by Celia Hayes
I’ve been waiting for this day for months. Unfortunately, it’s not always easy to have a career in my field, especially if you’re seen as a high-heel wearer and potential maternity-leaver. I had to study twice as hard, work twice as hard and fight twice as hard to get even half of what I had hoped, but determination usually pays off and today I’m finally seeing the results of my efforts. They no longer have any reason for putting off my promotion: I’ve shown them I’m a good investment.
It’s actually about to happen.
Breathe.
Phew… Phew…
Even though my love life might be falling apart, I reflect, I can always count on my career. A lifeline that will never betray me for a younger brunette or a tacky pair of suspenders. No. Here all that counts are numbers, achieving targets, personal skills and experience. It’s the only certainty left in my life. The thin line that separates me from despair and eating myself to death on pistachio ice cream.
More relaxed, I nod to Karen, lift the handset and press a couple of buttons.
“I’m listening,” I say to Rupert without even saying ‘hello’.
“Listen, I can’t free myself before five, but the paperwork is on my desk. I told Elizabeth to bring it to you. I’ve already signed it,” he says, reeling off a series of things that make absolutely no sense to me.
“Rupert?”
I blink in astonishment.
“Honestly, though… What a bitch you are!” he says, even though he sounds amused. “And I thought I could count on your continued assistance. What was going through your mind? Come on… What are you hiding? What did I miss?”
“… Rupert?” I ask, a bewildered expression on my face. Karen stares at me, wrinkling her eyebrows.
“So you’re not going to tell me then?”
“Tell you…?”
“Has the gossip about that position becoming vacant got anything to do with it?”
“Rupert, believe me – I haven’t the faintest idea what you’re talking about,” I finally manage to say.
“What do you mean?” he laughs. “Is this a joke?”
“Honestly, I haven’t—”
“Right, well John Turner just called me. It’s all set, you can start on Monday. Actually they asked if you could go tomorrow, but we have to close the Farrel Industries case and—”
“Move? What do you mean move?” I ask in shock. “What are you talking about? I never asked to move!”
“What are you talking about?” he asks, sounding confused. “I have your email right here in front of me. You wrote to me yesterday. You accepted that vacant position for a manager. Don’t you remember the email?”
I can’t feel my left arm. Why can’t I feel my left arm?
“I… I answered that? But… But are you sure it was me?”
“Er, yes, Trudy,” he says, a little uncomfortably. “Is something wrong?”
“Well, you see… Yesterday was a weird day. I’m not going to go into it, but… I might have acted without knowing quite what I was doing, in a moment of…”
Mental distress?
“… of confusion,” I conclude.
“Trudy…” he sighs.
Not good.
“Unfortunately you didn’t just write to me. You forwarded the request to head office as well. This morning I received your contract to sign and I don’t think they’d take it very well if you changed your mind now without a good reason. Where would they find another fool who’d accept? Let’s be serious. I did think it was a strange thing for you to do, but knowing how much pressure you’ve been under lately… I thought you maybe needed to get away for a bit. Apparently I was wrong.”
Yes, you were.
“What kind of job is it?” I ask him, almost in tears.
“To summarize, the branch is going under. I don’t know what happened, but with the recession and everything… Interest rates are too high, businesses are going bust. I don’t think there’s anything funny behind it, but you can never tell. Fortunately, it’s not a lot of money, they’re just looking for someone to go there and get it as ship-shape as possible for sale.”
“They want to sell the branch? To whom?”
“It seems that RBS is interested in taking it over. We need to try and get a decent price and recover some of the losses so we can encourage them to take on the whole package, accounts, stocks, customers… the lot.”
“You really think they would take on the debts as well? Mortgages, loans—”
“If they’re not too big. You have six months, after which they either sell or, if you’ve managed to get it back on its feet, assess the possibility of keeping it open.”
“And what happens after six months?” I ask him in a terrified voice. “What happens to me?”
“You come straight back. Relax! Someone like you would be wasted there! And anyway, once they’ve sold it, they’ll have no reason for keeping you out of the office.”
