The Puzzle of You Read online

  Maybe she has had a brain transplant, after all – or a personality one. How else could she not only have quit her job, but also agreed to move in with her mother-in-law? Somehow, though, she can’t believe it. People don’t turn into someone else just because they’ve had a child . . . do they? Charlotte glances at the family photo on the bookcase once again, studying her image, as if she can read there what’s going on inside her. The beaming face stares back, taunting her with its smile.

  Charlotte closes her eyes as Anabelle crawls even further on to her lap. She can’t wait any longer. Supermum or not, she needs to talk to David and tell him she can’t remember . . . that she doesn’t recognise anything about the present. She needs him to fill in the blanks and explain how she ended up here; to reassure her that even though she is a mother, she’s still her.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  30 May

  I saw her today. I saw our daughter. Because we’re having a girl . . . or at least the sonographer thinks so. I may only be fifteen weeks along, but she is quite sure our baby has no ‘willy’ (her cutesy word, not mine. I can’t think of a less cute appendage, to be honest). David’s thrilled, telling me that secretly he was hoping for a girl. When he asked if I was happy too – if that was what I wanted – I nodded. But the truth is, despite the sonographer’s confirmation that there is actually a baby inside me, I’ve been trying to carry on the same as always . . . and that hasn’t left a lot of spare time to think about genders.

  Actually, I’m wrong. I haven’t been carrying on the same as always. I’ve been working longer hours than ever before, developing new presentation templates, liaising with old clients to see if they have anything in the pipeline, and working on a list of new clients to pitch to. David gets at me to slow down and put my feet up, but as long as the baby is all right, why shouldn’t I work as hard as I can? Pregnancy isn’t a disability, and mine has been one hundred per cent normal. Aren’t there women in Africa who carry on working while in labour? Not that I’d take it that far, of course. But I do plan on bringing my laptop into the hospital with me, just so I can keep track of everything going on.

  I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t worried, though . . . if I said that all my extra work is simply for the thrill of a job well done. Because even though I do love my job – and believe me, I do it well – it’s not just that. It’s the gnawing feeling that sat in my gut as I left Vivek’s office after telling him I was pregnant. I was right to be concerned, much as I hate to admit it.

  It’s only been a few weeks since my pregnancy announcement, and already there’s been a shift in attitude: not just from Vivek, but from my team, both male and female. Where once I’d always got first shot at bid meetings and strategic accounts, suddenly I didn’t seem to be on the list at all, despite the fact I’d developed the bloody list! And while I could understand if I’d been within weeks of my due date – or if I’d been planning to take an extended maternity leave – it didn’t make sense when I wasn’t yet four months gone. I was the company’s most experienced account director, but now it felt like there was a sign on me saying I’d already checked out.

  Like I was being walled off, brick by brick, until it was too late to do anything.

  And I was not going to let that happen. I wasn’t going to be pushed aside just because of some biological function. Pregnancy shouldn’t be a punishment, for God’s sake.

  So last week, I marched straight into Vivek’s office. Family photos ringed his desk, and anger swept through me that he hasn’t been penalised for having children.

  ‘Charlotte!’ Vivek beckoned me in. ‘Please, sit down. How are you feeling?’

  ‘I’m fine, thanks,’ I replied. I’d pondered getting that tattooed on my forehead, just to save people from having to ask. God knows they certainly weren’t interested in my internal workings before I got pregnant.

  ‘Any heartburn? You know, my wife suffered terribly with that with our eldest. It got so bad she used to be sick, and—’

  ‘No, no heartburn.’ I cut him off. I wasn’t here to talk about pregnancy, or his wife. I was here to talk about my job. I stayed on my feet, even though my heels were killing me. ‘Look, I just want to make it clear that I’m able to handle a full workload, as usual. There’s no reason to ask others to take on proposals and organise bid meetings.’

  ‘Of course, of course.’ Vivek nodded, but I recognised that tone. It was the gentle, placating one he used to soothe irrational clients. Since when had I – the person he always said has airtight logic and reason – become irrational? Did being pregnant somehow signal that my brain wasn’t functioning?

