“Do you have a social worker?” Mrs. Hollaby asked.
“I, erm, haven’t had time to do that yet,” I said, still not looking at her. “I’ve been trying to sort out the flat so that Tegan could have her own room. And then there was the shampoo saga, which I won’t even go into. And with the painting and moving and furniture and shampoo, I’ve only had time to do this. To register at a school. I thought that if I got her into a school you might be able to recommend a playgroup or something that she can go to during the summer holidays for when I go back to work. But I will get a social worker. I promise.”
She reached over and touched my hand and I jumped in surprise. “I’m not berating you, Kamryn. I was asking because they can help. That’s what they’re there for. Not only with the adoption, but also with any problems you’re having. They’ll also help you find someone for Tegan to talk to.”
What does Tegan need to talk about? I wondered as alarm bells sounded in my ears. “Grief is hard on everyone,” she stated. “If Tegan is finding it hard to express that she might need someone else to talk to. You will need a social worker for the adoption, however.”
“OK. Yes. I think I knew that.”
“There is help available, you simply have to ask for it.”
I couldn’t ask for help, it was all I could do to explain my situation; revealing I was struggling as well would be impossible.
“One of the other parents here is going through the adoption process as well,” Mrs. Hollaby said. “I could talk to her, see if she’d be willing to share her story with you.”
I withdrew from her again, not sure which was scarier, a hug, or the thought of being set up with another person, like a parental version of Blind Date.
“You’re not the sharing kind, I take it?” she astutely observed.
I smiled. “No, I’m not.”
“Very well.”
“So, do we, I mean, does Tegan get in? Does she have a place here?”
She nodded. “Yes, she lives in the area and it’s been a pleasure meeting her, she seems a lovely child.”
“She is. And about the playgroups?”
“Yes, of course. We have a playgroup here. It runs from eight to six-thirty. We give the children breakfast, lunch and a light snack in the afternoon before they are picked up. We have activities during the day and reading, drawing and nap time.”
No matter the cost it wouldn’t be as expensive as a nanny or babysitter. I’d crunched and crunched the numbers, stripping back our budget so we bought clothes only every other year and ate nothing but pasta and homemade tomato sauce, and still there would be a financial shortfall. A playgroup was the only thing I could afford. I would simply have to work through lunch to ensure I left on time every night, and then take work home to do after Tegan was asleep. “Do you have places?”
Mrs. Hollaby’s wrinkles deepened as she smiled. “We’ll make a place for Tegan.”
I threw my arms around her neck, squeezed her in gratitude, as I cried, “Thank you! Thank you so much!” Something had gone right. Something small but significant.
Mrs. Hollaby’s body stiffened in my hold and I caught myself. Realized what I was doing and let her go. “I mean, thanks, that’s great,” I said calmly. “Shall we go find Tegan now then?” The headmistress’s office, the world it encompassed, felt wrong, and that was because Tegan wasn’t in it. I was so used to her being beside me, or across the room from me, in sight—in her waking hours, we were never apart longer than it took for me to have a shower—that I felt unsettled without her.
We walked along corridors with blue, rubbery floors and cream walls covered in bright, child-created artwork.
The sun almost blinded me as we walked out onto the playground, its brightness causing me to squint. I scanned the corners of the playground for Tegan. I knew she’d be alone, clutching Meg and praying for me to come get her. My eyes ran over the playground again: she wasn’t by the drinking fountain. Nor by the base of the climbing frame. She wasn’t at the edge of the playing area. Nor standing forlornly against the redbrick wall. My heart jumped in fear. What had Maya done to Tegan? Had she stolen her? I was on the verge of grabbing the headmistress and demanding she produce my child when I spotted her standing with four girls. The five of them were engrossed in an intense conversation, their voices lowered, their faces as serious as jurors on a murder trial. Tegan’s group were all her height, two with pitch-black hair, one with blond hair, another with red-gold hair. Tegan was the prettiest, I decided, even though I could only see the backs of two of her companions. She didn’t need time to grow into her looks, she was already striking. As if guessing I was mentally crowning her the beauty of the schoolyard, Tegan looked up. Our eyes met and she beamed at me. She lifted Meg in her right hand, waved the rag doll at me, then without waiting for a response, submerged herself in the conversation again.