I would like to feel more serene, but there’s a part of me that’s absolutely terrified because we haven’t actually mentioned the most important part of the whole thing.
“Rupert, where am I supposed to go?” I ask in a small voice, closing my eyes while I await the verdict.
“Let me read. It was in… sector four.”
“Scotland?”
“Exactly,” he confirms, leafing through something beside the phone. “Ah, here it is! Turriff, yes.”
“Turriff…” I repeat expressionlessly.
“Turriff,” he confirms, mortified.
“Okay.”
“Sure?”
“Sure,” I manage to stammer, trying to force myself to sound calm.
We say goodbye, and, my hands banging the keyboard so hard it’s a miracle I don’t smash it, I immediately Google Turriff.
Karen says nothing. She must have realized that this isn’t the moment to ask for an explanation. She waits and occasionally peers in the direction of the monitor, upon which a Wikipedia page appears.
Turriff is both a town and civil parish located in Aberdeenshire, Scotland. It is located on the Deveron River, about 166 feet above sea level and has a population of 5,708 inhabitants.
“Five thousand…”
I only take in a bit of the rest:
four churches… A primary school… nearby villages… A library… Turriff Cottage Hospital…
“Cottage? Is that even legal?” I whisper in agony, but not even that is enough to stop me. No, I continue my masochistic reading, hoping that a sudden embolism will finish me off.
Soccer team… Annual agricultural fair…
“No, not an agricultural fair! No!”
“What’s going on?” asks Karen, who’s been watching me go through all five stages of grief in a single minute. She sounds scared.
Denial.
“It can’t be. I’ve only just finished putting up my Hemnes bookcase in the living room.”
Anger.
“Come on, Trudy, why don’t you give me the stapler back? That’s it. Let it go. We’ll all be extremely grateful – especially the desk.”
Bargaining.
“Okay,” I say to God, pointing to the ceiling with an accusatory index finger. “Let’s talk about this. You see everything, right? Well, I’m sure you’re aware of the fact that the Scientology headquarters are right behind my house. Now I wouldn’t want to go that far – not after twenty-eight years of us getting along just fine – but I’m starting to feel like I might be having an inexplicable crisis of faith here.”
Depression.
“Will they have Internet?”
“Should I call an ambulance?” she asks, placing her hand on the telephone receiver while continuing to stare at me.
Falteringly, I get to my feet.
Acceptance.
“No, there’s no need. I think I just need a bit of fresh air. I—”
“Trudy!” I hear her screaming, then everything goes dark.
*
“Are you sure you’re alright?”<
br />
“Will you stop asking me if I’m alright?” I blurt out in exasperation. “For God’s sake, I’m not terminally ill! It must have been my blood pressure,” I say, deciding not to mention my little alcohol fuelled digression last night.
I’m sitting in Starbucks with Horace, who keeps stirring his coffee without actually drinking it. He must have been quite scared. When he arrived I was unconscious, lying on the sofa in reception with at least three employees trying to revive me by holding my legs up. He waited until I came round, then helped me put my jacket on and escorted me out, proving annoyingly attentive.
In theory, he was only supposed to take me back home, but after the latest news I didn’t want to go there so we opted for a chat over a couple of sandwiches.
“So?” I ask.
I’m exhausted, and I can foresee three days of hell ahead of me. I have to start packing my things, say goodbye to everyone and find an apartment. Then I have to book a ticket, rent a car, and contact the removal company…
I am at the end of my tether.
I don’t touch my drink and just sit there waiting for his answer.
“Unfortunately, it’s not easy,” he begins.
To speed things up, I decide not to interrupt – but I reserve the right to throw a cup at him if it proves necessary.
“You know, you look lovely this morning.”
“Horace…”
“Sorry,” he sighs. “I didn’t sleep a wink last night. I tried to call you at least five times.”
Wow, what a Herculean effort. Hard to believe he survived!
“I turned my phone off,” I explain.
“I don’t really know where to start,” he mumbles while I look at him coldly, as though I had never seen him before.
