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Sighing, I nod and unbutton my chef’s jacket.
I strip out of my uniform and leave it in a bag for the restaurant porter to pick up for dry cleaning. Then I pull on a pair of leggings and a hooded jumper and leave the restaurant to catch the train home.
I take my time walking through central London. First, I catch the underground to King’s Cross Station, where I’ll take the train to Kent.
I am tired. I’m tired of my shitty life.
More than anything, I’m tired of worrying about the baby growing inside me.
Instinctively, I press a hand to my belly. It’s only been a week since I found out I’m pregnant. I’ll love it. I will. But the thought of bringing a baby into this world – the world I share with Mike – I can’t bear it.
I’m trapped. My one sanctuary is work, and now he’s threatening to take it away from me, owing to the long hours and long commute. He doesn’t want me to risk our baby’s life. At least that’s what he says. In reality, he doesn’t want me to have anything for myself. He doesn’t want me to have independence.
God, what a mess.
Why couldn’t I have been stronger? When he found out I was still taking my pills, why didn’t I leave or find another way to keep this from happening?
I cowered away from another barrage of abuse, that’s why. I’ve spent years under his leash, and I can’t do that to a baby. Our baby. The thought brings bile to my throat.
I make my way down the escalator to the underground and wait on the platform.
The digital overhead sign tells me it is one minute before the train to King’s Cross arrives.
As I hear the tube approach, a pain strikes low in my abdomen. I press my hand to it, and it fades.
I take a seat on the tube. There are only eight other people in the carriage. The pain comes again, then recedes to a dull ache.
It’s been a long night. Fridays are one of our busiest nights at the restaurant. That’s all it is.
I start to sweat with the continuous dull throb and count down the stations to King’s Cross, relieved when I can finally exit the tube.
I make my way up toward street level, in the direction of the overground trains. The pain strikes again when I’m in the middle of a concrete staircase. This time it’s bad, really bad, and makes me fold forward.
My foot slips, and I fall back, rolling down the staircase, cracking off each concrete step.
Everything goes black for a moment but I am conscious and face down on the ground. The pain in my stomach is still there.
‘She’s bleeding,’ I hear a woman yell.
I groan as I roll over so I’m facing up, not sure which is hurting more, my spine, my ribs, or my stomach. I try to sit, but I feel dizzy and fall back.
My vision comes in and out. I can make out a man and woman talking quickly and hovering over me.
Two men in green uniforms move toward me and my vision starts to clear. ‘I don’t need an ambulance,’ I tell them. ‘I’m fine. I just slipped.’
‘All right. All right. Don’t try to sit just yet. Can you tell me your name?’
‘Becky.’
‘What day is it, Becky?’
‘Friday.’
‘Where are you headed?’
‘Home. I need the overground.’
‘Do you live in London?’