  ‘And you know that even when I am off on leave’ – for some reason, I resisted the word ‘maternity’; I don’t know why – ‘I still want to be kept in the loop, so I can hit the ground running when I’m back.’

  ‘Sure, yes.’ Vivek was still nodding, and I felt the urge to knock his head just like I used to do with those nodding dogs. ‘You’re a valuable asset to the company, Charlotte, and I do hope you’ll come back to us.’

  ‘I will.’ The response came out between gritted teeth. Just what did I have to do to convince him? Give birth under my desk? ‘And I don’t want any favours right now, all right? Nothing has changed. Okay?’

  ‘Okay.’ Vivek was already looking away from me, reading something on his laptop screen.

  I had to reschedule this ultrasound appointment twice because of clashes with work meetings. If I said I didn’t want any special consideration, how could I duck out at such critical times? In my pre-pregnant life, I’d never dream of making doctor’s appointments during the day . . . in fact, I rarely even saw the doctor, often leading to last-minute dashes to the sexual health clinic when I discovered I’d run out of pills, or a call to the emergency dental line when my loose filling fell out. Sure, this is a baby and not a dental appointment (and I have to admit, I did whisper a little ‘sorry’ to my belly when I couldn’t make the ultrasound), but my presence at work is crucial right now. Just because I’m pregnant, I’m hardly going to morph into a different person – a person who no longer cares about my job. I’m having a baby, not a personality transplant.

  I was a few minutes late this time, but I made it. David was there before me, as usual. I swear, he’s more excited about all of this than me . . . which makes me feel a little guilty, as if I should be super-amped up about my body performing its biological function. My mind was full of preparations for the client meeting later that day. I was excited to see my baby, of course – to confirm that there’s a person actually inside me – but it’s so hard to switch my mind from work to baby to work again, like I’m existing in two separate universes. Thankfully one is safely tucked inside me with few demands . . . unlike my job. Part of me wishes I could stay pregnant forever.

  They called my name and I hauled myself on to the table and pulled up my top, my stomach as smooth and flat as usual. David clutched my hand and we both chit-chatted with the sonographer about the weather – behaving like spring, for once, with the streak of sun and balmy temperatures, so unlike London – and football, and the coming elections. The sonographer moved the probe against my belly and I tried my best not to squirm away from the pressure on my bladder. I’d really taken those instructions to drink plenty of water to heart.

  ‘Here she is,’ the sonographer said, tilting the screen towards us, and David drew in a breath.

  ‘She?’ he asked. The sonographer nodded and smiled, and I turned from the blurry black and white image on the screen to meet David’s eyes. They were glowing with love and excitement, and I tried hard to reflect that back. A girl. I was going to have a daughter. A little girl, and she was right there on the screen in front of me.

  I stared at the screen again like it was a window into my soul . . . as if by focusing on that image long enough, I could somehow grip the future, hold it tightly in my grasp and make everything all right.

  Because everything will be all right. My job will be fine once things set
tle down; we’ll be more than prepared when our baby comes, and together, David and I will smash parenting. I grasped David’s hand as the sonographer did the measurements, breathing deeply and staring at our baby on the screen.

  ‘Everything looks perfect at this stage,’ the sonographer said, and I let out a breath I didn’t even know I was holding. David smiled at me and helped me sit up. His face dropped when I couldn’t stick around for the sonographer to print off a strip of photos for us, but I had to hurry back to the office, where Vivek was waiting to discuss a potential new client. I grabbed my handbag and caught a taxi, my mind swinging back to the day ahead. I’d barely enough time to register the fact we’re having a daughter before sliding into work mode.

  I’m living in two worlds now: pregnant woman with a daughter on the way, and senior account director with an eye to vice-president. The past few weeks have shown me these two places aren’t exactly compatible. I’ll need to keep doing everything in my power to make sure they don’t collide. But why should they?

