Page 54 of The Surrogate Mother
“Abigail,” she says as a vein pulses in her neck. I hope she doesn’t burst an aneurysm right in front of me.
Well, I mostly hope that.
“Yes, hi,” I say. “What’s up, Denise?”
She glowers at me. “I was hoping you could explain the meaning of this email to me.”
She holds out her phone in my direction and I take it from her. I immediately recognize an email IthoughtI had sent to Shelley, asking her opinion on the latest copy I had written for Cuddles. Except it turns out I accidentally cc’d the message to Denise Holt.
Also, I prefaced the message by writing:Let me know what you think. Of course, no matter what, Denise will probably be a bitch again and make me redo everything.
“Uh…,” I say.
This is fantastic. I called my boss a bitch in an email, then accidentally cc’d the email to her. Of all the stupid things I’ve done recently, this has got to take the cake.
Denise yanks her phone out of my hand. She places herfists on her hips and stares at me, waiting for an explanation. Her face is noticeably pink under her concealer. I wonder how old Denise is. Shelley and I have debated it countless times and we can’t figure it out. She looks mid-forties, but she looked mid-forties when we started working here ten years ago. So… mid-fifties? Sixty? Seventy? Who can tell?
“I’m really sorry about that,” I say, trying to sound as genuine as I possibly can, considering I very much meant what I wrote to Shelley. “I was just blowing off some steam and… well, obviously, I didn’t intend for you to see it.”
“So you didn’t intend to send me an email calling me a bitch?” she snaps at me.
I lower my eyes. Is she going to fire me? Oh God, I can’t be fired right now. Or ever. No time is a good time to be fired.
And then just when it seems like this situation can’t get any worse, Sonia Watson from Human Resources taps on the door to my office. At first, I’m certain Denise called her here to deliver my pink slip, but it quickly becomes obvious Denise had no idea Sonia was coming.
“Hi, Abby,” Sonia says, her hands clutched in front of her. “Denise. I’m glad you’re both here. Would it be possible to speak in the conference room?”
My stomach sinks. Sonia from HR wants to speak with me and Denise together in the conference room? This morning is not getting any better.
Denise narrows her eyes. She doesn’t like surprises. “What’s this about?”
Sonia tugs on her cream-colored pencil skirt. “It’s best if you come with me.”
I feel like I’m following Sonia to my own execution. And I don’t feel one bit better when I see none other thanMonica Johnson already sitting in the conference room. For the very first time, she’s wearing maternity clothes to work. She’s got on a light blue top that cinches below her breasts and stretches comfortably over the swell of her belly. She looks beautiful, actually.
Denise sees her, and her eyes fly open. It would be comical if it weren’t all so, so horrible.
“Monica,” she gasps. “You’re… pregnant?”
“Yes,” Monica says. “I am.”
This must drive her out of her mind, considering the way she’s taken Monica under her wing lately, and as we know, Denise hates pregnant ladies and children and probably also animals and flowers and Christmas snow.
“Please take a seat,” Sonia says to me and Denise.
Denise is clearly very confused. It’s interesting to watch her off her game, because she’s always so damn composed. “What’s this about, Sonia? Do we need a meeting to discuss pregnancies now?”
“No, we don’t,” Sonia says, patting her hair uncomfortably, “but I think we need to have a meeting to discuss the circumstances of Monica’s pregnancy.”
Denise’s eyes dart around the room, trying to figure it all out. “Circumstances?”
Sonia nods. “It’s come to my attention that Monica and Abby have an arrangement in which Monica is acting as a surrogate for Abby, and Abby will be adopting her baby.”
The look of surprise on Denise’s face is absolutely priceless. I wish I could photograph it. I couldn’t have imagined her being more upset than she was when I called her a bitch, but here it is. Well, it’s been nice working here.
“Abigail,” Denise gasps. “You… you…”
“The arrangement has nothing to do with the company,” I say, my voice surprisingly firm considering I’m abouteighty percent sure I’m going to be fired. No, make that ninety-five percent sure. “It was something Monica and I arranged outside of work and we have a signed contract.”
