The Little Things

by Jane Costello

  I would therefore like to formally offer you the position of Marketing Director.

  You would initially be based in the UK, with the possibility of future stints abroad, if that proves mutually convenient. Standard benefits include a company car, five weeks’ holiday and health insurance.

  Remuneration is to be discussed but I think given how much responsibility the job involves, a good starting point would be £2,500 pa more than your salary at Panther.

  The details of the package however are open to negotiation if you feel any of it can be improved upon. More than anything, I’d like to reiterate how much I’d love to welcome you into the Grape family.

  Yours sincerely

  Caroline Rogers

  I put down the phone as James’s eyes flutter open and he props himself up on his elbow, his biceps bulging over the top of the sheet. He smells of sleep and aftershave, his hair slightly crumpled against his forehead.

  ‘Today’s the day. And I can’t wait to get you out of here!’ He grins, leaning in to plop a demonstrative kiss on my lips.

  The hour before we leap into our taxi to the airport is a whirlwind, even by the standards I’m used to. There are misplaced toothbrushes, lost PE shorts, ripped reading books – and, no matter how organised I’d convinced myself my packing was last night, nothing seems to come together.

  On top of that, my goodbye to the kids is more tearful than I’d anticipated. I transmute into a hopeless, blubbing wreck, setting off a terrible domino effect among them that culminates in Ollie grabbing me by the shins and refusing to let go until someone bribes him with a contraband chocolate biscuit.

  Meanwhile James stands by the door, looking at his watch and silently biting his lip, before we finally haul his spotless suitcase – and my tatty one – into the taxi and I’m forced to actually stop and think about the email from Caroline.

  Well . . . it changes nothing, does it?

  It might be amazing on every level and include foreign travel and superlative pay and holidays. But it won’t get me to Dubai.

  ‘What’s the matter?’ James asks.

  ‘Nothing, why?’

  ‘You . . . sighed.’

  ‘Did I?’

  ‘Yes,’ he says accusingly.

  I bang my chest a couple of times. ‘Bit of wind.’

  He scrunches up his nose.

  ‘I don’t mean I farted,’ I clarify, causing him to wrinkle his nose further.

  I glance away, as a voicemail pops up on my phone and I realise someone must’ve tried to phone me when we were on the motorway in a coverage black spot.

  I dial it silently and hear Julia’s voice.

  ‘Hannah, it’s me,’ she says with such breathless urgency I can only assume there’s either a bomb in the boot of this taxi or an unexpected sale at Cricket. ‘Hannah, listen to me, I need to speak to you about something. Urgently. Like, right sodding now. So phone me. Immediately. And definitely before you get on any plane to Dubai. Got it?’

  I shake my head and end the call. ‘I’ve just had the weirdest message,’ I murmur, starting to bring up her number.

  ‘Who from?’ James asks.

  Another voicemail pops up and I hold the phone to my ear before responding. It’s Julia again. ‘And DO NOT mention this to James, whatever you do!’

  I end the call and lower the phone, my head spinning. ‘Who was it from?’ he repeats.

  I blink twice and try to think of something to say. ‘Um . . . it was one of those companies asking me if I’d had an accident. You know – the ones that say I might be liable for some compensation.’

  ‘Really?’ he says, brightening up immeasurably. ‘Wow – what a stroke of luck that is. You’d better phone them back before you get on the plane.’

  As we head into the airport terminal, there is no opportunity to phone Julia back without James overhearing the conversation. It’s not as if I don’t try. At one point I slip off to the ladies’, but I manage to get through only to her work voicemail, telling me she’s otherwise engaged.

  With rising unease, I march back to James, who’s now at the front of the queue.

  ‘Economy for us,’ he tuts, as if turning right on an airline is worse than discovering your mother in bed with the window cleaner.

  ‘I’m sure we can manage to keep it real, James,’ I reply.

  ‘I could’ve been in business class,’ he says bitterly. ‘That’s where I was on the way here. You get proper cutlery there, you know. And as much champagne as you want.’

