glanced up from his phone.
I cleared my throat. ‘We all hope for the best but few of us are equipped to deal with the worst.’
I noticed one of the investors was blinking rapidly and rubbing a tan line where his wedding ring used to be.
‘And how do you propose we do that?’ Dominic asked, as though I’d suggested we populate Pluto.
‘Instead of cutting staff,’ I said, ‘we should recruit more, invest in their training. We should equip our matchmakers with the knowledge and the skills to support our clients.’ I glared at Dominic. ‘That is something even the most nifty app could never do.’
Dominic smirked. ‘Nifty?’ he said, his expression implying that the use of old-lady vocabulary could compromise the credibility of my argument.
I continued, keen to move on. ‘We should train all of our matchmakers as dating psychologists.’
Dominic rolled his eyes again, and let out a why-don’t-we-feed-the-starving-in-Africa-while-we’re-at-it sigh.
I continued, pretending to ignore him. ‘I want us to be pioneers in our field.’
Dominic threw up his hands. ‘Oh, come on, Eleanor, that will cost a fortune.’
The investor with the tan line leaned forward and raised his hand to silence Dominic. Then he stared at me for a moment. ‘OK,’ he said. ‘you’ve got my vote.’
Dominic went to speak but another investor cut him off. ‘Me too,’ he said.
The other two investors nodded in agreement. ‘Let’s do it,’ one said.
The remaining investor, who was also Dominic’s grandfather, turned to him. ‘I’m with Ellie on this,’ he said.
I smiled and, rather smugly, held out my hand to Dominic. He bypassed it, grabbed his laptop and then stormed out of the room, buttocks clenching as he did.
As soon as he’d left, Mandi jumped up from her seat and began clapping wildly.
‘Yay, Ellie!’ she shouted.
Her assistant followed her lead. ‘Yay!’ she said.
Perhaps it was because this was an unusual situation for them, or maybe they were genuinely moved by my proposal, but for whatever reason, the investors began to clap too. That was until one of them must have realised that it was a little odd and stopped. At which point the rest followed and then filed out of the room, checking their mobiles, seemingly trying to pretend it hadn’t happened.
That evening, as I fought my way towards the underground, the wind battered my umbrella and rain swept under it and into my face. I squinted my eyes and pushed ahead. I may have won the case against Dominic—a victory for the relationships of others—but the jury was still out on how Nick would take the news that we had failed to conceive yet again.
The moment I reached our street, my umbrella finally buckled under the elements and, as I waded through a giant puddle on our front path, I wondered if our marriage would survive this storm.
Before I opened the front door, I noticed the hall light was off. Nick wasn’t home yet.
‘Of course, out drinking,’ I mumbled under my breath, although fully aware there was no one to hear me.
I ruffled my umbrella, drops of rain splattering up the walls, then I bent the spokes back into line and shoved it into the stand next to Nick’s giant work-branded golf umbrella. It baffled me why corporations seemed so keen to advertise that they employed people who played golf in the rain.
After I’d shaken my coat and hung it over the radiator, I made my way into the kitchen. I looked around the empty room, then opened the fridge and grabbed a bottle of wine. It had been almost a year of not drinking, priming my body for reproduction, but now I was looking forward to drowning my non-compliant ovaries in Pinot Grigio.
I leaned against the counter and poured myself a glass. As soon as I took a gulp, my nerves settled and a warm sensation spread through my veins. I took another gulp and gazed up at the ceiling, then back down at our shabby kitchen. I squinted my eyes, trying to superimpose the building plans we’d had drawn up years ago onto the sixties-style laminate shambles in front of me. I knew exactly how it should look. I didn’t have far to go for inspiration. Every house on the street had been knocked through into their side-return and extended out back to create the trademark South West London statement kitchen. I took another sip and wondered if the white gloss Poggenpohl dream would ever be mine.
‘Cheers,’ I said to the peeling work surface. ‘Me and my kitchen, living the dream.’
I took another gulp and then checked my phone. It was 7 p.m. I called Nick. No answer. I took another gulp of wine and called Matthew to rant.
There a clattering noise in the background when he answered. ‘Twice in one day,’ he said, eventually. ‘I’m honoured.’
‘Can you talk?’ I asked.
He sighed. ‘I can talk, and I would love to talk. However, the real question is whether I will be allowed to talk.’ There was the sound of something crashing to the floor, followed by wailing. ‘Shit. I mean, sugar,’ he said.
‘Everything OK?’ I asked.
There was silence, a muffled sound and then Matthew returned. ‘Little sod keeps falling off his chair.’ There was a faint sobbing in the background. ‘It’s this bloody booster seat. I’m sure it has an eject button. There you go, Zachary. Now eat your pasta.’
‘Shall I call you back?’
‘No, no. Are you OK?’
I took another gulp of wine. I knew he would know better than to ask me directly about ‘the test’.
‘Angelica, leave the vase.’
‘I’m OK,’ I said. ‘It’s just—’
Suddenly there was another crash followed by a scream. ‘Fuck. I mean, fudge. Fiddlesticks.’
‘Look, I’ll call you back tomorrow,’ I said.
‘No, no.’ Matthew’s tone had an urgency to it. ‘We can talk now.’ He paused, then made a strange squealing noise. ‘Angelica, sweetheart, please don’t eat the broken glass.’
I grimaced. ‘It sounds kind of hectic there?’
‘Just another day in paradise,’ he said. ‘Zachary, eat the pasta, don’t stick it up your nose.’
I thought for a moment about telling him the result, but I realised he’d probably guessed anyway. Besides, any mention would most likely provoke a diatribe about some study linking new parents to suicidal tendencies.
‘Don’t suppose you fancy coming to a divorce party with me next Friday night?’ I asked.
‘Angelica, I said no! Hang on, Ellie, I should really sweep up this glass.’
I continued, ‘I need some company and Nick’s entertaining clients. Again.’
His pitch suddenly increased. ‘A party?’ he said. ‘One that doesn’t involve soft play, chicken nuggets, or a balloon-wielding entertainer?’
I laughed. ‘Yes,’ I said.
‘I’m in.’
‘Don’t you need to arrange a sitter or something?’
‘Nope,’ he said. ‘It’s about time their mother did some mothering.’
The bottle of Pinot Grigio was almost empty by the time I heard Nick’s key in the lock. My throat dried up as I mouthed the words I would say to him. I downed the remainder of the wine, and mouthed them again. It was almost as if the act of