A frown furrows on his brow as he backs towards the door like an animal looking for its escape. ‘You’re what?’ Panic tinges his words.
‘I’m pregnant.’
‘You can’t be. How?’ This isn’t the reaction I’d been expecting. Shock - absolutely. This level of horror - no way.
Nervous laughter bubbles in my throat. ‘You know how babies are made.’
‘You’re supposed to be on the pill.’ His nostrils flare as his gaze narrows.
‘I am. It’s not one hundred per cent effective though, and you’ve certainly been testing its abilities lately.’
‘How could you let this happen?’ The man who stares back at me is unrecognisable. Bitterness twists his face. ‘Don’t go through with it, Savannah. If you do, you’re on your own. I can’t help you.’ He clears his throat. ‘I’m actually married.’
The shock, along with the first trimester nausea, is enough to send me hurtling towards the bathroom.
By the time I’d finished throwing my guts up, he was long gone. So, I fled home to Dublin, broken and ashamed, and started a blog documenting my life as a single mother, sharing tips and journaling the highs and lows of the journey.
Within a few weeks, I had a hundred thousand subscribers. Within months, I was offered an advertising contract from Bella Baby, Ireland’s biggest supplier of baby care essentials.
Now, six years later, I have more than a million followers on Instagram.
Almost half a million paying subscribers to my blog.
I’ve written a best-selling book,Single Sav’s Guide To Winging Parenthood Alone.
I’ve designed my own infant clothing range, stocked by Brown Thomas and plenty more luxury boutiques around the country. I’m hoping to open a flagship shop on Grafton Street next year.
It’s ironic how one of the worst things that’s happened to me became the best thing that’s ever happened to me. I have my gorgeous daughters, my two best friends, Ashley and Holly, and my business. I don’t needhim.
But that doesn’t stop red-hot rage sizzling through myveins every time I see his smarmy face popping up on TV. He wasn’t famous then, but he is now. He’s never once reached out to even ask about the girls, or to offer them a single cent. Sometimes, in my worst nightmares, I dream he turns up here in Dublin. But why would he? He didn’t want the girls then, and he doesn’t want them now.
‘Can we get something out of the vending machine?’ Isla runs towards the well-stocked machine in the reception area like it’s a foregone conclusion. Eden hangs beside me, tugging on the straps of her rucksack to tighten it.
‘Sure.’ I fumble in my jeans pocket for some change.
My phone rings from the Bottega Veneta handbag that’s draped across my shoulders. I need more hands. I slip the girls a few coins each and rummage past chewing gum, old receipts and six different lipsticks before I locate it.
It’s an unknown number. Probably work. Despite having a virtual PA and an agent called Cassandra, I still can’t seem to escape weekend work calls.
‘Hello?’
‘Savannah?’ a female voice coos into my ear. ‘Savannah Kingsley?’
‘Speaking.’ I watch as Isla selects the biggest bar of Dairy Milk from the top row of colourful confectionary.
‘My name is Susie Silver. I work for a company called Coral. You may have heard of them?’
Of course I’ve heard of them. Coral is an Irish brand, manufacturing high quality, elegant swimwear which is stocked world-wide. Their range is exquisite and ultra-exclusive. A bikini retails for three hundred euros. The pieces are iconic. They go out of stock faster than the manufacturers can produce them.
Lucas Beechwood, the CEO, is the son of one of the world’s most famous models, and he has the bone structure to prove it. That guy’s been plastered all over the media since hewas a kid, and he has used his face, and his connections, shamelessly to build his brand.
‘I’m familiar with the brand.’ It’s an effort to keep my tone neutral. I send up a silent prayer that she’s calling to offer me some merchandise to promote on my social media platforms. I’ll even do it for free; I justneedone of those ass-sculpting bikinis.
‘Then you’ll be aware that we have a women’s range called Coral Chic.’
‘I am.’ Isla tears open the chocolate and drops the wrapper on the floor. I motion for her to pick it up, praying the bar will keep her quiet until I get to the crux of this conversation.
‘We’re looking for a real woman to model our swimwear. Someone who’s had children. Who is athletically healthy, but not model skinny. Someone with a large female following of their own.’
