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Gabe stared at the screen. People used the word ‘miracle’ all the time until it lost any meaning but surely, surely this alien person floating around in Polly’s body was a miracle?
He was so used to associating hospitals with pain and death he had completely forgotten what else they represented: life.
‘It’s still tiny,’ the nurse told them. ‘But perfect.’
Gabe looked over at Polly. Her head was turned to the screen; she was utterly transfixed. He didn’t know if she had even heard the nurse.
‘Is everything okay, as it should be?’ he asked.
‘It’s still early days, you’re what? Eleven weeks? But everything looks like it’s right on track. The hospital will want to scan you again in about two to three weeks. All the details are in your pack. Do you want a photo?’
The ubiquitous photo. Suddenly Gabe could see the point of them after all. Why wouldn’t you want to monitor every second?
He looked over at Polly but she didn’t respond. But of course she would. Wouldn’t she? ‘Si, I mean, please.’
Polly still hadn’t spoken.
‘Polly? Is everything okay?’
She blinked, once, twice as if released from a dream and then turned to him, her face transformed, lit up with an inner joy. It almost hurt to look at her.
‘Oh yes,’ she said. ‘Everything is perfect.’
* * *
The contrast was completely surreal. One moment she was lying down, almost helpless as she deferred to the judgement and expertise of others, less than two hours later she had been on her feet, standing in front of a group of suited, booted, note-scribbling board members. Here she was the expert, the one in control, setting the pace and the agenda.
If she couldn’t still feel the chill of the gel, sticky on her stomach, if she hadn’t glanced down to see, with a shock of surprise, that she was no longer wearing the cream, fitted silk top but a sharply tailored pink shirt, she would think she had imagined her morning.
This was her future. A world of contrasts.
‘That went well.’ Her grandfather was sat at the head of the table. If his gaze lingered a little longingly on the bookcases that used to be filled with his belongings, if he eyed the pictures on the wall with barely hidden nostalgia then Polly couldn’t blame him. The store was his life, his legacy.
As it was hers.
‘Really interesting presentation, Pol,’ Raff said. Her twin had spent his first meeting as a member of the Rafferty’s board watching and listening intently but not jumping in. Not yet, although he had asked a few penetrating questions.
Polly knew him too well to think that he didn’t have decided opinions—or that he wouldn’t voice them—but he had been a supportive presence for her first official meeting as CEO.
She smiled at him, a rush of love for him flooding her. Despite their past disagreements and the long absences he was still part of her. And he would be part of her baby’s life too, unconditionally, that went without saying. ‘Thank you, Raff. For everything.’
‘I love the pop-up idea—both in store and out. Where do you think you’ll start?’
‘In store,’ she said, dragging her mind back to the matter at hand.
‘We can use the centre of the Great Hall. It’s mostly used for themed displays anyway. I’ve found this great designer who uses vintage fabrics and jewellery and reworks them into a more modern design but still with a hint of history. They’re something really special and tie in brilliantly with the building and best of all she’s completely unknown. We would be a great launch pad for her and it’s exactly the kind of thing I’m looking for. Unique and creative.’
‘And start branching out with the food when?’ Her grandfather might sound casual but his gaze was as sharp as ever.
Much as she wanted to get started, Polly knew this couldn’t be rushed. ‘Next year. We’ve left it too late in the season to start properly—all the best festivals are booked up and there’s no point starting anywhere else. But we are investigating doing a few surprise pop-ups locally so that we can test some concepts—Hyde Park, South Bank, Hampstead Heath. Picnics and Pimms, that kind of thing. We’re in the process of applying for licences.’
‘Dip your toe in, eh? Not a bad plan.’ Her grandfather shifted his gaze over to Gabe, who was busy packing up his laptop. ‘That’s all very well, but I still don’t know about this digital strategy of yours. It’s risky.’
‘Not mine, Gabe’s,’ Polly corrected. ‘I agree, it is a lot of money—but you were the one who told me to hand all digital concerns over to him.’
