idly rubbing her bump. ‘Talking at four-hundred miles an hour about Chekhov and baseball games. You know, Yaz-like.’ Her fond smile stretches as she yawns expansively. ‘She’s getting skinny, though. She needs a good meal.’
I suppress a smile. Martha may not be a mother yet, but she’s been mothering everyone within reach for as long as I’ve known her. Feeding people up is one of her favourite forms of benevolent attack. She also keeps insisting on bringing friends from her Pilates class around for tea in the blatant hope that they might make an honest man of Fitz, our other flatmate.
Speaking of Fitz – I check the time on my fitbit. He’s on his fourth new job of the year; he really shouldn’t be late for this one.
‘Is Fitz up yet?’ I ask.
He wanders in on cue, pushing up his collar to put on a tie. As per usual, his facial hair looks like it was cut against a ruler – I’ve lived with him for three years and am still no closer to understanding how he achieves this. Fitz always looks so misleadingly together. His life is in a permanent state of disarray, but his socks are always perfectly ironed. (In his defence, they are always on show – he wears his trousers an inch too short – and they are more interesting than the average person’s socks. He has one pair covered in a SpongeBob SquarePants motif, another speckled like a Van Gogh painting, and his favourite pair are his ‘political socks’, which say ‘Brexit is bollocks’ around the ankle.)
‘I’m up. Question is, why are you up, holidayer?’ Fitz asks, finishing off knotting his skinny tie.
‘Oh, Leena,’ Martha says. ‘I’m sorry, I’d totally forgotten you weren’t going to work this morning.’ Her eyes are wide with sympathy. ‘How’re you feeling?’
‘Miserable,’ I confess. ‘And then angry with myself for being miserable, because who feels miserable when they’ve been given a paid two-month holiday? But I keep reliving the moment in that meeting. Then all I want to do is curl up in the foetal position.’
‘The foetal position is not as static as people think,’ Martha says, grimacing and rubbing the side of her belly. ‘But yeah, that’s totally natural, sweetheart. You need to rest – that’s what your body is telling you. And you need to forgive yourself. You just made a little mistake.’
‘Leena’s never made one of those before,’ Fitz says, heading for the smoothie maker. ‘Give her time to adjust.’
I scowl. ‘I’ve made mistakes.’
‘Oh, please, Little Miss Perfect. Name one,’ Fitz says, winking over his shoulder.
Martha clocks my irritated expression and reaches to give my arm a squeeze, then remembers how sweaty I am and pats me gently on the shoulder instead.
‘Do you have plans for your weekend?’ she asks me.
‘I’m going up to Hamleigh, actually,’ I say, glancing at my phone. I’m expecting a text from Ethan – he had to work late last night, but I’m hoping he’s free this evening. I need one of his hugs, the really gorgeous long ones where I tuck my face into his neck and he wraps me right up.
‘Yeah?’ Fitz says, making a face. ‘Going back up north to see your mum – that’s what you want to do right now?’
‘Fitz!’ Martha chides. ‘I think that’s a great idea, Leena. Seeing your granny will make you feel so much better, and you don’t have to spend any time with your mum if you don’t feel ready. Is Ethan going with you?’
‘Probably not – he’s on that project in Swindon. The delivery deadline’s next Thursday – he’s in the office all hours.’
Fitz gives the smoothie machine a rather pointed whir at that. He doesn’t need to say anything: I know he thinks Ethan and I don’t prioritise each other enough. It’s true we don’t see each other as much as we’d like to – we may work for the same company, but we’re always staffed on different projects, usually in different godforsaken industrial parks. But that’s part of why Ethan is so amazing. He gets how important work is. When Carla died and I was struggling so much to stay afloat, it was Ethan who kept me focused on my job, reminding me what I loved about it, pushing me to keep moving forward so I didn’t have the chance to sink.
Only now I don’t have any work to keep me going, not for the next eight weeks. Two enormous months gape ahead of me, unfilled. As I think