by Ruth Harrow
I had the window widened when I decided on this room as my office, despite James's suggestion that we should reserve this room as a nursery in the future. It made sense for this room to be my office; it is the furthest from our bedroom so there wouldn't be any mutual disturbance if I'm working late into the night.
And as that often happens, I feel like I was justified in claiming this space as my own creative working environment.
Usually, this place is a hive of activity. I would bury myself in my laptop – writing blog posts, answering emails, sourcing materials, or else creating designs for a client.
Starting a brand new project can be daunting, but normally I am overloaded with ideas that I can't wait to jot down. James often pops his head around the door to find me surrounded by sketch-pads, notebooks and post-it notes.
Today, however, I can't seem to get into the swing of things. I have a pen in my hand, books and papers ready, all blank and waiting to be filled with ideas and energy, colours and concepts.
Trouble is, nothing is coming to me. The only thing I can think of is the last time I saw James and how much I miss him. The scene where we said goodbye keeps replaying in my head.
I glance at the clock.
Mid-morning, he will be engrossed in some sort of activity. I don't really know what happens at these training events he goes to.
He is a guest-speaker there, I know that. He did give me a full breakdown of the first one he went to last year, but I confess I wasn't giving him my full attention, only nodding and feigning interest. Really, I had been planning my next blog post in my head – a tutorial on how to create cushion covers from fabric tote bags.
Now I wish I had paid more attention.
I push away thoughts of driving over to Middlesbrough in time to meet James for dinner and tap my pen on my blank sketchpad.
Traditional holiday homes by the sea – that was what John wanted for his vision.
Honestly, I don't know what a traditional family holiday is like, as I never went on holiday with my parents.
In fact, the first holiday I took was with James. We would go away on cosy weekend breaks in our first few years. We travelled to Paris for the wonderful Christmas markets.
I told James that I was five when my parents died and I hadn't enjoyed Christmas properly since. After hearing that, he whisked us away to Edinburgh for a magical snow-topped festive week.
In our hotel room, we turned the thermostat to its highest setting and opened our presents to each other in our underwear while snow blanketed the paved streets outside.
He proposed when we went back to that hotel two years later.
Later on, we would travel abroad to Portugal and Thailand, building memories and amassing souvenirs and trinkets I now keep treasured neatly in a box under the bed.
James wanted them on display, but I said we should keep them safe; they would last forever that way.
Besides, I don't like too much clutter.
This project has me stumped as far as family getaways are concerned. It is not like I can ask James, either.
Unable to concentrate, I decide to change tasks. My daily scan of news relating to Jones and Stanton might help to get me in the right frame of mind.
I open a new browser window and do my usual Google search and scan the results page, looking for changes.
This favoured technique of mine when working for a client has done wonders for me in the past. Keeping quietly up to date with company news can give me an edge, find out more about my employers so I can gauge better what they want from my work, find out something I can drop into conversation that seems coincidental.
And in this case, I have what seems very stiff competition in Lisa, so this trick is vital.
Immediately, the results page looks different than yesterday. A tweet from a male interior designer, Matt Anderson stands out from the page.
Looking forward to taking a different perspective on the new Jones and Stanton holiday properties. What a great idea to bring back classic holiday accommodation :) #bringitback #retro #jonesandstanton
This sounds like the designer that had submitted the initial designs John and Ian didn't like. Although Ian seemed to have no qualms.
This Twitter user looks to be in his thirties, perhaps the same age as Ian. I'll bet anything they are personal friends, an old school pal perhaps.
Neither man mentioned that they were asking for a redesign from their initial candidate.
It just means more competition for the job I really need.
The muscles in my shoulders ache, I rotate them, trying to ease the pain.
There is nothing wrong with a little more competition. It's not like I haven't dealt with it before and won. In the past, my work has always spoken for itself.
It's just that now I feel tired, defeated. Like I don't have any more fight left in me.
Three months ago I would have been ready to run the race straight on as soon as I heard the starting gun fired.
Now the shot is ringing in my ears and I feel as though I am facing the opposite way to the finishing line and care very little.
8
Nicole stares at her tablet, her silver-grey eyes exaggerated by the brightness of the screen in her otherwise lamp-lit living room.
I sit with my head resting on the back of her cosy armchair, wine glass in hand, appreciating the softness of the quilted throw. I have one identical in my own lounge.
'You were right,' she says, tapping away on the tablet. 'This Matt guy is Facebook friends with Ian Stanton. He looks like he enjoys a good drink – just look at his timeline.'
She turns the screen towards me, scrolling slowly. A variety of dark, flash-lit shots fill the screen, capturing what is clearly a long series of drunken nights out and little else.
Nicole scrolls back several years before she gets bored.
'I thought so,' I say. 'How did you even find that, anyway?'
Nicole shrugs. 'I just searched his name. I had to go through a load of results to find him though. It would have been easier if he had a less common name. Like yours before you got married.'
