The Missing Pieces of Sophie McCarthy

by B M Carroll

  Outside the café, on the walk back to the office, she starts up again. ‘You know, Hannah, it might not sound like it, but I love my job. Coming into the city every day, the fulfilled feeling that comes from using my brain, having a life away from my kids and all the domestic humdrum. I loved the nice vibe we had in the department, the feeling that I was appreciated and valued, but all that disappeared as soon as she came back.’

  Flipping heck, it’s actually a relief to return to work. I know that Jane is stressed out, but she’s being completely over the top. We catch the lift up to the third floor and, after a quick smile to the receptionist, proceed through the security door. It seems ironic that Sophie is the first person we see when we set foot in the department.

  She has obviously been waiting for us. She looks upset. ‘I’ve been trying to call you, Jane … Please come into my office.’

  12

  Sophie

  ‘There are mistakes all over this report. The assumptions are inconsistent and, on top of that, there are typos … everywhere. It was John Greenland who spotted the error in the assumptions. John Greenland! I had to apologize to him and the other directors. You put me in a very awkward position, Jane.’

  ‘Sorry,’ she mumbles, looking out the window instead of meeting my eyes.

  ‘ “Sorry” isn’t good enough. We’re professionals. We can’t hand in substandard reports and follow up with an airy apology. They rely on our analyses, make decisions based on our accuracy. We have to –’

  ‘You didn’t give me enough notice!’

  ‘What?’ I’m speechless for a moment. ‘You’re blaming me now? Come on, Jane. Seriously?’

  ‘There wasn’t enough notice,’ she persists, slowly turning her eyes from the window to me. ‘I thought the report wasn’t due until later in the week, but when I saw your email last night, I dropped everything and tried my best to give you what you wanted. In retrospect, I should have said no, it wouldn’t be ready on time. That would have been the more professional thing to do, I realize now. Obviously, working so late at night didn’t help my accuracy. And Zara was sick in the middle of it …’ Jane pauses, as though regretting mentioning her daughter, as though I am the kind of person to blame a sick little girl.

  Finally, she seems to come to her senses and properly apologizes. ‘I’m sorry, Sophie, I really am. I’ll reissue the report right away, and send a written apology to John and the rest of the board.’

  I nod, and she makes a move to leave, no doubt contemplating where she can go to lick her wounds before facing her colleagues.

  ‘Stop. Wait a minute.’

  She stops in her tracks, her expression hardening, becoming mutinous. I think she knows what’s coming.

  ‘This is a warning, Jane. A formal warning. Your performance is not up to the standard we require from employees of your experience and standing. Your report reflected badly on the whole department. I need to be able to rely on the quality of your work, and I feel I can’t. It’s not just this particular instance. If it were, I’d be prepared to let it go. Quality seems to be an issue across all areas of your work, and I see a distinct lack of commitment on your part, as though this job is a means to an end and nothing more. This warning will be put in writing and entered in your employment record …’ I clear my throat, and then, because we both know it’s required by law, ask, ‘Do you have any response?’

  She doesn’t even hesitate. ‘Yes, I do have a response, actually.’ She raises her chin, takes a deep breath. ‘Don’t bother with the warning letter, save yourself the trouble. I resign.’

  ‘Oh, come on, Jane. Don’t be rash!’

  There is no stopping her. ‘I can even make things easier again and leave right this minute. There’ll be no risk of any more substandard reports, or supposed quality or commitment issues. Does that make you happy, Sophie?’

  For God’s sake. ‘No, it does not. I think you –’

  ‘I’ll tell you what … it makes me happy. Imagine, I’ll have my life back. How will that feel? I won’t have to monitor my emails twenty-four hours a day. I won’t have to drop everything to tend to your short-notice demands. So fuck you and your warning, Sophie McCarthy. I resign.’

  The wooziness starts when I’m on the bus, about halfway home. The voices around me recede, as though someone has turned down the volume. It’s one of the warning signs (the others being dizziness, sweating, tunnel vision) before I collapse into whatever heap gravity pulls me into. Afterwards, there’s the terrible feeling of having lost control, a mortifying loss of dignity, as well as the bruising, often on my face.

