David reaches over and hands me one from his desk. I bury my bloated face in it gratefully.
‘You’re very hard on yourself, Helena,’ he says. ‘I know you like to think you’re superwoman, but you’re just human, you know. And no job is worth killing yourself over. You know that.’
‘But . . .’ I say, as another sob engulfs me. It’s even harder to fight them now he’s being nice. ‘She . . . Ash . . .’ I take a large gulp of air. ‘She manages it . . . she’s a machine . . .’
‘She’s also a lot younger than you, and makes a hell of a lot more mistakes,’ David replies. ‘And she’s not heavily pregnant. Listen. You know how much I value you. How much I fight your corner. And not just because . . . well, that’s water under the bridge now.’
He looks away briefly, and I wonder if he’s thinking of Jodie, and I wonder what exactly is going on between them. She was my friend once – a good friend, at that – but we’ve drifted apart, recently. Thanks to him, and my pregnancy.
‘I’ve always been so impressed with you, Helena,’ he says. ‘You’re a shrewd and hard-working woman, with more than a touch of humanity. A wonderful manager. You’ve got so much to give. Not just now but in the future, too.’
‘But I love my job,’ I say, wiping away the teardrops as they fall on to my skirt. ‘And you haven’t even bothered to recruit any maternity cover for me! Don’t think I haven’t noticed. If you value me so much, how come you don’t think I’m worth covering?’
David looks away.
‘I didn’t get the sign-off from the US,’ he replies, but even in this state I can tell that he’s holding something back. ‘You know how different things are over there. They didn’t see a business case for it, I’m afraid.’
I look up at him, sniffing loudly again. He meets my eyes, and then I know. I see it all: the future that’s coming. The Americans who won’t be impressed when I don’t show up next week. The website that didn’t take off, that’s no longer viable. The crucial role that I naively handed over to someone else.
The job that isn’t worth covering, and that won’t be here for me when I get back.
I see something else, too.
The upstart who’s made a success of herself, who charms them all like she once charmed me. The upstart who’s played the game, had the vision and gone for it.
The upstart who’s here to stay.
*
Four weeks later, I am alone in the office, packing up my desk. Ash and the others have all gone to the team’s Christmas dinner, and I’ve decided to use this opportunity to leave without any big goodbyes. Jess has been making noises about having a lunch later this week to wave me off on maternity leave. I can’t think of anything worse, but I don’t want to offend anyone, so here I am, sneaking off into the gloomy December evening. Thankfully, they accepted my excuse of agonizing heartburn as the reason I’m missing the Christmas dinner.
After I’ve finished packing all my possessions into a small holdall, I sit for a minute, enjoying the peace and quiet. It’s the first time I’ve been alone in this office for months. I look over at the whiteboard behind Ash’s desk, her sales figures for the Christmas pop-up gleefully scrawled across it, and in a petty but satisfying move, waddle towards it and erase her spidery boasts with the sleeve of my coat.
As I turn back to my desk, there in the entrance to the office is David. The motion-sensitive lights come on as he walks towards me, flooding the whole floor with a harsh fluorescent glare. He looks out of breath, panicked, like he’s rushed to get here.
‘Oh good,’ he says. ‘You’re still here.’
‘Only just,’ I reply. ‘Thanks for coming to say goodbye. I didn’t tell the others that today’s my last day. Couldn’t face a big fuss. I saw Jess browsing nappy cakes online earlier this week . . . I know it’s ungrateful, but it’s just not me.’
‘No,’ he says, but he’s not really listening. ‘Um, have you . . . have you got a minute?’
I nod.
‘Shall we sit down?’ David says, gesturing to my chair. He pulls Ash’s chair round from behind her desk and wheels it towards me.
‘Are you OK?’ I ask, suddenly worried that Elizabeth’s found out about Jodie, or worse still . . .
‘I don’t know how to tell you this, Helena,’ he says, and he looks genuinely remorseful, something I’ve never seen before.
As I meet his sharp brown eyes with mine, I suddenly know what’s coming. How could I have been so stupid as to think it was something to do with Elizabeth? I have a childish urge to push my fingers in my ears and start shouting ‘la, la, la’. But instead, I sit there, like a great dumb elephant, waiting for my execution.
