‘I’m not giving up, you know,’ she joked each time.
And she didn’t. When Lindsay called last week, her confidence radiated down the phone. There was no doubt that she’d finally come up with an offer I couldn’t refuse.
‘Please be my guest and talk about how hard this pregnancy has been for you. Help other women know they’re not alone,’ she said, sincerely.
As soon as I sighed and said I’d think about it, Lindsay knew she had me.
I’d foolishly used my condition to wriggle out of her previous invite. Hyperemesis Gravidarum is torture. I’ve been in and out of hospital like a yo-yo. Lindsay was sympathetic and understanding. Too understanding, because now she wants me to comfort other women in the same boat.
Hanging up the phone, I was as dubious as ever, but Luke, on the other hand, couldn’t contain his excitement when I told him.
‘Do it for me . . . I’ve always wanted to sleep with a celebrity.’ He laughed, but I know it’s not a joke. My husband has an unhealthy obsession with Reese Witherspoon. He’s fancied the pants off her since we were teenagers. I think that’s what he fancies about me. Everyone says I’m a dead ringer for her.
But, Reese’s looks or not, the timing has never been right for a TV appearance. Not until now.
‘It’s publicity that money can’t buy,’ Luke said.
I explained that money was my concern. Darcy’s Dishes is up to its neck in debt. Staffing cost are ever increasing, but orders are down. We’re struggling like never before.
‘How can I go on national television and pretend everything is fine? I’m not an actress. Or a liar. The public will see straight through me,’ I said, terrified.
‘You’re a star, honey,’ Luke said. ‘Businesswoman of the Year.’
His words ring in my ears now as I get a sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach. I don’t deserve to be Businesswoman of the Year. Not when my business is failing.
Lindsay must notice my jitters as she finally pulls her attention away from Jinx and says, ‘Someone will be in to you shortly to do your hair and make-up.’ She points to her own hair.
‘Oh. I didn’t realise.’ I glance at the mirror, taking in my full face of make-up and my hair that I spent ages straightening this morning at silly o’clock when I could barely keep my eyes open.
‘You look great,’ Lindsay says, ‘but studio lights are no one’s friend. We usually go a couple of shades darker than normal. Even the male presenters wear bronzer. Don’t worry if you feel a bit over made-up. It will look fab on camera, I promise.’
‘Erm, okay.’
‘And Berta from fashion will be around to you shortly. She is a genius. I just know you’re going to love the dress she’s chosen for you.’
‘Oh that’s okay,’ I say, running my hands over the black, maternity business suit I’ve been itching for a chance to wear. ‘I’m very comfortable in this.’
I can see Lindsay taking a deep breath, and she hums before speaking. ‘And you look a-ma-zing in that chic suit. Every inch the businesswoman, which of course you are. But we’re hoping for something a little more fitted. Show off that precious belly.’
‘Belly,’ I say.
‘Absolutely. Viewers love to see a glowing mama-to-be.’
I shake my head. ‘I’m not sure—’
‘Don’t be shy,’ Lindsay cuts across me. ‘You’re all bump, not a pick of pregnancy weight on you. It must be the vegan diet. You’ll have to give me some tips after the show.’
‘I do have some recipes to share.’ I smile. ‘My husband has actually just gone to give them to your research assistant.’
‘Very exciting,’ Lindsay says, but she doesn’t sound excited. ‘Now, I just want to check if there are any personal questions you’d like me to avoid.’
The question catches me off guard and I wonder if my expression tells Lindsay as much.
‘Some people don’t like talking about their childhood,’ she explains. ‘Or relationships and marriages can sometimes—’
I gather my thoughts and interrupt her. ‘I’d rather not discuss my personal life at all.’
‘Ah,’ Lindsay nods. ‘Gotcha. Say no more. It can’t be easy working and living together. We’ll keep all questions focused on the baby.’
I’m about to reiterate that I don’t want to discuss anything personal when Luke walks in. ‘Excuse me, Ms St Claire, the lady with the clipboard and headset is looking for you,’ he says.
Lindsay rolls her eyes and exhales loudly. ‘Excuse me, won’t you.’
‘She’s amazing, isn’t she?’ Luke says, when she’s walked out.
‘Um . . .’ I sigh. ‘I have a bad feeling about today. Maybe this was all a terrible idea.’
‘That’s just the nerves talking,’ Luke reassures me. ‘You are going to be great. And some day our little girl will watch this back and be as proud of you as I am.’
Chapter Two
TINA
Monday 10 June 2019
The curtains are drawn as I sit on the bed flicking through television stations, not particularly paying attention to what’s on. My compact bedsit always seems even smaller with the curtains closed. They’re top-quality blackout ones. Floral, in autumn colours, and certainly not my taste. But the landlord was chuffed with himself when he arrived with them tucked under his arm a couple of months ago.
‘They’ll give you a little extra privacy,’ Vinny said. ‘And they’ll keep the heat in. They’re thick, they are.’
‘Great. Thank you,’ I said, humouring him.
This place is a sweet deal and we both know it. The rent is a steal and in return Vinny knows I’ll take care of the place and not cause any trouble. It’s nestled in an old part of town; a linear stream of rundown bungalows with some recently refurbished and divided into bedsits. This area of Dublin once had community spirit and hard-working people at its core. Now, less so. There’s a bunch of twenty-something lads crammed into the bungalow to my left. Their souped-up cars and tracksuit bottoms do little to disguise their drug-dealing habits. But, it’s small-time peddling – they use more than they sell. It’s the couple at the end of the road with the fancy Mercedes and friends stopping by at all hours whom I’m wary of.
An elderly couple live on my right. The Simmons. A kind man and his ailing wife. I try to help them out once in a while. Carry some groceries in, pop in for a chat and a cup of tea, that sort of thing. But nonetheless, it’s hard to fit in in a place where it’s obvious I don’t belong.
I hit mute on the TV remote and cock my ear towards the door, thinking I hear the doorbell. It dings again. I pull myself off my bed, and pins and needles attack my toes after spending too long curled up with my feet tucked under me.
‘Just a minute,’ I say, panicked.
I grab the cash, piled high on the kitchen table, and shove it down the side of the couch. The lady in the bank looked at me as if I had two heads when I withdrew it all in a single lump sum last week, pretty much clearing out my account.
‘And can I ask why such a large transaction today?’