'Hmm,' I say, staring back at the Artex ceiling. Ian and Matt's red-eyed faces seem to float in front of my eyes in front of asymmetric white swirls. 'So if Matt Anderson is best friends with Ian, then no wonder he is getting a second chance. He's trying to give his friend the lucrative work.'
'Sounds like it. On one hand, it makes him a much stronger bet than you. But if Ian's dad is joint project manager, then he probably won't let his son have the final say, you know.'
'Won't he?'
'Course not. His dad will make the final decision. You said he set the business up in the first place, didn't you?'
'Back in the early nineties, with a fellow architect, Karl Jones.'
'Right, so he probably makes the final call on everything. Ian is probably there doing all the jobs his dad can't be arsed to do himself. Don't worry about it, Heather. Just make sure you do some flipping awesome concepts, and you'll be fine.'
I take a gulp of wine and swirl the rest around my glass. A nervous habit that doesn't go unnoticed by Nicole who has been by my side since our younger years.
She stares intently at me. 'What is it?'
I take a deep breath. 'The other candidate at the initial meeting – she was someone we know – from secondary school.'
Nicole looks intrigued all of a sudden, lowering her wine glass without taking the sip she had been open-mouthed for. 'Ooh, who was it?'
'Lisa Richards.'
Nicole shows no sign of recognition. 'Who?'
'You know, Lisa Richards.'
She shrugs, looking blank.
Of course, Nicole wouldn't immediately remember her. They probably didn't even cross paths.
She didn't have the same run-ins with Lisa that I had back in school.
Nicole was one of the popular girls, the ones that re-did their hair and makeup every lunchtime in the toilets and deviated from the school uniform as much as t
hey could get away with.
Lisa never targetted the ones that hung around in tight groups. She was more scavenger than predator, preferring to target the easier pickings around the edges of school society.
The ones like me.
Nicole and I only became friends when we enrolled in the same course at college. Her clique of girlfriends had gone on to a hair and beauty career-path and Nicole had found herself squeezed out. I think she was genuinely grateful to have me to fall back on.
'Lisa used to be a real bully in school. She was always smoking behind the P.E building with her friend – that short girl she always used to hang around with – I can't remember her name now. Anyway, Lisa used to pick on the first-years too, even in the year before she left. She had no shame. But you should remember her a little bit – she had that accident a few months before we were due to take our GCSE's.'
Nicole screws up her eyes in concentration, I can see her turning the past over in her mind.'I think so,' she says finally. 'Actually – yes, I did hear something like that. Wasn't she in a wheelchair or something?'
I nod, swirling my wine again. 'She had to go through months of physical therapy before she could even walk again. She was still limping at the interview.'
'I don't really remember. It was so long ago, Heather. I think everyone has forgotten about school now.'
'Lisa hasn't.'
'So she was at the interview too? Did she recognise you?'
'Yes, straight away. I didn't know who she was at first. She looks a little different now – and I really wasn't expecting to see her. She used to be really chubby when she was sixteen.'
Nicole snorts. 'I bet that didn't do her physical therapy any good.'
'Don't say that.'
She shrugs. 'Sorry, Heather. But she sounds awful. And besides, if she can't take it then she shouldn't dish it out.'
'Well, as you said – school was ages ago. She has probably changed since then.'
Nicole makes a sceptical noise and drains her glass. 'I feel even more sorry for you now I know that you're up against a total bitch. Still, I bet her work isn't as good as yours. Has she ever flown to Milan for a client?'
'Actually, she said she had completed a project for a hotel in Spain. John seemed really impressed by that.'
'She's lying! She is just trying to big herself up to sound as good as you.'
'How do you know?'
'I just don't believe it. School bullies are never the high-flying type, are they?'
'Maybe we are more alike than I thought. She was wearing the exact same jumper as me – that Ralph Lauren one.'
Nicole giggles hysterically, making a weak attempt to cover her mouth with her hand when she sees my expression.
I wait patiently for her to recover.
'Oh my goodness.' She dabs the corners of her eyes with a manicured fingertip. I've never known Nicole never to have perfect nails. It puts my own lined, and uneven ones to shame.
I press them into the palm of my free hand, but I'm sure Nicole has already seen them at some point during the evening. She has a good eye for detail.
'Heather, that's so funny. You should have mentioned that in your text. I could have done with being cheered up that day.'
'Thanks, Nicole.'
'I'm sorry. Do you think she did it deliberately?'
'What do you mean?'
'Well, what if she has followed you? How else would she have known what you were wearing?'
I think again of the man in the edges of the shopping centre. 'I had thought of that.'
Nicole bursts into uncontrollable laughter again and reaches across to slap me playfully on the knee. 'Oh, Heather, I was joking. You are so paranoid! I know you're a world-famous designer and all that, but people aren't really stalking you, you know.'
I finish my wine and set the glass down on Nicole's worn and charming coffee table. 'Listen, thanks for the drink, but I need to get going.'
Nicole is caught unawares and looks at the time on her tablet. 'But it's only eight-thirty.'
