‘Oliver, this has never been something we talk about.’
He nodded his head. She was right. He had always drawn the lines very succinctly. Emotional attachment of any kind was time and effort wasted. But Clara had worked for him since he’d taken over, for his father years before that. For business purposes, he should know a little of what was going on in her personal life, shouldn’t he? If she was distracted at home it might make her distracted at work. He drew in a breath. He’d started this now, there was no going back.
‘I know we don’t. But I’m asking you now. What’s going on?’
The question was broad enough to draw out a response. He put his hands on the back of his chair, pressing the leather underneath his fingers. He could see Clara was struggling with this. Why had he said something so flippant without thought?
‘I don’t know if he’s going to be there,’ she admitted through a tapered breath.
Oliver didn’t know what to say. He hadn’t expected Clara to be so honest. Now he was way out of his area of expertise. Flattery was the extent of his talent with women. Comforting was never part of his agenda.
‘We’re going through a difficult patch at the moment,’ Clara elaborated.
She was wringing her hands together, pushing and pulling at the skin, and he didn’t know what to do. He was no good with stuff like this. It freaked him out.
‘Is there anything I can do?’ It sounded pathetically weak and a little insincere. But it was all he could come up with.
‘I don’t think there’s anyone else. I mean, who would put up with him? He’s lazy and ungrateful and his psoriasis is very bad at the moment,’ Clara continued.
Oliver moulded his fingers into the fabric of the chair a little more, trying to work out how to make this situation he’d created a whole lot better. Should he let her talk? Just stand there and listen? Weren’t people supposed to feel like a weight had been taken off just by talking their load away? That’s what the therapists had tried to tell his mother anyway.
‘It’s been like this since he lost his job.’ Clara sighed. ‘He worked for that company for twenty years and in the end, it counted for nothing.’
He moved quietly, coming around his desk and pulling out the seat opposite his desk. He didn’t need to do anything else; Clara was already lowering herself down into it.
‘It does something to a man,’ Clara continued. ‘When you give everything you have to a role you love, dedicate yourself to a company like that and then all you’ve ever known is just taken away so fast.’
She was struggling to hold back the tears now. This was a big deal to her. When had she started struggling so much? He hadn’t noticed anything at work. Or was that merely because he hadn’t been looking? Because he was always so blinkered by what was going on in his own life?
Clara carried on. ‘I’ve tried to get him to look for something else but he just can’t see past the stigma of being made redundant. Because he thought he was never going to work any place else, he thinks hecan’twork any place else.’
Oliver racked his brain trying to remember what it was Clara’s husband did. He didn’t even recall his name. Mike? Mark?
Then it was like Clara came to and she turned her head, focusing on him.
‘Oh, Oliver, I’m so sorry.’ She got to her feet. ‘I don’t know what I was thinking. You don’t want to hear about all this. And I shouldn’t be bringing it into work.’ She got to her feet, straightening her jacket.
‘You haven’t been bringing it into work.’ He paused. ‘And I asked.’
‘I know but…’
‘Why don’t you have tomorrow off?’ Where had that idea come from? He had never done that in his life before and the absolute shock on Clara’s face told him she thought he was ailing for something.
‘No, that’s ridiculous. I’m fine,’ she insisted.
‘I know you’re fine. I’m just suggesting you take a day, spend some time with…’ He really couldn’t remember her husband’s name.
‘William,’ Clara offered.
‘Yes. Just take a day, Clara.’ He swallowed. A feeling he wasn’t familiar with began to take a stranglehold on him. It was the McArthur Foundation website. Looking at that had turned him into a ball of weakness. He put a hand on one of the buttons of his jacket and fastened it up.
‘Are you sure?’ Clara asked, her voice soft and full of vulnerability.
‘Yes, I’m sure.’ He threw an arm towards the door. ‘Now get out of here, get some takeout, go home.’
He watched her take one step and then she stopped, looking back at him.
‘And what are you going to do?’ she asked.
