by Betty Balaba
“I know. Thank you.” There it was again, the lost-for-words ‘thank you’. Except this time, I realised I really meant it.
The waitress came over and cleared our empty dishes, pretending not to notice we were clearly in the middle of a deep-and-meaningful. I was stuffed. I folded the napkin on my lap and put it on the table.
“Can I bring the dessert menu?” said the waitress, as she had been trained to.
Sophie looked at me from under her lashes. I turned to the waitress.
“I would do but my friend is on a diet and it would not be fair on her. Temptation and all that!” Sophie opened her mouth wide and the waitress looked from her then at me and back again. Soon we were all laughing: Sophie, me, and a total stranger. It was good to let the tension go.
*
I was back at my mother’s bedside when the nursing assistant came by with his by-now famous pudding trolley. He was all smiles, knowing I was usually such a good taker. I glanced at my watch. 7:10 p.m.
“I know, I’m late,” he said. “The other nurses held me hostage for treacle.”
“What are you flogging?” I asked carefully. Whatever it was, it smelt divine. He looked at the bowls.
“Sticky toffee pudding… with vanilla custard. Friday’s special. You should know that by now!” I couldn’t take it to heart. At least I was famous for something! My mother smiled but shook her head. He took a bowl off the trolley, poured a generous helping of custard, and handed it to me.
“For your mum,” he winked. This man was after my heart.
“Well, if it is for my mum… I cannot refuse.”
My mum looked at both of us and smiled as she rolled her eyes. I tucked in. Even this simple hospital pudding was beyond words. When he came to collect my empty bowl, he handed me the local paper. Beside me, my mother’s eyes were fluttering shut as she fought sleep.
“Sleep if you want,” I reassured her. “I am okay with the paper.”
I knew she was worried that if she slept, I would go. And she did not want me to go. So I just kept reading as she slept – even though there was nothing to speak of between its pages. Then I saw an advert for amateur photographers to take part in an exhibition. You had to be selected and the deadline for submissions was… tomorrow. It was too soon and, for all the great work I felt I had stored up, I wasn’t ready. I put the paper down on my mother’s table and went through my emails instead. But after the third one, I realised I was barely concentrating. The phone went back in my bag.
Already the thought of a snack was creeping in. I had only just had the pudding: the very pudding I had refused at the restaurant to humour Sophie. My body hardly needed a snack. I tried the paper again then examined my nails. The thought came to me that I should go and get a manicure. Bright red nails? I had mainly left them natural before, or only used clear polish. But red nail polish would mean also taking the rest of my life up a gear. I stood up and topped up the water in my mother’s glass. Sitting down, I noticed the paper was still open at the photography advert.
I leaned over and picked it up again. Could I do it? Would I have the time? Seize the day and all that? I re-read the guidelines. I had to select some pictures, format them, then email them to a general address to be considered. Hmm, simpler than I’d thought! There was even an iPhone category. Me all over!
Rummaging in my bag, I picked up my phone and flicked through my pictures. Within minutes I had selected a series of three that showed the progression of a sunset. In the first one, you could see the colours of yellow and gold as the sun faded into the grey clouds. The second one showed how the yellow had turned to gold and the grey clouds were turning an inky black with tinges of purple. The final picture showed the sun hiding behind the now-dark trees, as the ink-black clouds were etched in a fading light yellow. They were all stunning. Well, that is what I thought, anyway.
Before thinking about it too much I decided these were the ones. There and then, I filled in the online application form and attached them to an email with the header Fading Dim Light. Send. Done! I felt a wave of satisfaction and then actual butterflies. Already? Still, it felt great to be doing something different. Here in the hospital, of all places! It would be a long shot if I was selected. But you never know; stranger things have happened. At least I had tried.
I loved taking pictures. It didn’t feel like work as I enjoyed it so much. At the back of my mind, a seed had long existed that one day I could really do photography. But I had never thought that my time was now. I had done a short course a few years ago, and the teacher had said I had talent. I had thought it would be a passing hobby. But the more I had taken time off work and was in the hospital, the more photos I had taken going back and forth. Now I had a growing collection and more time out of the office to think it seemed to be a real possibility. I had bought a good Canon before my mother had gone into hospital but good lenses were crazy expensive and I kept forgetting to take the camera out with me. Still, one step at a time. If I got anywhere with this exhibition, maybe I’d reconsider investing in a good lens?
Obviously, marketing was losing its appeal as the focus of my life. Perhaps twelve years of business-to-business marketing was my limit? People change careers every day. Of course, I would wait until my mother was out of hospital to make any proper decisions.
It’s funny how unexpected events make you consider things that had never occurred to you before as possible. And how quickly a decision happens, without you realising it even has.
Chapter 12
Emma’s Offer
Emma had only given me a week to take all her work for the conference off her desk. Lunchtime on the last day, it was done. I could have dragged it out, but decided there was not much point. The quicker everything was organised, the better for everyone. I was one of those people who liked completing to-do lists. I dropped a hard copy of the strategy on her desk, knowing that an email of it should have already landed in her inbox. I had wanted to be ahead of the game this week. Greg always joked about the poor trees, leaving me grinning at the irony of the man who used the most paper in the office championing their plight.
