Home, even for a nearly thirty-year-old, is the place to run to when life gets rough. At home, Prince will greet her with unequivocal, non-judgemental devotion. At home, her mother will fold her in her arms and hug her to bits just as she used to when she was a kid. At home, her father will kiss her eyelids and the tip of her nose and call her, ‘Treasure.’
Mannie heads to the cottage at the weekend, carrying – unusually – an overnight bag and thinking longingly of the small room she grew up in, still painted pink, still ready for her return at any given moment.
‘Hi!’ she calls, stepping out of her car.
It’s unusual not to be greeted by someone – her father normally, sometimes Jonno, always Prince. She calls again, uncertainly, ‘Anyone at home?’ The door is unlocked and she steps inside. The cottage feels curiously vacant, as if its heart has slowed and its pulse is failing. She drops her bag and sniffs. No cooking smells, no enticing aromas.
Unsettled, she stomps through the hall to the kitchen. She relies on her parents to supply routine and normality in her life, to be there for her, no matter what.
‘Hello?’ Her voice is almost quavering now. This is so not what she needs.
‘Hello, pet.’
Her father comes through the back door and opens his arms wide. Prince, gruff and excited, his tail flapping like a sail in full wind, barges past him and catches the back of her knees with full force so that she buckles and laughs.
‘Hello, Daddy. Hello Prince, old thing.’
‘Your mother will be back shortly. She’s at some reception or other.’
‘So what’s new?’ Mannie grins. ‘Is Jonno at the pub tonight?’
Even as she asks it, her question is answered because her brother comes into the kitchen, still wearing wellies and carrying a dirty bucket.
‘Hey, Sis.’
‘Hey, Bro. Heard from CommX yet? How did the interview go?’
He puts the bucket down with a clatter and hold up his hands in warning. ‘Don’t hug me, I’m covered in chicken shit,’ he grins. ‘It went okay, I think. Haven’t heard yet.’
‘Who interviewed you?’
‘Two women – the editorial director and one of the client directors. They normally have the managing director there too, they said, but he was in Dubai, apparently, meeting with an important client.’
So that’s why Brian hasn’t answered! He must have gone off to Dubai right after they met for dinner. The skin of misery that has been hanging over her all week peels back. She could whoop with elation. He hasn’t been ignoring her! He has just been busy! He has been abroad!
‘So when will you hear?’
‘They said a few days. They’re going to run everything past him when he gets back.’
‘Which is when?’
‘Thursday.’
Thursday. Two more days. That’s all she has to endure. Two days, then they’ll be back in contact again. He’ll reply then. She can text him – when? – maybe tomorrow. Surely he’ll be back home a day before heading back into the office?
‘Cuppa, Mannie?’ her father asks. ‘Or are you ready for a glass of wine? I’m in the middle of a song, I’ll get back to it till your mother gets home, if that’s all right. We can catch up over supper?’
‘Tea would be great, Dad. Thanks. Stop me from drinking for another hour,’ Mannie says. She doesn’t need a drink, she can’t stop smiling.
‘Me too,’ Jonno says, disappearing into the utility room with the bucket. Mannie can hear him swilling it out as her father drops tea bags into three mugs and busies himself pouring hot water over them.
There’s a gray pallor on his face that doesn’t look normal, and the line that runs vertically between his eyebrows seems to be etched deeper than usual. ‘You okay, Dad? You look tired.’
‘Just the deadlines,’ he says, stirring busily, not looking at her. ‘That’s all.’
‘Really? Hey—’ she remembers, ‘—that tune you wrote. Finished the song yet?’
He shakes his head. ‘Stupid, isn’t it? But the words need to be perfect. I’ve got a feeling about this tune. It could be a biggie.’
‘If you get the words.’
‘Yes.’
He isn’t his normal, calm self. She can sense a kind of vulnerability about him that’s disturbing. She would like to probe, but Jonno comes back in, asking, ‘Any biscuits, Dad? Where has Mum hidden them?’ and the moment is lost.
‘In the flour tin,’ Archie grins. ‘I came across them this morning.’
‘You mean, you were frantically hunting for them,’ Jon laughs.
