Precious You

by Helen Monks Takhar

  And now, for the big set piece, the darkest, juiciest morsel for them all to pick apart. One more breath before I went for broke. “This time last year I was suffering from a debilitating bout of what some of you would describe as depression.

  “I was an editor who could barely write. I felt worthless. I could barely get out of bed. And Leadership? Financially, we were on our knees and, I’ll admit it, we’d lost our mission.

  “So had I.

  “But standing here before you, tonight, I am here to tell you:

  “I found myself again and at Leadership, we have come together and we have worked with perceived weaknesses and we have turned them into our greatest strengths.

  “So, I say to you tonight:

  “Let none of us walk away from our flaws. Let none of us leave behind the colleague who asks you for more.

  “Because it’s in these so-called ‘weaknesses’ we’ll discover our greatest potential.

  “I would like us to come together and make a toast…a toast to all tonight’s winners. And especially to all tonight’s losers. You are many. We are many.

  “And to all of us, whether we’re wading in the darkness of self-doubt, or soaring in the heights of being recognized here tonight, to you and your”—I raised an imaginary flute into the air—“greatest failing. Think of them afresh with your peers and colleagues, and with the new Leadership as your manual…

  “Your greatest opportunity.”

  A pause.

  Then the applause erupted. Loud, heartfelt, rapturous applause.

  At first, I was worried you and they were all taking the piss out of me. I stepped down and walked back to the table near you. My knees soft with adrenaline, all I wanted to do was get my bag and leave the main hall for the painted reception room and then out to the real world. But the applause went on. And on. I looked about for you, I wanted to see the look on your face, but the continuing applause must have been too much for you because you’d already disappeared. A young lad, nice-looking thing, approached me with tears in his eyes. “I just wanted to say, I suffer from crippling social anxiety. I totally hear you. That was the bravest speech I’ve ever heard. It was…amazing.”

  I’d done it. Scooped out something from inside me and put it into words that were truly meaningful to other people. So, maybe I wasn’t an irrevocably bad writer after all. I wasn’t actually a loser. I wasn’t someone to be pitied, or to avoid, or to simply not even register as existing. I was fit to be admired, to be rewarded and recognized.

  “That’s so kind of you to say. Could I trouble you to type this up and make sure the team gets it on the autocue tomorrow night,” I asked the sweet boy with social anxiety.

  “You got it.”

  “Thanks so much. And thanks for all your hard work, you guys.” I acknowledged the bubble of the young and unpaid that had gathered around me. You were still notably absent. “We don’t say it enough, but it’s because of you that nights like the Leadership awards can happen.” I made eye contact with as many of them as I could. “Why, it’s going to be completely awesome.”

  As I walked toward the exit, the interns’ “whoops” ringing in my ears, I passed you. You seemed as blown away as everyone else, but not because of what I’d said, more that I’d been able to put something of my truth into the written word and other people had been moved. And I felt, for one moment, like I’d shown you what I was capable of. I had it in me to be better than you. I think I was even laughing to myself as I reached the main road. Victory felt possible.

  * * *

  —

  STANDING BY THE ROAD, sun shining down on me, I thought about crossing into Hyde Park for a stroll before going back to the office. But first, I wanted to savor the moment, lose myself in my success. I closed my eyes and let the sun warm my face, breathing in the fumes and trying to imagine it was fresh spring air, just for me.

  For the first time in the longest time I’d made myself visible. I’d ensured I was seen on my terms and in the best possible way I could imagine; through my writing, through the talent everyone had forgotten about, including me. I felt a great weight lifting, moving off me and into the warm sky above.

  I felt, for one short moment, as if I was floating. Suddenly, there was something at my arm. It shocked me back to reality, dragging me out of my moment and making me stagger.

  Before I could stop myself, I was falling off the curb. My foot coiled under me, propelling my body into the road.

  A flash of instantly familiar acid yellow cleaving through the haze in the corner of my vision as I slammed onto the tarmac.

  The noise down there you could never imagine. So loud it brought my heart high into my chest.

  I froze. Alone and helpless as cars raced toward me.

  The growl of the traffic filled me. I couldn’t make my body move.

  This was it.

  An image flashed behind my eyelids.

  Not Iain, the last thing I would see before my death.

  Not my mother.

  The selfie you’d taken of us.

  You and me looking great. You and me looking like friends, as if we were on the same side.

  The angry whine of brakes.

  A black cab screeching to a halt.

  I can hear my breath again. I’m alive.

  Grit in my knees, pain rocketing from my ankle; voices raging as a bottleneck formed around the lane I was blocking.

  “I’m sorry,” I squeaked to no one, before ungraciously managing to get to my knees, stifling a yelp in my agony.

  “Katherine, here, let me help you.”

  You.

  You were why I was in mortal danger.

  “Don’t touch me.”

  You stood between me and the curb. I went to pull myself upright. You reached out to me.

  “Please, get out of my way.”

  I tried to walk, leaning against the cab for support, the raw flaps of skin on my hand pressing painfully on the warm metal bonnet. Finally, the driver came out and signaled for the motorists streaming around his vehicle to calm down while he helped me out of the way.

