Conditional Love

by Cathy Bramley

  ‘These results reflect very well on the department,’ she said, tucking an invisible stray hair back into her shimmering chignon. I held my breath. Now she was really scaring me: that was unmistakably a compliment. I cast my mind back over the years I had worked for her. Yup, definitely a first.

  ‘The board is very pleased and would like to offer you a promotion.’ She pushed a white envelope towards me, a beatific smile plastered across her face.

  A promotion, for real this time! A few months ago, this was exactly what I wanted. Only now, for some reason, I couldn’t muster up much enthusiasm. I picked up the envelope and pulled one side of my mouth up in a lopsided smile, relieved that my imaginary dental work excused me from giving her an effusive response.

  ‘There will be a modest pay rise,’ she continued. ‘But the important thing is that this is an area the board is willing to invest in. Play your cards right and in six months, we could consider increasing the Social Media head count. You could have your very own assistant! Digital marketing, Sophie. That’s where the future is.’

  As she continued to babble on about what an excellent opportunity it was, my heart plummeted. I suddenly saw my career stretching out in front of my eyes like a single lane highway through the desert. No highs, lows, twisty turny corners or hidden obstacles. Simply more of the same.

  This morning, in between deleting the nudie photos, I had negotiated a two-for-one deal with a children’s petting farm and uploaded a competition to win a year’s supply of baked beans. Later on today, I had a meeting with a solar energy company who wanted to do a ‘fun’ joint promotion with us. Was that even possible?

  Was this it? Had I reached the pinnacle of my career? Had there in fact been a pinnacle, or was it one long plateau? Where was the pride, the achievement, the satisfaction?

  ‘You know, Sophie,’ said Donna, leaning forward to deliver her final blow, ‘you remind me a lot of myself when I was your age.’

  Noooo! The ultimate insult. I could not end up like her. I refuse to still be in this department in twenty years’ time, bitter and twisted and making everyone else’s life a misery.

  I gave a low moan.

  ‘You poor thing,’ murmured Donna.

  ‘Fank you,’ I said, bending over my straw to avoid eye contact.

  ‘Off you go.’ She flicked her head at the door to terminate our meeting. Normal service resumed. I almost sighed with relief.

  Sixty minutes later, I reasoned that the effects of my anaesthetic would have worn off. After a gentle massage and some exaggerated facial stretches outside Donna’s office window, I reverted to my usual voice when the phone on my desk rang.

  ‘The Herald, Sophie Stone speaking.’ Ironically, my face ached for real now, after all that pretence.

  ‘You didn’t call back!’

  My heart sank. It was Frannie. I held the phone away from my ear. How did she make her voice so shrill? I tried to explain about my dental emergency, but she wasn’t listening.

  ‘Donna tells me you’re a whizz at social media.’

  ‘Well, I’d hardly –’

  ‘Ryan will be retiring from professional football soon and we need to plan his next move.’

  Was that the royal ‘we’?

  ‘I need you to come over and set him up with a Facebook page and Twitter account. If it’s good enough for Wayne Rooney, it’s good enough for my Ryan. If he is going to be the next Gary Linneker, we need to raise his profile.’

  Again with the ‘we’.

  I felt sorry for the poor guy. All he probably wanted to do was take a gradual slide down the divisions and settle himself into a nice little coaching job at some lesser club somewhere. That would never do for Frannie. She had a place in society to uphold.

  Either way, it was nothing to do with me.

  ‘That’s a bit out of my remit I’m afraid, Frannie.’

  There was a long intake of breath followed by a long snort of displeasure.

  ‘You must understand, Sophie, that I’m a bit of a media guru myself.’

  The words ‘Do it yourself, then’ sprang to mind.

  ‘I have to come up with all the creative ideas for the Fringe Benefits campaigns in The Herald myself. In fact, I’m thinking of withdrawing my advertising from you altogether…’

  Reluctantly, I set a date to go over to her office and do her bidding and ended the call. I gnashed my teeth and took several deep breaths. Before the handset had even cooled down the phone rang again.

  ‘The Herald, Sophie Stone speaking.’

