I Don't Know How She Does It

24 Kate Triumphant

TUESDAY, 9:27 A.M. OFFICES OF EDWIN MORGAN FORSTER. Hallelujah! I am a guru. My superb market timing — otherwise known as forgetting to place several trades and being saved by a surprise rate cut — has granted me temporary office goddess status. I hang around at the coffee machine receiving tributes from grudgingly awed colleagues.

“You must be the only person to have anticipated the Fed cut and the market recovery, Kate,” marvels Dandruff Gavin. I compose my features into what I hope is an impersonation of humility and quiet pride.

“Shit, I was 6 percent liquid. That cost us a few basis points,” groans pink-faced Ian. “And Brian was 15 percent liquid. That’s another nail in his coffin, poor sod.” I nod in sympathetic condescension and say casually, “I only had 1 percent cash, actually.” Tasting success, enjoying its champagne tang on my tongue.

Chris Bunce walks past on the way to the Gents and can hardly bear to meet my eye. Momo comes up and gives me a dry little kiss which lands on my cheek around the same time that Guy’s dagger look harpoons into my shoulder blades. Across the office, I see Robin Cooper-Clark approaching with an amused smile as if he were a bishop and I a jammy young curate.

“And on the third day she rose again,” says Robin. “Well, well, Miss Reddy, who says Easter is drained of all meaning?”

He knows. He knows. Of course, he bloody knows. Brightest man in the solar system.

“I was extremely fortunate, Robin. Alan Greenspan rolled the rock from the tomb.”

“You were very fortunate, Kate, and you’re very good. Good people deserve their good fortune. By the way, did Rod tell you we need you to go to Frankfurt?”

When I sit down at my desk, am so buoyant I practically don’t need a chair. Scan the currencies, check the markets, then call up my e-mails. Smile when I see that at the top of the Inbox are two from my dearest friends.

To: Kate Reddy, EMF

From: Debra Richardson

Desperately trying to recruit new nanny. Anka stormed out after I confronted her over the stolen property. Jim’s mum has come up from Surrey to cover for a bit, but she has to go back Friday. Help!!!! Any ideas? Most candidates seem to require a car, all the rest are 37 w severe personality disorder demanding salary equal to editor of Vogue.

Reason to Give Up Work: Because I can’t afford to go out to work anymore!

When do we get to the fun bit of our lives? The bit where you say, “Ah! so this is what the struggle and pain was all for!”

Lunch Thurs?????

PS: Must try to put more positive spin on life. I do know there are people out there living in abject poverty w no shoes etc.

To: Debra Richardson

From: Kate Reddy

Well, I’m GLAD she’s gone. Good for you confronting her. You’ll find someone soon — don’t panic! Aussie girls are very good, I hear. Will send numbers of agencies and ask Paula if she knows anyone looking for job. Today am top dog in office. Total fluke.

If you can meet with Triumph and Disaster

And sell the second as though it were the first

— THEN you can be a Woman, my girl!

And my reward? Trip to Germany on cut-price flight — airline called Go or Slo or No or something.

Auf Wiedersehen, pet. Can we rearrange lunch? Sorry, all love K xxxxx

To: Kate Reddy

From: Candy Stratton

O fuck. Am pregnant.

I immediately look across the office to where Candy sits. Sensing my glance she looks up from her work and gives a little wave. It’s like a child’s wave, funny and sad at the same time.

CANDY IS PREGNANT. Not just late, but pregnant. Four and a half months gone at least, according to the clinic in Wimpole Street where she went yesterday. Her cycle had been pretty irregular for a couple of years — the drugs, most probably — and she hadn’t noticed anything unusual, except a little extra weight and a tenderness in her breasts which she put down to some ambitious sex with Darren, the black-run specialist from Treasury, on her recent skiing trip.

“I’m gonna get rid of it.”

“Fine.”

We are in Corney and Barrow, perched on our usual stools overlooking the arena where the ice rink sits in winter. Candy has a flute of champagne, I have a bottle of Evian.

“Don’t do that agreeing shit when you don’t mean it, Katie.”

“I’m just saying I’ll support whatever decision you take.”

“Decision? It’s not a decision, honey, it’s a fucking disaster.”

“I just think — well, a late abortion, it’s not much fun.”

“And bringing up a kid by yourself for twenty years, that’s fun?”

“It’s not impossible, and you’re thirty-six.”

“Thirty-seven on Tuesday, actually.”

“Well, you’re running out of time.”

“I’m getting rid of it.”

“Fine.”

“What?”

“Nothing.”

“I know your nothings, Kate.”

“It’s just that I think you could really regret it, that’s all.”

She grinds out her cigarette and lights up another. “There’s this place in Hammersmith. Not cheap, but they do them real late, no questions asked.”

“Fine. I’ll come with you.”

“No.”

“Well, I’m not letting you go by yourself.”

“It’s not a baby shower, it’s a fucking abortion.”

I study my friend’s face. “What if it cries?”

“What are you, Katie, some kind of pro-life nut?”

“It has been known for a fetus to cry at that stage of development. I know you’re tough, but that would kill me.”

“Can we get another glass over here?” She gestures to the barman. “So, go on, explain it to me.”

“What?”

“Kids.”

“I can’t. You have to feel it for yourself.”

“Come on, Kate, you can sell anything to anybody. Try.”

The look on her face. Such a Candy look, defiant and bruised at the same time, the look of a seven-year-old who has fallen out of a tree she’s been told not to climb and doesn’t want to cry even though it really hurts. I want