shrugs. ‘I don’t know … I really haven’t got a clue.’
Mary has no such doubts about her youngest son’s future career. ‘He has an honours degree in communications,’ she states, pride evident with each word. ‘He’ll do something media-related, I expect.’ She swings around to address Dan. ‘You might be able to get him a start at the newspaper, Dan.’
‘I’ll look into it, Mum,’ he replies in a non-committal tone.
‘Off the record,’ Joe interjects with a snigger.
‘No comment, eh, Dan?’ Samuel adds cheekily.
Dan rolls his eyes at them, and I get the impression that this particular in-joke has been doing the rounds a long time.
Going by their comments, and Mary’s reference to the newspaper, I assume that Dan is a journalist of some kind. Add that to Joe, an author, and Samuel, with a communications degree, and it’s very clear that the Connolly family has a particular affinity with the written word. For the first time since I got out of Joe’s car, I feel out of place, awkward.
‘So you’re all writers?’ I ask.
Joe grins. ‘Of some description. That’s what happens when your father is an English teacher and your mother’s a librarian.’
‘Oh. It’s in your blood then.’
I catch Dan looking at me. A brief, questioning glance. He must have heard something in my tone that the others didn’t. Thank goodness he’s distracted by his mother, who goes over to survey his handiwork and declares the meat ready to eat (quite obviously, Dan doesn’t have the requisite authority to make such an announcement). Suddenly there’s a flurry of activity, with plates being filled and passed around, drinks being replenished, and everyone finding a seat at the heavy wooden outdoor table, which is exactly like the no-nonsense table I imagined would be in the kitchen.
‘Tell us about your family,’ Mary says when the activity has died down and everyone is quietly eating. ‘What do they do for a living? Are they arty like you?’
I glance down at my food while I consider what to say. There is no breezy reply to this question. Either I tell the truth, or a bare-faced lie. Both options seem equally extreme.
I opt for the truth. ‘I have no family. It’s just me.’
Having told them the truth, I eat a forkful of steak.
Mary, when I look at her again, seems perturbed. ‘Your mother and father …’ Her voice trails away in a question.
I swallow the steak, and take a quick drink from my bottle of beer.
‘Simon, my stepfather, died when I was twenty.’
There’s a pause. No one is eating now. No one except me. If it weren’t for the conversation topic, I would be really enjoying this meal.
‘And your mother?’
Surprisingly, it’s Dan, not Mary, who has asked this oh-so-predictable question.
I look at Dan, then at Mary and Joe and Samuel and Richie. This lovely, welcoming family in their lovely, albeit not-perfect house. It seems wrong, sacrilegious, to bring up the sadder-than-sad circumstances of my family, or lack thereof. But I can see that this meal cannot progress, that no one will appreciate the meat Dan has cooked so beautifully or the salads Mary has prepared with such love, unless I satisfy their curiosity.
‘My mother left when I was eight.’ My tone is practical but Mary sounds stricken.
‘Where is she, your mother?’
‘I don’t know.’ I shrug, and even manage to smile. ‘I’m still looking for her.’
Chapter 10
Emma
‘Excuse me, Emma?’
It’s Katie. She’s been getting better. More self-sufficient. This is the first time she’s interrupted me today and it’s almost lunchtime. Well done, Katie.
‘Yeah?’ I look up from the report I’m proofreading for tomorrow’s board meeting. I’ve found three mistakes so far, and circled them in red. One is a typo, embedded deep in the text and difficult to spot unless you’re a veteran like me. The other two are more serious: numbers that haven’t been updated since last month. I’m glad I found them before Brendan saw the report. He’s a stickler when it comes to the monthly reports, and would be furious if our department produced anything that was less than perfect for the board. Pity he’s not a stickler when it comes to all the behind-the-scenes work that we do here, the day-to-day processes and procedures that make this report possible. It’s all image with Brendan. It’s all about the over-engineered glossy package the board will see tomorrow.
‘Emma, as I’m not going to be here next week, I thought I should check what you want done before I go … what you see as a priority.’
What? Is Katie taking time off? Next week? Why is this news to me?
‘Backtrack a minute. Where are you going next week?’
Katie flicks her long sandy hair over her shoulder. ‘You know, I’m going on that leadership course …’
No, I don’t know, Katie. This is the first I’ve heard of it.
I must be frowning, because she rushes to explain. ‘Someone from marketing pulled out at the last minute, so there was an unexpected vacancy. Brendan said he’d planned to send me on the course later in the year, but it made sense to do it now … given the vacancy …’
Yes, it makes perfect sense, Katie. The only thing is that you’ve been here barely a month. I, on the other hand, have been working for Brendan for four years, and yet it has never occurred to him to send me on such a course, now or later in the year or fuckin’ ever at all.
My face is getting red. I can feel the colour creeping up from my neck. Anger. Mortification. And — more pitiful — hurt.
‘Can’t you see I’m busy? This could have waited, Katie. You can’t just interrupt me whenever you see fit. I have work to do.’
Her face crumples, and I feel terrible.
‘Sorry. I’m sorry, Emma. I’ll talk to you about it later. Sorry.’
She backs away, apologising with each step. I should be the one who’s apologising. It’s not Katie’s fault that Brendan sees leadership potential in her. It’s not her fault that I’m virtually invisible to him.
The report blurs in front of me. It takes me a while to gather myself. When I do, I resume proofreading, using a ruler as I scrutinise each line. On page six, halfway down, there’s another typo. I circle it, but my hand must be shaky because the circle is distorted and messy.
Once finished, I correct all the errors online, print a fresh copy, staple the pages together, knock on Brendan’s door, and thrust the report into his hand without meeting his eyes. If I catch his eye, it’ll be all over. Four years of being overlooked. The injustice, the helplessness and my mounting anger would come out in an unintelligible torrent, and I could lose my job as well as my hard-fought-for dignity.
‘Sorry for snapping,’ I say, stopping by Katie’s desk on my way back to my own. ‘You can come to me any time, any time at all.’
‘Okay.’ Her eyes aren’t trusting, and I really can’t blame her.
Feeling hugely remorseful, I perch on the side of her desk and try to start a conversation. ‘Guess what I’m doing next Wednesday night?’
‘What?’
‘Ballet.’
Her blue eyes blink. ‘You’re a ballet dancer?’
‘Do I look like a ballet dancer?’ I snort.
We get the giggles, both of us. The thought of the tutu gets me every time.