Читать книгу Once Lost - Ber Carroll - Страница 15

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. Heads pop over partitions, curious at the laughter.

‘My mother had this hare-brained idea,’ I explain, lowering my voice. ‘She paid upfront for twelve classes, so I’m obliged to go. I can’t think of anything more fuck … I mean more ridiculous … I suppose you did ballet when you were a kid?’

‘Me?’ Katie shakes her head. ‘No.’

Funny, I would have thought that ballet classes were par for the course in a family like hers. Soft pink leotards and sparkling tutus in her already crammed wardrobe, being dropped off to lessons in the family Mercedes, glittery end-of-year concerts with indulgent accolades from her parents.

‘Actually, I did want to do ballet,’ she elaborates, looking slightly bashful. ‘But Mum said I was too big-boned. Dancers have a more delicate physique, at least in her view, so she enrolled me in basketball instead.’ She casts a disdainful look down at herself. ‘I suppose she was right … My thighs would’ve looked horrific in a leotard!’ Then she laughs. ‘And I turned out to be a decent enough basketball player.’

She expects me to laugh too but I’m not amused. It’s cruel telling a child they’re the wrong shape. Cruel to have them believe their bodies are anything but perfect. Please God, I’ll never limit Isla in such a way, stop her from doing anything she wants to do, or make her feel she’s not good enough. Please God, even if her thighs are big, she’ll never know it because I’ve succeeded in making her feel beautiful and confident … I’m sounding like my mother now, with all this ‘Please God’ business.

Fishing a packet of chewing gum from my trouser pocket, I hold it out as a peace offering. ‘Want some?’

She helps herself, popping it in her mouth. ‘Thanks … Where are the ballet classes being held?’ she enquires with heightened — frankly suspicious — interest.

‘Oh. Just local to me. Probably in some dingy hall or other.’

I’m sorry that her mother said she was too ‘big-boned’, and even more sorry that I snapped at her earlier on, but suddenly I feel rather proprietary about these ballet classes. Imagine if I turned up next Wednesday night and found Katie standing at the barre, with thighs considerably smaller than mine, I suspect, and already bombarding the poor instructor with questions.

‘Better get back to work.’ I stand up, and send her a brisk smile before striding towards my desk.

I can’t help feeling mean, not giving her the details of the class when she is so obviously interested in it.

But competing with Katie at work is more than enough. Competing with her at ballet class would be taking things a step (no pun intended) too far.