  Everything is perfect, the sonographer said, and I know she’s right. It will be that, and more.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  After Miriam leaves, Charlotte and Anabelle settle down for what Charlotte hopes is a few placid hours of TV until supper. Surely her daughter must be tired after being out all day? But after a few minutes Anabelle slides off the sofa and grabs Charlotte’s hand, dragging her over to the pile of toys in the corner.

  ‘Mummy! Come and play with me!’ The little girl’s nose is running again, but before Charlotte can tell her to get a tissue, Anabelle’s wiped it on her sleeve. Charlotte makes a face. God, kids can be disgusting.

  Charlotte manages to break free, plopping down on the sofa again. Judging from the avalanche of brightly coloured plastic in the corner, the child has enough toys to entertain her until the apocalypse. She doesn’t need someone to play with her. How do you play with a toddler, anyway? Charlotte would rather sit through a million PowerPoint presentations than manipulate googly-eyed farm animals covered with God knows how many germs.

  ‘You go ahead,’ she says. ‘I’ll watch from here.’

  Anabelle’s mouth droops and her forehead wrinkles, and for a split second, Charlotte recognises her own disgruntled expression on the little girl’s face. Anabelle marches over to the sofa, takes Charlotte’s hand again and pulls.

  ‘Mummy, you have to play with me. Mummy. Plays. Now.’ She gives a final tug on the last word and Charlotte, surprised at the girl’s strength, tumbles off the sofa and lands with a thud on the floor.

  ‘Christ!’ she bellows, as pain radiates from her bottom up to her very sore head. ‘What the—’

  She stops as she realises Anabelle is crying, tears running in rivers down her cheeks. Oh, shit. ‘Look, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to scare you. It hurt when I fell on the floor, that’s all.’

  Anabelle scoots over and climbs on to Charlotte’s lap. ‘You always laugh when you fall down. You say your bottom is your cushion!’

  Ugh, well, that much is true. Unfortunately. ‘Come on.’ Charlotte sighs, getting to her feet. ‘Let’s play.’

  Charlotte tries her best to engage, but apparently dressing up a dolly or running Thomas the train around an imaginary track isn’t enough. Anabelle is like a mini playtime dictator, ordering Charlotte to follow her elaborate instructions and chastising her when she gets them wrong. How is Charlotte to know what the old elf from Ben and Holly sounds like? Who are Ben and Holly, anyway? And can she help it if the critical piece for the Lego tower is missing? When she glances at the clock, she’s stunned to see only twenty minutes have passed. How does she do this all day, every day? Doesn’t she miss her job . . . doing something important?

  It must be different when you feel for your child, when you’re full of love, pride and appreciation for them. It must be more fulfilling . . . and definitely less boring. It would have to be, surely: if parenting really is this dull, why would anyone choose to do it? If Anabelle asks her to ‘put baby to bed’ one more time, Charlotte’s going to scream.

  With every creak of the stairs and bang of the outside door, Charlotte’s heart jumps in hope that it’s David so she can relinquish her domestic responsibilities and get in the bath, or grab some fresh air, or just relax without ‘Mummy!’ being bleated in her ear. She’s missed him, too. He’s the only thing she still recognises in this strange world, and she’s desperate now to talk to him and have him fill in the gaps in her memory . . . to end the confusion those missing years have created. But suppertime comes and goes – she manages to present Anabelle with an unappetising concoction of ham and jam, reminiscent of her childhood suppers – and there’s still no sign of her husband.

  Remembering the complicated bedtime routine from the previous night, Charlotte prays David will be here by seven. He did say he’d be home early, right? If he doesn’t usually make it back before bedtime, when on earth does he see his daughter? Even if he does work full-time, he is still a father. Finally, just as the bedtime song blares from CBeebies and the channel flicks off-air, the door swings open and her husband appears.

  ‘You’re home!’ Both Charlotte and Anabelle throw themselves at David, and Charlotte doesn’t know who’s more delighted to see him. A surprised expression flits across her husband’s face before he kisses her cheek (what’s up with that? Lips, please) then bends down to kiss Anabelle.

