The Club(60)

‘You’re having what we call a cryptic pregnancy,’ the doctor had said. ‘Some women don’t know what’s going on until they’re in labour – at least we know now. It happens more often than you think, although you’re the first I’ve seen.’ He asked if she had any questions – she had too many to know where to start – and then referred her to the maternity department of the local hospital. He laughed at one point, she remembered, as if he actually found it all quite funny, a medical curiosity. She remembered thinking quite clearly: this is a story he’s going to tell his friends. She could even imagine just the way he would tell it. Poor thing, just sixteen. Not a clue what was going on. It’s the child I feel sorry for.

It was one of those moments when a whole imagined future shatters. She was still sleeping on couches and in spare rooms. There was no way, at that point, she could tell anyone. Who could she tell that would care? Not Ron. What would she have said – even if she had the first clue how to do so? That baby you were so desperate for us not to make – well, I’m having it! I’ve got no choice now. Just the thought of getting through the next three months – let alone anything beyond that, which she resolutely refused to even contemplate – sent her spiralling into a panic. She prayed that it would all go away of its own accord.

The one thing that never crossed her mind was to go back to her mother.

A week later, Ned found her in one of the storerooms at Home, sobbing her eyes out, unable to speak, hardly able even to breathe. Daggers in the throat every time she tried to get a word out. At first he looked startled, as though he didn’t know quite where to put himself. Then, probably sensing that she wasn’t going to stop, he said: ‘Come here.’ Suddenly, she was sobbing against his chest, smearing snot and mascara down the front of his shirt as he occasionally thumped her gently on the back, like an awkward uncle.

And out it all came, in a torrent of words, about the pregnancy, about it being a shock, all her fears, all her panic; about it being too late to have any choice in the matter. That it would end her modelling career and there was nothing else, apart from being thin and pretty, she was qualified to do. About wondering if she should try to contact the baby’s father – she stopped herself just in time from blurting out who that was, instead muttering something vague about a one-night stand – and realizing that she had no way to do it, that she was completely alone. Then she stuttered that she had only just turned sixteen and, having heard it escape from her own mouth, wailed even louder, knowing that Ned would have no choice but to kick her out of the building there and then for lying.

Instead, he did something that shocked her so much, she instantly stopped crying and simply stared and hiccupped pathetically.

‘It’s okay,’ he told her, still patting her on the back. ‘It’s going to be okay.’

‘This is Home,’ he told her. ‘We look after our own here.’

Take the week off, on full pay, he said. He’d put extra in her account to make up for the lost tips. On her first day back, Ned had called her into his office.

‘Come to New York,’ he’d said, matter-of-factly. ‘Come to Manhattan and help me launch Home there. I’ve had an idea. An idea that can make this,’ he gestured vaguely in the direction of her midriff, ‘all go away, if that’s what you want.’

It had been far too much to take in at once.

‘You want me to move to Manhattan? And work in your club over there?’

‘No, no, no,’ he had explained, apologizing for going too fast. ‘Well, yes and no.’ Did she need a seat, by the way?

What Ned was proposing was an immediate change of role to something office-based, so she didn’t need to be on her feet. A promotion to admin assistant, something like that. That way, he said, she could work right up until the baby was due. Only later did it occur to her that it might be driven by self-interest – would a fifteen-year-old working in his club have been a scandal? As a former lawyer, Ned must have known that was a possibility. Did he sense that the whole situation might have been something to do with Home?

At the time, she was simply grateful someone cared. It was hard to comprehend the kindness of the man, his unexpected thoughtfulness, his generosity. She had been unable to even speak to say yes, just nodded mutely, tears welling up in her eyes.

‘And listen, when this baby comes, we will support you. Whether you want to be a mother or not is entirely up to you.’

She remembered being shocked by that word. Getting pregnant she had perhaps started to come to terms with. Having a baby? Well yes, that was the obvious outcome of her mistake if she allowed herself to dwell on it for any length of time – which she had been trying her best not to. But becoming a mother? That was impossible. She forced it out of her mind immediately.

Manhattan had been exciting. Even at seven months pregnant it was exciting. Before she had arrived she had not even really been sure of the relationship between New York and Manhattan, whether they were the same place, how they fitted together. Now here she was, amazed at how much like the movies it all looked, young enough to be pleased with herself for that insight. She was never quite sure how he’d managed to get her a work visa so quickly, but Ned always had a way of getting the things he wanted.

A fortnight passed, a fortnight of long meetings and snatched lunches – great doorstop sandwiches, delivered to their rickety desks – and rides in yellow cabs.