by Jane Fallon
I order a bottle of sparkling water just to stop them asking me if I want anything, and then I nibble on a breadstick more for something to do than because I’m hungry.
Glen arrives nearly ten minutes late. I already need the loo because of the amount of water I’ve drunk.
‘Sorry. Trains,’ he says as he flicks a red napkin and sits down in one movement. ‘Have you been here ages?’
‘No. It’s fine. Well, since one but … you know, it’s OK.’ Shut up, Holly, I tell myself. Stop wittering.
‘Shall we order? I always have the same thing, so I don’t even need to look.’ He waves one of the waiters over without even checking for an answer. Luckily I’ve read the menu through from start to finish about eight times. He waits for me to go first and I start to panic about whether ordering a starter is presumptuous or expected. In the end I just go straight for a main course.
‘The sea bass, please.’
The waiter smiles as if I’ve made a fantastic choice. He turns to Glen.
‘Burrata followed by the pesto linguine,’ he says decisively. I wonder whether to slip in a quick antipasto choice but it seems the moment has gone. The waiter is already off to deliver our order to the kitchen.
Glen pours himself some water. A basket of bread has appeared along with some kind of tomatoey dip and he tears himself off a chunk. I do the same.
‘This dip is to die for,’ he says. ‘But you can only have it if you don’t have any meetings in confined spaces for the rest of the day.’
I spoon some on to my bread and taste it. It tastes like heaven, but a heaven chiefly made up of garlic cloves.
‘Oh my God, that’s amazing,’ I say, going straight back for more.
‘At least you’ll get a seat to yourself on the train home,’ he says, chuckling.
So far, so good. It doesn’t seem as if he wants to sack me. I wait for him to say something else, to give me a clue why we’re here.
‘So.’ He wipes his mouth with his napkin. I have to stop myself from telling him he has a large breadcrumb in his beard. ‘How are you getting on?’
I feel myself relax. I was right. This is just a halfway assessment.
‘Good, I think. I …’
I stop for a moment while a waiter arrives with his creamy lump of burrata and drizzles on some balsamic and oil. Glen looks round.
‘You not having a starter?’
I shake my head and he digs in, using both his knife and fork to cut precise little pieces.
I pick up where I left off. ‘I thought the story conference went well. After the mix-up at the start …’ I may as well be the one to bring it up. Face it head on.
‘Ah, yes, that. So what did happen there?’
I’ve already decided I’m not going to tell tales. At least not until I have evidence to back them up.
‘I honestly have no idea. The document was fine when I read it through on Friday.’
‘Very odd,’ he says. ‘It couldn’t have maybe been an early version that Emma printed off by mistake?’
‘I would never have written those things,’ I say. ‘Not at any stage.’
‘No. Of course not.’ He pushes his plate away, exactly half of the burrata left on it. A waiter appears out of nowhere and whips it away. ‘Anyway, yes. We came out with some good stuff, I think.’ He strokes his beard and the crumb dislodges.
‘We did. Oh, and I have a couple of really great stories from Emma, would you believe? I want to weave them in. I’ll get you copies later.’
Emma’s stories had proved to be surprisingly good. Not all of them, but a couple. I’d called her in to tell her after I read them.
‘Do you honestly think so?’ she’d said, blushing from her neck up to her roots.
‘We could have done with these at the conference. I’m hopefully going to use these two anyway – the Jono exam-cheating one and the one about Cara getting into debt – and I’ll make sure Glen knows they came from you.’
‘Oh. You don’t have to … I mean …’ If I thought she’d blushed all she could blush I was wrong. She was turning aubergine. I was thinking about calling the medic.
‘That’s how it works. Credit where credit is due. It’s the least I can do because you won’t get paid for them.’
‘OK. Thank you. Brilliant. Would you like a coffee?’
