The Aftermath Gail Schimmel (7 ebook reader txt) 📖

can probably tell,’ I say, ‘we haven’t actually discussed the details of my maternity leave. However, I can assure you that Gerald is completely familiar with your company and in fact does most of the hard work on this account.’

That’s not entirely true, but he is familiar with it, and he could do the work in his sleep. We just have to hire someone who can help him with working a computer. I decide not to mention that.

After the meeting I say goodbye as quickly as I can, and race to my office, relieved. But Steve follows me.

‘So,’ he says.

‘So,’ I answer, and I sit down at my desk with a sigh.

‘I don’t mean to pry or be inappropriate, but I’m guessing this’ – he indicates my body in a vague gesture – ‘has something to do with us. Or with what turned out not to be us.’

I force a smile. ‘In a way. Although it only happened afterwards. I’m sorry.’

‘There’s nothing to be sorry for,’ he says. ‘You’re glowing – pregnancy clearly suits you.’

I laugh. ‘I am so not glowing,’ I say. ‘Well, not in a good way at least.’

‘You look beautiful to me. Your partner is a lucky man.’

‘Yes,’ I say, but there’s doubt in my voice and Steve raises an eyebrow. ‘It’s complicated.’ And I’m thinking that Daniel hasn’t ever said pregnancy suits me.

‘Well, I’m sure it will all work out,’ says Steve.

‘Yes,’ I say, forcing a smile. ‘As my mum always says, nobody said life is simple.’

‘Indeed,’ says Steve. ‘Well, I’m looking forward to working together again. We just better make a plan as to what will happen when you go on leave. I’m not sure I can handle Gerald for four months. Maybe we can hurry the work so I don’t have to face that.’

We both laugh, and I remember how easy his laugh was. I remember how easy working with him was, except for the part where I became obsessed with him. But that’s over now, and suddenly I’m looking forward to the next few months.

Claire

Somehow I get everything done. The last two of the weddings from the ‘big batch’ are this weekend, so I double-confirm every detail and check in with both brides so that they feel cared for. Both want to chat, but I manage to cut them short, and there are no last-minute crises, which is almost unheard of for these weddings. But I also have to start mapping out the huge Farmers’ Market Festival the hotel throws on its grounds every year – and I’m a bit behind schedule with that. Then I realise that some of my ideas for the school fete can double as ideas for the market – so I create a new Pinterest board and transfer some of the pins before sending the link to the hotel manager. Finally, I draw up a schedule of weddings at the wedding venue over the next two months – very few, as is usual at this time of the year – and I draft some tweets and Facebook posts about our new idea: ‘Last-minute winter weddings.’

Then I take one of the casseroles I bought at the deli this morning and drop it off at Ivy’s, and I make us both a cup of tea. Ivy is cheerful in the face of her post-operative recovery, and is talking about starting yoga when her hip stops hurting.

‘People do all sorts of things with their new hips,’ she says. ‘I want to be in on the action.’

I agree that I might do some yoga classes with her, and she claps her hands in delight and is soon tapping away at her phone to invite the other pottery widows. But talk of mutual friends leads us to Julia.

The widows are among the very few people who actually know what Julia did to me, and they were horrified when I told them. Grace was the saddest: ‘She seemed like such a nice girl,’ she kept saying. And Ivy, who I’m closest to, was the angriest: ‘Little bitch,’ she said in her sweet-old-lady voice. ‘Ah well,’ said Liz, the widow who mourned her husband least. ‘You’re probably better off without him. Nothing like a man to cramp your style.’ And then the three of them cackled like witches and even I laughed.

‘Do you miss him?’ Ivy asks me this morning, and it’s a hard question. Late at night after a long day I miss him. I miss laughing with him, and the silliness, and that when he listened, he really listened. I miss sex. I miss knowing what tomorrow looks like.

But it’s also easier. I just get on with things – I don’t have to worry about where Daniel is and what meals he’ll be home for and when he’s doing what. As I saw this morning, it’s not like he was ever that much help.

‘Less than I should,’ is what I eventually tell Ivy.

‘Always the way,’ she says philosophically. ‘But he probably misses you.’

‘Ivy,’ I say, ‘he’s got a nubile young girlfriend who’s funny and interesting and who thinks he’s God. He’s escaped the drudgery of daily fatherhood, for now at least. Compared to Julia, I’m old and I’m boring and I nag. I doubt he misses me at all.’

Ivy looks at me. ‘You under-estimate yourself, Claire. You’re a very special person.’

‘Daniel used to think so,’ I say. ‘Just not any more.’

Ivy nods, too wise to try to convince me otherwise. ‘Then he’s a fool, Claire. And there are lots of other men out there.’

‘So, so not interested, Ivy.’ Of the many scenarios I play out in my head at night, finding another man is not one of them.

After Ivy, I grab a sandwich for lunch, and then head back to the school for sports day. On the way, Daniel messages me: Can’t make sports day. Sorry, babe.

I’m actually quite impressed he thought to let me know. I’m less impressed that he’s calling me ‘babe’, and that he doesn’t