‘I’m just glad I caught you, so I could tell you face-to-face . . . I’ve just got off the phone to Brian and, as you know, he was very impressed with Ashley when she was in New York, with the pop-up, with the whole concept. But I’m afraid he can’t be convinced of the value of having a standalone site. I’ve tried, I really have. But as we feared, he wants to absorb KAMU B into the main site, but keep the pop-ups. I’m afraid it means that the team will be restructured, and I’m afraid it means . . .’
‘That she’s stolen my job,’ I spit, even though I know that’s not it, not really. But who cares? That’s how it feels. She’s stolen my friends, my ambition, my confidence and now my job. And it feels like I always knew she would.
‘Listen, it’s not about Ashley,’ he says, shaking his head. ‘Not at all. It’s your role, that’s all, and some of the editorial staff . . . Jess will be going too, it’s not just you. I’m sorry.’
‘You do know I’m eight months pregnant?’ My voice is nearly a shout, but it cracks and then the sobs come. ‘I’m weeks away from giving birth, and you’re sacking me! What is this? Revenge for what happened after the Christmas party?’
David reaches forward and grabs my hands, but I push him away.
‘Listen, it’s not my decision, and you’re not being sacked,’ he says. He swallows awkwardly as his phone bleeps in his pocket. ‘It’s just a restructure, they’ll try to find something else for you . . .’
‘Something else!’ my voice is nearly a scream, the tears choking me. ‘What else, exactly? Working for her? You already replaced my job upstairs . . . what exactly will you do with me? Where are you going to slot me in?’
He looks away. Enough of the histrionics, I’ve crossed a line. Even he doesn’t get paid enough to deal with this.
‘I’m sorry,’ he continues, but the warmth has gone from his voice. ‘It won’t be official till next week, but I knew you were leaving today and I didn’t want you to just get a letter in the post in a fortnight, I wanted to tell you face-to-face . . .’
‘How big of you.’
‘I can see you’re upset,’ David says. He stands and pushes Ash’s chair back. ‘Like I say, it’s a regrettable situation. Please . . . please feel free to call me when you’ve had time to calm down. I only want to help you, Helena, I promise.’
‘Help me? I’ve had enough of your kind of help! Get out . . . just get out!’ I shout, and as I watch him retreat I collapse into sobs, burying my face in my hands. When I look back up, I’m alone in the office, just me and my unborn child sitting on our own in the dark.
THEN
Ash
Gran has bought special biscuits. A tin of them, sitting in front of me in all their insipid glory, failing to entice me despite their fancy packaging.
‘Pound shop!’ she says, pushing them towards me. ‘Wouldn’t believe it, would you? And they’re Fox’s, you know. Proper ones. Wanted to get you something special, to celebrate your news.’
‘Awesome,’ Joel says, with uncharacteristic enthusiasm. He takes two, winking at me as I glance over at him.
I smile at her and reach forward, picking up the smallest biscuit and placing it next to the weak cup of tea I’ve just been given. Bless Gran. She’ll never get it.
‘I bought you something, too,’ I say. I reach into my handbag an
d take out a small paper bag, my fingers tracing the outline of the firm object inside as I pass it to her. ‘It took me a long time to find.’
I don’t tell her how I had to trawl the freezing people-clogged streets around Times Square to find something suitable, how I hated every moment, how New York frightened and overwhelmed me in many ways. I don’t tell her about the absolute nausea that came with presenting to the board of directors, feeling their eyes bore into me as they over-analysed every word that came out of my mouth.
I’m determined to rewrite that narrative.
Her eyes light up as she takes the package from me.
‘Oh, look,’ she says, pushing her glasses up her nose. ‘Grand Slam New York. Well then, what have we here . . . ?’
She turns the bag over and opens it, pulling out the garish painted plate, with its almost comically inaccurate depiction of the Statue of Liberty floating in front of the New York skyline.
‘Oh, Ashy,’ she says, beaming. ‘How wonderful.’
