“I’ve told you before, Georgia. You can’t let people walk all over you. Isn’t that right, Stephanie?” Dan looks at me.
I wasn’t listening, but will try to from here on so I can nod and smile in the right places. “Yes, darling.”
Opposite me, Rosie rolls her eyes.
Dan is wrestling with a pork loin steak, cutting it vigorously. “It’s like when your uncle Kev used to call me ‘ginge’ when we were kids. He knew I hated it, but he kept saying it. So, guess how I sorted it out?”
“How?” Georgia lays down her fork, intrigued.
He places a large piece of pork in his mouth, making us wait while he chews. Again, Rosie rolls her eyes, sighing. She calls this holding court, when Dan dominates the conversation, mansplaining. Is that the right word? She comes out with so many things—words I’ve never heard before.
Manspreading, that’s another one. Apparently, he does that too. The poor man daren’t move an inch or open his mouth.
Last winter, Rosie walked out of a wedding reception because Dan was holding court in front of the fire. I found her cold to the bone and ranting out in the car park, swigging a bottle of wine as though homeless. After I’d calmed her down, we went for a walk around the grounds and she told me that only the most important person should stand in front of the fire because it’s the focal point of the room. By standing there, he was claiming seniority over everyone else, including his wife. Why couldn’t I see that?
I’ve never been able to see it. I don’t understand why it matters, why she was so upset about it. I’m sure Jess would, though; she and Rosie would get along very well.
“Well, I bided my time, Georgia,” Dan says, cutting another slice of pork. “I waited for the right opportunity to present itself. And then, finally, I saw my chance.”
I hold myself tight, flinching as his steak knife scrapes on chinaware. I’ve been like this all week, on edge, tetchy. If it continues, I’ll have to go back to the doctor again to discuss hormone therapy.
“What happened?” Georgia asks, hooked.
Dan is pleased by her interest. He smiles at me and I smile back distractedly. “Well, Kev had his heart set on being a commercial pilot. So, he applied for a place on a training program, and when the letter arrived offering him an interview, I intercepted it and destroyed it. Course, he thought they hadn’t bothered to contact him and he hadn’t made the grade. Ha! You should’ve seen him cry. Wept like a baby!” He takes another mouthful of pork, talking out of the side of his mouth. “And that, Georgia, is how you handle bullies. Knocked him right down to size. He never called me ‘ginge’ again after that, I can assure you. And he never flew a plane either! Ha!”
A silence falls. Georgia is mortified, blinking at her plate. Vivian is the only one still eating; like me, she’s good at carrying on. Yet I’m too busy watching Rosie, who is holding her knife and fork upright in her fists. I wait for her to say something derisive. Yet to my surprise...she doesn’t.
“Maybe if your mother stood up for herself a bit more, then you wouldn’t struggle with it so much, Georgia, hey?” Dan says.
I glance at him. He seems perfectly reasonable, just chatting.
“I’m not struggling, Dad. It’s never happened before. It—”
“She’s worn ragged, running after those dentists for little to no pay.” He turns to me. “Perhaps you might think about being more of a role model for your girls, Stephanie?” His voice is so pleasant, I’m not sure of his meaning.
I’m thinking of a response, when Rosie drops her cutlery with a clatter and gets up from the table. “I can’t listen to this bullshit anymore. What’s wrong with you all?”
I don’t know where to look. In desperation, I eat a baby potato.
“Looks like that expensive anger management therapy is really paying off,” Dan mutters, shaking his head.
I continue to chew, even though my throat feels as though it’s constricting.
“Do you need your eyes tested or something?” Rosie says. “Why can’t any of you see what’s going on? Why’s it just me?”
No one utters a word. If Georgia was mortified before, she looks as though she’s swallowed her plate now. Dan is staring at me, chin raised. He’s always left it to me to discipline Vivian and Rosie because they’re not his. It’s the only distinction he’s ever made between the girls that I’m aware of, but suddenly it feels like a large one.
“You’re such a fucking doormat, Mum, and you can’t even—”
“That’s ENOUGH!” Dan’s fist hits the table so hard, everything vibrates with a terrible clash. He points at Rosie, his chair toppling over as he jumps up. “How dare you talk to your mother like that? Who the hell do you think you are, you ungrateful little bitch?”
I stare up at him, my heart galloping. “Dan...please...”
Georgia clutches her napkin, holding it to her mouth.
“I won’t stand for this!” he shouts down at me. “I’ve held my tongue long enough.” He turns back to Rosie, fists clenched. “Apologize, now! Or I’ll really lose my temper!”
Rosie blanches. “Mum?” she says quietly.
My mind is blank. Vivian gazes at me fearfully and then says, “Do it, Rosie.”
I echo this. “Yes, Rosie. Please apologize.”
She seems to take this as a betrayal and looks devastated, about three years old again. I have to go to her.
“Stephanie!” Dan hisses, but I ignore him. Rounding the table, I try to take her hand, to lead her back to us, but she pushes me away.
“Leave me alone!” she wails, running from the room, slamming the door behind her.