On the way back, I was disturbed by a general rush to the kitchen. I must have missed the email while I was working: but the only thing that could cause such a commotion in the office was the arrival of food. Greg tapped me on the shoulder. As I looked up, I saw a pistachio macaroon disappearing in his mouth.
“The gannets will finish it all if you don’t hurry!” With that, he was off back to the kitchen. Stopping what I was doing, I took a deep breath. Did I need to have a macaroon? Well, as I loved to say, it must be tea-time somewhere in the world. My feet led me to the kitchen where I could see six plates filled with a dwindling number of different flavoured macaroons; chocolate, vanilla, pistachio, coffee and red-velvet. Weaving through the hands, I picked up one of my favourites. It would be rude not to, and Greg had just eaten a chocolate one whole. I took a bite. They were delicious; the red velvet and vanilla ones were out of this world. The others were pretty good too! This had to be Sophie’s handy work. Now I had to try every single one to make sure they were all up to standard. Besides, Sophie had made enough to feed an army.
“I hope they are not all finished?” she gasped, appearing from one of her photocopier rescue-missions. I frowned at her questioningly, trying to hide my mouthful of pistachio, while stumbling out a compliment. But she shook her head.
“I didn’t make them,” she said.
“But they’re so good!” I said. “Who did?”
At that moment, Emma walked in.
“I did,” she said. We could have been arrested for the faces we made. I recovered first.
“Wow, they are great!”
“I am glad you like them. And I made the red velvet especially for you. I heard they are your favourites!”
I was lost for words. I found Sophie’s eyes and we exchanged a look. So thoughtful. She was a curious one, wrong-footing me like that with her kindness.
“Than
ks,” I said. “They are amazing!”
Greg piped up. “I didn’t know you could cook,” he said, rescuing me. Sophie coughed. “I mean, I didn’t know you baked.” Emma was unfazed. “I bake now and then. It’s a good stress-reliever.” I will say this for her: she was good.
“Are you not having any?” I said and she winked.
“I have a tray full at home, and I literally ate my own weight last night!” I couldn’t help laughing and was pleased when she joined in. I was impressed at how well she baked – and the fact that she even knew my favourite flavour, let alone made them for me.
I was back at my desk when I received an email from Emma.
“Could you please come to my office for a quick chat?”
It wasn’t really a question. What, now? Emma rarely summoned people to her office and it usually was not good news. No need to panic. She might just need some information about the marketing strategy. If it was something random, her usual practice was to come to your desk and speak to you. So this didn’t really bode well. But there was no point in guessing. I stood and hesitantly walked to her office. The door was open already. I knocked on the glass panel that made up one side of her office wall. Emma looked up from her computer. “Ah, Becca. Come in.”
I glanced around the immaculate space. My strategy print out was at the centre of her desk, with a Mont Blanc pen on it. Apart from her computer, there was just a square silver frame with a picture of her two girls on it.
“Please sit down,” she said.
I sat down on one of the two cream leather chairs, which were oddly like the ones I had at home. I stayed quiet because I did not know what this was about. She smiled at me.
“Your report is great, I knew it would be. Very comprehensive, and as always, you did it before the deadline.” I allowed myself a little smile, and she continued. “I know things have been a little difficult for you, with your mother being in hospital. But I am very impressed you never let your work slip. High standards all around!” It was her turn to smile. “How are things with your mother now?”
“She is doing well,” I said. “She should be going to physio this week.”
Emma beamed.
“Oh, that is wonderful,” she said. “You will be able to get your life back.”
I smiled but didn’t say anything. I hoped that would be the case. But my mother’s physio hadn’t even started yet and I didn’t know how it would go. Still, I was determined to be optimistic.
Emma stood up and shut the door carefully, before returning to her desk. She leaned forwards towards me. Closing the door! Now this really was serious. Open-door policy and all that.
“I would have told you before but your mother was taken to hospital.”
I kept quiet.
“I have been speaking to Simon.”
Simon was the senior head of department, and a board member of the company. My eyes must have widened because she waved a hand at me. “Don’t worry, it’s nothing bad. We were talking and we are both so impressed with your work and how you conduct yourself…” It was coming, but what?
“Thank you,” I said, trying to minimise the interruption to this lovely flow of compliments.
“We discussed this on several occasions, throughout the last few months. Now that your mother is feeling better, we want to give you a well-deserved promotion.”
I couldn’t have been more surprised; even if she had told me I was going for tea with the Queen. I sat back in my chair and exhaled a breath I didn’t realise I was holding. A promotion? Was she leaving? There was no other role – just mine then hers, Head of Marketing. She must have read my mind, because she grinned. “No, I am not leaving. We have created a role of Senior Marketing Manager. This means you will take on some of my duties as I will only be working four days a week from the beginning of next year.”
I nodded and smiled. But something told me I still didn’t have the full story.
“That is wonderful news. Thank you.” It was now or never.
