I give Mum a rundown. I miss out a few key details but mostly she gets a play by play of my week with James. She hears how I nearly drowned in a river and how I slept in a tent for three nights. I remember my cut, reaching down to touch it. It’s healing fine – doesn’t require a doctor after all. I tell her about the lorry and not buying a train ticket. She asks if anything happened between me and James and I say, “Yes, yes it did,” because it’s true and I need someone to vent to. And for once she listens. She doesn’t try to give me advice, but empathises.
I tell her I want to quit my job. It flies out of my mouth so fast I almost can’t believe I said it.
“Give it another week,” Mum suggests.
“I don’t know if I can.”
“Is it because of what Michael’s done or because you don’t want to face James?”
“Both,” I say. “I can’t do either.”
“You can, darling. If anyone can, it’s you. You’ve had a wild week by the sounds of it. If you make a rash decision now, you might regret it. Yes, another week is what you need.”
I tell Mum about the salary discrepancy between me and James. She sighs. “Hmm, I don’t know an awful lot about that.”
“I need to negotiate. I deserve to be paid the same as him.”
“Absolutely!”
I groan, throwing myself back into my bed. “I can’t do it, Mum.”
“You can, Fliss, darling.”
“What if he hates me again?”
“Michael?”
“No, James.”
“Well,” she sighs. “Then you know it was… What did you call it? Last people disease?”
“Last-two-people-at-the-end-of-the-world disease.”
“An awfully long slogan for someone in marketing. You should work on that.”
“It’s not really a slogan, Mum,” I laugh. “What’ve I missed with you then?”
Mum goes into her week without me. It’s all the usual stuff: shopping, gardening, tea with a neighbour. She works part time at the GP surgery in town and there’s always a ton of gossip there. I pop her on loudspeaker as I unpack my bag, whimpering when I see the state of my red ankle boots. They’re damaged beyond repair. I take them out to the kitchen and pop them in the big bin, stuffing my hiking gear in the washing machine.
As I’m emptying the final pockets of the bag that I’ve lugged around with me all week, a note falls out. The note from the start. I hold it in my hands for a moment as Mum natters on in the background. I read it over once more, then, instead of binning it, I’m about to place it in my top drawer for safekeeping, when I notice black ink on the other side.
This note was also addressed to James.
I grab my phone, turned face up on my bed. “Sorry Mum, my flatmate is calling me,” I lie, trying to keep my voice steady. “I’ll call you in the morning, ok?” I barely register her response as I frown, that tight-chested feeling returning.
I hold it in my shaking hands.What does this mean?I read the letter over again.
In order to proceed to the next step in your career you must overcome the need to compete and find a way to cooperate. I would like to hear how you worked together as a team. See if this week will shine a light on your management skillset. Don’t let me down!
Was this addressed to James? Was the whole challenge set for him?
Then it dawns on me.He knew!He must’ve known the whole time.
I sniff as a rogue hot tear runs down my cheek. My brain starts to spin with all the possibilities. All the how’s and why’s and if’s.
Because, if this note was written for him, and only him, then was the challenge even hiking across Scotland? Was the challenge about survival and teamwork? Or was the challenge, in fact, horrifically…me?
Oh my god. He tried to stop it a few times. Whenever I said I planned on being a director he acted offish and awkward. I get a sick, twisted feeling in my stomach with the thought of seeing him at work on Monday. How the fuck am I supposed to manage this now?