The fondness Jon and Archie share for Susie’s home-baked Melting Moments is a standing joke in the house. Years ago, her mother started to look for ever more inventive places to hide the latest batch so that they wouldn’t disappear in ten minutes flat, and the habit has continued. In the Wallace household they call the biscuits ‘Melting Nanoseconds’.
‘Here.’ Archie opens the flour tin and hands the cookies round. Then, ‘See you later,’ he says, and he’s out of the door with his tea before Mannie can stop him.
‘He looks tired,’ she observes through a mouthful of crumbs. ‘Is he all right?’
Jonno scrapes a chair back and flops down onto it. ‘Not really. It’s pretty crap here at the moment, to be honest.’
‘He’s not still sleeping out there, is he?’
‘’Fraid so.’
‘That’s pants. What’s eating them?’
‘Still this thing about Dad not telling her about the adoption, I guess. And she’s been busy. There’s a load of stuff going on at the Parliament.’
‘But there’s always loads going on at the Parliament. It’s never made her like this before. And I’m sure Dad meant it for the best. Not telling her, I mean.’
‘Sure. Anyway.’ Jonno shrugs away all discussion of emotion and takes another biscuit. ‘Cal not with you?’
‘He’s tied up with his cricket.’
Mannie is struggling with the weight of her secret. She hesitates. Jonno might be crap at feelings, but he can usually be relied on to be discreet. It’d be nice to be able to talk to someone about Brian.
‘Jonno,’ she says slowly.
‘Yeah?’
‘If I tell you something, will you promise to keep it secret?’
‘Depends.’ He grins. ‘If it’s got sale value, I know a journalist who—’
‘Beast! Promise?’
‘Hmm. Go on, tell.’
‘There’s this man.’
‘What man?’
‘That’s what I’m trying to tell you, idiot. There was this man who came by our stand at the trade fair.’
‘Who?’
‘Just a businessman.’
‘What about him?’
‘Just shut up and listen, will you?’ She clears her throat. ‘I’ve got feelings for him.’ Her brother is staring at her as though she’s barking. ‘What I mean is, I’ve fallen for him. I’m crazy about him, Jonno. It’s driving me nuts.’
‘What, you’ve split up with Cal? You met a guy at a trade fair and you’ve fallen in love with him and finished with Cal?’
‘No! Well, yes, maybe. I don’t know. I don’t want to finish with Cal but when I told him about this he ... well, he just walked out,’ she finishes lamely.
‘Well honestly, Sis, can you blame him?’
She shakes her head numbly. ‘Not really.’
‘What does he do?’
‘He runs a business,’ she says vaguely.
‘What kind of business?’
‘Not sure exactly,’ she lies. ‘It’s in Stirling, I think.’
‘So how long have you been seeing this guy?’
‘I’m not really seeing him. I had coffee with him, but that was an accident, I was waiting for Mum. And I had dinner with him. He’s like ... he’s married.’
‘Married? You’ve ditched Cal and started an affair with a married man?’ Jonno is incredulous.
‘I’m not having an affair with him. He’s loads older than me and I’ve only seen him once since then. He’s not even answering my texts right now.’
‘I don’t get it.’
‘No.’ Mannie wells up. ‘Neither do I. I just adore him. It’s a mess, Jonno. A complete mess.’
Behind them there’s a flurry of movement and a rustle. Prince barks softly and lumbers to his feet. Mannie looks round to see her mother standing in the doorway, her face concerned. ‘What’s a mess?’ she asks.
‘Nothing.’ Mannie dashes the back of her hand across her face and runs to her mother, opening her arms for a hug.
‘Mannie says she’s—’ Jonno begins.
Mannie cuts across him quickly. ‘Jonno, no! You promised not to say anything!’
‘I had my fingers crossed.’
‘Shut up!’
‘Children, children,’ Susie says, amused. ‘This is just like the old days. Calm down.’
There’s a silence, then Jonno says, ‘Sorry, Mannie, but I think Mum ought to know.’
‘Know what?’
‘No!’
‘It’s Mannie. She’s—’
‘Tell tale tit, your tongue will split!’
‘Children!’ Susie says again, laughing.
Jonno ignores them both. ‘She’s only gone and dumped Cal, Mum – the soundest guy she’s ever gone out with. And she’s started an affair with a married man.’
