A Very Accidental Love Story Read online

  Okay, the internal phone ringing usually only means one thing.

  Oh Christ alive, no. Please don’t let this be happening … Not today.

  But no two ways about it, the nightmare is real. The chairman’s assistant is on the phone, summoning me upstairs to a meeting of the board of directors – the T. Rexes – right this minute. This rarely happens on the spur of the moment like this and it doesn’t take Einstein to figure out why they’ve convened this meeting at such short notice.

  The online issue of the Post. Can’t possibly be anything else. I know it’s a matter of huge concern for the board and the last time I bumped into Sir Gavin Hume, our esteemed chairman since the year dot, he as good as told me it was a matter requiring their immediate attention. That it’s costing too much and is effectively losing readers. And here’s me in a severely weakened position, because it was my brainchild and I’ve effectively staked my reputation on it. So I whip out a bulging file of notes I’ve been working on about the online edition and mentally steel myself for the grilling that lies ahead.

  Anyway, I’m just clickety-clacking out of my office to get the lift to the boardroom on the top floor, when Rachel, my assistant, stops me in my tracks.

  ‘Eloise?’ she says standing up behind her desk and looking petrified. ‘Thank God I caught you. There’s a phone call for you. And it’s urgent.’

  Odd, it strikes me: Rachel looking so terrified about whoever’s on the phone. Mainly because every single phone call that comes for me is urgent; there’s always some emergency. Frankly, the day that someone leaves a message for me saying, ‘Oh tell her it’s not that important, no rush at all in getting back to me’ is the day hell will freeze over.

  Plus, Rachel is normally the epitome of glacial blonde coolness under pressure, which is not only why I hired her, but it’s the main reason why she’s survived so many staff cullings round here. She’s around my own age and the human equivalent of half a Xanax tablet; always chilled, always in control, never loses her head; in short, the perfect assistant for someone like me.

  But right now, she’s thrusting a phone at me, looking ghostly pale, ashen-faced and like she needs to be treated for deep shock.

  ‘Trust me, you need to take this call.’

  ‘I’m on my way to the boardroom!’ I almost hiss at her impatiently, not meaning to be rude, but come on … surely Rachel of all people knows that when the board of directors calls, you drop everything and go running?

  It’s non-negotiable.

  ‘I’m sorry Rachel, but you’ll just have to tell whoever’s on the phone that they’ll have to wait till I call them back.’

  ‘Eloise, you have to listen to me. Please try to stay calm, but … it’s about your little girl.’

  Chapter Two

  And the day from hell rolls relentlessly on.

  I’m now sitting in a poky little waiting room outside the principal’s office at the Embassy PreSchool, where Lily has been a pupil for about three weeks now. The emergency call came through from the principal, one Miss Pettifer, to say I needed to get here urgently – but as soon she’d reassured me that Lily was neither sick nor had been in an accident but was safely at home with her nanny, I calmly told her that I was on my way to a board meeting and it was a bad time for me to talk. Elka, I told her in no uncertain terms, would call her ASAP and troubleshoot whatever storm in a teacup was going on. So I’d just get her to do what she was being paid to do, while I obeyed the royal command to haul my arse up to the T. Rexes in the boardroom above, right away.

  But Miss Pettifer was having none of it.

  ‘I’m terribly sorry if there’s any inconvenience Miss Elliot,’ she told me in no uncertain terms, ‘but I’m afraid this is a matter for the parent and the parent alone, which I can’t simply delegate out to a childminder. I realise that you’re a busy woman but I can assure you, I am too. Now, we close for the day in just under an hour’s time and as this matter is of some significance, I strongly suggest that you come in here immediately. Surely you agree that the welfare of your child is more important than any board meeting?’

  No more information forthcoming about what in the name of God could be so pressing anyway, or why the antics of a little girl now had her principal acting like the child had tried to set fire to the place or else gone into her preschool brandishing a shotgun. And if Lily’s okay and not sick or anything, then what in the name of God could it possibly be?

  ‘Ah, Miss Elliot, please come in; so sorry to have kept you waiting.’

