The Little Things

by Jane Costello

  ‘Don’t be disappointed if you don’t win, Max,’ I tell him and he squeezes my hand and nods. ‘I won’t, Auntie Hannah. Well, maybe just a little bit.’

  The announcements could not be more long and drawn out if I were at the Oscars, awaiting news of who’s scooped Best Sound Mixing for a Vietnamese Short Film with Subtitles.

  They start with the Year One’s entries, listing five highly commended students, then another who’s come third, then second, then first. It strikes me that it’s actually quite a challenge to not win something.

  By the time the Year Five entries are announced, I realise I may have been holding my breath for nearly nine minutes.

  ‘The entry we chose stood out, not just because of his artwork, but because of the superb, original idea at the heart of it. And the winner is . . . Max Tunstall with Off with Her Head.’

  ‘YEEEEEESSSSSSS!’ I shriek spontaneously, before realising that my jubilation is on the overenthusiastic side and slumping back into the crowd. But by now the whole room has turned to look at us and there is not a great deal of goodwill heading in our direction.

  Someone starts clapping, a lone individual in a sea of resentment. I look up and realise it is Michael, who is so insistent that the rest of the room can only join in as Max goes up to the stage to collect his trophy. ‘Well done, Max,’ I whisper when he returns, deciding that now is a good time to leave. Immediately.

  ‘You were obviously busy last weekend.’ I look up and see Gill nodding at our picture.

  ‘Oh, Max did most of it,’ I say, flushing red.

  ‘If you say so.’ She winks at me. ‘Just watch out for some of the more competitive mums. The sharks are circling.’

  It’s only as we’re leaving that what she means becomes apparent. There are three mums at the head teacher’s door and, to Gill’s credit, couldn’t look more sharklike if they each had fifteen rows of teeth. ‘My Anthony spent hours putting together his painting. The one that won was obviously done by a parent.’

  I huddle down and try to leave without anyone seeing me, when I realise Michael has been swept up in the group. My first reaction is to feel a swoop of betrayal. Then he speaks.

  ‘Look, I happen to know that Max Tunstall came up with that idea himself. And are you all honestly saying you didn’t help your kids put their pictures together? Not even a little bit?’

  The woman slinks back. ‘Not that much.’

  ‘I think we all need to not take this all so seriously. Don’t you?’ Then I realise the way she’s looking at him. She smiles, with a reluctant shrug. ‘I suppose you’re right.’

  I grab the kids and shuffle them out of the door before I can hear any more.

  When I reach the car, I pile the kids in and am battling with the pushchair, when I hear a voice. ‘Well done, Max.’

  I slam shut the boot and turn round to see Michael. ‘Thanks for . . . Well, I heard what you said there to that mum.’ I look down awkwardly. ‘It was much appreciated. I don’t think I’ll be interfering in any art projects again.’

  ‘No problem. Besides, it was Max’s idea.’

  ‘True,’ I reply, not that it makes me feel much better about it.

  ‘Well, we’d better run. See you around,’ he says. And as he walks away I feel my insides collapse slightly at the sight of his back.

  Chapter 10

  Nearly a week and a half later, something disturbing happens. I have an inappropriate dream. I don’t mean it’s sexy, by the way – I could live with that, given that I’m living the life of a puritan at the moment.

  It’s a dream about my wedding day, in which I’m at the top table during the reception, my new husband by my side as he makes a rapturous speech about how we met. But the star of this show is not James.

  It’s Michael.

  ‘. . . so I looked up, trying to work out who exactly had flung the sausage roll.’ He smiles as the audience roars with laughter. ‘And there she was, the best sausage-roll thrower in the West. My beautiful wife: Hannah.’

  I wake up fairly sharpish after that, remembering that I have a job interview today and deciding this dream definitely falls into the category of things best kept to myself.

  By the time I’ve had a cold shower, tugged on my dressing gown and skipped downstairs to make some tea, Justin is getting the kids ready, while Suzy finishes dressing. There are beads of sweat on his brow and a pulsating vein on his temples.

  ‘Dad, can we have a talk?’ Max pipes up.

