December EIGHT YEARS BEFORE

December

E IGHT YEARS BEFORE

2.00 P . M .

Madeleine watched Trina leave the café with a dark pit of despair in her gut. Her fingers twitched with the need to reach out to her; her lips moved as if tempted to call her back. But she did neither. Instead, she stared after the silhouette that was as familiar to her as her own, as her friend marched down the pavement without so much as a backward glance. Madeleine paid for her half-eaten croissant, took the last sip of tea, and headed out for the Tube. Cloaked in self-consciousness, she wondered if people could tell she was pregnant, wondered if they could see by looking at her in the way she could the women in the pregnancy clinic. What would happen now? Would she wake one morning to find she’d sprouted enormous bosoms and a round bump of life that was a total giveaway? Would she reach eight, nine months and catch up for this rather demure start? She shuddered at the thought, frightened and repulsed in equal measure.

She didn’t want this – any of it!

Lacking the desire or inclination to head back to her shared flat and wallow in her news, she decided the best thing she could do was keep busy, for now. Sorrow threatened to drown her and so she pushed it down into the base of her stomach and did her best to remain upright.

She flashed her pass and walked into the building, finding it almost impossible to understand how when she had left the office last night she was one person and now, just one cup of pee and a scan later, she was entirely another.

What am I going to do?

This was the question that pinged around her mind like a kicked can in a busy alleyway. It was just as noisy and disrupting. This job, her routine, working hard, were the things that sustained her. The thought of regressing ... Or, worse, going back to the starting blocks, only more encumbered than she was before, trapped once again by a life that she had worked so hard to escape, when she had only just made headway enough to feel progress was within her reach ... And now, now this unforeseen disaster that threatened to push her so far off course she didn’t know how she might recover, or even if she could. To say it was unfair was an understatement. It was instead a catastrophic threat to her life plan. A disaster of epic proportions, contrary to every image she had ever held in her mind of her future. But only if she allowed it to be. This was the time she needed to dig deep and find a solution, something that would allow her to get back on track, as if it had never happened.

Her pulse was already calmer, her manner less flustered, as she settled behind her desk and flicked through the emails that had arrived during her absence. Nothing of great interest. It seemed her mum was right: they could do without her for a day or two. The place had not fallen down.

The design team were in a meeting and the corner of the vast open-plan office where she and her colleagues resided was almost empty.

Rebecca’s fabulous workspace, separated from the hoi polloi by a glass and brass bifold door, was similarly deserted, and Captain’s velvet cushion was without him in residence.

Digging into her bag, she pulled out the leaflets, a slip confirming her next hospital appointment and the scan picture, before placing them on her desk. Her eyes flicked over the information but it was hard to take in – impossible to accept as truth, no matter the evidence in front of her. To think at all was like mentally wading through treacle – slow, cumbersome, and without clarity of vision of what lay ahead. Her temples pulsed with the beginnings of a headache.

She opened the project file on her Mac, studying the images for a new hotel foyer that was being bolted on to an existing building in the heart of Old Berlin. It was her responsibility to keep the master file up to date with images and amendments, distributing it to everyone before meetings.

She hadn’t heard Rebecca approach, and nearly jumped out of her seat as the woman’s voice spoke over her shoulder. She turned to see Captain resting on his mother’s arm. He looked happy, his soft body lolloping, little legs dangling.

‘Hello, Captain, have you missed me?’

Rebecca and Captain both ignored the question.

‘So, what do you think?’

‘Oh! Of what?’ She was instantly flustered, terrified to be conversing one to one with the scary legend who kept multiple global projects running like clockwork, and just as wary that she had no business looking at the images right now, other than out of curiosity. ‘What do I think of ...’ Again she prompted.

‘Of the pitches for the foyer?’ Rebecca pointed at the screen with her neutrally manicured finger.

‘I ... I ...’ It was as if Madeleine understood that this was a pivotal moment in her career. A split second when she had to make a choice. Was it better to comply and win the woman’s approval or should she be brave and speak the truth? If today had taught her one thing, it was that life turned on a penny, and who knew what tomorrow would bring. She sat up straight. ‘I don’t like them.’

