Pursuant to the previous matter, it is my understanding that the letter of 20 March outlined all ramifications, with the exceptions already noted in the previous Contract (32-C) clause 7B, subsection D, as well as ramifications previously discussed . . .
There was no way for Casparov to find out that his typist had been deflowered by his own client, of course—unless there was a baby. We had done nothing to prevent it. If there was a baby, I calculated, I had four months—five if I was lucky—before I was dismissed. I could pretend to simply get fat up to that point, but no further. I toyed with the idea of getting rid of the baby, if there was one—there were ways—but dismissed it. My mother had not gotten rid of her unwanted child, and neither would I. A baby would be a disaster, but at least it would love me, and that was something.
I listened to Helen, typing away next to me, and I stole a glance at her round, impassive face, her shoulders in their well-worn blouse squared obediently as she hit the keys. I had always understood her, but today I had a new appreciation for her, and a creeping sense of fear. I could be you, I thought. Even now, I could be you.
But it would take some planning. I pulled a finished page from my typewriter and scrolled in a new one, thinking as fast as I could and trying not to panic. The main problem was money. After paying Mother’s fees and my rent, I didn’t have much left from Casparov’s pay for savings, and once I was dismissed for being a loose woman I would have no income at all. I would have several months of nothing until the baby was born, when I could pretend once again to be an untouched girl worthy of employment.
If I made it that far without dying of starvation, I would have both a child and Mother to support. I could not marry, not only because no man would marry an unwed woman with a child, but because no married woman could work in an office. Any woman lucky enough to have a job in the first place was let go on the day of her wedding. It was enough to make a woman fantasize about such silly, far-off notions as voting and being the captain of one’s own life.
Still, I would find some way to keep fighting. I could not count on Alex to support me, and I certainly could not count on him to marry me. My own birth, and Mother’s example, had taught me that men, while wonderful, were completely unreliable, especially when it came to serious things like babies. By his own admission, Alex was aimless, a layabout, a man who already had everything he wanted. I did not want to think about how I felt about Alex. I did not want to think of the look that might come on his face when I told him, of how things would cool, how he would quietly fade from my life and become the faint memory of a wild incident. Men, no matter how honorable their intentions at first, could walk away from such difficult complications, and women could not; to expect anything else was foolish.
I do respectfully address your inquiry. However, with regard to the person or persons mentioned, such issues would be comprehensively addressed in the matter under contract, and heretofore referred to under subsection B . . .
I took only a brief luncheon, perusing Casparov’s newspapers unseeing. Perhaps I was lucky, and there was no child. I would not know for weeks. In the meantime, I could make preparations just in case. I ran the numbers through my mind as my eyes traveled the words blurred in newsprint over and over again. I had a small sum put away. I could move to a smaller room in my boardinghouse, save the train fare if I cut every second visit to Mother, skip two meals per week, and just perhaps . . .
At five o’clock I covered my typewriter and put on my coat and hat. I had walked out onto the street and was pulling up my collar futilely against the wet wind when I saw Alex leaning against a lamppost, waiting for me.
He had changed his clothes. I had not spoken to him when I left his flat that morning; I had left him still sleeping. Now he wore a knee-length black wool coat and black leather gloves, as well as a fedora of deep charcoal that matched his trousers. He was clean-shaven and well rested; he had not been working a job, under a crushing burden of worry, as I had. I saw him instantly—I would have seen him from a mile distant, even though he looked just like every other Londoner heading home in the faltering April light.
Thinking of Casparov, who might follow behind me through the door at any moment, I pulled my collar yet tighter and walked away, moving briskly in the direction of the bus that would take me to my boardinghouse. “Go away, Alex,” I said.
I heard him follow me, could picture how his body moved beneath the cover of the wool coat. “I’m worried about you,” he said.
“Go away,” I told him again. “If he sees us, I’ll lose my job.” A squeeze of panic jolted through my veins. If I lost my job now, before I had a chance to save any more money . . .
“Are you all right?” Alex asked, his voice coming from just behind my shoulder. “Where are you going?”
“Home, of course.”
“I’ll come with you.”