“Is your role changing…?” I probed.
“My title will be the same, but it will change a little because some things will be passed on to you.” I stayed silent, and she sensed I wanted more. “I am going to spend more time with my children and will be having the Friday off and working from home on Monday. My husband’s schedule is changing so he will be travelling more for work. I’m looking to create more of a work-life balance.”
So she was sorting herself out, fair play to her. But I had questions and felt I should voice them before things moved too quickly.
“So, you will be advertising my job?” I asked tentatively. Emma shook her head. I linked my fingers together in my lap.
“Nope,” she said. “Only your title will change.” Right, I was starting to get this.
“And will my salary increase?”
Emma took a deep and ominous breath.
“We have had a budget freeze,” she said slowly. “So it would not go up just yet. But that is something you will be able to negotiate once you have proved yourself.”
I stayed silent. What would I have to prove? She has just said that they were impressed with my work! So impressed that I was going to be given additional duties – the very duties that my boss was relinquishing? They already knew I could do it or else they wouldn’t be offering me the job. That’s not how companies worked. I realised my nails were biting into my palms.
We both looked at each other, neither of us wanting to say what was on our minds. I could hardly ask her such as personal question as to whether her salary was dropping. But I bet my bottom dollar that the day less would be balanced out with some consultancy arrangement.
“This new role will give you greater experience,” said Emma. “And almost certainly improve your prospects for your next role.”
I hadn’t even agreed to this yet, and knew exactly what would happen if I did. I’d be working all hours, with increased responsibility, no additional pay, an increase in stress – and less help. None of Emma’s great ‘work-life balance’ dividends would be coming my way. Nonetheless, I smiled.
“Thank you for the opportunity.” I wanted to sound grateful, while I thought about it. If I had any acting skills, now was the time to employ them. I needed to reduce my stress, not increase it.
“You would be great at it,” she said. “Do not decide just yet, think about it and tell me at the end of the week.” Of course, she had wanted for me to agree there and then, so she could get her Fridays off.
“Thank you,” I said. Part of my mind was automatically wondering about the more mundane issue of whether she had any changes to make on the report. As I walked to the door, she called out.
“Oh, by the way, the report is great as it is. I have no changes.”
I turned and smiled. It was spooky the way she seemed to know what I was thinking sometimes. I walked out, leaving the door open this time.
Barely at my desk, Sophie pounced, hungry for gossip.
“What kind of trouble are you in now?” she said. I giggled waving her off. It felt so good to be out of that room.
“I am not in any trouble, actually!”
“What then?”
“Official business,” I said with mock pomposity. “I can’t possibly tell you.”
“Oh shut up!” she said in exasperation. “What did she want?” But I knew I had to keep my cards close to my chest for now.
“She just wanted to know how my mother was.” Well, Emma had asked about my mother, so it wasn’t a complete lie. Sophie rolled her eyes in disappointment.
“Oh, I thought it was something juicy.”
I rolled my eyes back at her.
“Sorry that the office telegraph has nothing to report. Now if you will excuse me…”
We both laughed as she left my desk. I could feel the ball of worry though. If we’re honest, I couldn’t really say no to Emma. But I had already pulled out all the stops to keep on top of work. How was I going to cope with more?
Chapter
13
Neighbours and Gossip
My mother was recovering slowly but the hospital was still my second home. One Saturday, I found myself drifting down to the canteen to pick up a snack. It was an all too regular occurrence now – as if in steeling myself against my critics, I had also steeled myself against my own better nature.
A packet of crisps would have to do, I thought. There wasn’t that big a selection but, as usual, I was too tired to think it over. Walking in, there was James Duncan, my favourite consultant. He was having lunch with people who must have been colleagues. His eyes found me just as quickly and he gave the briefest of smiles, which seemed to laugh at our sixth sense for noticing each other so quickly. Of course, he fell straight back into conversation – and I got back to the important matter of the crisp rack. Ready Salted or Ready Salted today, it seemed. So I picked up a red packet. Disappointing – but still worth the journey I thought to myself cheekily. The little smile had been an unexpected bonus.
Back at my mother’s bedside, I flicked through my pictures on my phone; coming to the beautiful sunsets that, interspersed with trees and fields, I had sent to the competition. Next came a series of branches and tree trunks which looked gnarled with age and experience. If they were people, I thought, you would sit with them for hours listening to the stories they had to tell. I wasn’t a country girl by any stretch of the imagination but taking pictures of nature gave me some sort of peace, compared to the constant bustle of city life. Thank goodness for the London parks. I needed their tranquillity now more than ever.
I was marvelling at the veins on a dried sycamore leaf when I became aware of a lady approaching the bedside. She grabbed a chair and came to sit on the other side of my mother’s bed. My mother had been sleeping but woke up at the scraping of the chair.
“Hello Mrs Johnson,” she said. “I am Mary from Occupational Health.”
“Hello,” my mother said, sitting up a little. Mary turned to me. “And you are?”
“I am her daughter.” I smiled to myself, imagining if I’d just said: “Guess!”