The Night That Changed Everything (4 page)

I love the English Baroque-style dome of St Paul's – the tallest building in London as recently as the sixties – and I love the eighty-seven-storey Shard. I love the twinkling windows of The Gherkin (though I hate that name).

I love the wind on my cheeks and the freedom of not being governed by timetables and specific routes – I can leave whenever I want and take any path, no matter how narrow. And I love the fact that for forty minutes I don't have to think about anything else. My mind is focused on the road ahead, and the traffic around me, and the judging of time and distance as I weave in and out of the gaps between cars, buses and pedestrians.

And most of all, if I'm totally honest, I love that it's not the Tube, because the temptation to punch slow walkers in the back of the head is just too overwhelming at 8 a.m.

As I'm finding out today. I had to leave my bike at home because I'm getting the train straight to Dad's at lunchtime with Ben.

‘Good morning!' A blonde girl I don't recognize greets me in a Scottish accent when I arrive at Goode Architecture Associates on a commuter-rage comedown. ‘I'm Jemma.'

Shit, I forgot the new receptionist has her induction day today. Not everyone was a fan of Mandy, our last one, but I liked her. She mightn't have been the happiest soul, or indeed the most welcoming by nature, but she was organized and efficient, and that's really all I wanted from her.

This girl's round, pretty face is smiley and friendly. Double shit.

‘Morning,' I reply, hoping she won't take offence if I don't stop and chat.

At the top of the stairs I keep my head down, not slowing my pace or giving anyone the chance to engage me in conversation – I want to get my shit together before my meeting. But right before I sit down, the boss's door swings open and I hear my name being called. I close my eyes and take a deep breath, trying to channel the me from yesterday. The me who hadn't done the maths yet. The me who was entirely focused on the job at hand, and not preoccupied with the realization that Ben and I might have accidentally made a tiny human.

‘Rebecca, perfect timing,' Jake is saying. ‘This is Adam Larsson from Bensons. You'll be working together on the cinema.'

Ah ha, the infamous Adam Larsson. I've never met him but I've heard Eddie's tales of their debaucherous nights out, which inevitably end up with Adam going home with someone. He's fit, but if his smug smile is anything to go by, my gosh doesn't he know it.

‘And this,' Jake tells Adam, a little proudly I'm touched to note, ‘is Rebecca Giamboni, head architect on the project.'

‘Er, hi,' says Adam, his smile faltering as his eyes flick from me to Jake. ‘I assumed I'd be working with Eddie.' Then, remembering himself, he holds out his hand. ‘Good to meet you, Rebecca.'

‘And you,' I say, gripping his hand firmly despite my risen heckles at his evident disappointment that I'm infiltrating his boys' club. And I always got the impression from Eddie that this guy was smooth.

‘Rebecca's one of our rising stars,' Jake adds.

‘Looking forward to working with you,' Adam tells me with smirk.

‘Likewise,' I lie, looking forward to wiping the smirk off his face.

Not by punching him or anything – by designing a really frickin' impressive cinema.

I can't tell how on board Adam is with my initial ideas as he responds to everything I say in our meeting with a non-committal nod. So when it's his turn to talk, I do the same, even though his ideas are pretty good. Jake's enthusiasm makes up for it, though, and by the time we draw the meeting to a close, I'm feeling excited.

If I'm pregnant it really is the worst timing in the history of procreation, I note as I finally sink into my chair at my desk. I'll be furious with myself.

It's not that Ben and I aren't careful. I'd never leave this shit to chance. I'm on the pill, and that's why I wasn't too worried when my period didn't come. But this morning I was sitting eating my cereal at the kitchen table, and a memory popped into my head of what we'd done right where my bowl of Crunchy Nut Cornflakes sat. A memory that made me smile and blush at the same time, and then I remembered that I'd been sick for a few days before that, throwing up everything that passed through my mouth. Including my pill?

My desk phone rings, snapping me out of it. Christ, I think, blinking: I'm meant to be working on the most important project of my life – Jake has hinted that a promotion could be on the cards if it goes well – but I'll be lucky to keep the job I already have unless I start to focus.

‘Sugar?' asks the new receptionist as soon as I pick up the phone.

