The Girl Before(66)

But you kept the video. Why would you do that?

As evidence, I say. I was trying to work up the courage to go to the police. Or to HR, at least. But the longer I left it, the harder it got. When I looked at the video, even I could see it was ambiguous. And I was ashamed to let anyone see it. I thought maybe it was all my fault. And then the police found it on my phone and assumed in front of Simon that it was Deon Nelson and everything just got so complicated.



Jesus, she says disbelievingly. Jesus. You’re making this up, Emma.

I’m not. I swear I’m not.

I add, Saul’s a bastard, Amanda. I think deep down you know that. You know there’ve been other girls—girls in the office, girls in clubs, anyone he can get his hands on. If you back me up, he’ll get what he deserves, maybe not all of it but at least he’ll lose his job.

What about the police? she says, and I know she’s starting to believe me.

The police won’t get involved unless there’s concrete evidence of a crime. This is just about him losing his job, not going to prison. After what he did to you, don’t you think that’s only fair?

At last she nods. There are at least two girls in this company I know he’s slept with, she says. Michelle in accounts and Leona in marketing. I’ll give HR their names.

Thank you, I say.

Have you told Simon any of this?

I shake my head.

You ought to.

At the thought of Simon—kind, adoring, trusting Simon—something strange happens. I no longer feel quite so contemptuous of him. I used to hate him for being Saul’s friend, for going on and on about what a great guy Sauly was, when all the time Sauly was actually just a selfish, aggressive prick. But now I don’t. Now there’s a part of me that remembers how nice it felt to be forgiven.

To my surprise I find I’m crying. I swipe the tears away with a paper towel from the dispenser.

I can’t go back, I say. Simon’s over. When something’s gone that wrong, you can’t ever put it right.





NOW: JANE

“Just some gel that may feel a bit cold,” the sonographer says kindly. I hear the ketchup squelch of K-Y jelly, then the gel gets smeared around my stomach by the probe. The feeling takes me back to Isabel’s first scan: the stickiness on my skin that lasted all day, like a hidden secret beneath my clothes; the curl of printer paper in my bag that showed the ghostly, fern-like curve of a fetus.

I take a deep breath, ambushed by a sudden surge of emotion.

“Relax,” the sonographer murmurs, misunderstanding. She presses the probe hard against my midriff, angling it this way and that. “There.”

I look up at the monitor. An outline emerges from the murk and I gasp out loud. She smiles at my reaction. “How many children do you have?” she says conversationally.

I must take a bit longer than most people to work out the proper answer to that, because she glances down at my notes. “I’m sorry,” she adds quietly. “I see you had a stillbirth.”

I nod. There doesn’t seem to be anything else to say.

“Do you want to know the baby’s sex?” she adds.

“Yes, please.”

“You’re having a little boy.”

You’re having a little boy. Just the simple confidence of that statement, the expectation that everything will be all right this time, overwhelms me with emotion, joy and grief colliding so that I burst into tears of both.



“Here, have one of these.” She hands me the box of tissues they use for wiping off the jelly. I snuffle into one while she gets on with her work. After a few minutes she says, “I’m just going to ask the doctor to pop in.”

“Why? Is something wrong?”

“I’d just like him to talk you through the results,” she says reassuringly. Then she’s gone. I’m not overly concerned. This is happening because I’m technically a high-risk patient. Given that Isabel’s problems only started in the last week of pregnancy, there’s no reason to think anything will be wrong now.

It seems an age before the door opens and Dr. Gifford’s face comes into view. “Hello, Jane.”

“Hello.” I greet him like an old friend now.

“Jane, I just want to explain one of the main reasons we do this scan at around twelve weeks. It’s so we can get a heads-up on some of the more common fetal abnormalities.”

Oh no, I think. It can’t be—

“The scan doesn’t give us an exact indication but it does highlight where there may be an increased risk. In your case, we’re obviously looking for any problems with the placenta or umbilical cord, and I’m pleased to report that both of those seem to be working normally.”

I seize on the words. Thank God. Thank God—

“But we also measure what’s called the nuchal translucency. That’s the thickness of the fluid at the back of the baby’s neck. In your case, the NT does indicate a slightly increased risk of Down syndrome. We class anything above a one in one hundred fifty probability high-risk. For you, it’s currently about one in a hundred. That means for every hundred mothers with this risk profile, one will give birth to a baby with Down syndrome. Do you understand?”

“Yes,” I say. And I do—that is, I can follow what he’s saying with my brain. I’m good with numbers. It’s what I feel that I’m struggling to process. So many emotions, so overwhelming, that they almost cancel one another out, leaving me clearheaded but numb.