‘But what happens—’
‘Nothing will happen.’ Granny strokes my hair; it’s something she has always done since I was tiny. ‘Do you want to know something, January?’ she says. ‘I held you in my arms twenty minutes after you were born. I can see your mother’s face now, exhausted but so happy. “Look, Mum, I have a daughter, a baby girl,” she’d said in her flowery hospital gown, before asking me if I wanted to hold you. I couldn’t wait to get my mitts on you.’ Granny nudges me with affection. ‘So, I introduced myself. I said, “Hello you,” because we didn’t have a name for you at that stage. And I said, “I’m your Granny and I will always be here for you.”’
They tell me to go to bed and hope for another sunny day tomorrow. ‘Get a good night’s sleep, my angel. Things always look brighter in the morning,’ Granny promises.
As I leave the room, I hear footsteps and see the back of Lucas, rushing down the hallway before he heads back upstairs. Maybe he couldn’t sleep either? How long had he been listening outside? Why didn’t he join us? Sometimes I wish I understood my brother.
5
2014
My alarm clock shrills and Spud jumps on to the bed, lands on my head and dives off again. Reluctantly I stir. It’s the morning after Jeremy’s party and slowly I’m remembering why I have a sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach. I wish I could cancel today and spend it under the duvet. It’s a myth that things look brighter in the morning. They look just the same. Or worse.
As I head towards Isla’s bedroom, ready to put on my happy ‘time to get up!’ face, I marvel at how my grandparents managed to keep so upbeat with Lucas and me when they suffered much worse than my humiliating fate last night.
‘One more stretch,’ I say, after breakfast. Isla is lying down in her bedroom, on her exercise mat. Gold stars are stencilled on the wall behind her bed; her desk in the corner, by the window, is scattered with artwork, books and a bubble-gum pink CD machine blasting out Katy Perry’s ‘Last Friday Night’.
Isla wriggles as I catch her leg. ‘No more! Why do I have to do them likeallthe time?’
‘You know why.’ Isla’s muscles get so stiff and tight if she doesn’t do her exercises. I hold her right foot and then place my other hand over her fragile knee and stretch the leg, understanding why physiotherapists are often as unpopular as estate agents. Isla is now eleven and still as slight as a bird, her legs painfully thin, but she’s taller and has grown up hugely over the past year. She screws up her face as I straighten the other leg.
‘One more.’
‘You said that last time.’
I pretend not to hear her as I say, ‘On your side now, knees together.’ I wait. ‘If you don’t I’ll feed you mushy peas for the rest of your life.’
We laugh as we sing along with Katy Perry and, for a moment, I forget having to face Ward and Isla forgets the discomfort.
‘Hello, Sherwoods! Nadine speaking, how can Ihelpyou?’ she sings down the telephone as Spud and I walk past her desk, my heart thumping when I hear Ward’s voice coming from upstairs. When I see him pacing the corridor I dive into my office, tripping over a box of brochures. I hop about on one foot, desperately trying to keep the burning pain inside when all I want to do is swear. I let Spud off the lead and immediately he trots off to Nadine and her treat jar. If Ward comes in look busy and efficient. Hang on, Iambusy and efficient, I think, sifting through a pile of photographs on my desk of the house in Suffolk that’s going intoCountry Lifemagazine next month. My computer whirs into action. I sit down and rub my foot. I also have thirty-one new messages, most of them brochure requests. My heart sinks further when I see an email from Mrs Hook with that paperclip attachment icon. Oh please, not more historical notes on your house. Nadine totters into the room, Spud close behind her, telling me that Lucie is already up in the boardroom. ‘Ward wants a meeting. You left pretty quickly last night.’
‘Isla,’ I mutter, scratching my head.
‘Ward’s a dish, isn’t he,’ she whispers, fanning her face, ‘in that kind of Heathcliff way.’ I gather my notepad before hesitantly looking down at Spud, nostalgically picturing the good old days. ‘No other dog smiles like our little Spud,’ Jeremy used to say with Spud perched on his lap being fed bacon tidbits. ‘Shall I take him up?’ I ask Nadine.
The boardroom is next to Jeremy’s old office, now Ward’s. A wooden table runs down the middle that can seat eight people comfortably and architectural prints decorate the walls. Up one end of the room is a television that doubles up as a computer screen for our weekly meetings. I take a seat alongside Lucie, Jeremy’s number two. I’ve always got on with her, ever since my interview. She’s hardworking but also great fun and I enjoy the spark between her and Graham. Ward is still on the telephone. Lucie whispers, ‘It’s his wife. Think he was late home last night. Spencer says—’
‘Don’t listen to Spencer,’ I cut her off, before saying, ‘What?’
‘Apparently they fight a lot.’ Lucie is now in her early forties, slim, with long fair hair that she wears either loose or in a ponytail. She smokes like a chimney, drinks coffee like water, and is on tenterhooks waiting for her long-term boyfriend, computer programmer Jim, to propose. Each time they go away for a holiday or weekend break we wait with baited breath to hear the announcement on Monday morning, but when she comes into the office and heads straight to her desk, avoiding eye contact, we know not to ask any questions. Initially she worked in finance, but hated everything to do with money and balance sheets, nor did she get on with the long hours, so, reluctantly, she followed in the footsteps of her parents who were both estate agents. ‘At home the word “exchange” was either accompanied by a bottle of fizz or a massive headache and stressed calls to the solicitors. I swore I’d never do the same job as them,’ she’d once confided. ‘That went well. What did your parents do?’
Everyday someone says something that reminds me of my childhood, those gaps where Mum and Dad should have been.
‘Great speech, Jan.’ She strokes Spud under the table. ‘I’d forgotten the dog-meat sandwich. Hilarious.’
Nadine bustles in with a tray of coffee and a packet of chocolate biscuits, saying the bacon sandwiches are on their way. A bacon sandwich is the only decent thing about having a meeting first thing, but no wonder my trousers are tight.
‘Right,’ Ward says, entering the room and sitting at the head of the table. He’s wearing a suit with a pale-blue shirt and stripy tie and dark-rimmed glasses. ‘Where’s…’ He stares at the empty chair. ‘Graham?’
Graham is Jeremy’s number three, a maverick who does his own thing, chatting up wealthy people and getting this firm virtually half its business.
‘Oh, you know Graham!’ chirps Nadine. ‘We don’t normally have a meeting on a Thursday so I suspect he’s—’
‘Everyone needs to be at the office on time, meeting or not.’
Spud barks, making Ward jump. ‘Well, let’s crack on without him.’
Spud barks again, wagging his tail, wanting Ward’s attention and perhaps a treat.