However impeccable his grey suit might be, he looks scruffy and a bit neglected. He was never particularly handsome, but I’d always thought he had an innate charm. A bit of an aquiline nose, a jutting chin and a strong, imposing physique. Not the classic type of handsome guy you see on a billboard, but a man with a strong personality, which was what had made me immediately lose my head. The strange thing is that, in this moment, maybe because I’m feeling so awful, he suddenly looks like a stranger to me. I’ve always been so used to seeing him shine and hearing his cutting wit that I can barely recognize him. He looks at me with fear in his eyes and there is no trace of the prince of the courtroom that all the newspapers talk about when he accepts a new case. No. He’s like an empty shell. The husk of someone I thought I knew, but who no longer exists.
“Look, you were the one who wanted to meet. I’ve got a thousand things to do, so if all you’re going to do is babble on like this…” I threaten, and reach for my things.
“No, stop. Sit down,” he holds me back agitatedly. “Trudy, forgive me,” he whispers. “Please, forgive me.” He grabs my hand and, unexpectedly, kneels at my feet.
“Oh Christ, Horace – have you lost your mind?” I ask, and I’m probably not the only one to wonder. Some of the other customers turn round curiously to watch. One of the staff approaches, obviously wondering whether he should intervene.
“Horace, please,” I beg him softly. “Everyone’s looking at us. This is a difficult moment. We are both in shock, but sit down now. This is neither the place nor the time.”
He doesn’t seem to care. He puts his arms around my waist and buries his face in my jacket.
“Don’t leave me, Trudy. I’m nothing without you.”
“Well, you didn’t seem to think so yesterday morning,” I snap, unable to help myself.
My hands start to shake. All this is making me feel terribly uncomfortable, and I try to hide how vulnerable I feel. I avoid his eyes and those of the crowd, but it’s no use. He’s right there in front of me, forcing me to deal with my feelings.
“I don’t know how it happened. I asked you to marry me because I love you. I know you can’t understand, but I felt abandoned. You were always so distant. Your work, your life, your flat. You gradually cut me out and I behaved like a scumbag.”
“That’s enough,” I say, trying to push him away. “Get up, Horace. You’re being ridiculous.”
“No. Don’t do this to me. For God’s sake! Hit me, scream at me, tell me to piss off,” he cries, spreading his arms. “Am I not worth even that?”
“Don’t you think I don’t want to? Do you think I don’t want to scream at you?”
“Then do it, my love, do it!”
“What are you talking about?”
“Don’t you understand? That’s precisely the point. I did something terrible, I admit it, but what if it was a chance for us to find ourselves again?”
“Okay, you’re out of your mind,” I conclude and I head for the exit with my hands in my pockets.
“No, I haven’t finished…”
He chases after me and grabs me by the arm, forcing me to stay. The member of staff, however, misunderstands his gesture and feels compelled to intervene, coming over to us and asking if I need help.
“Don’t worry,” I reassure him, staring at Horace with contempt. “The gentleman was just about to leave.”
“Trudy…” he continues, ignoring all my protests. “Don’t leave me. Don’t leave me. I’m just asking for another chance. A real chance to come back into your life. You’ve always been an intelligent woman, and you know me so deeply. For once, why don’t you try and give me the benefit of the doubt? I might be the arsehole you think I am, but what if there’s a grain of truth in what I’m saying?”
His words affect me more than I’d like.
“Trudy,” he whispers. “It’s never happened before. I’ve never lied to you. I’ve always been close to you. Don’t throw everything away like this. Don’t—”
“Do you want me to call the police, miss?” asks the guy from Starbucks.
“No, there’s no need. Horace, there’s no point talking about it at the moment. It all happened too fast.”
I move away from him, and from my expression he understands that he’s fighting a losing battle. I’m immovable.
“You’re right,” he agrees, repeatedly shaking his head. “You’re absolutely right. Look, why don’t we see each other this Saturday? I could cook a pot roast. You’ve always liked my pot roast. Dinner at home. Nothing pretentious. A bottle of wine and—”
“Horace, no.”