‘Pardon?'

‘I've made you a tea,' she explains. ‘Just wondered how you take it.'

‘Oh, er . . . White, no sugar, please.'

Or better still, with a spoonful of coffee and no teabag.

‘On its way.' She hangs up.

Bit weird.

I scrunch up the page I'm drawing on and lob it into the bin, then regret it. The blank page in front of me doesn't scream busy and, as I feared, when the new receptionist brings my tea up, she hovers by my desk.

‘Thanks, Emma,' I tell her as she sets the mug down next to me.

‘Jemma,' she corrects me.

‘God, sorry – Jemma. I'm terrible with names.'

‘With a J.'

‘Um . . . right.'

‘Just in case you look me up on Facebook. Ooh, by the way,' she squeals, ‘have you ever noticed how much Adam Larsson looks like Eric Northman? You know, from
True Blood
?'

‘Nope – never seen it.'

‘I recognized him from a copy of
Architecture Weekly
I was reading in reception before my interview. I was actually just looking at the pictures but I thought it might make a good impression. Anyway, it's basically vampire porn.'

‘
Architecture Weekly
?'

‘No,
True Blood
. You should watch it.'

I feel my shoulders tense as she plonks herself down in the chair opposite me. I don't want to be a dick, especially on her first day, but if she's looking for a gossip then she's come to the wrong desk. I should introduce her to Eddie.

‘This your other half?' Jemma asks, picking up the framed photo next to my computer. It's a snap of St Basil's Cathedral in Moscow, the first building I ever fell in love with, taken with my old film camera on a holiday with my dad and brother when I was eleven.

I laugh. ‘Just a building I like.'

‘Do you have a boyfriend?'

‘Yep.'

‘How long have you been together?'

‘Eleven months,' I tell her.

‘So it's serious?' Is
she
serious?

‘Yes, you could say that.'

‘You dinnae seem happy about it.'

‘I am, I am, it's just . . .' It's just I don't feel comfortable with the intrusive questioning. I can't say that, of course.

‘He's meeting my dad for the first time later,' I say instead, hoping she'll leave it there. ‘Just a bit nervous.'

I'm not lying, I realize. I've been desperate for Ben to meet my dad, but have struggled to find a weekend all three of us could do. Now the day is finally here, I have butterflies. They're the two most important people in my life: what if they don't get on?

‘I havenae had sex for months,' Jemma says.

‘Oh,' I say. ‘That's, um . . .'

‘You're lucky to have someone,' she adds, swivelling herself in the chair so fast that eventually, when she lifts her legs off the ground, she carries on spinning.

She's lucky
, I think. At least she knows she's not pregnant.
Oh, God, please don't let me be pregnant
, I pray for the hundredth time today. There's no room in my life for a baby right now. What if they take me off the project? And even if they don't, how likely are they to promote me if I'm off on maternity leave in nine months?

‘Thanks,' I tell Jemma, trying to keep my voice even. ‘And, um, thanks for the tea.'

‘Any time,' she says, mid-spin.

I gulp down the last few mouthfuls then stand up and pull on my leather jacket. ‘I should shoot off, actually. Train to catch.' Test to buy. Stick to pee on.

‘Cool,' she says, slamming her feet on the ground to stop the motion. ‘I'd better head down anyway. I've been told never to leave my phone unattended.'

From the queue at Boots I spot Ben, leaning against the wall of Paperchase, glancing around the station.

He's wearing navy jeans and a pale blue shirt with buttons on the pockets, sleeves rolled up to the elbows, looking ruggedly handsome. He's quite a catch. Lord knows why it's me he chooses to be with.

I notice a girl in jeans and a blazer glance his way when she walks past, as if trying to catch his eye, and my heart beats a little faster. She's pretty, and curvy, and I can't help wondering what Ben will think if he realizes he could have someone like that.

But he doesn't even bat an eyelid – just glances at his watch.

I smile in relief.

When I count my blessings, I count Ben twice, and as I slip the Boots bag into my holdall, I pray I'm not about to mess it all up.

He looks up as I finally walk towards him, and breaks into a grin. ‘Hello, gorgeous.'

‘Hello, handsome.'