  I flash him a glance. ‘But I gave it all up so I could sit by you.’ He smiles and I realise I am supposed to drop to my knees and pledge my undying gratitude.

  ‘Thank you,’ I say.

  ‘It’s all right. Sacrifices are what relationships are all about, aren’t they?’

  I could at this point tell him about the Grape job and salary and company car and health insurance that I’m about to turn down as soon as I’ve landed in Dubai, but we’re called forward to the desk.

  We are checked in by a middle-aged lady whose pudgy, unmade face is entirely at odds with her elaborately manicured nails, each garnished with the flag of a far-flung destination.

  James hauls his bag onto the conveyor belt, before handing over the passports. I’m quietly mesmerised by the clatter of her United Nations of nails as she begins typing, but snap out of it when my phone rings.

  I reach into my back pocket and see Julia’s number, stepping back from the desk, pressing answer and refamiliarising myself with the fact that my friend has never been one for unnecessary pleasantries.

  ‘DO NOT GET ON THAT BLOODY PLANE WITH THAT BACKSTABBING TOSSER!’

  I glance up, ping-pong-eyed, as James turns and flashes me a smile.

  I turn away. ‘What are you talking about?’ I hiss.

  ‘I’m talking about something I suspected months ago but have only now managed to prove: it was James who persuaded Keith Blanchard to sack you.’

  ‘That’s ridiculous,’ I whisper, but, in all honesty, I’m less surprised by this allegation than I should be. ‘How could he? He didn’t even know him before—’

  ‘Oh, he knew him. They were going to the gym together for months before the reshuffle. The harder Keith’s abs got the chummier they became.’

  ‘That doesn’t prove anything,’ I whisper, looking up as James drags my bag onto the belt and manicured lady starts printing off a tag.

  ‘No, but the email I’ve finally found after months of looking does. I have access to all Keith’s emails, but this one had been archived on the computer on his desk. I knew I’d seen something from James months ago regarding the reshuffle and the Dubai move, just before you were sacked. I hadn’t read it properly at the time, I’d thought nothing of it. But, when I started to suspect something, I tried to dig it out. But it had disappeared.’

  ‘So how did you get it back?’

  ‘George in IT. We’ve been seeing each other. I wanted to tell you in Camp and Furnace, only I wasn’t sure then if it was really going anywhere. Well, now it is. Only, we’d both be sacked if anyone knew I was telling you this, Hannah.’

  ‘Telling me what?’

  James spins round and frowns, suspicion hovering on his brow.

  ‘What James wrote to Keith Blanchard just before you were sacked. Listen to this.’ She clears her throat. ‘“Dear Mr Blanchard, Thanks for the strenuous gym session this morning – I think I might have finally met my match!” Smarmy git,’ she mutters.

  ‘Will you get on with it?’ I urge her.

  ‘“You will veritably recall that during our discussions we got on to the subject of the impending company reshuffle, the expansion into the Middle East and the cost-saving strains and pressures the company is currently under. You were very interested in some of my ideas about how we could achieve some challenging savings while simultaneously achieving all the company’s goals in the Middle East. You asked me to write to you outlining some of these in detail.”’

  Julia pause
s. ‘The email goes on and on and on and basically covers everything from sacking Bernard to buying cheaper staplers. But this is the bit I really wanted to read to you: “Currently, our marketing department is very top-heavy. Employing Hannah MacFarlane, Gary French and Marie Ellison when she returns from maternity leave is expensive, unnecessary and a three-headed luxury the company can ill afford contemporaneously.

  ‘“I happen to know that Hannah MacFarlane has aspirations to take up the role you and I have discussed many times for myself – as Head of Middle East, based in Dubai.

  ‘“Hannah has many good qualities, which I know you’re aware of, but in my humble opinion she does not have the killer instinct, drive and sheer business acumen to pull off such a move. She would, however, make an able deputy if you felt I needed one.

  ‘“I do realise, however, that this might make for additional, unnecessary expenditure – and would be a ‘nice to have’ rather than an essential. Please rest assured that I am perfectly capable and willing to fulfil the Middle East role alone.”

