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“She’s pregnant, and I think I’m the father.”
“Oh, fuck! Wow.”
“We only spent one night together, and I haven’t seen her since, but she turned up out of the blue at my office today, temping as a secretary.” I stand and look out of the window. “Mat, I’m a little worried about her health. She’s totally alone here, and she hasn’t seen a midwife or a GP yet. She says she hadn’t been with anyone else for months before or after she met me, and I don’t think she’s lying. But the timing isn’t right, and I can’t make it out. She looks like she’s toward the end of the second trimester, and if I’m the father she can’t be more than about eighteen weeks. I know all women are different… Maybe it’s because she’s undernourished. She’s very thin and I don’t think she’s eating well.”
“I can see her tomorrow morning, before my first appointment,” he says.
Relief floods me. I’ve worked with him a lot, and I trust him. “Thanks so much.”
“Not a problem at all. Ask her to drink a bottle of water around seven a.m. and get here around eight.”
“Will do. I’ll see you then.” I end the call and sit there for a minute.
I want to believe she’s telling me the truth about not having slept with anyone else, but I can’t afford to be blind to the facts. Once she’s had her scan, though, things should be a lot clearer. And if they’re not, for whatever reason, I might have to ask for a paternity test. I wouldn’t object to taking on another man’s child if I fell for a single mum, but this isn’t the same thing. This is about honesty, and my spidey-senses are telling me something’s not right.
I think about everything she’s told me today, remember something she said, and do a Google search. Finding the company I want, I have a ten-minute call with them. Then, with five minutes left before I have to leave, I pick up the report that Catie typed and leaf through it.
Janine and I have worked together for over a year so she’s gotten a lot better, but I still usually have to take time to go through the reports she types and correct the mistakes in any source code I’ve dictated. I type my own code when I’m programming, but it’s quicker to dictate it for reports, even though it needs correcting.
I still can’t believe I can’t find a single error on Catie’s transcription. And the bit where she added in a line of coding because she couldn’t hear what I said is actually better than what I dictated. I read her joke again and laugh. Little minx. Good job I caught it before I emailed it to the team.
Leaving the report on my desk, I collect the stuff I need for Pikorua and go into her office.
Catie takes off her headphones. “You off to your meeting?”
“Yep. I’ll be back to see Janie and Kenzo at three.” I hesitate and study her for a moment. I know it’s probably my imagination, but she already looks better for having eaten—her eyes are brighter, and her cheeks hold a little color whereas before they were milky-white beneath her freckles.
What she told me at McDonald’s genuinely shocked me. I want to know more about why she moved to Wellington. I think her mum must have passed away, but what about her father? Does she have siblings? Why does she have no support at all? In fact it doesn’t sound as if she ever has. I know that many families survive on the bread line, but I would have thought she’d have had boyfriends who would have taken her out to a restaurant, even if it was only for Valentine’s Day or something.
I’ll find out eventually. First things first, though. “Look,” I say, “I’ve contacted Mat Clinton, and he’s agreed to see you tomorrow morning before his other appointments. You need to drink a bottle of water at seven a.m., and I’ll pick you up just before eight.”
“Wow. You weren’t kidding about getting it done quickly.”
“No, I wasn’t. So you’ll be ready?”
“Yes, boss.” She sticks her tongue out at me.
“Do you have a phone?” I ask. She nods. “Can I see it?” She takes it out. It looks like the same old iPhone she used to text her friend in Auckland.
“It fell off the back of a lorry,” she says.
“You stole it?”
She flushes. “Not me. Friend of a friend.”
I decide not to comment. I pull up a QR code on my phone and say, “Can you scan this in?” She does so. “It’s my digital business card,” I tell her. “There’s my email, and my mobile phone number, so just call me if you need me.”
“Okay.”
“What’s your number?”
She hesitates, then she reads it out, and I program it in. “Are you all right?” I ask. “I might not be back until late.”
“Go on,” she scolds. “I’ll be fine.”
“If I don’t get back before you leave, email me your address,” I tell her, “and I’ll be there at 7:45 tomorrow morning.”
“Will do.” She puts on her headphones. “Go on, or you’ll be late.”
