“And the wedding? Have you decided on a date? I went to the church last week and they said they need at least three months’ notice. It’s very popular as a venue, so close to the lake, a lovely backdrop, and the banqueting hall is divine.” Her mother barely took a breath, she was so excited.
Cam sighed. She’d heard all this before. She and Ryan had been engaged for less than a year, and she was in no hurry to marry. Cam had been so surprised when Ryan had proposed the week before they left for London. It was unexpected because they had never once talked about it despite three years together.
Cam had enjoyed the deliberate cheesiness of Ryan’s proposal. He’d insisted on a “farewell to Seattle” meal at the restaurant at the top of the Space Needle and ended the meal by dropping the ring into a glass of overpriced champagne, followed by a cake lit with sparklers delivered by a team of smiling waiters. She had hesitated for a second and then, swept up in the moment, said yes to cheers and applause. They had gone somewhere else for cocktails and gone home happy and wasted. Later, when reality hit, she told Ryan that the wedding would have to wait till they were back in Seattle so that family and friends could attend. She was relieved that he didn’t seem to mind at all.
Cam delighted in telling her mother all about the engagement, knowing she was horrified at the tackiness of the proposal but also relieved Cam finally had a ring on her finger. Her mother adored Ryan. The fact he was an investment banker from a well off family was a big part of it, but he also had an easy charm that her mother couldn’t resist. She’d never said it in quite so many words, but Cam was pretty sure that her mother thought she’d done well for herself to snag someone like Ryan. One day she would have to learn to not care what her mother thought of her quite so much. That she still did made her feel a little sad.
Cam picked up the coffee she had made ten minutes earlier and urged herself to enjoy it more knowing that it was a gift from her employers that Graham did not approve of. Her mind drifted back to the previous evening and how nice it had been to meet Iris. Cam could tell that Iris was someone who used humor to keep people at a distance, but she’d been willing to share something of herself with Cam, and it certainly seemed like they had things in common that might lead to friendship. Jess’s comments about Iris’s womanizing were an eye-opener though. She was obviously bitter about something in their past, but no one had really challenged what she’d said—not even Iris—so Cam figured it must have been largely true. That the drama didn’t give her more pause for thought just told Cam how much she had liked Iris.
Cam put down her coffee and reverted to working through her ever-expanding inbox. The satellite office of the law firm, opened several years before to take pressure off Cottoms’ main London office, was much busier than Cam had expected. The work was boring—mainly financial admin—and her boss was a total pain in the ass, but the fact that she was busy and people were generally friendly helped the days go by.
Arriving in London, Ryan had made it clear that he would support her financially and that she didn’t need to work, but Cam quickly realized that being the little wife-in-waiting didn’t suit her. She wanted—needed—the independence that came from having money of her own, and she wanted to meet new people. Back home, Cam had often felt bored and restless—like life was just passing her by—and she’d hoped that London would help her feel different, help her find herself somehow, but she was facing up to the fact that she had a lot of the same feelings here. She couldn’t understand why it was so difficult to figure out why she was bored, and what it was that she actually wanted from her life. The role at Cottoms definitely wasn’t anything she’d want forever, but for now, it was fine, and if she could make the right friends, she might even be able to start to enjoy life outside work a bit more.
Cam heard a knock on the open office door and was surprised to see first Megan, and then Iris, appear in the doorway. The office was not large—just space enough for the four desks and various filing cabinets it contained. Graham’s PA, the long-suffering Sylvia, something of a Cottoms institution, usually occupied the desk nearest the door, but she was on leave.
Megan entered the room and sat in Sylvia’s empty office chair while Iris remained in the doorway. “Can we have a word please, Graham? It won’t take five minutes.” Megan was being unusually polite.
Graham looked from Megan to Iris and back again. “That’s good because I’ve barely got five minutes.”
Like a good bean counter, Graham measured out his words carefully, speaking with a surprisingly deep voice for such a slight man.
“We’ve been speaking to Mr. Cottom about the football team and about the running costs going up—the pitches, the equipment, the registration and so on—and he said that he would support an increase in funding if you could identify a budget for it to come from. I wanted to ask you to see if you could.”
Graham pointed at the stack of papers he had on the desk in front of him. “Times are tight, ladies. Budgets are being overspent all over the place. I’m not sure Mr. Cottom always appreciates that from his…” he searched for the right words, “rather lofty position at the top of the company.”
Iris sighed loudly, and Megan shot her a look that was intended to make Iris stay quiet.
“I appreciate that, Graham, but we’re only talking about a small increase. Even five hundred pounds would help us get through the season.”
Cam could see that Iris was agitated. She was shifting from foot to foot.
“And what would you have me cut to find this five hundred pounds you need? Let’s see…” Graham pretended to think. “I suppose I could have the sanitary bin contract in the women’s lavatories canceled. An eye for an eye—that sort of thing.”
It was, Cam supposed, a joke, but it was hard to tell with Graham and it certainly wasn’t funny.
