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Him:Remind me to introduce you to Uber Eats when I get back.
Me:Joop already has. We had pizza for lunch yesterday.
Him:I need to give that lad a raise!
Me:Lad LOL you sound like you’re fifty.
Him:I’m a respectable father-to-be I’ll have you know.
Me:The second bit’s right anyway!
Him:Ha! Gotta go now. Behave yourself!
Me:Right back at you.
He doesn’t reply, and I pout as I put my phone away. He says he’s working, but who works at eight at night? I can’t help but think he’s being kind while he’s getting his leg over.
So what if he is? It’s not as if he’s being unfaithful. We’re not an item. He’s a young guy with a healthy sexual appetite—I can only guess how many women he’s dated since we were together. I bet the Tinder app on his phone iss-mokin’.
The thought depresses me. And as the week goes on, it only gets worse. During the day I work hard, determined to prove I’m there because of my programming skills rather than because I slept with the boss. But in the evenings, it’s impossible to ignore the voices in my head that insist everyone has taken pity on me—Richard, Joop, Kennedy, Kip, and Damon, and of course Saxon himself. I’m at the company because it’s the only way he can think of to help me without looking as if he’s giving me charity.
Pity from people is one of the hardest things to deal with. It makes me angry and resentful that other people have money and status, and are in a position to feel superior enough to dole out help like sweets. I have to fight not to be curt and irritable, and it takes all the willpower I possess to say thank you and accept whatever they’re offering.
By the time Friday comes, I’m in a strange mood, restless and exhausted. I’m eating a little better, but I’m not sleeping well, plagued by thoughts of what—or rather who—Saxon’s doing, and haunted by a pervasive sense of unease.
“It’s probably just nerves about your appointment,” Kennedy tells me. She’s picked me up in a beautiful bright-red Suzuki, Eddie fastened securely in his baby seat in the back seat, and she’s taking me to Dr. Mathew Clinton’s clinic.
“Yeah,” I reply. “I am a bit nervous, it’s true.”
“Of course you are. There is some research that suggests scans are detrimental because of how nervous they make pregnant women.”
“Oh that’s interesting.”
“Yeah. But we all feel we need to have them, don’t we? The fear that there’s something wrong with the baby eats away at you, and it’s nice to be given the all-clear.”
“I hadn’t even considered there might be something wrong with the babies.” My voice holds a little tremor.
“Shit.” She signals and pulls into the clinic car park. “Don’t pay any attention to me. I don’t know anything.”
She turns off the engine, and I get out, trying not to panic. In my fear, I almost don’t notice the other car. It looks like a million others—a silver saloon, a few years old, no distinguishing features about it at all. But it’s the number plate that makes me look twice. The first three letters are PHP—the name of the source code program I joked about to Saxon on my first day in his office—and the numbers after it are 246, which was the number of my father’s house in Auckland. The plate stands out to me because of this—and it’s not the first time I’ve seen it; I think I spotted it somewhere around the office yesterday.
Still, Wellington’s a small city, right? Even Lonely Planet called it ‘the coolest little capital in the world.’ So it’s not beyond the realms of possibility that whoever owns the car lives and works around here, and I’ve spotted them while they’ve been traveling from one to the other.
A man is sitting in the car, ordinary looking, with light-brown hair, reading on his phone. He doesn’t look up when I walk past, and as I go into the clinic, I promptly forget about him.
Kennedy follows, carrying Eddie, and we take a seat in the waiting room. It’s only about ten minutes before we’re called into Mathew Clinton’s office.
This appointment turns out to be much more intense than the previous one, and I feel Saxon’s absence deeply. Kennedy is great, asking questions and checking with me that I understand what’s going on, but I’m soon overwhelmed with all the information. Mathew gives me a long talk about nutrition, explaining about food groups, vitamins, and why it’s best to vary what you eat, making me feel anxious that I’ve eaten such a restricted diet for so long. He assures me that I won’t have done the babies any damage, but I can’t help but think he might be wrong.
He does another scan, and spends ages measuring the babies’ head, limbs, and organs, and carrying out other tests to check for defects. He’s very kind and explains what he’s doing, but he litters his explanations with Latin words I don’t understand, and in the end I wish I could just close my eyes and let him get on with it.
Kennedy sits beside me and chats to me and holds my hand occasionally when she can obviously see me having difficulty taking it all in, but it goes on forever, and I’m a little shaky when I eventually get down from the bed. Seeing the babies wasn’t the magical moment it was with Saxon, and suddenly I just feel panicky and alone. Even the fact that the babies seem to be fine and in good health doesn’t give me quite the boost I’d hoped for.
And it’s not over yet—now I get to meet Angela, who’s going to be my midwife. She’s in her thirties, with brown hair in a ponytail, and she’s practical and kind. After about five seconds with me she obviously realizes I’m struggling, and she spends most of the hour reassuring me and telling me she’ll be by my side the whole way. She tries to talk to me about birth plans and breastfeeding and a dozen other things, but I have no idea what I want, and in the end she just says, “It’s okay, Catie, there’s plenty of time yet. So, next time will you bring Daddy?”
For some reason that makes tears spring into my eyes.
“Saxon will definitely come to the next appointment,” Kennedy says when she sees I can’t answer.
