Allison Pearson - I Don't Know How She Does It

All things must pass, mankind is grass

My mother saying my name

Kissing a child’s cold cheeks

Return phone calls

Courtship takes place during the spring and summer, and in Europe breeding continues from April to late autumn. During courtship, the males coo loudly, display before the females, and indulge in display fights. Pigeons can live to 30 years of age. They are monogamous and tend to mate for life, a feature remarkable in birds so strongly gregarious.A pair of courting pigeons may be silent for hours on end, while one of the pair, usually the male but sometimes the female, gently runs its beak through the feathers of its mate.For about five or six months, before it is fully adult, the cooings of the male have a dull and melancholy sound, these having replaced the feeble and rather nasal calls of the adolescent. The cooings eventually take on a richer quality when the bird is mated.

— From The Habits of the Pigeon

It’s quiet out here on the ledge. You can hear the hoots and the snarls of the City below, but they are muffled by height, smothered in a duvet of air.

I am very near the pigeon now. I can see her and she can see me. She is making a low chirruking sound and there is a fierce shuddering in her neck. Every instinct is telling her to fly away; every one except the one that tells her to stay with her chick. One of the eggs hatched while I was down in Sussex. It was hard to see the baby from inside the office, but this close I get a good view. You simply can’t believe that this little creature will ever be capable of flight. It doesn’t look like a bird, more like an anguished sketch towards a bird. Shriveled and bald, like all newborn things it seems ancient, a thousand years old.

I did try to open the window and reach out to the nest, but there’s so much triple-glazing you can’t budge any of the panels: there was nothing for it, I would have to climb out. So now, on hands and knees, I edge my collection of big books along the ledge. The volumes have been carefully chosen for size and durability:

The Square Meal: A Guide to the City’s

Restaurants

Brokers’ Predictions for 2000

CFBC’s Global Directions for 1997, 1998, and 1999

A Review of the Pharmaceutical Industry

A Linguarama book for the Italian course I started and never finished

The Warren Buffett Way

The Ten Natural Laws of Successful Time and Life Management: Proven Strategies for Increased Productivity and Inner Peace

The birds can definitely have that last one. Just in case these are not up to the task, I have included A Handbook of Financial Futures, a manual with all the depth and interest of a breeze block. The idea is to build a protective wall around the pigeon and her nest. On the way back from Jill’s funeral, I got a call from Guy. Good news, he said. A man from the Corporation had returned his call and told him the falconer would be along tomorrow. It was me who insisted that the hawk show up and now I very urgently want him to stay away.

Down in the piazza, thirteen floors below, I’m attracting a bit of a crowd — the first commuters pointing up at the woman on the ledge. Probably wondering if I’m a casualty of the recession or of the heart. A broker threw himself under a train at Moorgate the other morning and he missed: fell into the pit under the rails instead and got pulled out by an emergency team. Everyone kept saying what a miracle it was, but I wondered what it would be like to feel so bad you try to end it all and then fail at that too. Would it feel like rebirth or a living death?

Behind me, from inside the office, floats the voice of Candy, droll as ever but streaked with anxiety.

“Kate, don’t do it, get back in here.”

“I can’t.”

“Honey, these things are often a cry for help. We all love you.”

“I am not crying for help, I am trying to hide the pigeon.”

“Kate?”

“I’ve got to help her.”

“Why?”

“There’s a hawk coming.”

I actually hear Candy’s snort. “There’s always a fucking hawk coming. I can’t believe we’re having this conversation about some stupid bird. Get in here this minute, Kate Reddy, or I’m gonna call security.”

Through the glass, a group of EMF colleagues are monitoring my progress, giving an ironic little cheer as another volume is shunted into position. As I pick up Warren Buffett, I catch sight of my hand, its wedding ring glinting, the ridge of eczema across the knuckle, and I think of what would happen to it if I fell — bones, skin, blood. No, don’t think about it, let’s just finish the fortification with The Ten Natural Laws of Successful Time and Life Management. Edging back along the ledge, I can see Candy leaning out of the window and Guy hovering behind her. My assistant’s face is touched not by fear but something that looks ominously like hope.

To: Kate Reddy

From: Debra Richardson

Jim is away for second weekend in a row. Not sure if I’ll murder the kids before they murder me. Has left me to organize his fortieth birthday party — told me to invite “the usual suspects.” How come he can clear his head of everything to do with home when he has a big deal on and I can’t?

As I think you will have gathered, am just a teensy bit fucking pissed off with him.

Know any gorgeous single men. . NO DON’T ANSWER THAT QUESTION.

To: Debra Richardson

From: Kate Reddy

Q: What should you do if you see your ex-husband rolling around on the ground in pain?

A: Shoot him again just to make sure.

You have got to take Tough Line with Jim — tell him your job is not a hobby, must do his share, etc. Mind you, Richard is very helpful, but I end up having to do everything again after he’s done it. . So maybe better to do it yourself in first place???Am worried about you.

Am worried about Candy too. Did I tell you she’s pregnant? Won’t even talk about it. Pretends it’s not happening to her. Also worried about me. Been feeling pretty crazy since Jill’s funeral. Have just consolidated reputation as Office Madwoman by climbing out on window ledge to save baby pigeon.

What is Meaning of Life? Please Advise Soonest

12:17 P.M.So Momo and I did it. Rod got the news late last night. We won the New Jersey final. Momo is so excited that her feet leave the ground — like Emily, she literally jumps for joy.

“You did it, Kate, you did it!”

“No, we did it. We. You and me together.”

Rod takes the whole team out to lunch to celebrate at a place in Leadenhall Market. It’s changed a lot since I was here before. Limestone was clearly last year’s material; now it’s all opaque glass forming faux Japanese bridges over streams full of gaping carp, who can’t decide whether they’re art or lunch.

Rod hauls himself onto the stool next to me; Chris Bunce is opposite Momo. I don’t like the look he gives her — avid, sly, lip-moistening — but she seems to be enjoying herself flirting with him, trying out the power that her new confidence brings. I find myself mentioning the Salinger Foundation several times, just for the pleasure of saying Jack’s name aloud. I love hearing and seeing his name — on the side of vans, over the front of shops. Jack Nicholson, Jack in the Beanstalk, Jack of Hearts. Even the Foreign Secretary has become a more attractive man since he was called Jack.

“Katie, what’s with the fucking pigeon?” demands Rod, as the lobster arrives. “You gonna race it or roast it?”

“Oh, it’s a kind of affirmative action. Part of my new brief to be friendlier to the environment.”