  I look up from where I’m impatiently perched in the waiting room and there she is, the famous Miss Pettifer. We’ve never actually met before; a few months ago, when I stuck my head in the door to vet the place and see if I could enrol Lily as a pupil, I was dealing with her assistant and of course, ever since then, Elka brings her to and from preschool. So apart from writing humongously inflated cheques for their services, to my shame I’ve next to nothing to do with the place. Or with Miss Pettifer, who’s now holding out an outstretched hand and beckoning me into her tiny little office, decorated with dozens of kids’ class photos and cute little drawings done in coloured pencil dotted all around the brightly painted walls.

  She’s early fifties, I’d say, holding middle age tenuously at bay, with more than a touch of the Aunt Agathas from P.G. Wodehouse about her; grizzly grey hair that looks like it could be used for scouring pans tied back in a no-nonsense bun, clipped speech and dressed like she’s about to referee a hockey match any minute. Stern and stentorian; I instantly get an image of her parading up and down past a line of toddlers inspecting their finger paintings and checking for runny noses. A bit like the Queen doing a meet and greet on a visit to a toilet roll factory.

  She invites me to sit down on a coloured plastic chair opposite her desk, which immediately wrongfoots me; normally it’s me on the far side of a desk, the one who’s about to initiate a meeting and take charge.

  ‘Miss Elliot, may I call you Eloise?’

  I nod mutely, thinking, please for the love of God, just cut to the jugular and tell me what this is all about. No time for preambles here. No time for anything.

  Mercifully, she’s a woman who seems not to believe in sugar-coating things and comes straight to the point.

  ‘Eloise, I’m afraid we’ve been having problems with Lily, which I strongly feel you need to be made aware of. And so, it’s my duty as principal here to ask you, let’s just say a few personal questions.’

  Okay, now I’m staring dumbly back at her, thinking, ehhh … What exactly can a little girl who’s not even three years old have got up to that merits the bleeding Spanish Inquisition?

  ‘Fire away,’ I manage to say, calmly as I can, given that the mobile on my knee is switched to silent and hasn’t stopped flashing up missed calls from the office ever since I got here.

  Miss Pettifer instantly cuts across my stream of worry.

  ‘Eloise, I’m afraid I need to be perfectly frank with you here. You’re a single mum, I know, and a very hardworking one at that. You single-handedly carry out an incredibly demanding job. I’m an avid reader of the Post every day, you know, and greatly admire your editorials …’

  I nod mechanically, pathetically grateful for the bone she’s just thrown me.

  ‘But leaving your career aside, being a single parent is probably the toughest job in the whole world. May I ask if you have help of any kind? Apart from your nanny, do you have family support? Your parents, perhaps?’

  ‘No, I’m afraid not.’

  ‘Because you know there are any number of wonderful one-parent support groups locally that I’d be more than happy to recommend to you …’

  One-parent support groups? I find myself looking at her numbly. What does this one think I am anyway, on welfare?

  ‘I feel they might help you to cope with a lot of the demands laid on any busy working single mum. They could help. You see, I have some most unwelcome news to tell you, I’m sorry to say. A problem for us, which sadly c
ould represent an even bigger problem for you.’

  Involuntarily, I throw a look of pure panic across the desk at her.

  Tell me, just tell me quickly before I pass out with worry …

  ‘There was a deeply regrettable incident earlier here today, which is why I’ve had to call you in.’

  Okay, now I’m on the edge of my seat, palms sweating, breathing jaggedly, bracing myself for what’s coming next. ‘What happened?’

  ‘Lily, I’m afraid to say, got into a heated row with Tim O’Connor, another little boy here in preschool. There were tears, there was screaming, and worst of all, Lily resorted to smacking him until he cried …’

  ‘She WHAT? Are you sure?’

  ‘I wouldn’t have called you in here if I weren’t,’ she says, looking evenly at me.

  ‘But that’s outrageous! Lily has never behaved like that before!’