‘You don’t like them?’ Rebecca’s brows knitted, whether in fury or fascination, it was hard to tell.

Madeleine’s stomach dropped to her boots and she realised that if she was going to get fired or professionally squashed, she might as well be hung for a sheep as a lamb, as the saying went. It was moments like this that reminded her that there was no safety net – no parent with contacts on the board who could put a good word in, no first-class degree to waft in front of potential employers. No degree at all. This was it. This was her life. Her and her smarts, trying to make on-the-spot decisions that she could only hope helped propel her towards the life she craved.

‘I thought they were disappointing.’

‘I see. Did you tell anyone of your disappointment?’ The woman’s tone dripped with sarcasm.

‘Oh, no! I just make copies, get the coffee, answer calls, I didn’t think I should ... erm ...’

‘What don’t you like about them?’ Rebecca pulled out the chair next to her and plonked Captain on the floor before she sat down, elbows on the table, fixated by the six prospective designs on the screen.

‘I ... I think they’re good, all of them – bright, modern, eye-catching.’

‘I thought you didn’t like them?’ The woman held her gaze quizzically and folded her arms.

‘I was going add, but they aren’t right for Berlin. Old Berlin. This one, for example, I can see in New York.’ She touched the screen on the gold and onyx light-filled image. ‘This one in an upmarket resort, somewhere like Dubai.’ The colours were green and busy, tropical undertones with hot pink accent tones.

‘Have you been?’

‘No. I’ve not really been anywhere, but I study travel magazines, follow bloggers, and the same with anything to do with architecture and interiors. I like to match an object or a theme to a place. I think the two things need to work in harmony. Then it’s like a building or an interior has sprung from the place, with roots that give it authenticity and age, even though it might be brand new. I think the best thing a passer-by could ask is, “Hasn’t that always been there?”’

Rebecca turned to stare at her. Madeleine was still unsure if she was a friend or a foe. She felt the very real quake of fear in her boots, quite unable to discern the woman’s neutral expression. Losing her job today would be the shittiest cherry on top of the shittiest cake imaginable. It felt a little late, however, to back down now.

‘So how do you see the Berlin job, if you had to describe it?’

‘Well, the hotel is quite dark.’ She clicked a document and the current facade popped up. ‘I wouldn’t bother trying to bring light. It’s a cobbled street and the frontage doesn’t get any sun, so I’d go with the dark – embrace the gloom! But make it spacious, so it’s not claustrophobic. I’d use the lack of light for atmospherics – smoked glass, black metal window frames, eclectic modern clustered lighting, a dark wood reception with glass lamps, like an old library. But with an air of mystery, of decadence. Round velvet sofas in bottle green with vast potted palms in oversized brass planters. The sharp lines of a cool warehouse but with the vibe of the cabaret. Nostalgic yet modern. I see a small bistro-style bar with a rail and sit-up stools, just for good coffee. A place to gather. A destination, not just a foyer. Dark enough for illicit lovers to remain incognito and cool enough to people watch.’

As her words flowed, so her clarity of vision increased, fuelled by her passion for such things and an image now so vivid she could walk through it in her mind, noting every last detail.

Rebecca held her eyeline, before Madeleine looked to the floor, her heart sinking as she mentally located her bag, figuring she might be asked to leave pronto and wanting to be able to make a hasty exit if this were the case. Instead, something quite remarkable happened. The woman laughed.

‘I don’t like them either. And you’re exactly right.’ She stood. ‘Draw me your vision, just as you’ve explained it, and get it to me after the Christmas break.’

‘Really?’ Her smile split her face and just for a second she forgot the news that had cleaved open her plans.

‘I never joke when it comes to business.’

And just like that Rebecca Swinton stood and swept past her, disappearing into her hallowed office like a Chanel-wearing spectre of opportunity. A Chanel-wearing spectre of opportunity who had no idea of the day Madeleine had had or how her whole life had been sent into freefall.

Captain pawed at her leg and she sighed.

‘All right, Captain. I’ll go grab the poo bags.’