  ‘What about, Max?’ Justin asks breathlessly.

  ‘How about Stone Age weaponry?’

  ‘Not at the moment – Hannah will have a good chat with you in the car about it. Where’s your water bottle, Noah? Max, have you brushed your teeth? LEO, GET YOUR SOCKS ON!’

  ‘Morning,’ I say, helping Leo with his socks as Justin starts tying Noah’s tie.

  ‘Oh, morning, Han,’ he replies. ‘What time’s your interview?’

  ‘Not till nine fifteen a.m. Thanks for taking over while I go.’

  ‘The office don’t mind if I need to go in a bit late every so often,’ he replies. ‘So are you feeling confident?’

  ‘I wouldn’t go that far,’ I reply, flicking on the kettle.

  In truth my feelings about the job are mixed.

  It’s for a wine club called Grape, which has grown exponentially in the last twenty-four months and now has ambitions for significant overseas expansion. In other circumstances I’d be chomping at the bit: my experience with Panther more than qualifies me and I’d relish working for a small, independent company that’s really going places.

  There’s only one problem: it’s in Liverpool. Not Dubai. So, while I obviously want gainful employment that doesn’t involve wiping babies’ bums and ferrying kids to drama lessons, I feel slightly disingenuous. If I do get the job, it’ll only ever be a stopgap, to tide me over until I find something amazing in Dubai with James.

  By the time I’ve gone back up and dressed, everyone has piled out of the house and I’m left to just grab my keys and dash to the station to catch my train.

  I sit at the window, watching the world pass in a blur as I make the rash decision to log on to Facebook. There is a picture at the top of my timeline, showing James on his balcony, surrounded by beautiful women as if he were the owner-in-waiting of the Playboy Mansion, and the tagline, ‘This is the life!’

  An ugly resentment simmers up in me.

  Then I remind myself that this is not who I am. I’m not the jealous kind. I’m the cool, confident kind who is totally at ease with her wobbly bits and blackhead breakouts and absolutely certain that it’s never occurred to James that his fiancée might be punching above her weight.

  I peer at the girl to the right of him, with her low-cut gold top and endless legs. Then the one to the left, with the long dark hair and sultry smile.

  And, just to stop myself from writing, ‘GET YOUR HANDS OFF MY BLOODY BOYFRIEND!’ under the one who has her elbow draped on his shoulder, I force myself to press ‘LIKE’ and sit back, congratulating myself on my open-mindedness.

  Then I wonder if it just looks odd – so I ‘unlike’ it. However, by the time I reach my destination, I’ve changed my mind again several times – liked and unliked it so often that I’m starting to feel the need to take some strong pills and lie down in a dark room.

  The train pulls into the city centre and I head towards the Albert Dock, or, more specifically, the Colonnades, the trendy offices and apartments that are housed above the shops and restaurants below. It’s quieter than I’m used to seeing it: by mid-morning this massive, Grade I-listed complex of renovated nineteenth-century warehouses will be heaving with tourists and locals alike.

  Once inside, I find the office’s reception on the second floor – a bright, smart and achingly upmarket space with the sort of thick, luxurious carpet that makes your shoes disappear into it. I introduce myself before being shown to a waiting area, where I sit and flick through a company brochure and catch a glance at the
open-plan office behind the glass window next to me.

  There are twenty or so people – lots in their twenties and thirties, but one or two older, all of whom seem to be engaging in the sort of banter you’d expect in the pub at 5.30 p.m. on a Friday. I’ve done a decent amount of research before today, but it’s only as I leaf through the more in-depth articles that I realise exactly what this place has got going for it.

  Ideas burst to the front of my mind and I dig out my notepad and start jotting them down. Then I stop, reminding myself that this really isn’t where I want to be. It isn’t where I want to be at all.

  ‘Ms Rogers is ready for you now,’ says the receptionist. She’s young and pretty, with bright blue eyes and teeth that look slightly too big for her mouth. ‘I’ll show you in if you’re ready.’

  ‘Yes, definitely,’ I reply, gathering my belongings as she leads me down a corridor, my heels sinking into the carpet en route. At the end, she knocks on a door and waits to be invited to enter. Then the door opens and I come face to face with the boss – who, it turns out, is the Antichrist in cashmere.

