Life Or Something Like It. Annie LyonsЧитать онлайн книгу.

       Chapter Two

      Cat stood on the platform waiting for her train, phone in hand, flicking through the morning’s news. Checking Mail Online, Cat was relieved that there were no overnight pictures of Alvarro stumbling out of a nightclub or posing with another Page Three model. She took a sip of her coffee and glanced up as the packed Tube pulled in to the station. Tucking her phone in her bag ready for the imminent loss of signal, Cat boarded the train, making her way down to the middle of the carriage where there was always more space.

      A woman struggled aboard behind her with a pushchair, trilling thanks as people stepped back for fear of bruised ankles. The carriage was silent but Cat could guess people’s thoughts as their bodies bristled with irritation at this unwelcome intrusion into their fast-moving, adult world. Who brings a baby onto the Tube at this time of the morning? The woman was breathless with exertion but managed to park her buggy by the opposite door and bundle the fretful baby into her arms.

      A man in his early twenties, neatly bearded and obviously terrified of anything under the age of ten, leapt up from his seat right by where Cat was standing. The woman beamed at him with weary gratitude, flopped down into the vacated seat and planted a reassuring kiss on the baby’s ear. The baby was looking all around, wide-eyed and alarmed by the serious, unsmiling faces surrounding her. Cat did her best to ignore the baby but it started to make an insistent noise and stare at her as if she were the only one who could answer its highly complex gurgling question. Cat had little experience of babies but from the time she’d spent with her brother’s children, she knew that this sound was unlikely to decrease and therefore action was required.

      She glanced down at the baby and gave it a warm smile, something akin to the look she might give a celebrity client who had come to her with an image problem: sympathetic, empathetic and wholly reassuring. It was a look that said: Everything is going to be okay.

      The baby stared into her eyes as if trying to glean the truth, a frown hovering on its brow like a question mark. Cat held her breath. The baby raised its eyebrows and then lifted its mouth in a smile before issuing forth a small giggle.

      The baby’s mother smiled. ‘Oh, have you made a new friend?’ she cooed. Cat assumed she was talking to the baby and hoped that her work was done. The baby giggled again, her eyes fixed on Cat, hungry for more interaction. ‘Aww she loves you,’ said the mother encouragingly, her face open and ready for Cat to say how much she loved her too. Cat looked at the baby. It reminded her of a miniature Winston Churchill but she was pretty sure you weren’t meant to say these things out loud. Besides, she was a PR professional, practised at diplomacy.

      ‘She’s gorgeous,’ she proclaimed with a sincere smile.

      The mother was delighted. ‘How many do you have?’ she asked. And there it was. That presumption. It wasn’t the woman’s fault and Cat was used to it. Barely a week went by without her having to tell someone that she wasn’t married, didn’t have children and had no plans to. It had begun when she’d hit thirty. During her twenties, it was seen as a mistake to have children but as soon as she had reached thirty, opinion began to shift. People started to get married, have babies, and she was left having to justify herself. At first, she had been quite huffy about the whole thing but she soon realised that this was pointless. People had their opinions and you rarely changed their minds. She had various stock responses ready depending on the person she was talking to.

      ‘I’m terrified of childbirth.’ This one worked well on men as it usually nipped the conversation in the bud immediately because they were terrified 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