  ‘Hello Sophie. It’s Terry Stone,’ and after a moment’s pause he added, ‘your father.’

  I froze, my hand unable to remove the phone from my ear and my jaw rigid. Calling me at work, calling me ever in fact, had not been part of the deal.

  ‘Sophie?’

  My voice came out all clippy and dripping with sarcasm. ‘My father? You're sure about that, are you now? Last time, you thought I only could be your daughter.’

  Despite my acid wit, I was as nervous as hell. My heart was pounding and I felt a prickle of heat under my armpits. What could he possibly want? I didn’t know which was worse: an attempt to get to know me better or a challenge to Great Aunt Jane’s will. If it was the latter, I would concede defeat immediately; I wasn’t cut out for conflict.

  ‘Yes, sorry about that. I was expecting someone with curly hair.’

  My hand reached automatically up to my bushy barnet. I was confused. Oh yes, I had had straight hair on the day I met him! But that didn’t explain how he knew I had curls.

  I shook my head irritably; I wasn’t particularly interested in why he had given me such a lacklustre greeting any more, it was water under a very wide bridge. What I did want to know was why he was badgering me at work.

  ‘How did you –? Oh, never mind.’ I was about to ask how he had found me before remembering that my job was one of the few details about myself that I’d shared.

  I was suddenly aware of an air of silence around me. No tapping of keyboards, no other phone calls. I swung round on my chair to see Jason and Maureen blatantly staring at me. In my fourteen years at The Herald, I had never taken a call from my parents.

  Well, let them stare. They were probably just as bored as I was. No reason why they shouldn’t enjoy a bit of gossip at my expense.

  ‘I’m not supposed to take personal calls. Why are you calling?’

  I could almost hear him wince. I didn’t know why I was being such a cow. He hadn’t even had a chance to upset me yet.

  He cleared his throat. ‘When we met, I felt it didn’t go very well.’

  Understatement of the century. That was like saying that the UK hadn’t done as well as expected in the Eurovision song contest. Honestly! What did he expect?

  ‘And?’ I examined my nails while I waited for his answer.

  ‘There was – there is – so much I want to tell you about what happened before you were born. I’m going back to the States soon and,’ he hesitated as if steeling himself to continue, ‘I’d really like the chance to set the record straight.’

  Part of me was thrilled that he wanted to see me again, that he was prepared to put himself through another grilling. Let’s face it, it had been no picnic for him either. But what was the point? If I stayed in contact with him, Mum would never forgive me. Besides, I already had the facts, didn’t I? He had abandoned his pregnant wife and she had found him with his tongue down a barmaid’s throat. It had made Mum bitter, and hearing why he had done it would only do the same to me.

  ‘To be honest,’ my airy tone belying my racing pulse, ‘I already have Mum’s side of the story and as she has stuck by me all my life, I’m happy to stick with her version of events.’

  ‘But there seems to be some confusion –’

  ‘I’m not in the least bit confused,’ I hissed, aware that both Jason and Maureen had taken on the expression of a curious owl – wide-eyed and swivel-headed.

  ‘Although there is one thing I’d like to kno
w. Why wouldn’t you come to the UK before August? If it was so important to meet me and set the record straight, why wait three months?’

  My father let out a deep sigh and there was a long silence before he spoke.

  ‘I lost my wife earlier this year and after that I –’

  The words were out of my mouth before my brain had a chance to censor them: ‘That was careless of you. Do you make a habit of losing family members? Oh yes, I forgot, of course you do!’

  Jason whistled softly under his breath and turned back to his computer. Maureen pinched her lips together and dropped her eyes to her desk. Even though they couldn’t hear my father’s end of the conversation, they could get the gist of it.

  I felt terrible. My face burned hotter than the time I’d mistaken nail varnish remover for toner and rubbed it on my face. In my defence, it had ‘Acetone’ in big letters on the front of the bottle.

  ‘I’m sorry.’ The words came out in a hoarse whisper. ‘That was very insensitive of me. And I’m sorry for your loss.’