  I wish I could say that the sobriquet seems misplaced. But, while Caroline Rogers is polite enough, there is no other way to put this: she couldn’t be scarier if she came with an 18 certificate and a complimentary Valium.

  I remind myself that, in my previous job, there were plenty of occasions when I had to deal with the ‘great and the good’ (and concluded that many turned out to be neither). So I’m not sure why she’s so intimidating. But everything about her seems so single-minded, driven – and so entirely focused on her vision for the company that she doesn’t even mention the fact that we both stand outside the gates of the same school every morning.

  ‘I see from your CV that you’ve spent most of your career in the motor industry. What makes you think you can make the transition to a wine company? Do you know a lot about wine?’

  I resist the temptation to tell her that not so long ago I could have put away an entire bottle of Blossom Hill on a Friday night while I was logged on to Wacky Bingo.

  ‘I’m no sommelier and there’s no point in trying to pretend I am,’ I begin, ‘but I have exactly what you want: the skills and contacts to market a luxury product to the relevant audience. I knew nothing about cars before I went to work for Panther. A good marketer doesn’t need to be an expert in everything, at least not at the beginning. They just need to know enough about the product and lots about marketing.’

  The questions get harder. A lot harder. It’s obvious she’s not going to let me off without quizzing me about her competitors’ strategies and my understanding of Grape’s challenges, and asking me to outline – on the spot – an impromptu events calendar (something I know I should’ve put more work into in advance).

  The interview lasts for an hour, at the end of which I feel like a wrung-out dishcloth.

  ‘Would you like to conclude with a few words about why I should make this job yours?’ she says finally.

  And, before I really can stop myself, I launch into a speech that is so passionate, so convincing, it’s as if I’d been searching for this job all my life.

  ‘It’s such an exciting company and I absolutely know I could help you grow. Tangibly. I’m not just talking about increasing your profile, I’m talking about increasing it among real, potential customers and growing your consumer base massively.’

  She allows herself a twitch of a smile and for a second I wonder if she kind of likes me. I realise that I want her to.

  ‘Thanks for your time Ms MacFarlane. We’ll be in touch,’ she says, standing to shake my hand. I pick up my bag and go to stand. ‘Oh, one more thing . . .’ I look up. ‘Do I know you from somewhere?’

  I clasp my bag tighter. ‘My nephews Leo and Noah are in your daughter’s class at St Luke’s.’

  Her eyebrows lift. ‘Oh . . . really? Gosh, I feel embarrassed now. I knew I recognised you but couldn’t work out where from.’

  ‘Oh, it’s fine. I’ve only started going to pick him up recently, so you might not have spotted me. I’m friends with Gill, Laura and Natalie.’

  Her face drops the second the words are out of my mouth, as if I’d just declared my allegiances to a dangerous and untrustworthy faction, one whose feuding daughters she clearly wants nothing to do with.

  ‘I see.’ The temperature seems to drop a few degrees as she shuffles her papers. ‘Well, goodbye, then.’

  As I close the door behind me, it strikes me that I could’ve just given the world’s greatest interview – it wouldn’t matter. The politics of the school gate win again.

  I am thinking about the job – and how amazing and out of reach it now sounds – when I get home and to find a text from James asking me to Skype him. He looks dazzlingly handsome when his face appears on the screen.

  ‘Well, I might just have the answer to all our prayers,’ he announces, sitting back with a grin.

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘I don’t want you to get too excited but . . . I think I’ve got you a job.’

  My heart rises. ‘Really?’

  He nods. ‘I’ll know more by tonight but I’ve pulled a few strings and, basically, you’re in. You can finally fly out here so we can be together.’

  ‘Oh, James, that’s just brilliant,’ I reply, feeling a rush of hope that the position might be on a par with the Grape wines job. ‘So what is it? And how soon will they have me?’

  He laughs. ‘Steady on, it’s not set in stone yet. And you might decide it’s not for you.’

  ‘James, if it’s an even half-decent marketing job that’s in Dubai, then believe me – it’s for me.’