‘I have not!’
‘What? Mannie? You haven’t finished with Callum have you?’
‘You’re such a pain, Jonno,’ Mannie cries, pushing past her brother angrily and storming out of the kitchen. ‘I’ll never tell you anything again.’
Behind her, as she grabs her case and runs up to the sanctuary of her room, she can hear their voices, discussing her.
She’s furious with them. But she’s even more furious with herself.
The girl appears from nowhere, round the corner of the building, and almost trips face forwards over Jon’s feet as he leans back against the wall, legs extended.
‘Christ Almighty!’ She rights herself quickly. ‘Sorry, I didn’t expect anyone.’
He shoots out his hand and catches her arm. ‘Are you okay? I’m the one who’s sorry. It was my fault. I was just a bit early.’ Jon doesn’t like to admit he’s been waiting for twenty minutes outside Ashley House, home of CommX, short for Communications Excellence: his new employer.
‘I’m fine. Really.’ The girl turns to face him. ‘You’re new.’
She looks so assured that Jon feels ridiculously gawky, like a five-year-old starting school. ‘Jonathan Wallace. Jon. It’s my first day.’
‘Welcome to the bear pit. I’m Alex Townsend.’
She’s tiny, like a little sparrow, brown-haired and dark-eyed, with quick, energetic movements and a chirpy friendliness. She’s wearing dark jeans, rolled up a couple of times to below her knees, flimsy leather pumps and a flowery cotton top in brilliant purples and pinks. Her hair is shoved up at the back with some kind of clip, so that he can’t tell how long it is.
Alex punches a few numbers into a keypad, pushes open the door into Ashley House, where CommX has its home, and halts in the slate-floored entrance lobby. ‘You must be taking over from Mark. Sorry. I’ve been on holiday. I’m a bit out of touch with news.’
‘What happened to Mark? Thrown to the bears?’
She laughs. Her smile is wide and even, and her teeth are pearly against tanned skin. ‘Nothing so sinister. He landed a job with one of the big banks.’
One of the jobs I went for no doubt, Jon thinks. There’s a brief moment of bitterness as he remembers the dozens of applications, the equal number of rejections, the very few interviews, before he recalls, with a small glow, that it doesn’t matter any more, because he’s here now. He has made the impossible leap. He has set out on a career.
Another door. More numbers on a keypad. A big open office, full of desks and computers.
‘I don’t know where they’ll put you. Mark’s desk was over there.’ Alex points to a space near the kitchen area, clearly one of the less desirable locations in the big open-plan office where they’re now standing. ‘It’s not too bad,’ she adds quickly, ‘People come and talk to you there.’
‘Where do you sit?’
‘The designers are all in this block.’ She gestures at the area just to the left of the now-no-more Mark’s desk, where dull PCs have been banished and gleaming Macs, huge-screened and elegant, reign supreme. ‘I guess they’ll resurrect Mark’s Mac for you, if it hasn’t been cannibalised for parts already. Just joking,’ she adds, grinning at his despondent face. ‘Listen, want a coffee? Or tea? I need to get started, I just know there’ll be a thousand emails, that’s why I came in early.’
She’s twitching, eager to get going, wanting to be friendly but unwilling to waste time.
‘Why don’t you let me make you something,’ he offers, and sees the glimmer of relief, swiftly hidden.
‘Thanks, cool. Tea please, I don’t do coffee. Milk if there is any that’s not off, otherwise black for now.’
She turns away, settles at a desk by the window, unslings her bag and presses a button on her Mac so that it gives a melodic boom and glows into life. Jon fumbles his way round the small kitchen, finds mugs, tea, a fridge with a half pint of milk that seems acceptably fresh, and has just filled the kettle when voices cut into the room behind him.
‘Morning Alex. How was France?’
‘France? Have I been in France? Seems like I’ve never been out of this damn place.’ Laughter. ‘Catch me up on the goss in a mo, Stu. Just scanning the emails. Oh, there’s a new guy in the kitchen, by the way.’
A face appears, young, round, pleasant, the head completely bald. ‘Hi. I’m Stu. We met when you came in for your interview.’