  I’m on the verge of spluttering indignantly at her that I’d surely know all about it if she did, but then, with a sudden, sharp stab of guilt have to remind myself … How exactly would I know? These days, when do I ever get to see or spend quality time with the poor child anyway, barring our precious Sundays together? The only way I know if there’s trouble at home is if Elka tells me, and lately Elka’s been telling me nothing, just whinging about how late I work and how there are no KitKats in the fridge and how we’re out of Cheerios. And these days I’ve been working so late, even she mostly communicates with me via Post-it notes stuck on the door of the microwave.

  So instead of opening my mouth, I sit quiet and listen to the sound of the blood whooshing through my brain while Miss Pettifer relentlessly goes on and on.

  ‘… Which of course is behaviour we simply can’t put up with. We have a strict policy of zero tolerance, you see, with any kind of unruly behaviour. We expect children to attend having already been taught the rudiments of basic manners and social skills around others.’

  ‘But … why did Lily smack him? Do you have any idea what the row was about?’

  ‘Ahh, you see that’s where it becomes delicate and personal. And believe me when I say I hope this doesn’t cause you any offence, but it was over the question of Lily’s father.’

  Suddenly, after all my panic and stress and shock … I find myself without a single word to say. And now there’s silence. Horrible, awkward, bum-clenching silence.

  ‘You’re rearing Lily on your own and believe me, I know how difficult that can be, Eloise,’ Miss Pettifer says to me, sounding almost gentle now, which, in the state I’m in, I’m oddly grateful for, ‘but may I ask you a very personal question?’

  I nod mutely.

  ‘Do you have any contact at all with Lily’s dad?’

  Lily’s dad.

  Oh shit and double shit. I can’t believe she just asked me that. And worse, is now looking expectantly back at me, waiting on an answer.

  ‘Well, not exactly …’ is the best I can manage, totally thrown at being caught on the hop like this.

  ‘It’s just that, in years to come, it’s highly likely that Lily will want to know more about him and to spend time with him too. Which is only right and fair, of course. In an ideal world, children should grow up knowing each of their parents, even if they happen to live in a single parent family. They have a right to know both parents equally well, regardless of circumstances. We have several other children here who all come from wonderful one-parent families and although they may not live with Mum and Dad, they at least have regular contact with each. Unlike Lily, I’m afraid.’

  I’ve absolutely no answer to that so I just stare back at her, as calmly as I can.

  ‘I’m so sorry to have to persist, Eloise, and I appreciate that this is uncomfortable, but it’s your daughter I’m thinking of and so I really do need to ask you these questions. You see, even if you have no dealings whatsoever with this man, he still is the child’s father and as such he does have rights.’

  ‘Yes … I know that, but you see …’

  And the best of luck finishing that sentence, I think to myself.

  ‘I know you must feel very strongly about not allowing him access to Lily, and undoubtedly you have your own personal reasons for this, but really, I’ve seen all this happen more times than you can possibly imagine in the past and I can assure you it’s inevitable. Remember, if he wants to see her, he can easily go to the family law courts and request visitation rights and no judge in the land would deny that to any father. Trust me, you don’t want to have to deal with Lily when she becomes a teenager accusing you of never allowing her to see her dad. It just wouldn’t be right, not to mention it’s completely unhealthy for her. I know it’s none of my business, but I would beg you to take my advice; build bridges with this man, no matter how difficult it is for you. Because mark my words, if you don’t, the day will come when Lily will.’

  ‘No she won’t.’

  She looks over the desk at me in dull surprise, probably unused to being contradicted.

  ‘Excuse me?’

  ‘What I mean is, Lily won’t be able to track down her father.’

  ‘I’m afraid I’m not with you.’

  ‘She won’t be able to find out who he is or where he is, because I couldn’t even tell you that myself. I was never in a relationship with him. That is, I don’t know his name or where he is or … In fact the truth is … I don’t know anything about him at all.’

  Then I suddenly backpedal and have an urge to clamp my hand over my mouth, realising that makes me sound like some spray-tanned, bleach-headed tarts who got up the duff after a one night stand with a bloke whose name they now can’t even remember.