“Looks like she’s fitted right in,” Mrs. Hollaby commented.
“I met lots of people,” Tegan said. She held on to my hand and swung it as she skipped along the pavement. Meg swung along in time in Tegan’s other hand.
“That’s nice,” I said. I glanced down and found her staring up at me.
“I met Crystal. She’s got a brother called Cosmo. He isn’t as big as she is. And I met Ingrid and she’s got a big brother called Lachlan. I haven’t got a brother, have I?”
“No,” I replied.
“And I met Matilda. She’s got lots of brothers and sisters. She’s got a sister called Marlene. And a sister called Maree.”
“They’re the same name.”
“No they isn’t. One is called Marlene and one is called Maree. That’s not the same name.”
“Oh, OK.”
“And she’s got a brother called Declan. And a brother called Dorian. And a brother called Daryl.”
“That’s a lot of brothers and sisters.”
She nodded, her ponytail bobbing. “I know. Matilda said was I coming back tomorrow. Am I going back tomorrow, Mummy Ryn? Is I ’lowed to go back tomorrow?”
“Not tomorrow, next week. Did you like it there, then?” I asked.
“Yes. I’ve got lots of friends. Crystal and Ingrid and Matilda.”
I never made friends that quickly as a child; I didn’t make friends that quickly as an adult. Tiga? No problems.
Her face was taken over with a huge grin that fired a shard of jealousy into the heart of my chest. I’d been worried about letting her out of sight for ten minutes, and she couldn’t wait to be away from me.
“Are you going to come and play for the whole of the time next week?” Tegan asked.
“No, I’m going to work.”
In the middle of the pavement Tegan stopped swinging my hand and halted her skip. “Why not?” she asked, panicked; horrified that I wasn’t going to be around. I’d wanted her to feel something, to at least miss me, but not this terror.
“I have to go to work.”
“Why can’t you come with me?”
“Because I’m an adult and adults have to go to work.
But you can play with your friends all day then tell me about it later.”
“Are you going to come later?”
“Yes, in the evening. And then you can tell me who else you met and about their brothers and sisters.”
“Do you promise you’ll come afterwards?” she asked.
“Yes, I promise.”
“Double-promise forever and ever, amen?”
“Yes,” I replied. She stared at me until I said, “Yes, I double-promise forever and ever, amen.”
Tegan grinned at me and started skipping again. One foot in front of the other: skip, hop, hop, skip, along the pavement. Her bare legs, crowned with red open-toe sandals, dancing up and down.
The glow on her cheeks and luminescence in her eyes reminded me of Adele. Reminded me of that first proper smile Del had fired at me. How struck I was by that smile.
“Guess what?” Tegan asked.
“What?”
&
nbsp; “Crystal’s got a cat.”
“he doesn’t look like a monster”
chapter 16
I hesitated outside the ninth-floor office, my hand raised to knock.
On the other side of the door was Luke Wiseman, the new marketing director of Angeles. He’d summoned me via e-mail to his office to have a “chat”(his word, not mine) the third day of my return to Angeles.
The thought of coming back to work had turned my emotions into a pendulum that swung constantly between fear and excitement. Fear gripped me every time I remembered that I’d been away for so many weeks I might not remember what to do. Then the pendulum would swing to excitement because I’d been away for so many weeks I might not remember what to do, meaning work would be a different type of challenge. Then I would be afraid again because I was going to be miles away from Tegan. I’d spent two days without her while she was at playgroup, but once I was back working in the city center, being with her would be dependent upon traffic and public transport; I couldn’t just walk around the corner to get her. Then I’d be excited again because I wouldn’t have to watch hours of children’s television so I’d be able to stop speaking and thinking in the overemphasized way the presenters did.