Hot on Stu’s heels came Rob, Gus, Andrea, Jane, Frank, Eva, and a dozen more. New names, new faces, a blur of new impressions. Within ten minutes, there are fifteen people in the office. He greets them, smiles till it begins to feel mechanical, counts them, sees that the only spare place is, indeed, the desk Alex indicated half an hour ago. Finally, he puts his mug on it. The tea is cold.
‘We have a Monday morning meeting,’ Stu tells him. ‘The Boss is here today, so he’ll cover the weekly business. If he’s not here, Maris does it. Someone will give you an induction. It’s usually Sara,’ he points to a pallid girl with mousey hair and an insipid air. ‘Don’t be fooled,’ Stu grins, seeing Jon’s doubtful look. ‘She’s the most organised person around here, by a million miles. And bossy with it, although you wouldn’t know to look at her.’
The two senior women who interviewed him arrive, deep in conversation.
‘Welcome, Jonathan,’ says the one with red hair, extending her hand. Jonno remembers her as Maris Jay. ‘So pleased you’ve decided to join us.’
Decided to? Jon nearly laughs out loud. Decided to? He would have crawled all the way from Cairn Cottage on his knees for this job. ‘Thanks,’ he says diffidently.
Seventeen. Only ‘the Boss’, as Stu has described him, to come. He is curious to meet the man who founded CommX eight years ago and who has built the business up so quickly. It takes a certain kind of magic to make a design agency thrive because this is an overpopulated area – competition is cut-throat and a strong reputation difficult to establish.
Around half past nine, the door opens and a man enters. Late forties, perhaps, slightly balding, but with lively hazel eyes and an air of relaxed confidence. Something about the eyes, and the energy, remind him of Mannie. He’s wearing a beautifully cut grey suit, teamed with a very white shirt, open to show a well-tanned neck.
‘Morning everyone!’ Friendly, assured, in charge.
There’s a rapid-fire volley of good mornings and greetings, the odd wave from those who are already on the phone, then he disappears into a glass-walled office at the far end of the room.
Jon sits at his desk, feeling faintly awkward. What is he to do? What are his duties to be? How is he to start this new job? Everyone seems busy, intent on organising the week ahead, already coping with problems, finding solutions.
‘Hi.’ The girl Stu pointed out as Sara is by his desk.
‘Hi.’
‘We’ll be having our meeting in a minute, then I’ll do your induction. The Boss wants to see you after that.’
‘Okay. Thanks.’
‘No worries.’
She wanders off, leaving Jon once again alone.
An hour later, his head is whirling. He stares at the notes in front of him. CommX has twenty three clients with current projects. Some have three or four projects running, making, so far as Jon can tell, thirty seven live jobs. There are three divisions – magazine design, web design and consultancy. Brian Henderson has run through the lot in the course of the meeting, asking questions about project status, clearly expecting smart answers. Problems are flagged and fixes discussed. Upcoming work opportunities are debated. Pitches, they are called officially. Beauty parades is the slang. He tries to keep his mind on it all, but the sheer volume and complexity of the information is bewildering. Twenty-three companies. Multiply the key contacts within each company by, say four, and that means a minimum of ninety-two people whose names, jobs, personalities and preferences he will have to get to know, quickly. The prospect both thrills and terrifies him.
Sara takes him round the office, shows him the toilets, the kitchen, the fire extinguisher and assembly points. She runs through some of the main systems and processes, does a quick tour of the stationery cupboard and explains the filing systems and how projects are stored on the server and how they can be accessed. By midday, Jon is exhausted. He thinks longingly of the chickens and of Cairn Cottage and of the simplicity of life as a barman, and wonders whether he has made the right move.
‘Right,’ Sara says. ‘Got that?’
He jerks tensely. What? What does she mean? The point she has just been making about marking files in use, or all the points of the induction? ‘I think so,’ he says cautiously.
‘Good.’ She must see his expression because she softens a little and adds, ‘Don’t worry. It is confusing at first. But you’ll get used to it. Now,’ she glances at her watch, ‘The Boss said he wanted to see you at midday. Let’s see if he’s free, shall we?’
