“Hannah,” she says.
“Yes?”
“I very much think you should apply.”
“Oh, thanks,” I say. “I’ll…take a look.”
“Do that. And even if you don’t apply—which I reiterate that I think you should—it was very nice to meet you yesterday.”
“Thank you. Likewise. Thanks for the help. And the tissues.”
Cindy chuckles. “My pleasure. Bye, Hannah.”
“Bye.”
I start walking again, and a smile drifts over my face. Day two just got better.
Chapter 25
June
I have aspring in my step. Nothing can top this feeling. I’ve left the office, late at the end of my first week working with Cindy and her team. I’ve been eased in gently, but projects are landing on my desk that actually mean something to me. I’m in charge of one other person who has only just joined and together we’re learning the ropes, alongside the incumbent marketing director, who’s staying for a handover period. Cindy’s a bit of a force to be reckoned with, but we’re getting along well and the charity is having a low-key summer party this Saturday to say thank you to its most faithful donors. I’m enjoying being involved with this one charity, rather than being spread across ten or fifteen brands simultaneously, as I was at the agency. This gives me space to be inventive for one job at a time, and the thrill of being a fairly senior member of a team, who is listened to and who listens to others, fills me with joy every day I wake up. I didn’t realize how stagnant and robotic I’d become at my last job. I didn’t realize Craig didn’t actually value me very much.
Craig was livid when he heard I was leaving and made a huge jokey show at my farewell party of telling me I’d learned everything from him, and not to “fuck it up” in my new job or it would reflect badly on him. I held my tongue, hugged him goodbye, and, over his shoulder, watched Clare stick both her middle fingers upat the back of his head. I’d miss her the most, but we’ve got a date on the calendar to meet in a few weeks.
At the weekend I put on a floaty dress and heels and head to the HAC gardens in the City for the company’s summer party. My predecessor is working with me until the end of the month, when she finishes and hands over to me, so this party is her responsibility, her swan song, and I’m learning as much as I can from her before she leaves, including how to put on a fabulous summer party on a limited budget. Our donors and my colleagues are here with their partners and I have brought George, feeling proud and excited to show him off. He looks good in an open-necked crisp white shirt, tailored shorts, and deck shoes. We’ve seen so little of each other recently—we’ve both been working so late—and I’m genuinely excited to see him. I’m still riding the wave of starting a new job that I love, of being on month two of the new Hannah, of planning to go home to Whitstable with George next weekend, where I’m going to introduce him to my parents. I wasn’t sure this was a big deal. It felt like a natural thing to do. But my mum’s voice was tinged with real excitement when I asked what weekend would work for them to meet George. She pointed out that I’d never brought a man home to see them before and, although I knew that, being reminded of it makes me a bit nervous. “Meet the parents” sounds so…official. And then I realize: We’re a couple. We’ve not labeled it as such yet, but we are.
George holds my hand as we walk through the grounds of the summer party, the wide green space hidden in the city, flanked by buildings. Entertainers have set up for children, and there are races for those who are willing to embrace the unofficial sports-day theme. After a few minutes of chatting to colleagues, being introduced to donors, I feel George’s hand detach from mine. “Just going to grab a few drinks for us,” he whispers and moves away.
I talk and am moved around, introduced seamlessly by Kate, the marketing director who is prepping to move overseas.
“This is Jonathan White,” she says to me and I extend my hand to shake his. That name rings so many bells, yet I can’t quite determine why. Kate gives snippets of detail as I shake his hand. He’s an architect in the City, responsible for the latest mind-bending skyscraper going up in EC4. He’s nice, jovial, incredibly posh, and, as he and Kate talk, nodding toward me to include me, I place his name, realizing suddenly why I know of this man. Weirdly, this was going to be Davey’s boss. Once upon a time. I try to picture him interviewing Davey, offering a man he’d never met a job over the telephone. I can see it happening. This man is likable. Davey is likable. They’d have got on well. But there is no way I’m mentioning Davey to him; although the urge is there, I have to resist it. He’s probably forgotten all about Davey and that he had to decline the job in the end. He probably never even batted an eyelid—had someone in HR open the job back up again, and everyone carried on with their day.
We talk for a few moments about the possibility of Jonathan offering a mentorship scheme as part of our work. He already donates quite heavily and, as I nod along to his informed comments about the work we do, I try to fathom how, in general, people can sometimes forget other people so easily. And how some of us can’t, no matter how hard we try. Then Kate ushers me on, keen to have me meet as many influential people as possible, until it’s time to head to the BBQ. But I sneak off for a few minutes in the direction of the bathroom, finding Cindy hiding around the corner. She’s having a crafty cigarette.
“Shouldn’t really,” she says, indicating the item in her hand. “Especially given…you know,” she says. “It’s my one vice. One a day. Awful, I know, but I don’t drink or do drugs, so don’t judge.”
“I wouldn’t,” I say. I just met her other half, Lynn, as she was on her way to the BBQ. She told me that she and George ran anegg-and-spoon race together with a couple of others while I was schmoozing donors. I tell Cindy that.
“Fiercely competitive is Lynn. Did she let George win?”
“Not sure,” I laugh. “Wasn’t really watching. Too busy talking.”
“He seems very lovely,” Cindy says.
I smile. “He is.”
“Looks in peak health. You’d never know,” she says.
I narrow my eyes in confusion and then it dawns on me. “Oh. Oh no…George isn’t—he’s not the one with…you know. It’s not him.”
“Oh, right.”
“No,” I say again. “It’s someone else. Someone I’m not…with. I haven’t been with him in ages. But George and I have been together since February and…” I’m not sure where I’m going with this, so I stop.
“So the guy who’s sick is still in the US?”
I nod. “Yes. We’re not together. Anymore.”
