*

Jules

The train doors closed, the click of the electronic locking mechanism audible, and Jules took a sharp intake of breath. This was really happening. She was getting away. She shoved her phone to the very bottom of her bag, breathed out slowly and relaxed back into her seat, the visions of Paul charging along the platform and storming the carriage, demanding she come back home, receding. That was the last time, she told herself.

It was always the last time.

She meant it this time. That was it. She’d had enough.

Her second sigh raised the eyebrows of her friends. ‘Work’s bonkers at the moment,’ she said, by way of explanation. ‘And I want to get as much done as possible so I can rest up a bit during my… treatment.’

‘Has anyone clocked yet?’ Alice asked.

‘Nope,’ Jules said. ‘I almost wish they would. The subterfuge is an added layer of stress I don’t need.’

‘Maybe it’s time you told them? Take some proper time off?’

‘If you worked with women, someone would have noticed years ago,’ Nina mused. ‘Not kept fast-tracking you and giving you more to do.’

‘But what if it doesn’t work?’ Jules bristled, as she always did when it was suggested, usually by her mother, that it might be her job, rather than her hostile uterus, that was preventing her from having children. Yes, she worked long hours. But do you know what she didn’t do when she was working? She didn’t smoke, she didn’t drink, she didn’t do drugs. She did work out, in the company’s top-floor gym, she did jog around the City when she’d done an all-nighter and needed a shower anyway. She did earn enough money to live in a nice house in Strand-on-the-Green in Chiswick with a little red sports car parked outside it, which a child would be extremely fortunate to grow up in. That’s what she told herself, anyway. ‘… I’ll be off the leadership programme and still no baby. I’ve made so many sacrifices, I can’t give up everything.’ She swallowed, her eyes filling. Every now and then, raw pain still took her by surprise. ‘And this is it, isn’t it? This is my last shot. Paul says he can’t do it any more and I do get it,’ she said carefully. ‘I do…’ She sniffed and trailed off, her lips pursed.

Beside her, Alice put her head on her shoulder. Opposite them, Nina, dressed for spring in a voluminous rainbow-striped cropped mohair jumper (except it probably wasn’t mohair, likely something more ethical), was producing all manner of things from her various bags: sticky, still-warm pastries, a huge flask of the coffee she was famous for and chunks of juicy fruit. Her friends had dispensed with the platitudes of infertility some time ago, at Jules’s behest, and she was grateful for it. These were, after all, her longest, most solid friendships. These were the women who knew her best. Having them beside her was enough.