  Come on, Sophie. Not here. It’ll only cause a scene. Come on, fight it. You’re on public transport, for God’s sake. They’ll stop the bus. They’ll call an ambulance. You’ll delay all the other commuters. It’ll be all so much more complicated if you faint here. Hold it together, Sophie.

  And I do hold on. By taking deep breaths, dragging oxygen into my brain. By not giving in to the urge to slide down, to close my eyes. The fresh air when I get off the bus revives me further but, within moments, I feel weak again. The exertion of the five-minute walk to the house when I’m already so tired. The slight incline, an incline I used hardly to notice when I was fit and well. The weight of my laptop bag biting into my shoulder, an extra burden when I can hardly hold myself up straight.

  Aidan’s already home, in the kitchen, making a start on dinner.

  ‘Hey,’ he greets me. ‘You’re late.’

  I hurry past him, heading for the safety of the couch, the one place where I can’t do myself any harm if I do pass out.

  ‘Sophie?’ In my mind I imagine Aidan putting down the knife, drying his hands on a tea towel. If I turn my head, I could actually see him doing all this, but moving my head wouldn’t be good right now, not when everything is already so wobbly. ‘Are you all right, Soph?’

  Deep breaths. I’m safe, I made it home. Deep breaths.

  He crouches down in front of me, takes one of my hands. ‘What is it?’

  My voice is slurred. ‘Thought I was going to faint.’

  His face is full of concern. ‘Did you overdo it?’

  Yes, you could say that. The stress of getting ready for the board meeting. John Greenland glaring down the length of the table – directly at me – declaring, ‘Assumption three doesn’t make any sense.’ Then that awful scene with Jane.

  Maybe if she had been at the board meeting, on the receiving end of John’s biting criticism, been the one who had to take the brunt of the responsibility – even though the errors belonged to someone else – she might have understood how compromised I was, and why I got so angry with her.

  Fuck you and your warning, Sophie McCarthy.

  I know she was upset, but I did nothing to deserve that. It wasn’t as if I wanted to give her a formal warning. I did it only because I felt I had no other choice. I had to be seen to act. Otherwise, John Greenland would think that substandard work was tolerated by our department – by me.

  Jane didn’t have to resign. She could have gone off somewhere to cool down and gather her thoughts. And, if she was determined to hand in her resignation, there was no need to walk out like that, on the spot. She could have worked out her four weeks’ notice, like everyone else does. But no, she lost her temper, her job and her notice pay, all in one fell swoop. If it had been me in her shoes, on the wrong end of a formal warning, I would like to think that I’d be mature, stoic, dignified.

  Aidan, as always, wants to make it better. ‘What can I get you? Water? Tea? A cold sponge?’

  ‘Water. Thanks.’

  Thank God I have tomorrow off, a chance to recover. And thank God I kept my head and didn’t yell back at Jane. Of course I had to go straight round to Alyssa in HR to explain what had happened. Alyssa took notes while I relayed my version of events. I was clear, unemotional and tried to be fair. I’m sure she has called Jane by now and got her version on record too. God only knows what Jane said about me.

  ‘Here.’ A
idan hands me the water and sits down next to me, his hand resting lightly on my back as he waits for an explanation.

  ‘One of my staff resigned. In fact, she walked right out the door. After she told me to fuck myself.’

  Aidan is visibly shocked. He struggles to understand the corporate world, the lack of discipline and respect, the frequent breaking of ranks. Today is one of those days when I wish my work environment was more like his. Respect is underrated at Real Cover Insurance. Everyone, even the graduates, has an overblown sense of self-importance.

  ‘And it was so unnecessary … Really, really stupid of her.’

  I can see Jane at home now, trying to explain to her husband, realizing the enormity of what she’s done.

  The worst thing – for her – is that she won’t be able to get a reference. Fuck you, Sophie McCarthy. There’s no going back from that, no smoothing things over, no ending on a nice note. It would be a farce, not to say downright dishonest, for me (or anyone else at Real Cover) to recommend Jane Dixon as a potential employee.

