‘Oh for God’s sake,’ I mutter. ‘That’s my fault. I told Lucy to cheer her up.’
Sara appears by Lucy’s side and pushes her headlong into the courgettes.
‘Well, it seems to have worked,’ Dan comments wryly. ‘They’re enjoying themselves.’
While Lucy wrestles with a massive courgette, Sara reaches down to help her back to her feet, loses her balance and joins her on the ground. The broccoli quivers. Lily’s face appears for a second or two, then disappears again. It’s not a ladylike display … far from it.
‘I just wanted today to be perfect,’ I sigh.
‘It is perfect.’
‘Really? We got married in a downpour, and now everyone’s covered in mud. I had a strop in a thunderstorm, my dress doesn’t fit, I’m wearing a cardigan, I’ve got a foot in my ribs and I can’t stop going to the toilet. And that lot are pissed out of their tiny minds.’ I wave at the three women. Cackling like witches, they’re busy throwing courgettes at each other. ‘The kids are feral, the cake’s ruined …’
‘Who cares?’ Dan interrupts with a smile. ‘I certainly don’t.’
‘I just wanted to do it right. I suppose I wanted to prove a point.’
‘Which is?’
‘That I’m not a complete disaster area, that I’m capable of organising things.’
He laughs.
‘I didn’t marry you for your organisational skills. If I remember rightly, you were the worst PA in the world. I married you because you’re you. Chaos follows you everywhere, Maya, and I love it.’ He stands and straightens his waistcoat. ‘Now, if you’ll excuse me for a minute, it seems I need to rescue three drunken women from a vegetable patch.’
Chapter Twenty-Seven
I pause outside Fosters Construction. The evening migration is well under way, surrounding me with a bustling, seething mass of office workers, most of them heading home. Standing my ground, I let the bodies filter round me, recalling the first time I ever stood here. Back then, I was riddled with anxiety, but there’s barely a trace of it now. I know exactly why it’s still hanging around, though. The winding-down operation is coming to an end, this is the last day that Fosters will be Fosters, and I can’t help worrying that his soon to be ex-workforce will blame it all on me.
I look up at the fifteen storeys of darkened glass while the last of the October evening sunlight glints against the windows, and think of the man behind the façade. He’s up there, waiting for me, counting on my support. And no matter how nervous I feel, I’m giving it to him. When I walk back out of here, I’ll be by my husband’s side, and neither of us will ever be coming back.
With a deep breath, I edge forward, nod a quick greeting to the doorman and manoeuvre the pushchair through the revolving door. Inside, the atrium’s almost exactly as I remember it: an imposing space littered with plush leather chairs, coffee tables and pot plants. But the reception desk’s abandoned now. Under Mrs Kavanagh’s supervision, the blonde and brunette are busy laying out champagne flutes on tables. Avoiding their attention, I head straight for the lift, shoulders slumping in relief when the doors close behind me. As we begin to rise, I check on the pushchair’s little passenger, finding a pair of bright blue eyes gazing back up at me. I smile at my son, suddenly strengthened by a rush of love for him. He’s slept all the way down from Lambeth, allowing me to enjoy my walk in peace. But now we’re here, he’s wide awake again.
‘Daddy’s big day,’ I tell him. ‘Try not to be sick on him.’
His eyes spark and he lets out a gurgle.
The lift comes to a halt, the doors sliding open to reveal the swanky lobby on the top floor. I step out, taking in the huge pictures, the marble floor, the glass desk where Carla normally sits. She’s not there now.
‘Oh.’ Coming out of the kitchen, she stops in her tracks, clapping her hands together. ‘Can I have a hold?’
I gawp at Dan’s personal assistant. We’ve barely ever talked and I certainly never had her down as the type to turn all mushy over a baby.
‘He might throw up on you,’ I warn her.
‘That’s okay.’ She shrugs, half-embarrassed. ‘I can take it.’
I unbuckle Jack, carefully retrieve him from the pushchair and hand him over. She takes him confidently, and pulls a face.
‘Are you staying on here?’ I ask tentatively.
‘No, I’ve got a new job with Mr Watson. He’s setting up an accountancy company.’
‘I never knew,’ I apologise, wishing I’d shown more interest before.
The truth is I’ve not been back here since I was on the receiving end of a good seeing-to and a strange proposal in the lift. Pregnancy, painting, house renovations, the wedding, a new baby – it’s all distracted me from visiting Dan’s workplace.
‘You’ve had a lot on your mind.’ She holds Jack under his arms, away from herself. ‘He’s absolutely gorgeous. Beautiful eyes. How old is he now?’
‘Eight weeks.’
And a complete handful, I’d like to add. Although I couldn’t love him more, and Dan’s proved himself to be a thoroughly supportive and loving dad, true to Beefy’s words the last few weeks have been a blur of nappies and feeding and soothing.
‘Well, he’s a stunner.’ She offers him back and nods to the half-open door. ‘Mr Foster’s waiting for you.’
‘Yes,’ I mutter. ‘Well …’ I rearrange Jack in my arms and plant a kiss on his forehead. ‘This is it, then. I’m sorry,’ I blurt, overwhelmed by guilt.
‘What for?’
‘This.’ I wave my free hand in the air. ‘If I hadn’t turned up, he wouldn’t have sold the company. You must all hate me.’
‘Nobody hates you,’ she reassures me, touching Jack on the cheek. ‘It’s
