‘Yeah. I guess I just assumed we’d both be freaking out. We were both so nervous buying the pregnancy tests because, you know, it was an accident. Well, at least for me? So I was totally taken aback when she looked upset at it coming out negative.’
‘Wow,’ Cec gasped, joining in. ‘I suppose I’d be shocked too. It’s a huge change and responsibility.’
‘We’re only twenty-two,’ I said, tapping ash on the floor.
‘There’s no rush. I’m personally not ready at all. I’ve only just got properly going at work. It’s bloody competitive in my office as well.’
‘Same! I mean, do you think you will have one, one day though?’ I asked.
‘Dunno. Not until I’m much older, I think. I reckon I’ll have one when I’m like thirty-eight or something? When I’m bossin’ it as a lawyer with millions of pounds,’ Cec said, laughing.
‘That sounds good Cec – and there’s no doubt you’ll be bossing it. I guess we can just wait and see, can’t we?’
‘Exactly. And anyway Ol, don’t worry about today, and keep me posted. Right, I’d better sign off, I’ve got to get through a mountain of stuff and wanna be home by 1 a.m. God help me. Love you.’
‘Love you – bye Cec.’
I loved Cec’s ambition, her general go-getting attitude. She was a party animal at the weekends and worked super-hard in the week. I loved that we both weren’t in any rush to settle down. I was suddenly worried about losing Bea. Terrified that this was the start of the downhill slope. The downhill slope to adulthood and suburbia and staying on the sofa 24/7. Was she going to be getting excited about Tupperware parties next?
It felt like something had shifted. I felt another stab of guilt for judging Bea’s life decisions so harshly. But we all know the fear that once your friends start to grow their family, you might become less needed and, then, fully redundant.
4
2019
The office is full to the brim today with extra bodies as our largest meeting room has been turned into a makeshift studio for a shoot. We have partnered with a huge fashion brand for the issue and we’ve roped all the interns into being the models. Gill’s idea, as she says it’ll save us money and shows ‘diversity’. I pop to the sandwich shop directly below the office to get lunch, and to get away from all the hustle and bustle in the office. Bit lazy of me, but it’s nice enough – I just need some peace and quiet. I sit by the window, looking out at all the frantic Londoners, people smoking while speaking on the phone; with stressed-out faces, shouting at cyclists. As I go to take a bite of my crayfish sandwich, a baby starts howling behind me. Howling. Wailing loudly and then choking on its own cries. I turn around and see the red-faced baby is in a pushchair, seemingly discarded right in the middle of the café.
‘Whose baby is this, please? Whose baby?’ cries a waistcoated woman with an Australian accent and short hair. I glance at her chest – ah yes, she has a big badge that says ‘manager’.
People look around, confused.
Short-haired Australian woman shouts through to the kitchen. ‘Hi Rodge, we have a pushchair here in the middle of the caff and I’m not entirely sure where the mother is. Seems to have been abandoned.’
‘The parent, you mean, Rach,’ a stern disembodied voice from the kitchen replies.
‘Eh?’
‘You assumed the gender of the primary care-giver.’
‘Rodge – not now. I haven’t got the time for this.’
‘OK, I’ll be out in a sec,’ says Rodge.
Suddenly there is the sound of running feet coming up the spiral staircase that goes down to the extra seating area below, and a tiny woman with a long swinging blonde ponytail appears, panting.
She suddenly takes the reins of the buggy, keeping her head down, not making eye contact.
‘Excuse me – is this your baby?’ Rach asks.
‘Yes! Sorry, I was desperate for the loo,’ she says in between breaths. ‘I couldn’t get the buggy down those stairs … and—’
‘Madam, you can’t just leave your baby alone like that.’
‘It was only for a few minutes!’ she gasps.
‘Long enough to terrify all of us,’ Rach says sternly. ‘Please make sure you don’t do that again.’
I shudder. Imagine that, not even being able to go to the loo without causing some sort of chaos?
I check my watch and realize I need to get back to the office.
Back at my desk, I lean back on my fancy chair, kick off my shoes and tuck into a huge wedge of carrot cake to calm my nerves after the baby fiasco. I’m going to Bea’s this weekend with the girls – after much back and forth with calendar checking and WhatsApp chasing. I have my overnight bag underneath my desk and I keep accidentally kicking it and stubbing my toe. I’ve packed face masks, thick socks, chocolate and a bottle of Pinot Noir. I can’t deny my disappointment after the failure of our last meet-up so I’m excited to be having a girly sleepover: a cosy night in, where we can all be together, with no distractions or stresses.
I hear footsteps coming towards me. Gill, the editor-in-chief, saunters past my desk in thigh-high pleather boots over jeans. She throws a newspaper clipping onto my desk, hands on hips.
‘I think there’s something in this. Maybe we should cover it. You up for it?’
I look down and see a picture of a girl in a red jumper holding a weird-looking dog – with a bold headline: ‘MILLENNIALS CHOOSE PETS OVER CHILDREN’.
I laugh. ‘Wow – that’s quite an assumption.’
‘I think it’s true, though. Millennials are cash poor and fucked over. Poor sods. Probably can’t afford to do the whole kid thing until they’re in their forties, or even older, and most of them aren’t home-owners, at least in London. But … they could have a pet in the meantime and feel like they are moving towards something. Maybe you could interview some people about it? I reckon it’ll get a lot of clicks online and retweets.’
‘Do you think people might get offended that we’re sort of suggesting that Millennials are too immature to have kids?’
‘Sure! Ruffle some feathers with it.’
‘OK,’ I say, picking up the newspaper to look more closely.
‘Great! Have a good weekend, Ol.’ She lingers, probably waiting for me to ask her what her plans are. She tells me anyway: ‘I’m off to a sex club this weekend.’
Too much information, Gill.
‘Lovely! Have fun!’ I say, forcing a smile before logging back into my computer. I don’t quite feel like finishing my carrot cake any more.
I have a couple of gins-in-a-tin from M&S on the train to Bea’s, trying not to slurp too loudly. I feel a bit wobbly when I step off the train – I’ve always been a bit of a lightweight. Bea lives in Surrey and her house overlooks some beautiful countryside. I love walking from the train station to Bea’s because you have to go through a big park to get there, and it’s gorgeous: ducks on the pond, kids flying kites, and today it has an extra-special glow because the daffodils are out. I look up at the clouds. Even though it’s a short train ride, I suddenly feel far away from London’s rush.