about it as little as possible.
Sasha doesn’t come back the next day or the day after that, and when I send her an email reminding her to return, she doesn’t reply. I decide to leave it for a bit; I don’t want to be accused of harassment, either, and maybe she just needs a little time to gather her courage, or perhaps she has rethought the whole situation, and it’s not as clear-cut as it seemed. When Lara asks me about it, I tell her Sasha has gone silent, and she smiles, satisfied.
On Monday night, I call Milly to ask her about the embryo transfer, and she says she’ll know whether she’s pregnant in twelve days. It seems like a long time, but in less than two weeks everything could change. Milly might be pregnant. And in the smallest, strangest way, it will feel like my pregnancy too. But that’s not something I tell her. It’s not something I let myself think about too much, because it makes me feel guilty, as if I’m doing something wrong.
So I overcompensate a little over the next few days, by being the most supportive friend I can. I text Milly, I listen to her monologues about phantom pregnancy symptoms and whether it’s too early to feel nauseous/tired/dizzy, and on Saturday I bring over some doughnuts and coffee, and we eat them at her kitchen table, Matt having gone for a run.
‘I bought a pregnancy magazine,’ she whispers, as if confessing to looking at porn. ‘Isn’t that terrible? I’m going to jinx it—’
‘Milly, you aren’t even superstitious.’
‘Still, it feels… presumptuous. There is such a thing as tempting fate or God or whatever, don’t you think?’
I consider that for a moment. ‘No, I don’t, not unless fate is some mad bitch with PMT out to get you.’
Milly smiles a little at that. ‘Maybe not. But I don’t think I should have bought it, anyway.’
‘Why not?’
‘Because there’s this whole pull-out section in the middle… like a centrefold, except it’s pictures of a woman giving birth. I’m serious, Anna,’ she says sternly, because I’ve started to laugh, ‘it shows right up her you-know-what. And I mean right up, with the baby’s head right there.’
‘Who on earth wants to see that?’
‘Exactly! But there are multiple photos and – good grief.’ She shudders. ‘I do not want to think about that part of it at all.’
‘You could always have a C-section.’
‘No, I wouldn’t want that, either.’ She rests her chin in her hand, sounding wistful now. ‘The truth is, I do want it – the contractions, the pushing, all of it. I don’t care if it hurts or my lady parts are never the same—’
I shudder theatrically. ‘Eugh, Milly—’
‘I mean it, Anna. I want it all. I want to push her out, hold her in my arms.’ She smiles with self-conscious zeal. ‘I’m already thinking of her as a girl, and I might not even be pregnant.’
‘But maybe you are.’ I reach over to squeeze her hand, ignoring the pang that goes through me – the pang I don’t want to analyse or name. A pang I suppress so quickly I’m able to convince myself I didn’t feel it at all.
* * *
The evening before Milly’s appointment, a text pings on my phone.
I got your number from Matt. So how about that drink? Jack
For a second I feel nothing but surprise, and then a flicker of wary pleasure. So Jack wasn’t scared off by my tearful confession? I didn’t think he’d call again. I’d told myself not to expect it, and now, looking down at his words, I realise I’m pleased he’s been in touch. I want to see him again. At least, I think I do.
I wait another few minutes, deliberating, and then, my heart fluttering just a little, I text a reply.
Sure. When and where?
Nine
Milly
I’m pregnant. I’m actually pregnant. I hug the secret to myself, even though part of me wants to go up to every stranger in the street and shout the truth. I’m pregnant! I’m pregnant! I’m going to have a baby! Me!
Instead, I float around in this translucent baby bubble, hardly hoping, barely daring to dream. It’s still such early days, and so much could go wrong. I will be seen by my specialist Alicia until I’m twelve weeks and out of the typical danger zone, and then I can transfer to a regular midwife.
