So much for our lovely day of pampering. I wondered whether she’d left after I did, or maybe she’d phoned Hamish and asked him to join her. I shook the image of them both from my head for now. At some point I’d have to get in touch with them, but until I worked out what I was going to say I needed to keep myself occupied.
There was one obvious job I could do: sort out Freddie’s room. Until Christmas, I hadn’t been able to clear any of his belongings; his coats had still hung on the hook in the hall, a heap of discarded trainers below them. The shelves in our little living room had bulged with his books and DVDs and his dumbbells still served as a doorstop. Since the start of January, I’d been tackling a room at a time, gradually removing traces of my big brother. All that remained was his bedroom. I’d been putting that off until last; it was such an intimate space and it was going to feel like such an invasion of Freddie’s privacy. Hamish had offered to help me and I’d accepted. Now it looked as if I was going to have to do it alone.
Or …
I could get some work done instead. Perfect, I thought briskly. Work it was; Freddie’s room could wait for another day.
I called to Scamp, clipped his lead back on and we set off for a lap around the lake before heading home. Data crunching might not be the most thrilling way to spend the day, but at least I’d get ahead on the big project my team was delivering to clients next week. And, maybe working on a Saturday would give me some extra leverage with my boss, Bernie, because I had a favour to ask. Again.
By six o’clock that evening my eyelids were beginning to droop from staring at the screen for so long. But as a distraction tactic it had worked – every time I’d found my thoughts returning to Laura and Hamish, I’d given myself a shake and focused hard on my report. I’d squirrelled away in comfort: in front of the fire, with Scamp pressed to my thigh and my laptop on my knee. I’d work this way every day if I could, I thought, stretching my arms above my head before composing an email to Bernie, my boss, to give him an update.
Tuesday was D-Day for our big annual presentation. Clients from Japan, Portugal, Germany and South Korea would be tuning in to a video call to watch what we at Zed Market Trends were predicting would happen in the world of office paper over the next five years.
Being a senior market analyst in the paper industry might not sound thrilling; in fact, everyone I told about my market niche had a habit of glazing over. Until, that was, I got them thinking about the supply chain (or paper chain as I jokingly described it). From forests in Indonesia, to paper mills in Scandinavia right through to the UK’s stationery retailers, billions of pounds were invested to keep our home printers supplied. And it was the trend-predictions made by my company that helped steer that research and development across the world. Heady stuff …
OK, well, I found it interesting anyway.
I emailed Bernie my PowerPoint slides ready for Monday and a second later a reply pinged into my inbox:
Working on a Saturday? Very dedicated! All we’re waiting for now is the data from Seattle and I can work on the summary.
I typed one back:
That should be in by Sunday night. There’ll be plenty of time on Monday for the team to have a run-through before the presentation on Tuesday.
The presentation which I had no intention of delivering. The prospect of all those international boffins hanging on my every word filled me with dread. Giving presentations used to be a piece of cake for me, but now I abstained from cake completely whenever I could. My heart sank as another email popped up from Bernie:
Fearne, you are going to deliver this presentation, aren’t you? Because it’s time you got back in the saddle. It’s been a long time since Frankfurt.
Frankfurt.
I shuddered so violently at the memory that Scamp scooted closer and pushed his nose onto my lap.
It had been on a work trip to Frankfurt that I’d felt the full force of losing my brother. After Freddie’s funeral I’d crunched up my grief into a tight ball, pasted on a smile and headed off to a trade show in Germany with Bernie to give a talk to Norwegian engineers about 3-D printing. As I stepped from the taxi outside the conference centre, a motorbike courier pulled up in front of me. He swung his leg over the bike and pulled his helmet off to reveal a close-cropped blond head. He could have been Freddie’s twin.
‘Freddie?’ I’d gasped, grabbing the sleeve of his leather jacket.
As the complete stranger stepped back from me in alarm, the world had spun and gone black.
I came to, clammy and confused, surrounded by a group of Germans and a very worried Bernie with his arms around my shoulders. I recovered quickly, or at least I thought I had, until an hour later, when Bernie and I had commenced our presentation to the Norwegians. Grief exploded like an airbag in my chest and I couldn’t breathe, let alone talk. Bernie had been brilliant. He’d organised a taxi to take
me back to the hotel and given the presentation without me. Since then, the thought of speaking in public brought me out in a cold sweat.
My stomach was still churning as I typed a response to Bernie.
I could, but I’ve been thinking. Gary wants more responsibility and he knows this project inside out. Why don’t we give him a chance to shine? This presentation is standard stuff; I don’t think there’ll be any surprises for the client. Perfect opportunity for Gary to cut his teeth in the boardroom.
I bit my lip, waiting for his return message, but instead my mobile flashed up silently with Bernie’s number.
Damn it. There was no way I could avoid answering his call.
‘Hi, Bernie,’ I said wearily.
‘We need you there, Fearne.’ Bernie cut straight to the chase. ‘You can’t cherry-pick the parts of the job you like the most forever. I can’t keep making allowances for you.’
This sounded like a reprimand. An official one. The subtext here was: OK, your brother died, it was awful and you were grieving, we cut you some slack, but enough is enough.
‘Of course you can’t, not forever,’ I said forcing a smile into my voice. ‘But just this once?’
Bernie sighed down the phone.
‘The clients are expecting you. You’re the senior analyst.’
‘I can’t, I just … can’t.’
There was silence down the line and I held my breath, hoping he’d take pity on me.
‘Maybe if getting back in this saddle is beyond you just now, then maybe you need …’ He paused and gulped so loudly I could almost see his Adam’s apple bobbing. ‘To look for another saddle.’
‘You mean another job? Are you sacking me?’ I was stunned; I hadn’t seen that coming.
‘No. And I don’t want you to leave. You’re a brilliant analyst. In ten years’ time you could be eyeing up my job. Imagine that!’ Bernie enthused.
‘Yes, imagine,’ I said faintly.
The prospect horrified me. I’d worked at Zed Market Trends for a decade since leaving university; I liked routine and I felt comfortable there, but the thought of another decade and then another: suddenly it felt like a life sentence.
‘Exactly. But at the moment …’ He hesitated again and when he spoke, his tone was more gentle, ‘Let’s just say, your current behaviour hasn’t gone unnoticed by the directors. Your unwillingness to give client presentations, I mean. Yours is a client-facing role and when you abstain from delivering the end result of the project, well, you’re not fulfilling the terms of your contract. The rest of the team can’t carry you indefinitely. You’re either on board. Or you’re not.’