‘Not quite the same as Princess Di,’ I say, smiling. ‘But hopefully it’ll do. It’s the best one they had, you know. Gold-edged, and there’s a little stand for it, too. Although I guess you’d prefer to hang it.’
I glance over at the wall behind her, infected with an outbreak of tacky souvenir plates. It’s like a shrine to the most depressing seaside towns across the UK.
‘I’ll get Grandad on to it once he’s back from the pub. Well, Marjorie will be impressed,’ she says, clutching the plate to her, fingering the illustrations. ‘All the way from New York!’
‘Glad you like it,’ I say, squeezing my nostrils together as I take a sip of the tea. It’s no good, the smell catches the back of my throat, making me gag. ‘I’m just going to put a bit more water in my tea. Back in a sec.’
In the tiny kitchen, I empty the mug into the sink as quietly as possible, and refill it with water from the tap. I can hear Joel asking Gran about the story behind each of her plates and I linger for a while, letting them chat. Behind the plastic splashback by the cooker is a photograph, faded with age and spattered with cooking fat, of Jason and me when we were kids, dressed up for the school nativity play. I know the only reason it’s still there is because Grandad can’t be bothered to unscrew the Perspex and take it out. I remember that day well. My mum didn’t bother to show up, of course, and Jason howled with disappointment the entire walk home.
‘And tell me now about your new job,’ Gran says, when I’m back in the living room. I manage a nibble of the biscuit. ‘You said on the phone it’s quite a step up?’
‘There was a restructure,’ I say, smiling at her. ‘The woman I was working for . . . well, unfortunately, her job became redundant, but you know, that’s business.’
Gran nods, smiling as though I’ve told her something groundbreakingly impressive. Is it just my imagination, or do I feel Joel stiffen slightly beside me?
‘So . . . do you remember, I told you, I was working on these events, and she was working on a website?’ I continue. ‘Well, they decided that they didn’t need the separate website, after all. But as the events were so successful, they’re going to continue, and I’m going to head them up. Have my own little team.’
At the end of this speech, my heart is fluttering with excitement again. The residual guilt that nags at me from time to time disappears whenever I tell the story out loud. At the end of the day, I did my job, and I was rewarded.
I did nothing wrong.
Don’t turn down your ambition because someone else is uncomfortable with the volume.
‘And it’s a lot more money?’ Gran says, encouragingly, even though money has never been her thing. She’s so used to not having it, she wouldn’t cope if she did. It would frighten her, take her away from all that she’s comfortable with.
‘Yes,’ I say. ‘Enough to make a difference.’
‘Well, then,’ Gran says, reaching over and patting me on the leg. ‘You ought to be very proud of yourself.’
‘I am,’ I say, squeezing the handle of the mug just a little bit too hard.
*
I leave Joel in the car. Jason is waiting for me by the swings; the grass is littered with cigarette butts and a broken bottle. Nothing changes in this awful place. I pull my coat around myself more tightly, feeling the bitter December wind from the sea burn my cheeks.
‘Hi,’ he says, as I approach. ‘Nice new car. Christmas present to yourself?’
He looks better than before, and then I spot someone else in the background, hovering by the entrance to the park. Lisa, her mobile phone pressed to her ear, watching us curiously. I haven’t seen her for at least five years. She’s prettier than I remember, hiding her figure under a giant Puffa jacket. Shame about the gelled corkscrew curls, but at least it’s a statement, I suppose.
‘It’s not a new car,’ I say. ‘It’s ten years old. I got it so I can come and see Gran more often.’
‘Nice,’ Jason says, but he’s not angry this time. There’s colour in his cheeks, and he’s cleanly shaven for once.
‘Eleven years ago today,’ I say, watching him closely.
‘Yeah.’
‘Wonder what she would have made of us now.’
‘She would have wanted your money,’ Jason replies.
‘Hmm.’
‘I don’t blame you for what you did, you know,’ he says. ‘You didn’t have a choice. Mum was . . . out of control that day. I know you were just trying to protect yourself. Weren’t you?’
‘Yes,’ I say, looking him squarely in the eye. ‘She was. And . . . you know, I never meant to push her, not really. At least, not that hard. I was just scared. You know how violent she could be when she was drunk . . .’