Between the anxiety and anticipation lay the knowledge that I’d be meeting Luke Wiseman. He was my boss, the person I would work most closely with, and he was also my first ever work nemesis—the only colleague I’d known to get a job I should have been given. His presence at Angeles would be rubbing my face in my failure to make it to the top.
On my first day back at work, Tegan, who hadn’t been blighted by nerves on her first day at playgroup (she’d been excited on the way there and then incredibly chatty that evening), had given me an extra-big hug at the school gates. “Have fun at your work,” she’d told me, like I was the child and she was the adult.
The train ride into Leeds city center after that had been nerve-racking; all I could think about was not being intimidated by Luke Wiseman. By the time I’d reached my tenth-floor office I was flitting between wanting to throw up and deciding to slap him the second I met him to show who the real boss was around here. I’d found out ten minutes later that he was in London until Friday.
Friday. Today.
Once I knew I wouldn’t be forced to deal with my arch enemy, I relaxed at work, enjoyed people dropping by to tell me their news, to find out what I had been up to. Betsy, who’d been alone in our office for nearly two months, acted as though I had returned from a year living abroad. She’d spent the day offering to make the tea and running around the desk to engulf me in bear hugs. “You could have me up for sexual harassment,” she said at one point, “I’m so tempted to snog you.”
“The feeling’s mutual, mate,” I’d replied, a little surprised but immeasurably happy that I’d been missed. We were friends Betsy and I, but I’d always thought it was a work thing. It was nice to know she actually cared. “But without the snogging.”
Ted had left yesterday in his usual dignified, understated manner. At lunch he’d asked me to accompany him to the sandwich shop. Once there, he’d confessed he wasn’t returning to the office, couldn’t stand the extravagant goodbyes Angeles staff usually held, so “Goodbye, Kamryn. I’ll keep in touch.” And that was it, no more Ted.
Now I had to conquer Luke. I took a deep breath, steeled myself, then knocked on the door. Seconds later, a baritone voice bid me enter.
I took another deep breath before entering the spacious white-walled office. The blinds were pulled down over the window behind the desk to shield the computer from sunlight. I looked around, investigating what Luke had changed about the office. The large yucca plant still sat in the corner, the position of the desk had stayed the same, the blinds were still cream, the meeting table in the corner still had four blue chairs around it. He hadn’t made an imprint upon the place, almost as though he had no need to show it was his domain. If it was mine, I would have put up the covers of Living Angeles, I would have added a couple more plants, I would ha—Stop, I chastised myself. Luke has the job, the office, you have to accept that.
The man behind the desk didn’t stand as I entered. In fact, he leaned back in his chair, stretched his tall body and made no attempt to hide the fact that he was sizing me up. I was more discreet as I scrutinized him. His features, strong and well-defined, looked as though an artist had spent hours chiseling them smooth into his clear, tanned skin. His nose was straight, his eyes equally spaced apart, his jaw a smooth line that curved down to his chin. The black hair on his head had been trimmed close, which made his face all the more striking. Around his succulent lips was a thin mustache that ran down the sides of his face into a beard. What stood out about him, though, were his eyes—a bright, clear, burnt orange–hazel color that reminded me of highly polished amber. He was dressed in a white shirt with the top button open and the sleeves rolled up to above his elbows, and smart beige trousers. From the stretch of his body I knew he had a gym-made physique. I recognized his type, I’d worked with many of them over the years: he was Mr. Career. He was dynamic, thrusting, überambitious, and anyone who worked with him had to give 150 percent or he would take it as a personal insult and finish their careers.
While I appraised him, Mr. Wiseman’s hazel eyes flicked over me, took in my raven-black, chin-length bob; my dark brown eyes; my unmade-up mouth; my slender neck, my body hidden beneath a plain red shirt and straight-leg black trousers; my unpainted toes peeking out of wedge-heel sandals. After he’d looked me up and down, his eyes hardened with distaste. Clearly he wasn’t impressed with what he saw.
