She gives me a kind smile. “Sometimes they push you away even when you’re living in the same house. Part of them wants to deal with it themselves. Part of them wants to shield you from the ugliness.”
I wipe the tears from my eyes, thank her for her kindness. My makeup is nonexistent now and we both turn to leave thebathroom at the same time, she holding the door open for me as she leads.
“Good luck. I know that’s a strange thing to say,” she says. “The trick is to try to continue your life at the same time. Don’t put everything on hold. Be there for him. But the world keeps spinning. Don’t give up on everything that makes youyou.”
“I woke up this morning with that exact feeling.”
“Good.”
“God, I’m so sorry, I just blathered away at you.”
She laughs. “It’s fine, honestly.”
I walk along the corridor behind her as I head in the direction of the boardroom, where I’ve already placed all my papers and laptop. I glance at my watch. I’m that little bit late now, which is not the professional look I was aiming for. She turns into the room ahead of me and I pause, horror filling every part of me. Is she a senior member of my company from another floor that I’ve not met? But she sits on the other side of the table, where the potential client’s team is gathered, and then looks up at me. A kind of surprise passes over her face as my boss says, “And this is Hannah Gallagher, our marketing manager.” Introductions are made all around and it becomes apparent that the main person I am supposed to be impressing is the woman I’ve just cried in front of, in the toilets.
I am off my game now, thrown from capable to idiotic. I’m unsure of myself and, whatever I say, Craig gives a slight frown at me and, every now and again, a slight nod. I can’t tell if I’m making a hash of this or excelling. I make eye contact with the woman from the toilets—Cindy, her name is—and with her colleagues and try to let the words flow, and the presentation of success stories I’ve completed for other companies and ideas for their charity merge together. And then it’s my turn to let someone else take over. Strategy ideas loom across the table and my boss isbeing extra forceful, probably to make up for the piss-poor job I’ve done.
Cindy looks as if she’s being shouted at, even though Craig is delivering his presentation calmly, if perhaps a little loudly—his eyes wide with enthusiasm. Between the two of us, we have messed this up good and proper. I let my mind drift to the movements of grays outside the windows, the clouds that scud across the London skyline, until the end of the meeting arrives suddenly, business cards are being exchanged, goodbyes said, and we’re shaking hands.
My boss turns to me and the two others who pitched. “I think that went really well.” No one says anything. No one’s committing. Vague nods all around ensue. I need to get out of here. Today was supposed to be me hitting refresh on the frozen screen that had become my life. Day one, help ruin client meeting involving combined effort with my boss. That wasn’t on the schedule for the day. But a giant drink in the pub with Clare afterward firmly is.
“He’s such a twat,” she says. “I don’t know how he got that job.” Clare really is the least discreet HR manager I’ve ever come across. “He’s less qualified than you,” she says pointedly.
“More experienced, though,” I offer in Craig’s defense.
Clare thinks. “Not really. No. One year, max.”
“Oh.”
“Got the job because he’s forceful,” Clare remarks, in answer to a question I haven’t asked.
“Oh,” I say, looking at my wineglass, wondering what to take from that.
“You’re not forceful,” Clare says, finishing her second glass of wine more quickly than me. It’s my round next. I’ll get up in a second. I’m also going to buy us some crisps, which I won’t tell George about. I sense Clare needs some food. She’s getting tipsy.
“What do you mean—I’m not forceful?” I ask, fumbling in my bag for my purse.
“Er…never mind,” Clare says.
“No, go on. I’m a big girl. You can say it.”
I can see the cogs turn in Clare’s wine-addled mind. She’s about to be massively indiscreet and I’m silently willing her along. “Do you remember when you came for your second interview?” she asks.
I think back, five years ago. “Yeah.”
“Remember when Craig—who, by the way, had only been here a year at that point and had just been promoted up from the job you were being interviewed for…” She’s gone a bit slurry now. “Remember when Craig asked you what kind of salary expectations you had?”
I do remember. I thought it was a trick question. The advert had said £30–35k. I nod.
“Do you remember what your answer was?”
“No,” I say, thinking.
“I do,” Clare says, leaning forward to take a sip from her empty glass and putting it back down on the table again, after peering in and finding no wine inside. “It was awful. You said,Well, I’m happy with thirty grand because it’s a bit more than I’m on now and I really want the job.” She rolls her eyes and then mimics slamming her head onto the pub table.
“Right,” I say.
She looks up at me. “Do you still not see what’s wrong with that? Even now?”
