Charmaine can clearly see all this information on her screen, so it feels like she’s twisting the knife by asking me to repeat the facts to her. She gives a thin smile, the kind that saysI’ve heard all this before. Her fingers rattle on the keyboard, and then she swivels the screen to face me: a spreadsheet, full of red numbers and negative signs that make me feel nauseous.
‘I’ve looked at your account performance over the last year. It appears there have been repeated periods of exceeding the facility, sometimes by as much as twenty per cent. Would you agree that’s accurate?’
I swallow. ‘There were a couple of times, yes, but it’s always evened out. We had some delayed payments from clients who—’
‘The problem is,’ she interrupts, ‘banks don’t like unauthorised borrowing. And your business hasn’t grown its net income year to year, which would make a temporary increase less appealing.’
Her tone is professional, but the line is clear. I try my original tack, mentioning that the potential new client is a game-changer and that I’m due to meet with them soon.
‘Do you have a contract or a letter of intent from this developer?’ asks Charmaine, eyes flat behind her rimless glasses.
‘Not yet, but they’ve agreed in principle to give us sole agency on their new units.’ The embellishment comes out before I can stop it, and I can only pray my confidence might become reality.
Charmaine interlocks her fingers on the desk, glances at the computer, and says, ‘I’m afraid that without a signed contract, it’s very difficult to extend additional credit on your account. What I can do, though, is discuss the option of transferring your whole overdraft into a loan. It would lock in a fixed repayment schedule and take away some of that month-to-month uncertainty.’
Translated: the overdraft is being shut down, but we’ll happily sell you a loan at a higher interest rate.
I try one last option, keeping everything crossed. ‘Could I add a further ten to the loan?’ I ask, hopefully.
‘I’m sorry, but that won’t be possible.’
I start to argue, but I see the futility of it, and my words peter out. She’s already moved on to explaining the paperwork. My mind jitters, panic rising from my gut. The silence in the little room is dense with my disappointment. I sign the form because there’s no other option. She prints a copy, paper still warm from the machine in the corner, and hands it to me.
‘You’ll receive confirmation by email in a couple of days,’ she says, standing, the meeting already over in her mind. This handshake is as brisk as her first, and she shepherds me into the corridor with a practised arm gesture.
As I step out of the bank, the cold is immediate and numbing. I stand for a minute, blinking into the wind, cowed by shame and the taste of impending disaster. I think of all the things I should have said, of how differently it would have gone if Fritz Marsden had been there instead of Charmaine Taylor, who clearly wouldn’t care less about our Chamonix adventure or the fact that I got a B in GCSE Economics.
I wish with all my heart that I’d agreed to wait and see Fritz.
But now it’s too late.
Chapter Fifteen
Jade
I shove a slice of pale white bread into the toaster and push the lever down. The whole counter is scattered with the remnants of a half-arsed attempt at lunch – cheese slices, a bit of squashy tomato, and a supermarket tub of margarine. I fumble with the lid, and the foil cover snaps open with a metallic burp, slicing across the side of my ring finger. ‘Shit,’ I hiss, cradling my hand.
The cut stings in a sharp, sudden way, tiny beads of red swelling and then dripping anaemically down towards my wrist. I shove my finger between my lips until the pain lessens, like Mum told me to do when I was a kid. For a second, I remember her soothing voice, her hands, the way she’d hold me tight whenever I hurt myself. Now, she just finds new ways to criticise me.
Her silhouette fills the doorway, arms folded over her dressing gown, one eyebrow raised. ‘Are you bleeding all over the food again?’
I grab a sheet of kitchen roll, wrap it around my finger, and glare. ‘It’s not on the food. It’s fine.’
She tuts, shakes her head, and marches forward.
Before Mum can get a word in, my phone buzzes, and for a second, the tension shatters – a notification, a lifeline, a promise of somewhere better.
I wrench my phone out of my hoodie pocket, dropping but then catching it with my good hand. The world goes quiet as I see the sender – Harringtons, the agency I begged for an internship. My pulse spikes. Maybe this is it, the golden email, the start of my real life. I thumb open the message, scrolling straight to the body. It doesn’t even pretend to be personal. ‘Thank you for your application, but we regret to inform you that, after careful consideration, your skills and experience do not currently match our requirements...’ I whisper the words aloud, numb, then let my head droop.
I pinch the bridge of my nose. The toaster explodes my bread into the air just at that moment, as if even it feels my humiliation and needs to punctuate it. ‘Another bloody rejection,’ I mutter, voice flat as a pancake. I collapse into one of the vinyl kitchen chairs.
Mum steps forward. ‘Well, it’s hardly surprising, is it? Are you going to clear up this mess?’
I ball up the bloody tissue, lob it at the bin, and miss by a mile. I reach for my phone again, fingers trembling, and scroll numbly through my inbox. Just more automated rejections, more notifications from job boards, reminders I’m never going to escape. Every ping is a fresh cut. ‘Thanks for the sympathy.’ I don’t bother to hide the sarcasm.
She ignores it, bringing the toastie I abandoned and parking it in front of me. Then she dramatically loosens her dressing gown and slides into the chair opposite.
For a second, we just watch each other.