  ‘How are you feeling?’ he asks Charlotte, taking off his shoes. ‘I managed to get away early for once, thank goodness.’

  Charlotte’s eyebrows fly up. Seven o’clock is early? Back in the day, he’d routinely make it home by five-thirty, escaping the office as soon as possible. ‘I’m . . . well, I’m okay, I guess. My head feels better, anyway.’

  ‘Oh, good. Do you want me to order some takeaway tonight, or have you made something?’

  Made something? Has hell frozen over? ‘Takeaway’s good, thanks. I’ll order while you put Anabelle to bed.’ She’s been with their daughter for the past few hours, and it’s his turn now. Besides, there’s no way she’s going to even attempt the bedtime routine.

  ‘Um . . . sure, okay.’ David ushers Anabelle into the bathroom and Charlotte slumps on the sofa as the Battle of Toothbrushing begins.

  One hour later, the takeaway is cold on the table, and she’s still waiting for David to reappear from the bedroom. Afraid to turn on the telly in case it disturbs Anabelle, Charlotte stretches out on the sofa, listening to the hum of traffic outside the window. It’s just after eight, and normally she’d be getting off the bus and making her way down the pavement after a crazy day at work, thinking about what to order for supper and anticipating her first sip of wine. Then she and David would turn on Netflix and she’d sink into his arms, revelling in the comfort and peace of home – and her husband – after the madness of the day. God knows she needs that even more right now.

  ‘Hey,’ David whispers, his mouth stretching in a yawn. ‘I fell asleep in there. The food’s here?’

  ‘Yes, it came a while ago. Hopefully it’s not cold.’ She responds in her normal tone before noticing David wincing and placing a finger to his lips. ‘Sorry,’ she says in a whisper. Christ, will they need to whisper all night?

  He plops on the other end of the sofa and stretches out his legs. Charlotte moves closer, drops a kiss on his lips, then lays her head on his chest. As she breathes in his scent, her eyes fill. She felt so alone today – so adrift in this bizarre new world – and so angry at how she’d thrown away her life. David is a bridge between the past and the present, and she needs his optimism and reassurance now more than ever.

  She’s always loved his calm, positive outlook. It’s a running joke between them that, no matter how heavily it might be raining or how threatening the sky may be, David can be relied upon to say that it’ll be fine; it should clear up soon. He might be a touch too easy-going sometimes, but if something ever did go wrong then he’d be certain to keep his head and try to find the best outcome.

&n
bsp; His positive outlook drew her to him when they’d first met. She’d been at a hotel in York after a client meeting, and David was there for an insurance convention. In the middle of a bitingly cold, clear winter’s night, the bloody fire alarm had gone off, and all the guests had been evacuated into the car park. Heart pounding, Charlotte had wrapped a duvet around her and stumbled down the stairs, then out into the darkness. It was mass chaos with people crashing into each other, so she pushed her way through the crowd and towards the edge of the car park, right next to a grassy field.

  ‘Nice night, huh?’

  A voice from beside her made her turn, and she spotted a man about her age. Normally she’d just grunt and move away, but there was something about his warm, friendly face that made her stay put.

  ‘Not sure I’d call it nice,’ she said, her voice raspy with sleep. ‘Bloody freezing, more like.’

  ‘Well, yes.’ The man smiled. ‘But look.’ He pointed into the sky, where a million stars were winking down on them. ‘You don’t get that in London.’

  ‘No, you definitely don’t.’ Even as tired and cold as she was, Charlotte had to admire them. The sky looked like a giant blanket shot through with sparkly thread.

  ‘I’m David.’ He held out a hand, and Charlotte grasped it, loving how his fingers closed firmly around hers. There was nothing worse than a limp handshake.

  ‘Charlotte.’ She moved a bit closer, and for the next thirty minutes or so – until they were given the all-clear to go back inside – David pointed out the different constellations. Charlotte couldn’t have cared less, to be honest, but she loved the sound of his voice and how it felt like it was just the two of them, alone in the night. Somehow, he had transformed a rude awakening into something magical.