“But, Trudy, you can’t. Not—”
“I’m sorry, it’s not my fault. I’m leaving,” I reveal.
“What do you mean? What about the promotion? How can it be happening?”
“They need me in Scotland, but it won’t be forever. Just a few months. You know what? I think it will do us good. We can take advantage of the distance to reflect on our mistakes. Now excuse me, but I must go home. It’s been a hard day and I have to start packing.”
I can see from his face that he has given in. He gives in when he realizes he has an insurmountable wall before him – my job.
“Okay, whatever you want. Can I call you every now and again?”
“Goodbye, Horace,” I say, and deciding that the stroll will do me good, walk home.
Chapter 6
Flemish Seascape with Storm
“Trudy’s second law: sooner or later, the worst possible combination of circumstances is certain to ruin my life”
“The same old pessimist.”
“Corollary: without ever getting a shred of sympathy”
My flight lands in Aberdeen at three o’clock in the afternoon. To avoid unexpected hold ups, I’d taken care of every detail. An employee from Rentalcars will be waiting for me at the airport with my car, the insurance documents and a copy of the rental contract. The trip will last about an hour, so I’ve packed a CD with all my favourite songs, a map, a bottle of water and a few indispensable over the counter medicines: ibuprofen, paracetamol, antihistamines, cortisone, antacid, propolis, cough medicine, loperamide hydrochloride and two packets of plasters. Ah… And a bottle of hydrogen peroxide. And some cotto
n wool. And chromium mercury. And bandages. Ooh, and a packet of menthol sweets. Hmmm… I think that’s the lot. Yes. I haven’t forgotten anything!
Once my case was packed, I’d got busy with my arrival in Scotland. Two days ago I contacted a local estate agent and rented a furnished apartment, making sure that it was far away enough from elementary schools and teen hangouts. I had to pay a small deposit, but I asked them if they could wait for the balance until I’d had a look at the place myself. They repeatedly assured me that there is wifi and that the phone is connected as is the gas and electricity, but I don’t believe anything until I see it. I’m a bit paranoid, it’s true, but I’d rather be safe than sorry.
Another thing I would say is fundamental to managing the move was finding a cleaner. The biggest problem was represented by my natural inclination towards finding someone TbM (Trusted by Mum), but not knowing anybody in Turriff fitting this description, I was forced to trust the recommendation of the estate agent, who suggested – or, actually, insisted on – a certain Mrs Ariane, who, he explained, will come in three times a week from 8:00 to 12:30. Once I’d got her details, I proceeded to contact her immediately to make sure she was actually suitable for the job. She seemed like a nice person, so I told her when I’d be arriving and asked her to make the apartment welcoming. She assured me that everything would be ready for Sunday morning and that she would wait for the courier to deliver my bags. I haven’t actually sent much. Not wanting to lose my old apartment, I decided to sublet it to a colleague until I get back – that way I can leave most of my stuff there. I’ve only taken clothes, shoes, accessories and a pile of documents from my personal archive. The bare minimum for survival in a hostile environment.
All in all, I think I’ve managed it all fairly well. I’m actually feeling pretty calm. I’ve decided to be positive: there’s nothing that a bit of commitment and hard work won’t be able to handle. Of course, there’s a chance it won’t be a piece of cake, but I’m used to big challenges and this might be the opportunity I’ve been waiting for to prove my skills. From what I was told, the Turriff branch is sailing in troubled waters and the staff aren’t up to dealing with the problems. My task will be to bring the budget under control within the six month deadline of my contract. If I can do that, the Turriff staff will be immensely grateful. And if I can’t, the branch will be permanently closed. And then, who knows? Rupert might be right. My CV is impeccable; this is just a bump on the road, a mishap. Unless it all goes disastrously wrong, that promotion could still be mine. But for the moment, I want to forget about it. One problem at a time. Especially considering that, whatever happens, before long I’ll be back in London and Scotland will once again be on the other side of the imaginary line I’ve drawn between places I don’t have the slightest interest in and… well, the rest of the world.