'I know, but I need to work on those designs for John. As you said, I need to do my best if I'm going to get the job.'
'Yeah, I guess so, but you'll be leaving me on my lonesome.'
'You will be all right. We can see each other more next weekend. We should go for dinner. Somewhere that does decent portions. We'll get some real junk food inside us. It's our last excuse – soon it will be spring and we will have to start eating sensibly again, going for runs.'
'Don't be silly – like you have time for such frivolities like staying healthy with your busy work schedule.'
'Well, maybe I can make time. But we can definitely have dinner on Saturday night. What do you say?'
'All right, you're on. I'll look forward to it, as long as you promise not to cancel on me like you usually do.'
'Nic, that has only happened once or twice. I don't mean to. Work just sometimes gets in the way.'
'Will James come with us? I haven't seen him for ages.'
'No, he's working away.'
'Again?'
'Yes. He's really busy.'
'When will he be back?'
'Not until next week.'
'Did you even see him when you got back?'
'Actually, I just missed him.'
'Do you two ever even see each other?'
'Of course we do. It's just been super hectic lately with everything that's been going on. I'm sure we will get more time soon.'
I bid Nicole goodnight and set off back down the black country lane devoid of street lights.
This is a private road and responsibility for maintenance falls to the homeowners – that's me, Nicole and the neighbour in between us – Ewan, who is becoming elderly and whose house has long fallen into a state of evergreen shabbiness.
When James and I first moved here the sight of Ewan's house was a little off-putting. James's mother had pointed it out to the estate agent and encouraged us to use that reasoning to place a lower offer on the house.
The previous owners must have been in agreement as they accepted a lesser price without question.
One of the first things I did when I had the keys in my hands was to arrange for a row of conifers to be planted along the separating border of the property.
Ewan had complained once or twice that the trees were starting to block his morning sunlight as he read his breakfast paper. But after that, he went quiet and he seems unperturbed now.
I reach the grey slate of my driveway which is illuminated by the cool glow of the solar lamps sooner than I would like.
I would have preferred to walk for longer, run away from my thoughts a little bit.
As soon as the front door swings open, I know there is nothing but quiet and emptiness waiting for me inside this house.
9
Monday morning I'm back in Salford at Jones and Stanton, only this time I'm in John's smaller office that seems a little more welcoming than the large meeting room.
There is no Ian today, nor Lisa for that matter; for that I am very thankful.
Breaking convention with the minimalist modern furnishing of the other room, this office has charm in the mahogany desk and various framed photographs of John with his family; I notice Ian only appears in one of the shots in the corner.
John leafs through my project book, scrutinising each of my designs closely with a frown creasing his forehead.
There is nothing but the sound of the turning of pages and the clock on John's desk that ticks loudly.
My palms are damp and cold again and my heart fills with shame that I have handed over what I know isn't my best work.
I had struggled to command inspiration on this project. The quiet of the house made it easy to decipher what is wrong with me.
Like a quiet psychiatrist allowing the patient to speak, the house with its many custom furnishings and homely touches reflected nothing but emptiness.
Now I know why I've been experiencing a feeling of sinking dread weaving through m
y chest lately – I feel as though the rest of my career, however short, has already been.
But that scares me if I'm right – what am I supposed to do with my life?
My interior design career is paying my half of the bills nicely.
I can't let it go – I've sacrificed too much already.
John finally speaks, putting me out of my misery. 'Well, Harriet, you've certainly made a great start to the project. I love what you have come up with so far.'
'You do?' I'm so taken aback that I don't know what to say.
'Yes, you've really captured that warm, sunny light you get down in Mid-Wales. That's what I was trying to get across with the brief – I'm glad someone understood what I meant.'
My heart leaps. Maybe I can turn this around after all. 'Yes, well when you were talking I was just thrown back to the holidays I took with my parents when I was little. There really is nothing like a family seaside getaway, is there?'
'Exactly. Did your parents ever take you to Aberystwyth?'
'Yes – several times. The place was one of my favourites to visit – the beaches were so sandy. It was great for sandcastles!'
I'm on a roll now. More confident. It feels just like any other project I've ever worked on. The banter flows easily between John and me and I wonder why I got myself worked up over this.
I'm careful not to talk myself into a corner with over the top embellishments and steer the conversation back to the task at hand. 'It's the simple things you remember when you're young – a stick of rock, or collecting shells on the beach. That's why, if you notice, I incorporated the seashell designs on the cushion covers and the blue and white stripes on the curtains.'
'Yes, that was something that really jumped out at me.' A reminiscent sort of smile spreads across his face. 'Wonderful – I really enjoy what you did there.'
As I slipped the finished concepts into the document wallets this morning, I had felt sure they would be interpreted as garish, over the top, but John seems to love them.
'And for the lamps–' I gesture at the page, '–I know a person that produces that sort of thing. She is open to any customisations I suggest and I can get them done with these nautical details like I've created here. British-made items are really on trend right now, so I think that could be a nice touch for your guests.'