Free Letter from Paris by Thérèse Page B

Any suggestions? You don’t have to tell me right now. Give me a list by tomorrow. Oh! And you need to get Samantha to set up a meeting for you with the dean at LIFT, ASAP. Get a sense of the project.”
    “Okay,” India said. “I’ll get right on it.” That was the thing to say, she was sure. Very Olivia Pope.
    Henry was sliding back his chair and clearly expecting her to leave. Gathering her papers into the pink leather Smythson folio case she had bought earlier in the week, India hesitated for a moment and then left the room, unsure where she was headed. She was still hovering in the reception area when Samantha appeared again.
    “Henry just remembered you might need a desk here from time to time. We haven’t a lot of space, but I’ve cleared a corner of the room the accountant uses when he comes in. Second door on the left. Make a list of anything you need.”
    India, resisting the urge to grab her coat and run out of the building, smiled and went down the corridor.
    What on earth have I got myself into? she wondered, looking at the bleak room with its mismatched battered furniture and peeling paintwork. I don’t think I can spend more than five minutes in here.
    Glancing at her phone, she saw a text from Sarah.
    Can be at your place at 6 , India typed quickly. Coming back out to reception, she thanked Samantha, then ran down the stairs onto the street and made for the tube station.

    India’s mind was racing as the train hurtled through the darkness of the underground tunnel and out into the fading sunlight of the suburbs. She leapt up quickly, almost missing her stop. She raced across the platform, onto the street teeming with commuters. Dashing up the path of Sarah’s Victorian terraced house, she stood on the step catching her breath and taking in the gentle scent of the lavender hedge. Spring has finally sprung, she thought.
    Sarah pulled open the door and gave her a hug. “So how’d it go? Perfect timing, I’ve made Spaghetti Bolognese – coming right up.”
    India threw her jacket across the back of the couch.
    “Help yourself,” Sarah shouted, waving toward a bottle of Pinot Grigio. “Opener’s somewhere around. Try the drawer on the left.”
    “Voila!” she announced, setting a bowl of steaming pasta in the center of her pine kitchen table and wiping her hands on her apron.
    “Thanks. That looks delicious,” India said, struggling to uncork the bottle. “Where’s your glass or have you made an early start? God Sarah, what have I got myself into with this new job? You know I was thinking on the way over that maybe Henry’s only hired me to get Annie and Joss to be hosts for the fashion show. He’s asking me to lead on that. I think he’s under the impression I can just pick up the phone to Brad Pitt or someone.”
    India stopped speaking abruptly, her train of thought interrupted by Sarah’s look of distraction. “Are you okay?”
    Sarah put down the serving spoon and leaned back. “Indie, I have news. I hope you’re going to be pleased for me.”
    “Omigod. Sarah! Sarah!” India screamed jumping up. “You’re getting married. Right? I knew it. Sarah, you can’t keep a secret from me.”
    “Not exactly, but close,” Sarah replied looking decidedly sheepish. She hesitated for a moment. “I’m pregnant,” she said.
    India sat back down in her chair with a thud. “But I don’t understand. You’re so sensible. This kind of accident happens to people like me, not you,” she said. “When did you find out? How many weeks? Do you know what you’re going to do?”
    “This isn’t an accident,” Sarah said quietly, taking a sip of water.
    India’s jaw dropped. “It’s not?”
    “No.”
    “So, okay. How many weeks are you?” India asked, struggling to take in the enormity of what she was hearing.
    “Twelve,” Sarah answered.
    ‘That’s three months. Sarah, you can’t possibly be telling me you got pregnant deliberately. You were planning something as big as THIS