  ‘Well, it sounds like you’re better off without her,’ Aidan says with a wry smile.

  Yes and no. I will miss Jane, in some respects. She had years of experience and knew her way around complex actuarial concepts as well as the minefield of office politics and policies. Now I’ll have to hire someone new and invest lots of time in teaching them all the things Jane already knew.

  Just the thought of this makes me feel even more tired.

  Sometime later I wake to the clatter of crockery. Aidan is setting out plates.

  ‘What time is it?’ I mumble.

  ‘Seven. You’ve slept thirty minutes or so. Feel any better?’

  His voice is clear, as is my vision, which I test on various items around me: the coffee table, a picture frame, the TV.

  ‘Yes.’ I yawn and stretch, then sniff. ‘Is that curry?’

  ‘Yup. I’ll dish it up now, if you’re ready.’

  ‘Just give me another ten minutes, to wake up properly.’

  Ten minutes later, punctual as ever, Aidan drags the coffee table closer to the couch.

  ‘Special privileges for the sick and tired.’

  ‘Lucky me.’ I smile up at him, grateful for how he’s always thinking of me, taking care of me, making things easier when and where he can. I know Mum and Dad don’t understand why I’m with him, especially after what he’s done to me. They can’t see past all the months in hospital, the rehabilitation, the ongoing pain, the fact that I’ll never be the same again.

  I can. I see the caring, considerate man underneath that controlled exterior. I see that his core is one of kindness, despite the aggression that’s often required of him in his job. He is not a perfect man. He has made mistakes and I’m sure will continue to do so. But he is the sort of man who will do anything – anything in his power – to rectify his wrongs. Hurting me was a colossal mistake. But he’s making up for it. He’s doing everything he can. And that has to count for something, right?

  He sits next to me on the couch, balancing his plate on his knees. For a while we eat in silence. The curry is good, just the right level of spicy, the chicken melt-in-my-mouth tender. Aidan is a very competent cook. Self-sufficiency is one of the many things they teach them in the army: cooking, cleaning up, laundry, ironing, sewing on buttons and taking up hems. I can’t remember how it was when it was just me living here, not being able to enjoy the benefit of Aidan’s many skills.

  ‘Soph?’

  ‘Yeah?’ My mouth is full. I’m hungrier than I thought I’d be.

  ‘I need to ask you something.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘It’s about Jasmin.’

  My heart drops. This is one of his drawbacks: his family. Chloe’s bad enough, but at least she’s an adult and can be kept at a distance. Jasmin is harder to shut out. She’s always there, between us. Kids are like that, ever present, needing constant attention. Parents can never switch off. This is the very reason I decided not to have kids: because I need an OFF button. Luckily I came to this decision long ago, as I’d never be able to get through a pregnancy the way I am now, and it would be yet another thing that I’d need to forgive Aidan for.

  ‘Yes?’ I prompt warily.

  ‘I know this is your house, not mine. And I know you’re especially tired with the return to work, and Jasmin isn’t your child, or your responsibility …’

  ‘But?’

  Aidan puts his plate down on the coffee table and turns to face me. ‘Chloe is feeling overwhelmed …’

  ‘She is?’

  ‘I need to give her a break …’

  ‘And how are you going to do that?’ I ask, even though I know I won’t like the answer.

  ‘Jasmin needs to stay with me some of the time. Every other weekend, to start with. And maybe some weekdays too … later on, of course.’

  My fork slips from my grip, clanging on to the plate. It’s not that I’m shocked. This was always on my risk radar. I was just – foolishly? – hoping it wouldn’t eventuate. ‘You want her to sleep over here?’

  ‘Yes.’ He takes a deep breath. ‘It’s not just about Chloe, and giving her a break. I miss Jasmin terribly. At the start, it seemed like the right thing to do, keep her with her mother, minimal change to routine, maintaining some distance between you and her. But we’re at a different stage now. It’s been a few months and we need to evolve to a more long-term arrangement. One that’s fair. To everybody. Including you.’