  ‘Basically, Hannah – your darling fiancé, in a roundabout way – was the one who masterminded his own departure for Dubai, and advised Keith that, if you weren’t going to come with him, you were entirely expendable.’

  I stand, dumbstruck as the lady behind the counter prints off a label for me and attaches it to my suitcase, which starts trundling towards the conveyor belt.

  ‘STOP!’ I shriek. Both she and James turn to look at me, shell-shocked. ‘STOP THAT BAG!’

  I shove the phone in my pocket and dive towards the suitcase, preventing it from disappearing onto the conveyor belt.

  ‘Madam, can I ask you to get your knees off this equipment?’ asks the lady behind the counter. ‘This bag has now been checked in,’ she adds.

  ‘I’m afraid you’ll need to check it out,’ I tell her.

  James grabs me by the arm. ‘What are you doing? Have you lost your tiny mind?’ A vein is break-dancing in his neck.

  I clench my teeth together and think about how to word this carefully. I can’t let him know about the letter because it’d get Julia sacked. ‘Tell me, James, do you have any theories that might explain your stratospheric promotion? Given that, you know, your career was going nowhere until very recently?’

  He looks taken aback. ‘Keith Blanchard just . . . recognised that I had some untapped potential.’

  ‘Only, it struck me recently that my departure from the firm was extremely convenient for you. It wasn’t something that you . . . suggested, was it? Clearly, you’re entirely within your rights to. I just want to know where I stand.’

  His response is astonishing. He huffs and puffs, saying things like, ‘Well of all the things!’ – his eyes darting around and refusing to make contact with mine. Eventually, I grab him by the arm and force him to look at me. ‘You did, didn’t you?’

  He swallows. ‘I never thought he’d actually sack you,’ he splutters. ‘I was hoping I’d just persuade him to let you come with me. And I knew that, if he wouldn’t go for that, we’d sort you out with something in Dubai anyway. Look, it’s all worked out for the best, hasn’t it? We’re on our way now, Hannah. That’s all that matters.’

  I step back, fury rising up inside me as I pick up my passport and remove my engagement ring, plonking it unceremoniously into the palm of his hand. ‘Actually, James, I’m going nowhere. You’re on your own.’

  I realise this sounds rather more melodramatic than I’m used to, but nothing less than the Dynasty treatment seems appropriate.

  At that, I pull out the handle of my shit suitcase and trundle out of the terminal into glorious spring sunshine. And realise I have the hint of a smile on my face.

  Chapter 17

  I arrive at the sports day just in time to say hello to Norman the lollipop man, who’s taking it easy until he returns to duties – but is well enough to come to see the children in their big races.

  The school playing field is a huge green space, flanked by gnarly woodland and domineering oak trees. Although I’m used to seeing it empty at home time, today it is alive with the sound of cheering children, all dressed in their little white PE kits. The first person I spot is Brigitte, who is backing out of the mums’ and/or significant others’ race.

  ‘I cannot run,’ she explains.

  ‘Oh dear, are you injured?’ I ask.

  ‘No, I look like constipated chicken when I try. It’s too humiliating.’

  I laugh. ‘Fortunately, being humiliated is my speciality,’ I tell her.

  I line up at the start of the race behind Suzy, who’s third in line on the red team. She’s wearing jeans, a Superdry T-shirt and a pair of trainers – a sure sign that, whatever she says, she wants to win this.

  I tap her on the shoulder, resulting in the sort of double take you’d expect if Elvis Presley had just lined up behind Cleopatra in the queue for the obstacle race.

  ‘What the hell are you doing here? You’re meant to be on a plane to Dubai.’

  ‘I decided against it,’ I reply coolly, rather enjoying the moment.

  ‘Well, I hope you don’t want to keep your job with us.’ She frowns. ‘You do realise I was joking about you being better than Brigitte? She’s awesome.’

  I roll my eyes. ‘Gee, thanks, sis. Yes, I know you were joking. I also know I was engaged to an absolute tosser.’

  ‘Oh, you’ve finally realised, then?’

  Now I’m shocked. ‘I thought you loved him.’