  A bony hand squeezed my shoulder and I nearly dropped the phone.

  ‘Your injection has worn off then?’ asked Donna with an Antarctic smile.

  ‘Sorry,’ I stuttered, ‘it’s my father.’ She hated personal phone calls, almost as much as illness.

  Her smile warmed up to somewhere around Belgium and I heard Jason huff with disappointment.

  ‘Quite understandable. But keep it brief.’ She nodded at me to continue. I blinked at her, waiting for her to leave. ‘Go on!’ she urged, tightening her grip. I shrank down in my seat. I wondered momentarily whether I could suddenly reinstate my dental numbness, but abandoned the idea as the lesser of two evils. I peered up at Donna. She was definitely waiting for me to tell him my good news.

  ‘Um, I got a promotion today,’ I said in a small voice.

  ‘Good. Er, that’s great, Sophie. I’m very pleased for you,’ he replied. He sounded so confused by the change of subject that I almost felt sorry for him. Almost.

  This was a nightmare. Not only were Maureen and Jason giving me daggers (I hadn’t even told them yet), but Terry would take my announcement as a sign that I wanted to continue our conversation.

  ‘I’d better let you get back to work but if you change your mind and think you might want to get to know your dad properly then –’

  ‘I won’t!’ I said chirpily. I put the phone down and beamed at my boss. ‘He told me to work hard and do my best.’

  Donna looked puzzled, but at least she released her hold on me.

  Please go away so my face can resume its normal shade of pink.

  ‘I mean,’ I laughed nervously, ‘he said “Don’t forget to work hard.”’

  Donna strode away, apparently satisfied. I exhaled with relief and felt my body slump. I looked at the clock. Was it time to escape yet?

  twenty-six

  I trotted up the path towards my appointment only five minutes late. My architect’s suburban semi was as neat and orderly as the last time I had visited; grass mown in perfect stripes and not a stone out of place in the gravel drive. It suited him down to the ground.

  Now that I knew him a bit better, I would love to have a snoop around his house to see if he was as meticulous in his private life as he was on a professional level. He definitely would be, I reckoned. He was the sort of man to fold his pyjamas, polish his shoes and iron creases in his jeans. Marc on the other hand wouldn’t know what to do with an iron, other than bicep curls.

  I was hoping to project a more professional image myself this evening. So far, every time I’d met him I had said something completely idiotic, burst into tears or had some clumsy accident. On this occasion I was determined to be sophisticated.

  Through the side gate and into the garden I went as instructed and knocked on the cabin door. Nick was on the phone and waved me in. Norman jumped up from his bed to give me an enthusiastic greeting. This time I was ready for him; I kept my handbag in front of my crotch and fed him Ryvita Minis until he, like me, realised that they were more like torture than treats. He slunk back to his bed and left me in peace.

  I watched Nick for a while, unobserved as he sat at his desk. He must have been frustrated; his dark hair was standing up in peaks, his pens and retractable pencils were lined up on his desk like soldiers on parade and he had polished his glasses twice since I had been here.

  The phone call was dragging on. I eavesdropped at first, but he appeared to be talking to someone about the circumference of trees, which was even more boring than it sounds, so, feeling self-conscious, I pretended to study the framed photographs on the wall.

  Most of them were of building sites, but the one which drew my eye was of a young Nick, puppy-faced and without glasses, looking stiff and resplendent in a mortar board and gown, holding a paper scroll. Next to him, with his arm around his shoulders, was an older man, with sparse grey hair and a sun-tanned complexion. Judging by the expression of pride on his face, he must have been Nick’s father. That would be my half-brother in a few years. Graduating from university, my father beaming at his side. A stab of jealousy made me frown and I turned away from the wall and screwed up the mental picture.

  ‘Sorry about that,’ said Nick, with a tired sigh. ‘Silver birch issues.’

  ‘No problem.’

  Do we shake hands or are we now officially on kissing terms, or is that only on birthdays?

  I found myself wondering how long it would be until his birthday.

  He held my gaze. What was he staring at? Perhaps he was wondering about the social etiquette too? He stepped forward with his hand outstretched. Back to business then. I shook his hand, feeling slightly disappointed.