  You continued to watch, an implacable expression on your face.

  “Could you take me to Borough please? No wait, I want to go home. Manor House,” I said, and he walked me to the passenger side and opened the door.

  When the taxi was finally on the move, I flipped down the seat opposite to hoist my rapidly swelling foot onto it before opening the window, leaning toward the open air with eyes half-closed as I tried to level my breath.

  You stood squarely on the edge of the curb, exactly on the spot I had been.

  I strained to turn my body to look at you properly, but by the time I’d hoisted myself around you’d turned to unchain your bike from the railings behind. I had so wanted to fix you right in the eyes to show I wasn’t scared of you, but by now, I really was.

  * * *

  —

  “HELLO?” I CALLED out to Iain when I got back to the flat.

  Nothing.

  I went to the kitchen/living room where, by this time in the day, I assumed Iain would be butchering, peeling, or kneading something with his box of wine by his side. No.

  Perhaps he was having a nap. I knew he did that sometimes in the afternoon, but there was no one in our room.

  Then, I heard him.

  Panting from the spare room; rhythmic, determined exhalations.

  Him with you. How could you have beaten me home?

  I waited outside the door. Dizzy. Petrified. Listening to Iain grunting, thinking of the pristine curves of your body under his. He sounded like he used to sound when he fucked me.

  Forceful, not worried I might break. I pushed open the door.

  There was Iain on the floor, sodden with sweat. He was in his boxers and an old T-shirt, earphones in, his music
loud and insistent. He hoisted himself into another hard-fought sit-up and his pant turned into a high-pitched gasp. He laughed at himself as he took out his earbuds.

  “Hey! Wasn’t expecting you back yet.”

  “Evidently. What are you doing?”

  “What does it look like? I’m doing something about this.”

  He grabbed the layer of fat on his stomach. “Before it’s too late.”

  “Too late for what?”

  “I don’t know. I’ve just been feeling a bit old, bit on the creaky side. You know I’ve been saying for a while I was going to do something. Well, today’s the day.”

  “Well, I’d better leave you to it.” I turned to hobble away.

  “Hey, what’s happened to you?”

  “I…I’d just done this amazing speech at the awards rehearsal.”

  “Go on.”

  “And…I think I fell into the traffic afterward. Or—”

  “Or what, love?”

  “Lily. She was right behind me. I…” I let a little whimper out. “I can’t say for sure if she didn’t actually push me. I think she pushed me and I was nearly killed. The traffic, a cab, it only just stopped…right by my head…it was this close. I could have died. And do you know why? Why she’d want to hurt me, or at the very least, give me one hell of a scare today? She can’t let me have anything good. If she sees me doing or having something worth anything at all, she has to take it away. I’m telling you that’s what this whole thing is about.”

  At this, he was up on his feet. “Hey, now.” He began moving me back toward the living room. “Come on, calm down, love. I think you’re in shock and when people are in shock, they can’t always think straight. Sounds to me like you’ve had something horrible happen and Lily just happened to be there.”

  Iain, on your side again, even when I was all but sure you’d shoved me into oncoming traffic. He’d come to hold me, but I pushed him off me.

  “Why don’t you hear me when I talk? When is it you’ll actually hear me when I tell you something? There have been too many times when something bad happens and she just happens to be there.”

  He was looking at me like he didn’t know me. Like I was mad. He managed to say, calmly and clearly, “I think…I think you’re exhausted and you’ve been nearly run over. So, come on, let’s get you sat down, get some ice on that ankle.”

  And my partner walked me to our living room and helped me onto our sofa. He raised my foot, placed it down on a bed of toweled ice. He massaged my shoulders and listened to every word I said and told me he loved me. I was starting to calm down, but there was more I could do and this felt the right time to do it.

  “I didn’t tell you, did I? Guess who I saw getting up close and personal at the park the other day?”

  “Who was that then?”

  “Lily and Asif. They seemed really into each other.”

  A pause.

  “Oh, yeah? Going for women his own age now, is he?”

  “Thanks?”

  “You know what I mean,” he said quietly.

  I watched him from the corner of my eye. He took a thoughtful slug of his drink and didn’t say anything for a while.

  “So, how you feeling about awards night now?”

  “I don’t know. This isn’t great.” I pointed to my swollen ankle. “But, my God, Iain, the reaction to my speech. It was incredible. I think it could really put me back on track with the new guard and Gemma, with everyone, maybe even my team.”

  “That’s fantastic. Hey, why don’t I come along this time? Be your bag man. Let me see your moment of glory.”

  “If you think you could stand it, I’d love it if you’d come.”

  “You couldn’t keep me away.”

  He was there for me. It was real. That’s what I told myself.

  * * *

  —

  AFTER A DAY at home letting Iain fuss over me, I could almost convince myself I was on solid ground. On the night of the awards, I hid my support bandage under a killer black dress, a one-shoulder, to-the-floor, cut-price bargain from Mugler via express delivery on Net-a-Porter. We were bouncing along the edge of our overdraft limit ahead of time that month, but I knew I wanted to look as good as my speech sounded. This was going to be my comeback special and that demanded a special dress.