“Sit down,” he ordered.
“Why, is this going to take long?” I replied, matching his hostile tone.
He smiled suddenly, catching me off guard with an unexpected display of charm. “Please, Kamryn,” he said warmly, as he indicated the seat opposite his desk, “take a seat.” It’s too late for the charm now, I thought. I saw the revulsion in your eyes, I know what you think of me.
“I’d rather stand,” I said, returning his charming smile with one that reached the tips of my hair yet was one hundred percent fake. “I’ve got a lot of work to do.”
My reply wiped a layer of shine off his glossy smile. He studied me for a moment, obviously trying to work out how to deal with me. “What are you doing tonight?” he asked.
“Sorry?” I replied, wrong-footed. Is he asking me out? Had I read him completely wrong? Had that expression really been his way of covering up his attraction to me?
“I’ve been having dinner with all the heads of departments to pick their brains about what they think of the marketing of Angeles, see if they have any ideas on how we can improve things. You’re the last on my list…of the marketing department. So I thought, if you’re not busy tonight, we could get it out of the way.”
I was impressed at the number of insults he’d managed to cram into that minuscule monologue.
1. “Last on my list.” Just in case I doubted that I would be last on every one of his lists.
2. “If you’re not busy tonight.” Of course, I was bound to be dateless and friendless on a Friday night.
3. “Get it out of the way.” I was like a smear test to him: unpleasant but necessary.
“Dinner tonight should be fine,” I said, through my fake smile.
“I’ll meet you in the foyer at six-thirty,” he said, trying to outsmile me.
“Should be fun.”
“Shouldn’t it just,” he muttered as I shut the door behind me.
I arrived in the foyer at six thirty-two, according to the huge clock that sat above the receptionist’s area. Luke was there, all six feet two inches of him, wearing a beige raincoat over his trendy clothes. When I emerged from the lift holding my red raincoat he raised his arm and looked at his watch before shooting me another of his fake smiles—anyone would think I was a couple of hours late.
“I’m not late, am I,” I stated as I halted in front of him.
“Just a couple of mi
nutes,” he replied curtly.
“Right. Well, the lift took a bit longer than I thought it would.”
“I didn’t think it’d be your fault,” he said.
“I’m glad you know me so well.”
“I’ve booked us a table at a restaurant around the corner for”—he paused to look at his Rolex—“seven minutes’ time. We’d better hurry if we don’t want to be even more late.”
“Right.”
We turned right out of our corner building, went down onto The Headrow and crossed the street onto Vicar Lane, then took a left into King Edwards Street. The air was thick, heavy and humid, everyone we passed in the street seemed subdued and drowsy, ready to curl up and fall asleep in some quiet corner. I carried my red mac in my arms, fighting the urge to close my eyes and give in to the sleepiness tugging at my senses.
We arrived at a small French restaurant I’d passed a few times but had never entered. The air was fragrant with garlic and tomatoes, and soft music played in the dimly lit interior. Everything about the place oozed intimacy. That surprised me. I’d half expected him to take me to a scuzzy burger bar where he’d order me the cheapest burger on the menu and say that if I wanted a fizzy drink I’d have to buy it myself.
After handing our coats to the maître d’ Luke and I were seated at a table for two in the center of the crowded restaurant. The second we were given our menus we both ducked behind them, hiding from each other. I scanned the ivory-colored card, deciding that if I had to spend time with this man, then he was going to pay top dollar for it. I found the most expensive dish on the menu—lobster—and opted for that. And crab for starters.
When the waiter arrived, to Luke’s credit, he requested a pricey bottle of red wine. To his detriment, he didn’t ask me if I wanted wine, let alone the color I might prefer. I hated red wine, so asked for water instead. We ordered—one of Luke’s eyebrows arching up at my choices—gave our menus to the waiter and then sat back.