  I don’t want Jasmin in my house. A nine-year-old child to feed, to entertain, to navigate my way around. I’m not good with kids. Not even my own niece and nephew. Just ask Jacob, he’ll tell you. The truth is, I don’t know what to do with them, how to speak to them, how to relax and be myself around them. It doesn’t help that the rules seem to change vastly depending on the exact age of the child … What delights a twelve-month-old – peekaboo, clapping hands – doesn’t seem to impress a two-year-old so much. It’s all too hard, too demanding, and – if I’m honest – too boring. I hate how some people – including my own mother – act like it’s the crime of the century not to be infatuated with kids.

  Aidan leans forward, his head bowed, his hands clasped together. He looks like he’s waiting for a verdict of some sort.

  It’s only because I love him so much I say, ‘OK, if it means that much to you.’

  His smile lights up his face. At least one of us is happy.

  13

  Richard

  A date has been set. At long bloody last. The sentencing has been adjourned several times, mainly due to excuses relating to Aidan’s job. This or that drill or major operation that happens to be on the proposed date. Everything can seem urgent and super-important when it’s related to the army. What’s urgent is that bastard being held to account by a court of law. Of course Sophie doesn’t see it like that.

  ‘I wish we didn’t have to go through this. I wish we could just put the whole thing behind us.’

  I have to bite my tongue. It’s downright ludicrous, the idea of putting it behind her when she is living with the consequences every moment of every day. I don’t want her to be one of those pathetic women. The ones who forgive – again and again – the men who hurt and violate them. The ones who believe all the excuses.

  She doesn’t look at all well today: white in the face, dark circles under her eyes, that hunched-over posture she has when she’s struggling.

  ‘Are you all right, sweetheart? You look washed out.’

  She shrugs, tries to make little of it. ‘It’s been a full-on week … But some good news, Dad. Aidan and I have bought a car. It’s a Golf. I took it for a test drive and it felt right, you know?’

  I don’t know. I’ve never been a fan of VWs, but she didn’t even ask my opinion. I’ve helped her buy all her cars, right from her very first set of wheels, when she was eighteen.

  ‘How did you manage the test drive?’

  She gives a small laugh. ‘You forget all the little movements in
volved, checking the mirrors, looking over your shoulder, pulling up the handbrake. But I tried not to do anything too suddenly and, overall, I felt great. So you won’t need to be my chauffeur any more … You must be happy about that!’

  ‘Now I wouldn’t say that, sweetheart.’

  Despite the terrible circumstances, driving her around has been an absolute pleasure. We’ve had some great chats while we’ve been getting from A to B. I like hearing her opinion on things, seeing that fierce intelligence come to the fore. I feel like I’ve got to know her all over again: her likes and dislikes, what makes her laugh, what ticks her off.

  ‘I’m not planning on driving every day,’ she continues. ‘It’s not practical to take the car into work … my muscles would seize up, sitting in the traffic. But it’ll be great to zip down to the shops and over to you and Mum. They’re just finishing off the paperwork and giving it a clean. It should be here tomorrow.’

  I should be happy for her. This is good news, another step forward. It’s just the thought of Aidan and Sophie buying a car together. Their lives becoming even more entangled. And hearing this on the same day that I hear about the date for the sentencing.

  ‘I was just popping in to say hello,’ I say, unnecessarily. More often than not I call over on her days off. ‘Can I do anything for you? Have you had lunch yet?’

  ‘I’d love a sandwich, if you’re making one.’ She glances towards her laptop, which she was working on when I came in. ‘I just need to make a quick call for work.’

  There’s no bread in either the pantry or the freezer. In the fridge, I find the end of a packet of cold ham and a hunk of cheese. I add this to a plate with some crackers. It’s the best I can do.

  Sophie is still on the phone. ‘The file is on my desk, Hannah. The document should be near the front …’

  I pop the kettle on and make two cups of strong tea. After five minutes or so she finishes the call.