‘And I’ll tell him you’re interested in the trainee position when it becomes vacant …’
She’d handed me two pages of notes on the first drafts I’d asked her to look at – the same ones I gave Lorraine – the day after I gave them to her. They were insightful and clear. Critical but constructive. I’d been impressed. I’d told her so. She’d blushed purple that time too, of course.
‘Oh. Well. If you think you should,’ she said. ‘You don’t think he’ll mind? That he’ll think I’m not happy doing what I’m doing, because I am …’
‘No. And yes to coffee.’
She exhaled, puffing out her cheeks. ‘Thank you.’
‘Our Emma?’ Glen says now, surprised, so I fill him in on her ambitions.
‘Don’t tell her I told you, though,’ I say. ‘She made me swear. But I’m trying to encourage her to come and have a word.’
‘My lips are sealed. Good on her, though. She’s wasted where she is.’
I smile. I’m glad he’s noticed her potential.
‘And Joe seems to have settled in well?’ It’s a question.
‘Yes,’ I say. ‘Yes he has. He’s good news, I think. The writers seem to like him.’
‘Excellent.’
There’s something coming, I know there is. He’s like a cat skirting round the object it really wants to pounce on. I wait.
‘So … Roz came to see me on Friday …’
And there it is.
He pauses while our main courses arrive. My sea bass looks delicious but I’m rapidly losing my appetite.
Glen waits for parmesan to be spooned on to his pasta and then digs in with his fork. He makes ‘Mmm-ing’ noises as he chews. The waiter watches appreciatively.
‘È buonissimo,’ Glen says once he’s swallowed. ‘Amazing.’ This is obviously a ritual they go through every time. The waiter beams and goes off satisfied. I try to resist the urge to ask him to get on with it, to tell me what Roz said.
‘Where was I?’ he says eventually after another mouthful and a sip of water. The wait is agony. ‘Ah, yes. Roz. She’s got this idea in her head that you’ve got it in for her …’
I almost choke even though I haven’t even taken a bite yet. ‘She’s what?’
He holds up his hands. ‘I know, I know. But I’m duty bound to take it seriously if someone makes a complaint.’
I take a sip of water. Force myself to swallow it down. ‘So what did she say?’
He sighs. ‘Something about some script notes going missing from her desk drawer. She thinks you took them.’
‘Why would I do that?’
He rolls his eyes. ‘I have no idea. I’m just telling you what she said.’
‘She’s a fantasist, you know that, don’t you?’ I snap, and then I regret it immediately. Glen raises an eyebrow. ‘Sorry. I don’t mean that. It’s just … it’s frustrating that she’s said that.’ It’s not lost on me how ironic it is that Roz is actually telling the truth for a rare time in her life.
‘Listen, Holly, I have no idea what’s going on between the two of you, or why she would feel strongly enough to come and talk to me about it, but whatever it is needs to stop. I need to know that you have the department under control and that everything is going to run smoothly.’
‘Of course.’ I’m fighting back tears, desperate for him not to notice. One more notch scratched on my unprofessional belt.
‘I can’t have stupid fallouts between former friends causing ructions. Not to mention that I have enough on my own plate without having to listen to petty personal gripes and feuds. This isn’t high school.’
I want to say ‘I’m not the one who brought it a
ll to your attention. I’ve been trying to deal with it without involving you’, but, of course, I don’t.
‘I’ll make sure it doesn’t happen again,’ I say, with no idea how I’m going to achieve that.
‘My guess is that she’s still upset about the job,’ he says, his voice softening. ‘It will all calm down. Meanwhile you need to take control and keep everyone focused on the work. I got a bollocking this morning. Our figures are still slipping and they’re going to be keeping a very close eye on us over the next few months. I need to be able to rely on you.’
Shit. ‘You can,’ I say. ‘I promise.’
I barely eat any more. I’ve lost my appetite. Glen changes the subject, asking me about other things, things that are nothing to do with work, and I answer unenthusiastically. I can’t get out of there quickly enough. But then we have to walk back to the studios together, blandly making small talk while all the while I want to scream about how unfair this whole thing is.
