MIRANDA SAT BESIDE THE HOSPITAL BED IN NEW YORK’Snoisiest maternity ward, her pen tapping on her notebook as she waited for the new mother to answer her question. Once again, she’d been given the dud story: ‘Woman in Baby Race Gets Three in One Go’.
The mother gazed adoringly at the three babies, one in her arms and the other two in a line of bassinets. ‘It’s what we women are made for, having children.’
With an irritated sigh, Miranda wrote it down. She couldn’t think of anywhere she’d less like to be. The stench of bleach and bodily fluids was making her feel nauseous, and the bright lights and blue and pink paraphernalia was just plain depressing.
But she had to have the article on Mr O’Hara’s desk by three, so on she ploughed.
‘I gather that you were in a race with your neighbour?’
The woman gave a cackle of glee. ‘That’s right. She was pregnant, too, so we decided to place bets on who gave birth first. Another of our neighbours handmade an award – a kind of trophy with “Top Woman” written on it in big letters.’
Miranda pasted a smile on her face. ‘Congratulations, on all accounts.’ And then she couldn’t help adding, ‘But women can also be goodat other things, too, can’t we? A “Top Woman” can also be a doctor, a lawyer, a librarian, or a journalist like me.’
At thirty, Miranda was every inch the professional, donning tailored trousers and a crisp white blouse. Her bobbed hair was a rich chestnut brown, her large, expressive eyes hidden behind black-rimmed cat’s-eye glasses. Experienced and focused, Miranda prided herself on being totally independent.
Yet the woman on the bed grimaced at the suit – Miranda stood out in a world where femininity was the order of the day. Almost as a revulsion to the uniforms and can-do spirit of war, women now wore full dresses with matching shoes, gloves and hats. And what about the new poodle skirts, the fetish for little dogs? It was as if women’s attitudes had regressed to those of little girls.
Miranda ignored people looking at her suits. If she were to succeed in the world of journalism, she had to prove she was just as practical, go-getting and ruthless as any man.
The new mother gazed at the babies. ‘But you can’t be any of those professions and still be a good wife and mum. Not that I’d ever want to work. Not with all this joy.’
Now officially annoyed, Miranda glared down at her notebook.
If she didn’t have the article finished by three, her job could be on the line.
TheNew York Gazettehad brought in O’Hara to shake things up. Layoffs were being made and, as a woman, Miranda was first in the firing line. It didn’t help that she had become a little relaxed about deadlines. In her spare time, she’d been busy writing a special feature, ‘Working Women in a World of Men’. Hopefully, she’d be able to sell it to one of the more intellectual magazines or papers, get her name noticed.
Miranda read the next question on her list. ‘Do you plan to have extra help at home? It can’t be easy, having three of them at the same time.’ She couldn’t think of anything worse.
‘I already have two older children at home, so helpersandexperience.’ She released a raucous laugh and, with a glance at Miranda’swedding ring, added, ‘You must have little ones of your own, so you’d know all about that, wouldn’t you?’
Miranda kept her eyes trained on her notebook as she strove valiantly on. ‘Do you already have the necessary equipment for three?’
There was a pause as the woman registered that Miranda was avoiding her question, and then she gushed, ‘Oh, honey, I’m so sorry. Me with my loose tongue. I never thought that, well, maybe you can’t have any of your own.’
With that, Miranda stopped writing and looked squarely at her. ‘If you must know, my husband died.’ Her fingers went automatically to her ring, and she twisted it furiously, caught short unexpectedly by the sympathy in the woman’s face. ‘He was killed in the war.’
‘You poor thing! A widow so young, and so attractive, too.’
It was the most Miranda could do not to roll her eyes. If someone else told her she could get herself a good husband and wouldn’t have to work, she’d murder them.
She muttered a thanks for the woman’s thoughts and pushed her glasses back up, as if to refresh the boundary between them. ‘Our sponsor would like to know if you’ll be using Tide laundry soap to wash all those nappies.’ Why oh why was she working for a paper that used sponsors as a basis for reporting?
‘But you’re still wearing his ring!’ The woman couldn’t leave it alone. Her face was contorted with sympathy, a look to which Miranda had become accustomed. ‘You have to find someone new, honey. You still look young enough to have children – they’ll mend your heart, I promise you.’
Involuntarily, Miranda pulled away. It wasn’t the first time she’d heard it, although sometimes it wasn’t put as nicely. The terms ‘unwanted spinster’ and ‘old maid’ were often trotted out, as if Miranda were about to shrivel up and die if she didn’t serve a man or give birth to a new one.
She straightened her shoulders. ‘I’ve dedicated my life to my career as a journalist. Ever since I was the editor of my college paper, I knew it was what I wanted to be. You see, journalists are trained to be dispassionate, and that’s how I approach everything in life, as an observer,not prone to any flimsy or fanciful sentimentality. And I certainly don’t need a replacement husband to fulfil me.’
‘But what about your own happiness?’ There was a pause, and then the woman added, ‘What about love?’
‘What about love?’ Miranda said more sharply than she intended – she didn’t want to go downthatrabbit hole. ‘Can we get back to the questions, please?’
‘But isn’t love the best feeling in the world, that you have someone who’ll always be with you?’
‘Ihadsomeone who was always with me.’ She heard her own voice, needled with emotion. ‘I made vows to him, and then he was killed.’ She felt her control slipping away, and she knew she couldn’t sit there any longer.
And without a word, she closed her notebook, got up and left, while the woman called her to come back. ‘Did I say something wrong, honey?’