Humiliated, I look at Dan, but he gives me a told you so glare, his eyes bulging in anger. There’s a morsel of food on his chin, a smear of grease around his lips. Gulping his wine, he finishes it in one go, before smoothing his hair.
No one speaks for several minutes. I want to check on Rosie, but daren’t. Georgia is looking at me as though it’s all my fault. Vivian’s the only one eating.
Pouring himself another glass of wine, Dan shakes his head. “About time someone did something about her. She had that coming. Rude little brat.”
The next day at work, it’s only acetaminophen standing between me and mental collapse. I can barely see, the pressure in my temples is so strong. I can’t remember a time when I felt so weak, without actually being ill. I’m ill with life. I’m ill with being me. I’ve no idea what to do about it.
I could blame Jess for stirring up the past; or the Waite women. But Priyanka texted me yesterday to say that Jess is dropping it. We can forget all about it, pretend we never set eyes on the letter.
You’d have thought I’d have been relieved to hear this. Yet I felt fearful, as though I was being abandoned. How is that possible? My old life was being handed back to me, intact, unspoiled, just the way I wanted it. This was a triumph. So why did I feel the most awful dread the moment I woke up?
To calm myself, I’m doing filing during a lull between appointments. It’s such a dreary task, almost meditation, from what I’ve read. Some of my colleagues talk about mindfulness and mantras and it sounds very pretentious to me.
I’m barely awake, leaning over the filing cabinet when Leonardo approaches, asking for a word in private. He rarely does this and instantly I feel anxious, my pulse quickening.
“Let’s go in here,” he says, opening the door to the conference room. I follow him, inhaling the stuffy sealed-in air. “Take a seat.” He pulls out a chair for me and one for himself. “No need to look so alarmed.” He smiles.
I return the smile as best I can. “Sorry. I...” I trail off, unsure where I was going with it.
He crosses his legs, an inch of flesh appearing above his socks. “So, Stephanie, I just wanted to touch base with you. We haven’t had a chance to catch up lately. How are you?”
“Wonderful.”
That sounded idiotic. I think about correcting it, but he’s pressing on and it’s taking all my energy to listen, to concentrate.
“Do you remember my asking you to book a repeat for Mrs. McKenzie?”
“Yes. I do.”
Do I? I’m not so sure.
“Well, she rang me in person to say she didn’t hear anything. Not only that, but after chasing it and booking an appointment, when she rang back to double-check that the appointment had been made, well...it hadn’t.”
“Oh.”
“Look...” He uncrosses his legs, sits up straight. “I want to be frank with you. You know how valued you are, but this isn’t the first complaint I’ve received recently.” His voice softens, slows. “Even with long-standing clients, it doesn’t take much for people to move their business elsewhere.”
“Of course. I understand.”
“Which is why I wanted to ask you, in complete confidence, whether there’s anything I can do? Because I’m here if you need anything.”
I stare at my legs through the glass table, feeling the shame of his words. My calves look dumpy, bulbous, and my skirt sausage-skin tight. I can’t believe I’ve jeopardized my position here. Without this job, I’d be—
“Please don’t cry, Stephanie. This isn’t a telling off in any shape or form. It’s an offer of help.”
His kindness is only making it worse. I bow my head, thinking that I don’t have my tissues to hand. Taking his handkerchief out of his pocket, he hands it to me—a neat square of laundered cotton. It feels like the single nicest thing a person has ever done for me.
“Why don’t you take a week’s holiday, off the record? It’s the least I can do after all your years of service.”
“I... You can’t do that. It’s too much.”
“No, it’s not. Go on. Take a break. Come back refreshed, rested.”
“I don’t know what to say.”
“How about ‘yes’? But let’s keep this between ourselves, or they’ll all want a free holiday.”
“Okay.” I don’t appear to have much choice. “Thank you, Leonardo.”
He holds open the door for me and we return to the desk. The reception is freakishly empty; sometimes, that happens.
“What are you doing?” he asks, as I resume filing. “The break starts now.”
“Oh. Yes. Of course.” I gather my things, log off.
He waits, watching me with a look of curiosity, concern. “I meant what I said about helping. If there’s anything I can do...”
“Yes. Thank you.”
“I’ll give you a call at the end of the week, see how you are.”
“Thank you.” I feel stiff, my limbs mechanical as I walk away, almost crashing into the door frame. I hope he doesn’t think I’m an alcoholic.
Outside, I stare at the Circus as though I’ve never seen it before. It looks completely different: whiter, sharper, taller. There are fragments of rain in the air that feel like splinters hitting my face.
What am I going to tell Dan? I’m supposed to be meeting him for lunch in an hour. What am I going to say about why I’m suddenly home from work for a week?
As I walk the length of the Circus, I realize I’m going around in circles and have just passed the entrance to work for the second time. Something is very wrong with me, and if I don’t do something about it soon, it’s going to get worse.
Pulling out my phone, I call the only person I can think of who can help me: a menopause health care specialist, as recommended by Dan.