  ‘James? Pompous arse. Justin and I did our best to hide it for everyone’s sake, but we were glad to see the back of him this morning. Do you know he complained to the staff at my gym about there not being enough Viper bars, not selling kiwi-and-papaya-seed smoothies in the bar and their subscription being inordinately expensive?’

  ‘But he’d got in for free, hadn’t he?’ I ask.

  ‘Exactly!’

  ‘Hang on a minute. You were going to stand back and let me get married to a man who you hated – without ever telling me?’

  ‘You’d never have married him,’ she replies confidently. ‘Besides, there’s absolutely no point in telling someone not to be in love with a person. If they’re wrong for them, that’s something they need to work out all by themselves. I can’t pretend I’m not glad you have, though.’

  At that, the whistle blows and Gill – who’s in the same team as Suzy and I – sprints towards a hessian sack, before proceeding to hop in it towards the first obstacle. The children’s response varies from Cup Final-level hysteria to abject uninterest.

  By the time I’m at the front, watching Suzy crawl commando-style under a precariously low bar, I’m starting to feel a little nervous. And that’s before I spot Michael at the sidelines glaring at me in complete bewilderment.

  ‘Why are you here?’ he mouths, his face breaking into a wide smile.

  But I don’t get a chance to answer him. Instead, I’m racing towards the sack and scrambling into it. It is then that I learn my first lesson in taking part in the school sports day as a grown-up. There’s no way to retain even the most infinitesimal shred dignity.

  I was six when I last competed in a sack race and seem to recall I was sufficiently small to be able to cheat both effectively and secretly – by running inside my sack.

  Even if I wasn’t now old enough to have grown some scruples, my feet are so big they can’t run anywhere. Instead, all I can do is leap up and down like an electrocuted trout, pounding across the field. The twins, I’m rather proud to say, go wild.

  ‘Auntie Hannah, you can win!’ shrieks Leo – as I realise I’m neck and neck with Laura. Something primeval takes over me.

  I decide to really go for it.

  I scramble out of the sack, red faced and leaking sweat, before racing to the bar, where I fall to my hands and knees like a pantomime horse trying to keep up at the Grand National.

  I tumble under the cargo net, then grab a skipping rope, racing to the next stage, where I pick up an egg and spoon. And this
– the bloody egg-and-spoon – turns out to be my undoing. It turns out that any innate talent I have at running and balancing simultaneously is so minimal that the red team would’ve been better fielding a drunk, demented tortoise.

  And, as I repeatedly drop my egg and have to go back to the start, I watch as Noah’s and Leo’s little faces turn from excited pride to a look that says, We’ve never met this woman in our lives.

  Finally, I plonk the egg on the spoon, and, with intense concentration, start walking. Fast. I am mere inches from the finish line, when I glance up and see that I am neck and neck with a woman I’ve never seen before. I have literally no idea who she is, but decide with the burning intensity of Rocky Balboa that I have to win.

  So, with the end steps away, I make a rash decision, though calling it a decision gives the impression that I actually think about what I’m doing. I don’t. I just dive.

  On the plus side, I technically land at the finish line at the same time as my nemesis, meaning that in the worst-case scenario, I’d be walking away with a respectable second place. If only I could walk away – because, instead of jumping up triumphant, I am left clutching my insides and realising that I appear to have punctured several internal organs with my own elbow.

  I start crawling on my hands and knees, desperate to avoid the limelight – but, instead of being able to cower in the bushes and pretend none of this has happened, I’m aware that concerned teachers and parents are descending on me to offer assistance.

  ‘Oh, I’m fine, honestly,’ I croak brightly, attempting to give off the refined air of a Jane Austen character after fainting at afternoon tea. But mostly hoping they’ll all just go away.

  Then Michael is next to me. ‘All I can say is, “Wow!”’

  ‘Yes, I didn’t go to Dubai,’ I say breathlessly.

  ‘I was referring to your egg-and-spoon skills, actually.’

  I laugh. ‘It’s your fault for encouraging me. I’d never have dreamt of doing it otherwise.’