Before Megan could respond, Iris stepped into the room. She addressed her comment to Megan, but her eyes were focused on Graham. “I knew this was a waste of time and that he’d use us asking as some sort of power trip. Let’s leave it and find the money some other way. I don’t think we should have to beg.” Megan held up a hand as if to say “Let me deal with it” and spoke again to Graham.
“We’ve heard that the men’s team has a lot more funding than we do, and we thought maybe one option might be to equalize the spending a bit between the teams—only seems fair.”
Graham regarded Megan coldly. “Not sure where you heard that, Megan, but let me assure you that we’re cutting back in all corners of the business. Times are tight, as I’ve already said. I can only promise that I’ll do my best to identify something that will help. Is that all?”
Megan was showing what Cam felt was masterful composure in the face of Graham’s dismissive behavior.
“That’s all. Thank you, Graham.” Megan moved toward the door.
Iris stood back from the entrance to allow Megan to pass her into the corridor, but before moving off after her, she popped her head back into the office.
“I really hope it isn’t the case that the men’s team gets more funding, Graham, because that sort of blatant gender discrimination would not reflect very well on the company, especially given that it’s a company full to the brim of female lawyers who enjoy nothing more than litigating that kind of injustice.”
Iris left before Graham could respond. Cam couldn’t help but think they’d tag-teamed Graham pretty well, leaving him with little room to maneuver around the funding. He stood up, causing Cam to start slightly.
“The cheek of it. Who the hell does she think she is? They think that I don’t know that they use that team as a women’s social group. Half the players don’t even work for Cottoms. They don’t take it as seriously as the men’s team do. I don’t see the comparison as a helpful one. Not at all.” He jabbed his fingers at his desk to emphasize the words. “I know you’re engaged to be married, Cameron, but I would think very carefully about continuing your membership on the team under the circumstances.”
“What�
�s that supposed to mean?”
“I’m just saying that I have my sources of information too, and I know that Iris—and certainly one or two of the other players—use that team as a way of meeting like-minded women, and I’m sure your fiancé wouldn’t want you exposed to that.”
“I don’t know anything about that except to say that people meet people in all areas of life—work, sport, the supermarket, pottery classes—so I don’t see why it’s so wrong that women would connect through the team. And as for taking it seriously, we’ve won three of the last four matches we’ve played, are third in the league, and my legs feel like they won’t get me up the stairs given how hard the training was last night. Before you judge, I suggest you come along and watch one week. We totally take that team seriously.”
Cam had kept her composure, but the effort meant that her hands were shaking when she picked up her cup. “I’m going to get a coffee.” She had to get out of there before saying something more that she might regret.
On her way out of the door, a little voice in her head reminded Cam that Graham was the second person in as many days to suggest that Iris was a real player. She had been very friendly, but Cam hadn’t got any kind of vibe that made her worry about Iris’s intentions. Maybe it’d be better if Iris was with someone, but as soon as the thought landed, another collided with it. That might mean she doesn’t have time to become my friend. And Cam really wanted Iris to be her friend. As she reached the kitchen, Cam decided to swap her coffee for a chamomile tea and the hope of a peaceful afternoon.
Chapter Three
Iris leafed through the pamphlet she’d been given with her ticket on the way in. This bookstore was one of her favorite places to waste time in Hampstead. She loved the atmosphere. It was one of those bookstores that made clear that browsing and sitting were still approved of, and she’d spent many happy hours occupying one or other of the comfy armchairs that were dotted around the store. It had an impressive selection of books spread over three floors and a poetry section that occupied half of one whole wall of the store rather than a few volumes tacked on to the end of the fiction section like you might get elsewhere. She’d discovered so many new writers there, and that just made her love it more.
As usual, she had snagged a seat on the back row, her back to a wall of large bookcases containing travel books of all shapes, sizes, countries, and continents. She picked up a book at random to browse while the room filled up and put it straight back when she saw it was the Eyewitness Guide to New York. Typical. Another unhelpful reminder of the past.
She looked around the room and saw that the chairs crammed in rows in this half of the second floor were nearly all taken. It was close to seven thirty, and there were just a few empty seats at the front. Iris tried, as she often did, to imagine herself standing in front of this audience, reading one of her own poems. She would be terrified of course, but also, she liked to hope, exhilarated at giving life to something she had created, to bring the words off the page and plant them in people’s hearts and minds where they might germinate and grow. It saddened Iris that she wasn’t writing as much as she used to. It had just gotten too hard after Amanda. Iris sometimes blamed Amanda for not encouraging her to perform when they were together and Iris was at her most prolific, but she usually pushed the thought away, reminding herself that Amanda had done nothing to stop her from performing either. She needed to have her own courage.
When Iris and Amanda had separated, after the initial period of losing herself in drinking and sleeping around had passed, Iris found herself writing to give an outlet to the pain she felt, but the poems were so personal, so raw, that she knew she could never perform them. Now she just found it hard to write at all, and coming to events like this was as much an attempt to find inspiration as a way of spending an enjoyable evening.