  ‘It’s working for a contact I’ve made out here, Harry Bonis,’ he explains. ‘You’d like him – he’s an ex-journalist, great fun. Anyway, he runs a PR agency out here and they need someone.’

  I hesitate, a little surprised. ‘Okay, brilliant. I mean, PR isn’t my speciality obviously, but I can expand my skills of course. What’s the job – would it be a similar level to my job at Panther?’

  ‘Ha!’ he laughs, a little disconcertingly. ‘No . . . he’s already got all his main positions filled.’

  ‘Oh. Well, would I at least be some kind of account manager? Or . . . what?’

  ‘It’s an administrator, Hannah – kind of, helping out in the operations department.’

  I frown. ‘Administrator?’

  ‘They’re desperate for someone to do some photocopying and a bit of typing and things. I told him how organised you were. You’d be perfect for it.’

  I take this in silently.

  ‘He wouldn’t be able to pay you at first,’ he continues. ‘They’ve got quite a few girls in, desperate for the work experience. But, maybe after a few months, Harry’s said he’d consider it. It’d be a foot in the door for you.’

  I feel as if the breath had been sucked from me. ‘James, I’ve got an MBA. This time last year I was running a department in a multimillion-pound profit-making company. You want me to be a work-experience girl again?’

  He clamps down on his jaw. ‘Everyone’s got to do a bit of hard graft if they want to get somewhere, Hannah.’

  I sit back as my mind whirrs. ‘Yes . . . I suppose you’re right. It’s just . . . it wasn’t what I was expecting, that’s all. I mean, I have no ambitions in PR. And certainly none as an administrator. I can’t even type.’

  ‘I’m sure you could if you put your mind to it. We’ve all got to start somewhere, Hannah. You can’t be precious.’

  There’s something about the way he says this that annoys me more than I can say. I try to be diplomatic, but I don’t think it works. ‘James, I don’t think I am being precious. I’ve spent the last seven years busting a gut for my career – and it wasn’t for the privilege of organising someone’s paperclips.’

  At this, James explodes. I’ve learned over the years that he’s prone to this and, I’ll be honest, I hate it when it happens.

  ‘I cannot believe you’re being so bloody-min
ded about this, Hannah,’ he shouts through the screen, a vein in his neck throbbing. ‘I mean, honestly. I go out of my way to set this up for you and you just throw it back in my face. I know what this is all about. Don’t think I don’t know. You just can’t stand the thought of me doing well, can you? You’re jealous – of me.’

  ‘Where’s that come from, James? That’s so unfair,’ I protest.

  ‘It’s the truth,’ he growls. ‘You just think you’re so much better than me at all this. You couldn’t possibly accept the idea that it’s the other way around.’

  I swallow and take this in.

  On the numerous occasions when I helped James out with his work after he got to Dubai, I found myself privately surprised by what I saw. I concluded quietly that, as lovely as my fiancé is, professionally he didn’t seem to know his arse from his elbow.

  But now I’m forced to contemplate the idea that this rather superior opinion – which, fortunately, I’ve never expressed – might have been unfair to him. Keith Blanchard obviously thought he was better than I. So perhaps he is; perhaps my pride refused to let me recognise it. Problem is, every time I think back to our work discussions, it’s virtually impossible to avoid the conclusion that he was talking bollocks.

  ‘That’s very unfair, James,’ I say diplomatically. ‘I’ve never said anything like that.’

  ‘No, but you’ve thought it. I know you’ve thought it.’

  ‘James, this isn’t supposed to be about you. It’s supposed to be about me – and finding a suitable job for me out there. You must understand how . . . upsetting it is to’ve worked as hard as I have for so many years and for the best I can manage is doing someone’s photocopying. For free.’

  ‘Actually, Hannah. No. I fucking don’t. You’re supposed to be desperate to get out here. Yet, from where I’m sitting, you don’t look at all desperate.’

  ‘I am dying to be with you, you know that.’

  But he just contorts his face into a haughty expression and looks away. ‘I’m going to have to go, Hannah,’ he says, furiously. ‘But I want you to know this: You fucking appal me sometimes.’