Page 22 of Forget It

Me

Anything you want pretty girl, I told you that

My phone doesn’t leave my hand for the rest of the evening. I barely manage to brush my teeth and text with one hand.This girl.

It’s later, when I’m just climbing into bed, that the picture comes in. It’s her curled up in a big sweatshirt, glasses perched on her nose and a smile hiding behind a pint of ice cream.

The grin that splits my face makes my cheeks hurt. I save the photo and make it her contact picture.

9

ROSIE

The tube carriagesways under my feet like I’m surfing and my stomach flips. I take a deep breath through the thin gap in my lips to prevent my breakfast spewing over the other passengers in the carriage.

At what point can I wear one of those cute ‘baby on board’ badges so I can haggle for a seat? Do I have to be showing? When will that be? Maybe I should start doing some real research instead of just googling ‘Can I eat rice whilst pregnant?’. I make a mental note to start buying some baby books.

At the next stop, someone gets out of their seat and I maneuver my way through the crowd towards it. Just before I sit, a guy in his early twenties wearing an expensive tennis kit sits down, spreading his legs and taking up more space on the aisle. Great. Getting that badge has now become the number one priority.

I used to love the tube, used to love the commute that would take forty minutes of my day. I used to swan around in a trench coat and smile at tourists visiting my city and meet friends for brunch in central.

But then, one by one, all my local friends moved away. Anya went to America, my friend Penny from work left to go to a different post-production house in Manchester. Even my old boss Kathleen retired and had a mid career switch, leaving me with a team of guys who would rather talkaroundme thantome.

Gareth sent out an email late last night telling me I needed to come in on Saturday to catch up on my missed work. I asked if I could work from home but he ignored the email, his way of telling me an obviousno. I had thought the others would be there too but no, just me. Gritting my teeth, I had hooked my phone up to the office speakers and spent eight hours logging transcripts, only emerging into the late afternoon sun when my eyes started to cross.

I need to tell work that I’ll be going on maternity leave, but I looked it up and I have until I’m twenty five weeks before I legally have to tell them. Predicting that Gareth is going to sigh heavily at the news, I’m more than happy to wait another few months before confessing. He can complain all he wants but I’m within my legal rights to have fifty two weeks off, though I’m under no illusions that whoever comes in as my maternity cover will undoubtedly be a crucial member of the team by the time I’m ready to come back. My statutory maternity pay will only cover the first few months of my rent, and that doesn’t even begin to cover the added expenses of raising a baby.

I can’t think about it all too hard without panicking. The train judders to a stop and I cling to the metal railing to avoid toppling into the lap of the wannabe Andy Murray. All I want to do now is unbutton my jeans and eat my weight in the salted caramel ice cream I saved in my freezer. The craving gripped me about an hour ago and if I don’t eat it soon I will most likely burst into tears.Again.

I’ve never cried as much as I have in the last week. It’s like my face is just a water balloon prone to leaking. If this baby is going to play with my tear ducts this much, I don’t know how I’m going to survive the next seven months.

The tube launches to a stop and I shuffle through the crowd onto the platform. When I emerge into the fresh slightly chilled air, my phone buzzes in my pocket.

Jackson

How was your day?

I bite back a smile. It’s nice to have someone ask me that, to have someone care.

Me

I had to work so not great. How was yours?

He types for a few minutes and I tuck my phone back in my pocket.

Finally it buzzes.

Jackson

How well my day is going kind of depends on you pretty girl.

Huh? I scrunch my brows in confusion before turning the corner onto my street.

“Hey,” Jackson says from outside my front door, his hands in his pockets and his pearly white grin pulling at his cheeks. His hair is tied back behind his neck and he has a baseball hat pulled low over his head. He basically looks like a male model. Which heis, I remind myself.

Good lord, what have I gotten myself into?

“Hi,” I reply dryly, unable to stop the smile from escaping.

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