Iris tried to find a comfortable position in the fold-up chair and sipped the tea she had bought from the café on her way upstairs. She could tell from the way that the middle-aged woman next to her kept glancing at her that she wanted to start up a conversation, but Iris avoided her gaze. She felt a little mean, but she wasn’t in the mood to chat. Being on her own meant that she often attracted conversation from other solo attendees who wanted to discuss the poems. Iris hardly ever agreed with them but was always too polite to say so. To her, poetry was an emotional experience, as personal to each person as the kind of sex they liked to have, but in this bookstore in genteel, well-heeled Hampstead, she doubted that pointing out that comparison would go down well.
On the small makeshift stage at one end of the bookstore floor, the evening’s emcee was waiting for the room to come to order. She was looking at a sheaf of notes attached to a clipboard as if to remind herself of what should happen and what she should say. As Iris felt the room settle down around her, she saw the woman impatiently wave at a couple who had just entered the room and urge them to sit in the seats immediately in front of her. The man and the woman began to pick their way across the front row, muttering apologies as they tried to creep as unobtrusively as possible past those already seated, obviously flustered to be arriving so late.
Iris sat up in her chair at the realization that the woman, now seated and trying to take off her coat without attracting even more attention, was Cam. The dark haired man she had arrived with said something in her ear. You didn’t need to be an expert in body language to see from Cam’s response that she was annoyed. She shook her head, refusing to look at him and stared fixedly ahead at the low stage, just a couple of feet away from them. Iris was so surprised to find Cam here, so taken with watching the interaction between Cam and, she presumed, her fiancé that she missed the introduction of the first performer. Cam clapped enthusiastically, and Ryan—Iris finally remembered his name—did not. So Cam likes poetry. What a lovely surprise.
Throughout the first half of the evening, Iris caught herself looking across at Cam more than once. Cam seemed rapt, sitting upright in her seat, quite still and only seeming to relax when each performer left the stage. Her fiancé looked bored. He was slouched in his seat, still wearing his jacket as if he didn’t really mean to stay very long and constantly checking his phone.
The emcee announced a fifteen-minute break, and Iris stood up for a stretch. The rickety wooden chairs, packed closely together, were never especially comfortable. She nodded in recognition at an old couple she had chatted with at length last time she was here. She knew they were both heading down to the café for tea and a slice of cake. A tempting idea if only she wasn’t trying to stay in shape for the rest of the season. By the time Iris had thought to check whether Cam was going or staying, she noticed that the seats they had been occupying were empty. Iris hadn’t been sure if she should make the effort to go over and say hello, and Cam’s departure had spared her the need to decide. Iris wasn’t sorry not to have to make small talk—it really wasn’t her strong suit—but she was sorry not to have the chance to at least say hello and find out whether Cam came to these kind of events regularly. As she completed the thought, Iris became aware of a presence next to her.
“Hey, fancy meeting you here.” Iris turned to see Cam smiling sweetly at her. “It’s great isn’t it? I really enjoyed that last poem. So moving. I could see that she was really nervous, but she had no reason to be, as she was so good. I loved the way she described her feelings about her son’s illness. So dark, but so poignant.”
Cam took a breath and leaned against the back of the chair in the row in front of Iris, her feet crossed at the ankles. She looked relaxed. Her fair hair was worn loose, and she was wearing a brightly colored knee length open knit jumper over faded jeans. Iris couldn’t help but approve. She also appreciated Cam’s enthusiasm for the poetry and the refreshing lack of small talk.
“I know. I guessed it was her first time performing, but the poem was so good, I figured she must be quite an experienced writer. I know it was long, but I just didn’t want it to end.” Iris paused. “Do you come here…I mean…have you been here before
?” Iris stopped herself from asking the obvious question.
“No, not here. I used to go a lot back home—my sister writes and performs—so, well, I used to go and see her. I love these kinds of things, but Ryan”—she turned to indicate the chairs where they had been sitting—“well, he doesn’t. He hates it actually so we don’t come very often.” She frowned. “He owes me tonight though because I did some awful dinner party with him at his boss’s house last week.”
“That’s a real shame…I mean if it’s something you enjoy you shouldn’t have to not do it.”
Cam nodded but looked uncomfortable. “Who are you here with?”
“No one,” Iris replied softly. “I usually come on my own. I try not to miss one unless there’s a really good reason, but I wouldn’t let not having anyone to go with keep me away.”
Iris sounded more pointed than she had meant to be. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to suggest…it’s just that I don’t know anyone else who likes it, and I don’t seem to mind doing things on my own is all. Though I know plenty of people who would though.”
Cam made no effort to hide her surprise. “I’m sorry too. I assumed, I mean, I just expected you to be here with a date for some reason.”
Iris could have taken Cam’s words the wrong way and gotten offended and defensive. She decided not to.
“I’ve never been lucky enough to date a woman interested in poetry. Not sure why. My last girlfriend was worse than Ryan. I couldn’t even get her to come and sit and fidget. She hated it so much. So I just started to come on my own. No one really cares. Look around you. There are so many people here on their own. Sometimes I’m glad of it as I don’t have to try to externalize my feelings about what I’ve heard, but sometimes I really want to talk about how the poems have made me feel. It depends on my mood, you know?”
One Small Step Page 3