  But I’m with Marc. That’s what I want. It’s official – remember?

  ‘I’ve been looking forward to this moment all day!’ I said, taking a seat.

  ‘Really?’ He looked up briefly from spooning coffee into the machine.

  ‘I’m dying to see how you interpreted my brief.’

  ‘Oh, of course.’ Nick placed a cup of coffee in front of me. He’d remembered how I took it: milky with two sugars. I don’t think Marc would have known that. In fact, now that I thought about it, I wasn’t sure Marc had ever made me a drink.

  From a pile on his desk, Nick selected a folder and set it on the table. Then he picked up the two large mood boards I had created as a brief and propped them up on the floor where we could both see them.

  A warm glow filled my heart as I looked at the boards. Though I said so myself, they were good.

  ‘I meant what I said.’ He sat down opposite me with a nervous smile. ‘The brief you gave me was outstanding. You’ve got a real eye for layout. You’re not an interior designer, are you?’

  I held my cup up to my lips to hide my embarrassment. I was delighted. So far I hadn’t done anything stupid and I’d impressed him.

  I smiled modestly. ‘It’s only a hobby, well, not even that any more. It was a dream I had when I was younger. I used to spend hours designing interiors.’

  ‘Never tempted to make a career out of it?’

  Oh yes. Once upon a time. Before the practicalities of life got in the way.

  ‘Throwing some ideas around for this house is the nearest I’ve ever come to making that dream happen,’ I replied.

  ‘What was it Thoreau said? “If you have built castles in the air, put foundations under them.” Something like that anyway.’

  I cocked an amused eyebrow at him. I had no idea who Thoreau was but I liked his thinking.

  ‘That’s your job, I hope,’ I said, eyeing up the folder between us.

  ‘I’d like to think I’ve captured the big picture, the overall concept of what you want. But in truth, the finer details, well, I’ve lifted them straight from your boards.’

  Enough already with the ego-stroking, I was getting all hot under the collar here. If Nick didn’t open the folder soon, I would dive on it myself.

  He pulled the folder in front of him and beg
an to open it. This was it. I held my breath. After dreaming about my own home all my life, I was about to get my first glimpse.

  He closed it again. My shoulders sagged.

  ‘I need to clarify,’ he said with a frown. ‘These are just ideas. If you don’t like them, it’ll simply be a case of back to the drawing board.’

  I nodded, willing him to get on with it.

  He lifted the cover up and then held it partially open. ‘And don’t feel obliged to be polite. Please be honest.’

  At this rate I would be hitting him on the head with the chuffin’ thing.

  Finally, Nick removed a large piece of paper from the folder and handed it to me. My hands trembled as I placed it in front of me and suddenly experienced an out of body sensation as if I was looking down on myself from above.

  Sophie Stone, the Queen of Playing it Safe, was sticking her head above the parapet.

  A shiver of electricity crackled through me. It felt fantastic.

  A persistent noise broke into my thoughts. Nick was tapping a pen absentmindedly on the table. He looked more nervous than I did. He caught my eye and dropped the pen.

  I looked at the two drawings on the sheet of paper. The top one showed the front of the house. My eyes scanned the design: the pitched roof with a chimney, the row of three windows upstairs, and a window each side of the front door below.

  ‘I’ve tried to incorporate the contemporary open-plan feel that you like with the more classic cottagey look.’

  I continued to stare, drinking in the details. The design wasn’t ground-breaking, in fact it was quite conventional, but there was something pretty and feminine about it. I couldn’t speak. My throat felt tight and tears weren’t far away.

  ‘I thought it would fit in with the older, more traditional houses in Woodby village.’

  I glanced up at Nick to see him massage his forehead with his finger and thumb.

  ‘OK, no problem,’ said Nick, his words totally at odds with his disgruntled expression. ‘I can see I’ve misinterpreted the brief. So –’ He reached across and tried to take the drawing off me.

  ‘It’s perfect,’ I whispered.

  ‘Pardon.’ He frowned.