Free Emma's Baby by Abbie Taylor Page B

anyone; just stood there sipping his pint of Spitfire, sometimes staring off into space. What was all that about? What did he think about when he half closed his drowsy eyes while those around him shouted over each other to be heard? And yet, despite his aloofness, he always managed to be right in the middle of the coolest group.
How did he do that? He didn't seem to make any particular effort to attract people; they just gathered around him. On the nights she spotted him, she felt a little snip of excitement in her belly. She held herself straighter, became more animated, made sure she was always laughing and having a good time. Easy enough to do, because the Grape, with Oliver in it, suddenly seemed like the very centre of London. The place everyone wanted to be.
    'You know he's an orphan,' Joanne told her one evening. 'His parents were killed in a car crash when he was seven.'
    'No!' Emma was shocked. 'That's horrible.'
    'He was sent to live with an aunt somewhere in the country but I don't think they got on too well. She chucked him out when he was about fifteen.'
    'Poor Oliver,' Emma sighed. 'No wonder he's so reserved.'
    'Yeah,' Joanne said. 'Comes across quite deep, doesn't he? Likes it that way.'
    'I thought he was a friend of yours?'
    'Oliver's all right, you know. Barry says he works at that laid-back image of his. A mate of ours lived with him and he said Oliver spent all his time checking himself in the mirror, turning his head from side to side when he thought no one was looking. He makes sure he reads all the right books, knows all the right-on things to say. I don't know how much depth there actually is to him, to be honest.'
    'Hmm,' Emma said.
    The trouble with Joanne was she didn't like any men now that she'd met Barry. Emma could take or leave Barry. He was a bit middle-aged, considering he was only twenty-six. He'd been born and spent his whole life in Wandsworth, had a beer belly already, and held views on things like immigration and single mothers. But he was doing well in his career, slowly clambering to the top of the IT world. He had bought his own flat. Joanne had always wanted to marry young.
    It was raining one evening in September when
Emma sloshed down the steps to put her key in the lock of their basement flat. The end of yet another glorious day at the call centre, being shouted at by clients who couldn't get through to technical support.
The calls were recorded so she couldn't tell the clients to piss off, or even agree with them that yes, actually,
PlanetLink was the worst broadband provider in the
UK and the best thing they could do would be to take their custom elsewhere. What made things even more unbearable was that she had no one to bitch to during her breaks. Most of her colleagues were either several years younger than her, only there for a few weeks to fund their gap year, or else many years older, worn down and embittered by life, trying to scrape together the cash to save the house their ex had remortgaged without telling them. The only person in the place remotely her age was Brian Cobbold, Emma's would-be admirer, who'd been working at the call centre for six years now, and wearing the same V-necked jumper for most of them.
    Six years! Emma felt faint. She'd been there for ten months, and already she could feel mould growing on her. She really needed to get out of there. Fast.
    Her humour didn't improve when she got in the door of the flat and found a letter from a renowned hotel chain waiting for her.
    Dear Ms Turner,
Thank you for applying for the position of
Assistant Marketing Director at the Globe
Rendezvous Group. We regret to inform you
that you have not been shortlisted for this post.
    'London is so competitive ,' Emma moaned to
Joanne. 'Any of the really good jobs I've applied for, all the other people have got Masters and first-class degrees. It's hopeless trying to get anywhere.'
    'You're aiming too high,' Joanne advised. 'You should just take something. Get on the