Back at work I thank him for lunch. I’m worried that I’ve come across as defensive or abrupt but there’s nothing I can do about that now. I stomp through the department barely catching anyone’s eye but then, just as I’m shutting the door to my office, I look up and Roz is looking right at me.
She smirks.
21
‘Shit. Why didn’t you get in there first?’
Dee and I are eating salmon and sharing a bottle of Shloer at my kitchen table. Smokey sits in his basket watching us, hoping, no doubt, that one of us drops a bit of fish on the floor. I fork a bit up and fling it to him to put him out of his misery.
‘Because I didn’t want to be that person. Because I thought I could handle it. Because I’m not eight years old, running to teacher like a fucking … baby.’
‘Fair enough,’ she says. ‘So what now?’
I raise my voice. ‘Now it’s war. Now she’d better start watching her fucking back …’
‘Oh, sorry … have I interrupted something? Are you OK?’ I didn’t hear Hattie come in, but now she’s standing in the kitchen doorway with her coat still on, looking petrified.
‘God, you made me jump,’ Dee says.
I smile at Hattie. ‘Just letting off steam. Sorry, didn’t realize you were back.’
‘Only just,’ she says.
‘Join us if you want,’ Dee says. ‘We’ve eaten all the food though, sorry.’
‘I’ll have a drink with you. I mean, unless you’d rather be on your own …’
‘No,’ I say, although to be honest I rather wish Dee hadn’t offered. ‘Of course not.’
‘I’ll just …’ She indicates her coat and heads to her room, presumably to take it off.
‘Sorry,’ Dee mouths at me when she’s gone. She can clearly see I’m reluctant.
‘It’s fine,’ I say quietly. ‘We can talk about it later.’
I find a clean glass while Dee collects our plates and scrapes what’s left of the creamy salmon sauce into Smokey’s bowl. He licks his lips but doesn’t move. Too lazy.
Hattie comes back with an M&S couscous salad still in its container and a fork. It’s always a shock to see her out of her thick winter layers because she’s so tiny. It’s not that she’s too thin – she’s not. She’s just child-sized.
‘I thought I’d interrupted a conversation between two mafia dons for a minute there,’ she says, laughing. She sits at the table with us, peeling the top off her salad. ‘Are you sure you’re OK?’
‘Really, thanks. Just more work stuff, you know …’
‘That same woman?’
I nod.
I hope that she picks up my reluctance to go into more detail and it seems she does.
‘Sorry, that’s rough.’
‘How’s the world of teeth?’ Dee interrupts with a swift change of subject, for which I’m grateful.
‘Scintillating,’ she says. ‘Ask me anything you like about interdental brushes.’
‘Don’t,’ I say. ‘Because she will. She’s probably heard a conspiracy theory that they give you cancer.’
‘We did have someone come into A and E with one stuck between two teeth.’
‘You so did not,’ I say. ‘Who told you that?’
Dee looks affronted. ‘One of the EMTs.’
I turn to Hattie, laughing. ‘Honestly, I swear they just make stuff up to tell her to see how gullible she is. They must have a bet going.’
‘You’d be amazed what goes on down there.’
‘Ask her about any implement and she’ll tell you a story about someone coming into A and E with one stuck in an orifice. Literally anything.’
‘Because it will have happened!’
‘Well, obviously I’m going to say toothbrush,’ Hattie says, ruffling up her short hair.
‘Oh my God, where do I even start?’ Dee is in her element. ‘What do you want to know, electric or manual …’
Thankfully my phone rings. ‘It’s Ashley – you carry on. You’re going to wish you hadn’t asked, Hattie.’
I get up and head for the living room, answering as I go. ‘Hi, sweetie.’
Any mum will tell you that there’s always a moment when your grown-up child rings you when you hold your breath waiting to hear in their voice that they’re OK. I wait for her hello. Hear a sob. My heart lurches.
‘Ashley. What’s happened? Are you OK?’ My first thought is the baby.