I kiss him hello, breaking my lips away after just a few seconds, even though I could kiss him for ever. Ben doesn't take it personally. Every time he's ever tried an alfresco cuddle I've wriggled out of it, and more than once he's clocked my involuntary looks of discomfort at a couple snogging in front of us in a supermarket queue or at a bus stop.

‘You look hot,' I tell him, leaving him in no doubt that we'll finish that kiss once we're alone. ‘That's a sexy shirt. Blue is a good colour on you.'

‘Ta very much,' he says, appraising himself with a downward glance. ‘Hot was exactly the look I was going for to meet your dad.'

I laugh. ‘Is it new?'

‘Yeah, I was early so bought this and the jeans.'

I step back and look him up and down. ‘I can't believe you bought an entire new outfit just to go to my dad's.' He didn't need to do that – no wonder he's always skint at the end of the month – but I can't help my heart wanting to explode with love. ‘Platform five,' I add, glancing at the departures board.

‘What did you get from Boots?' asks Ben as we pass through the barrier.

Crap, I didn't realize he'd seen me come out.

‘Nurofen,' I mumble. ‘I've had a cracking headache all morning.'

‘
Buonasera
,' Stefan greets me at the front door, dramatically kissing both my cheeks, before shoving me out the way so he can do the same to Ben.

My brother whole-heartedly embraces his Italian heritage, which is pretty funny because there's feck all outward evidence of his quarter-Italian genes. He inherited my mum's English-rose complexion: fair, freckly skin and a shocking intolerance to the sun.

He's also inherited her attraction to tall, dark, handsome men.

‘I didn't know you were coming down,' I tell him, hanging up my coat while Stefan takes Ben's.

‘A man who doesn't spend time with his family can never be a real man,' he tells me in an Italian accent.

Stefan is ginger, for crying out loud. He looks more like Prince Harry than Don Corleone.

‘Dump your stuff then come meet big Marco,' he says to Ben, disappearing back into the kitchen.

‘My brother likes you,' I whisper proudly to Ben.

‘He
likes
me?' he whispers back, pretending to look panicked. ‘Should I change out of the sexy shirt?'

‘God, no – Stefan has always had much better taste than me.'

‘Hey, Becky,' says Dad from the kitchen door, slinging a tea towel over his shoulder and opening his arms for a hug.

‘And Ben, hello.' He releases me and shakes Ben's hand. ‘It's good to finally meet you.'

‘And you, Mr Giamboni.'

Stefan is chopping herbs with his back to us but from the shake of his shoulders I can tell he's suppressing a laugh at Ben's formality.

‘Just getting the dinner prep out the way,' says Dad. ‘Spaghetti bolognese all right for you?'

‘Smashing,' Ben says, his grin faltering as he peers into the saucepan and sees all the raw ingredients my dad has chucked into it at the same time.

Anyone watching us could be fooled into thinking mine's a culinary family – all slicing, chopping and mixing in Dad's huge open-plan kitchen, with its professional-looking eight-hob thingy and its central island with pots and pans dangling above it.

Truth is, Dad and Stefan are just as bad as me.

‘You've a lovely home, Mr Giamboni,' Ben says, staring around the kitchen in awe, and I shoot Stefan a
Don't even think about it
look, though I'm struggling not to laugh myself. But I'm touched how much effort Ben is putting in to make sure my dad likes him.

‘Thanks,' says Dad smoothly, not mentioning the fact he designed the renovation, extending my Granny's house on the edge of the quaint seaside town of Deal in Kent after she died. I love this place too – it's just the right mix of traditional and modern. Classy, but not flash.

‘And, please, call me Marc.'

I give Ben a tour of the house while Dad makes a pot of coffee.

‘Is this Stefan's?' asks Ben as we reach the room at the end of the upstairs corridor.

‘It's mine,' I tell him with a laugh. ‘Why?'

‘The plain blue walls just don't scream teenage girl.'

‘That's how you know it's not Stefan's,' I say, sliding my hands under his shirt and up his back. ‘Anyway . . . blue is my very favourite colour.'

‘Good to know,' he mumbles, planting soft kisses down my face, closer and closer to my mouth until his lips are on mine.