‘Yeah, I know,’ he says, looking down at his feet. ‘It’s just hard to get away from it all. You know. The shit in my head. I don’t know how you manage it.’
Neither do I.
‘Don’t believe the things you tell yourself when you’re sad and alone,’ I murmur, and he looks up at me, confused. I take a deep breath. ‘Just something someone once told me, when I was struggling. With Mum, the accident, our childhood. It’s helpful . . .’ I pause. ‘And work. Work is helpful. Work is the most helpful.’
He doesn’t reply, but gives me an unconvinced look.
‘Anyway,’ I say, reaching into my bag and pulling out a brown envelope. ‘Enough of the philosophy. This is for you. Although, to be sensible, I should really give it to Lisa.’ I look over at her. As I do so, she puts her phone in the pocket of her jacket, and it’s only then I notice it; the round belly that protrudes above her jeans as her coat falls open.
Finally, it all makes sense. All his talk of getting himself into a ‘situation’, his desperation to get a home of his own, to win her back.
I hand him the envelope, making sure she can see what’s in it.
‘It’s a grand,’ I say, wondering why he never told me. Probably knew I wouldn’t have approved. ‘Enough for the deposit, like you asked. You’d better not waste it.’
He nods, his eyes widening.
‘You don’t know what it cost to get that. Make it count.’
I look away, and bite my lip. I reach out and take his hand, squeezing it tightly.
As I meet his eyes again, I focus on the gratitude in them, and try to force the other feelings away. To be dealt with some other time, when the world is a fairer place.
PART THREE
NOW
Helena
Controlled seizure. There’s something quite oxymoronic about it.
It’s too late, now, I suppose, to tell them that there’s something jabbing in my back. I can’t tell what it is: perhaps part of my jumper has folded over on itself, creating a little lump. But it’s annoying me. I want to reach up with my hand and rummage about, find what it is and pull it flat, but of course, I can’t. Not now.
The anaesthetist is telling me something, but I’m not listening. I know what I have to do. Breathe deeply into the oxygen mask,
count down from ten in my head. Then everything will go black, and I’ll wake fifteen minutes later, to a glass of water and sympathetic monitoring.
There’s a problem, though; someone’s missing or something’s missing, and the anaesthetist has disappeared again, leaving me alone. Or maybe not alone, there’s another body in the corner – a nurse, I think – but she’s got her back turned away and from this angle I can’t make out much more than her arms, moving about purposefully. Instead, I fix my eyes on the most comfortable available surface: the ceiling. It’s mottled, some kind of grey-and-white paint effect. I think of the dentist, when I was a kid, how you looked up and there was a hanging mobile or plastic stars or something stuck up there to focus your attention, to keep you still.
But there’s nothing on the ceiling here. Just this grey-and-white paint, speckled together, someone’s attempt at aesthetics in a room that doesn’t need any. I imagine the decorator being told by an NHS honcho to, ‘Dulux Trade White the whole room, mate,’ and him (or her – maybe it was a woman – wouldn’t it be great if it had been a woman?) thinking, No, fuck them, there’s an art to what I do, too. They won’t notice. And they’re right, the only people who will notice are people like me, the people who lie flat on their backs covered in stickers, the broken toys waiting to be fixed. The rest of the walls are white, but they’re dirty now, they’ve suffered years of abuse, years of trolleys and instruments being knocked into them, scraped past them. Years of patients’ rebellious bodily fluids not quite missing them.
But what does it matter how the room looks? I’ll spend most of my time in here unconscious.
I’m lying on a kind of slab on wheels, black plastic-topped foam underneath me the only attempt to make it comfortable, raised metal bars either side, ostensibly for wheeling me about with, but maybe they’re there to stop me rolling off. There’s a white pillow under my head; the sharp chemical scent of industrial laundries burns my nostrils. A length of blue paper towel has been placed along the middle of the black plastic, to offer some sense of personalization. Or maybe it’s there to soak up the mess. Do people wet themselves during this procedure? So many questions, so many leaflets, but it’s something I have never thought to ask.
The Rival Page 21