‘It’s Ryan. We’ve split up.’
‘Oh, sweetheart.’ I sit on the sofa, in for the long haul. ‘Tell me …’
It all comes out in a rush. ‘Things haven’t been right for a while. He kept going straight out after work and getting home really late and he stopped coming into the pub when I was working, which he always used to do. He used to like to be there for closing time so we could walk home together, because he hated me having to do it on my own, but he hasn’t done that for weeks now …’
I try to push the image of my pregnant daughter walking home alone at midnight through the Bristol streets out of my mind. I can just make out the low murmur of Dee and Hattie chatting in the kitchen.
‘… and I just knew it was because I was pregnant. He can’t hack it. He’s not ready to be a dad.’
I want to call him every name under the sun but I know that won’t help. I’m furious, all my protective maternal instincts rise up like hackles.
‘Well, it’s a bit late for that, because he’s going to be. He needs to grow up. You can’t just father a kid and then decide you shouldn’t have …’
‘That’s what I said.’
‘Maybe he’s just having a new-dad panic and he’ll be devastated when he comes to his senses,’ I say, trying to give him the benefit of the doubt. In actuality I want to kill him. I know that Ashley keeping the baby was as much because it was what he wanted as she did. They’d discussed it endlessly: whether they could give it a good life. Whether they could get their own lives back on track afterwards. Not to mention that Ashley had already given up her dreams and ambitions for this man even before the pregnancy came along.
I manage a few platitudes about people acting before they think, or sometimes it taking a while to come to terms with the enormity of a situation. It sounds like garbage even as I’m saying it and I don’t think she buys it for a second.
‘You’ll be OK,’ I say. ‘You’ll get through it. Has he moved out?’
‘Yes.’
‘Oh, sweetie. Maybe he just needs some time. He’ll come round …’
‘No, Mum, you don’t understand. This is my decision. I told him to go. He’s not ready and it’s doing my head in. I told him either he stays and fully embraces being a father or we might as well split up now. He hesitated so I knew.’
I’m sideswiped. ‘Ashley, you can’t bring this baby up on your own. It’s hard enough at your age …’
She cuts me off. ‘Why not? You did.’
I take a deep breath in. ‘Yes, and that’s why I know how hard it is.’
‘But you managed, didn’t you? We wer
e OK.’
I think about how hard it was, every single day, making ends meet. How, even though I wouldn’t change it for the world, I had cried about the rest of life passing me by. Watching my friends going out at night having fun, not having to explain to every bloke they met that there was someone else in the picture, someone who would always have to come first.
‘Come home for a few days.’ I just want to take care of her.
‘I haven’t even got a bedroom any more.’
‘You can have mine. I can sleep on the settee. It’s fine.’
‘I don’t know. It’ll be weird with Hattie there.’
‘She’s nice,’ I say. ‘And to be honest I hardly ever see her.’
She sniffs. ‘I’ll have to see if I can get the time off work.’
The door opens and Dee pops her head round. ‘Everything OK?’ she mouths.
I nod. I don’t want to worry her. I mouth, ‘She’s a bit upset,’ so she understands why I’m staying on the phone and leaving her and Hattie to it. She pulls a face and makes a gesture like she’s holding a phone, which, I guess, means she has to go and she’ll call me tomorrow. I blow her a kiss.
By the time I get off the phone the flat is quiet. I can hear faint noises of Hattie moving around in her room so I nip in the bathroom and brush my teeth and then hide myself away in my bedroom. I get in bed with a book, but I can’t concentrate. I think about how hard it was being twenty-one and on my own with a baby. How alone I was. I can’t bear to think that Ashley is going to suffer the same fate. I assume Ryan will contribute at least. If nothing else I’ve met his parents and I know that, like me, even though they were shocked, they had come round to the idea and were looking forward to being grandparents. I’m pretty certain they’ll make sure he does his bit. If they don’t, I will. I’ve got better at not taking any shit lately.