  And now Miss Pettifer is peering curiously at me over the rims of her glasses, and I can practically read her thoughts. God almighty, never would have had this one down as someone who’d be a bit of a goer of a Friday night on the town, after a few shots of vodka and Red Bull. Hard to imagine Miss Prissy newspaper editor in a pair of leather trousers and a cropped-top bra, falling drunk out of some nightclub at five a.m., draped round some unknown fella she’s only just met and is about to drag home for a quickie one night stand.

  ‘And no, I promise, it’s not what you’re thinking either,’ I tell her with a heartfelt sigh, knowing I can’t circle around this any longer.

  The time has come for the truth.

  Hard to blurt it out though; this is not something I ever talk about, barely even think about most of the time. Aside from my family, no one really knows the truth, the whole truth and nothing but, which is exactly how I like to keep it.

  But seeing Miss Pettifer looking expectantly at me, waiting for my answer, I know I’ve no choice but to tell her.

  ‘I had Lily by artificial insemination.’

  I try my best to say it evenly and without embarrassment. For God’s sake, haven’t I been putting up with all sorts of rumours and sly stories circulating round the office about Lily’s parentage, ever since the day I first announced my pregnancy? All widely exaggerated and laughably wide of the mark.

  Because the truth was this; almost three years ago now, dating right back to that dismal night when I turned thirty, I made one life-altering decision. Not to rush into marriage, or find a significant other to share my life with and take away the loneliness; I didn’t mind being on my own and was never particularly bothered about being single. Unlike a lot of my contemporaries at work, I was never emotionally double-parked and in a mad, tearing rush to meet someone. Singledom held out no threat for me whatsoever.

  As far as I was concerned, the road to love was far too full of potholes and roadblocks to be even worth the hassle. And on the rare occasions when I did date, I’d pretty much been able to see the end of every single love affair right from its very beginning. I was someone who actively preferred my own company to that of any guy brave enough to ask me out, and who didn’t want the mess of relationships, thanks; that was my sister Helen’s department and not mine. In fact, my heart was so untroubled by emotion that it might as well
have had a big ‘do not disturb’ sign permanently hanging from it.

  I’d dated in the past, of course, and like everyone else could boast of having my heart smashed to smithereens back in college by ‘the one that got away’. Who’s married with two kids now and who recently rang me up out of the blue, saying he’d just been made redundant then asking me for a job. In spite of no experience whatsoever in the paper business; this guy was a chemical engineer. Mortifying, for us both, on so many levels. And certainly before I had Lily, from time to time I’d go out on the odd date. But they always seemed to me to end up like a job interview where no one ever got hired. My overall verdict on my chances of ever finding a life partner? Meh.

  No, it wasn’t that I was ever lonely … Besides, how could anyone who worked a sixteen-hour day ever call themselves lonely? But dating back to that night of my miserable, pathetic thirtieth birthday, I was filled with a dark and inexplicable horror of ending up alone. Because there’s a world of difference between the epic loneliness I was so frightened of and being alone, as I was terrifyingly beginning to see.

  And that’s when I absolutely knew for certain. Whatever else the future might hold for me, and even though there were times when I felt crushed under the sheer weight of it, there was one thing that I didn’t want the chance to miss out on, and that was to become a mother. That was without a doubt, the one, personal thing that I wanted out of life for myself more than anything else. A child of my own. No head space for the inconvenience of a man in my life, thank you very much, I just wanted a baby, full stop. And once I’d made the decision, it was like a tight iron band had been lifted from round my heart. No question about it, this wasn’t just the right thing to do, it was the only thing.

  And okay, so I might not exactly have had close female friends to confide in – or indeed, any mates at all – but believe me, I’d heard enough horror stories circulating round the office to know precisely the best plan of action open to someone like me. I’d overheard bloodcurdling tales told in whispered conversations by the watercoolers, heartrending sagas about women who’d had kids with partners who suddenly became ex-partners and then spent years dragging the mother of their child through the family law courts demanding access rights. Which always and inevitably seemed to be granted.