too, particularly if they had experienced their other half going through the whole eye-popping process.
‘It’s fine. I’m going to work for Google and they’ll freeze my eggs for me,’ she would say to anyone who used the phrase ‘biological clock’.
If she encountered more persistent or belligerent questioning she sometimes used statistics about divorce or an overpopulated world. This was a last resort as it sounded preachy but it usually did the trick.
However, talking to mothers like the one questioning her now required a different strategy. This woman had assumed that Cat, who had bonded so convincingly with her own baby, had to be a mother. There was no other explanation and Cat couldn’t bear the disappointment and pity she would have to endure if she told the truth. Cat could see that this woman was a fully paid-up member of the motherhood club and she wanted Cat to swear her allegiance too – to pretend blithely that life was better with children, that sleepless nights were good for the soul or that having children completed you.
Cat didn’t believe this. She liked Hermès bags, not eye-bags and she didn’t think this made her a bad person. Of course, she rarely uttered this sentiment out loud. People who worked in Cat’s world or enjoyed the lifestyle she did were easily dismissed as shallow and superficial. Cat was neither of these things. She simply knew what she liked. She loved her job, the lifestyle it afforded her, her two-bedroom house in a cool but edgy corner of Shoreditch, the weekends away, five-star holidays to the best resorts, first-class travel. She had it all.
If Cat spoke of her long-held assertion that she needed neither a child nor a man to complete her existence or of the fact that she was happy without either, she knew how it would end. The woman would try to convince her otherwise or worse, she would go quiet and Cat would know that this silence merely shrouded a smug conviction that women in their mid-thirties who had chosen careers over families were missing out. Cat had more sense than to wander down that particular conversational cul-de-sac. She had argued in the past but there was no point. People projected their own lives onto other individuals. It was understandable. It was the only frame of reference that they had.
The woman was looking at her expectantly now, longing for them to bond over tales of traumatic C-sections and problems with breastfeeding. Cat smiled.
‘I have three children,’ she lied. ‘Jean, Paul and…’ don’t say Ringo ‘…Georgie. They’re adorable.’
‘Three! Wow, that must keep you busy,’ said the woman admiringly. ‘She’s my first and I’m exhausted. I can’t imagine how you manage with three.’
‘You just manage, don’t you?’ Cat smiled. She noted with some relief that they had reached her station. ‘This is my stop. It was lovely meeting you.’ She paused to place a hand on the baby’s big head as she turned to leave. ‘Well goodbye – ’ Winston, Winston, don’t say Winston.
‘Winnie,’ said the woman. ‘Named after my granny.’
Cat choked down a giggle as she reached the door. ‘Goodbye, Winnie,’ she said wearing her best PR smile. As soon as the train reached the station, she stepped off onto the platform and disappeared into the crowd, her mind already fixed on the day ahead.
She glided along with the flow of commuters out of the station and along the street towards the Hemingway Media offices. It was a short walk to the modern brick building, designed by an overexcited architect who had wanted to give it a minimalist, warehouse air. She recalled the day that she and Jesse had come to view the offices. They had expanded since the company was formed at the start of the noughties and Jesse wanted them to move somewhere more central and happening as opposed to the top floor of his Mews house, which he had inherited from his wealthy grandparents. She had remembered her feelings of frustration as the architect, fresh from college, droned on about conceptual space and creative oxygen.
‘It’s totally designed with the Creative in mind, yes? The space is huge, airy, light and filled with creative oxygen, yes? You can breathe it in and – ’
Fart out the ideas? Cat had thought. She glanced at Jesse who was lapping it all up like a newborn kitten. That was the problem with Jesse. He got so caught up in an idea that he just ran with it. She had to rein him in sometimes but he loved this. They were a good team.
‘And the glass is integral to the creative process, yes? It enables you to look in and out, yes?’
Yes, thought Cat. Windows tend to do that.
‘We’ll take it,’ said Jesse. ‘It’s perfect. Isn’t it perfect, Kit Kat? Don’t you just love it?’ he had cried, throwing out his arms and dancing her round the empty room.
She had looked into his clear green eyes, bright like a cat’s, and given in immediately. ‘I think it’s great,’ she said only telling a half-lie. For she always gave in to Jesse. She couldn’t help it. She loved him and would do anything for him. She sometimes wondered what would have happened if that ‘moment’ at university had become a reality; would they have stayed together and been happy? She couldn’t picture it somehow but that was just fine. It was academic and this set-up was perfect. They could enjoy harmless flirtation without the complication of a relationship. It was like a perpetual first date with the delicious air of hope and possibility still lingering, unlikely to be quashed by the inevitable reality of sex, feelings and all the drawbacks these threatened to bring. For a woman who kept her heart tucked far away from her sleeve and had stopped believing in romance a long time ago, it suited Cat perfectly.
She had been sorry to leave their snug little offices though. The new building was drafty and the goldfish bowl meeting rooms energy-inefficient, but it did give them a more professional air in a bid to become real players in the PR world.
‘Morning, Stan.’ Cat smiled as she strode with confidence through the revolving doors. ‘How’s Maud doing?’
‘Better thanks, Miss Nightingale. The new tablets seem to be working,’ said the septuagenarian security guard, grinning up at her from the front desk.
‘Glad to hear it. Give her my love, won’t you?’
‘I will. She said to thank you for the flowers. Said she’s going to send you in some of her jam once she’s back on her feet and up to making a pan.’
‘Tell her not to overdo it,’ said Cat with a kind smile.
‘I will. Have a good day, Miss Nightingale.’
‘Thank you.’ Despite her protestations, Stan always addressed her in this way. She rather liked it deep down. It made her feel as if they were on the set of Mad Men. She rode the lift to the second floor and rounded the corner into reception. Jenna, their vivacious receptionist, was already in full flow.
‘Hemingway Media. Good morning! Please hold, Mr Oliver; I’ll put you through. Mr Hemingway? Mr Oliver for you. You’re welcome. Hemingway Media. Good morning!’
Cat nodded hello and strode down towards her office, which was located next to Jesse’s. She could see him through the window, feet up on the desk, casual blue shirt unbuttoned at the neck, his hand running through his dark brown hair as he laughed at what the caller was saying. He grinned and waved as he spied her walking past. She smiled and made her way into her office. Despite her reservations about the building, she loved this office. It was a perfect space and she had made it her own. Her wide weathered oak desk and specially designed ergonomic chair sat in the centre of the room. Two Lissoni sofas faced each other with an Oka glass coffee table nestled in between. On