  I couldn’t wait to give my speech. They would all see me for who I was, a woman with her very best to give, with promise still untapped, someone who demanded attention and respect.

  Iain would see me looking and being my best too.

  Iain. At my side. Holding the cab door open when we pulled up to The Dorchester’s entrance, happy in the shadows once inside, unobtrusively supporting me as I worked the room. Gemma caught my eye from time to time, approvingly. Asif watched too, though he gave Iain and me a respectfully wide berth.

  I’d seen you, lurking in the shadows with your clipboard and headset, giving the impression the whole thing would fall apart without you. I couldn’t bear it. I wanted you as far away from me, and Iain, as possible. You were still trying to work out how to get my hairstyle right without actually cutting it, but you too had managed to get yourself a black, sharply cut off-the-shoulder floor-length evening dress that made Gemma pass some stupid “Mini-me” comment, as if these gestures were simple flattery, not the result of studying me so closely you were able to guess exactly what I’d choose for my comeback night.

  But you couldn’t undo me that night, not when I already knew the power of speech. When the time came. I was calm, I was ready.

  Loud applause enveloped me as I slowly climbed the steps. I felt the support, the affection, the respect from my audience. They remembered who I was. I did too. They had missed me last year, that’s what so many of them had said as I’d greeted them with Iain at my side. Approaching the lectern I let the purple lights warm my blood and swell my heart. Blinking in the startling heat, I was fighting fit, genuinely this time. They were still my crowd, still my people. This was still my time.

  By the time I’d got behind the lectern, I felt like some kind of venerable professor about to address an adoring collegiate community. There was no chance I was going to fluff my lines.

  I beamed out and soaked up the applause for one last moment before getting ready to throw myself over the cliff edge of raw honesty and soar on the appreciation that I knew would follow.

  I looked to the autocue.

  Swallowed.

  Started to panic.

  Because what was on there wasn’t my redraft, it wasn’t your redraft, it was the very first piece of rubbish I’d written that Gemma had taken to pieces. Dull. Perfunctory. Beige.

  It was now all I had to work with.

  You. A new low.

  It was suddenly so hot and so quiet. I felt very, very alone. I searched for Iain, but the lights in my eyes meant all I could see were hundreds of black silhouettes watching my every move. I tried to somehow remember what I really wanted to say.

  “I’m Katherine Ross…I edit Leadership.

  “I’m a failed writer with mental health issues.

  “This time last year…I…I couldn’t get out of bed. I was very, very down.”

  Not good. Not good at all.

  “I…I got myself into a very dark space.”

  The words creaked out of my arid throat.

  “I mean, don’t we all sometimes? Find ourselves, swimming in blackness?” The whole room stopped. “Even all the winners tonight. They all have their weaknesses. I’m pretty sure about that…Aren’t you?” My voice cracked. “And if they think they don’t deserve their recognition, well, if we’re being honest, they’re probably right…Because leadership…it’s all about weakness really, isn’t it?”

  Confusion. Hands cupping around the ear of the next person to whisper. What’s wrong with her? Is she all right? I p
lowed on, trying with everything I had to retrieve my brilliant speech from somewhere in my soul, because that’s where it had come from. But it was lost. All was lost now. I was back to the Katherine Ross they already knew. Floundering. Useless.

  “The new management saw weakness. And an opportunity.” I looked around for the champagne flute that was supposed to be there. It wasn’t. Was that your handiwork too? “So why don’t we all put our doubts to one side and raise our glasses to being weak?

  “After all. Weakness…It’s good business.”

  Silence.

  Then, the light shifted. I could see them all: some in gape-mouthed mortification, some cackling into their glasses, a shake of a head, a rub of the eyes; squirming. I wondered, in that split second, as my heart seemed both to stop and beat uncontrollably at the same time, whether it was physiologically possible to die of embarrassment. Frozen, I didn’t know how to get out of the moment. I looked to where I’d sat Iain, but his seat was empty.

  Finally, Gemma arrived to move me on, clapping as she mounted the stage to usher me down. A thin applause obediently broke out.

  “I think that’s enough, Katherine,” she said into my ear. “Why don’t you have a bit of time out in the green room. We’ll find Iain, let him know where you are.”

  She propped me up as I limped slowly through the sickening violet lights, watching my feet to avoid not only the network of cable threatening to trip me, but the pity radiating off the tables of people who once respected me.

  I was ushered into a drafty back corridor toward the “green room,” a holding bay for the speakers, presenters, and technical team. It was a windowless room that smelled like dirty tablecloths. Somehow, Gemma had retrieved my jacket and it had found its way onto my shoulders as she lowered me into a tatty seat in the center of the room.

  “Gemma, the wrong draft. I’d written something much better. It was really strong. Lily must have—”

  “I’m sure Lily is speaking to the person who was managing the autocue right now. They will be reprimanded.”