Jon has done his research on CommX pretty thoroughly, and on its managing director, Brian Henderson, in particular. The man has earned a healthy degree of respect and has won various industry awards. An article Jon downloaded from one of the trade magazines filled in the detail. Fifty three years old, educated at Stirling High and Oxford University, worked as a journalist on regional newspapers, then moved in-house, becoming public relations manager for a small pharmaceutical research company. Headhunted by one of the biggies a few years later, but made redundant after a decade of service. Married with two children, he needed to earn a living, and he boldly used every last penny of his redundancy money to set up CommX. It paid off. The rest, as they say, is history.
I want to be like you, is Jon’s first thought as he is ushered in to the Boss’s office: successful, knowledgeable, respected.
‘Hi. Have a seat.’ Brian Henderson looks up from the papers he is studying and waves Jon to a chair. ‘Sorry I didn’t have time to say hello properly before. Things are always mad in here on a Monday morning, and I’ve been in Dubai and New York, so there’s some catching up to do. What do you think of it so far?’
Jon clears his throat. ‘H-hmm. I’m delighted to be here,’ he hedges, not sure quite what he can say in response to the question. The workings of CommX are, so far, a bewildering mystery.
Brian smiles. ‘Pleased to have you. It was a lucky chance.’
‘I’m sorry?’
‘Well, you might have missed the advertisement if I hadn’t ... or did you see it advertised yourself?’
‘Advertised?’
‘The design post. Of course, it would normally have gone through the agency, but I believe there was an administrative hiccup and the agency didn’t get briefed until very late in the day. So meeting ... someone who knew you were looking,’ he nods at Jon meaningfully, ‘... was lucky.’
Jon’s confusion must have been reflected on his face, because Brian adds, ‘I didn’t take any part in the selection process, of course. That was conducted by my team here. I wouldn’t like you to think you were here without merit.’
Jon’s head is buzzing with so many booming alarms that he hardly knows which one to consider first.
Someone who knew you were looking.
Mannie. It was Mannie who’d phoned him about it.
My sister organised this job for me.
Anger mixed with mortification at the thought. How dare she patronise him like that? Putting in a word for him as if he wasn’t capable of getting a job on his own?
Then the second implication of Brian Henderson’s words wallop into him and take his breath away completely.
He runs a business ... It’s in Stirling, I think.
He isn’t sure how he got out of there – or indeed, how long he was in there after Brian Henderson’s bombshell. He supposes there was some discussion of his duties at CommX, but he prays that someone else will brief him because he can’t recollect a single word. Maybe it doesn’t matter anyway, Jon thinks as he paces the car park in his lunch break, because how can he possibly stay here after this discovery?
Mannie has fallen in love with his new boss. And whatever she says, he can’t believe that there hasn’t been some encouragement on Brian Henderson’s part – because how could someone as bright and pretty and young as Mannie turn her back on a great guy like Cal for this middle-aged slap-head, however smart and smooth and successful he is?
Jon forgets his earlier admiration and respect for Brian Henderson and is swamped by a growing fury. He pulls out his mobile and punches Mannie’s number into his phone. He has to talk to her. Now.
‘This is Mannie Wallace. I’m sorry I can’t speak right now, please leave a message and I’ll get back to you.’
Fuck.
Fuck, fuck, fuck.
‘I need to speak to you Mannie. Call me back. It’s Jonno.’
There are strict rules about mobile phone use, he does remember that part of the induction, but he doesn’t care. A stiff breeze swirls round the car park, stirring the dust that has accumulated in the corner of the building and whipping the leaves on the small rowan trees that have been planted in an attempt to soften the stark lines of the new-build block. Jon turns his face to the wind and feels it ruffle his hair. One gust, stronger than the rest, blows some grit into his face and he closes his eyes, almost welcoming the discomfort. The bleakness of the place echoes his mood perfectly.
His break comes and goes, but Mannie doesn’t call. Nor, he realises as he retraces his steps reluctantly back into the office, has he eaten. And if he felt gawky in the morning, he feels miserably uncomfortable now. Every instinct tells him he should just go home and forget about the job. Then he remembers his long battle to secure work and he rebels against the prospect of renewed unemployment.
In the face of his gloom, however, the afternoon disconcerts him by becoming interesting. It transpires that he is to shadow Stu for a few days while the new computer is in transit, and they go out to a meeting with the national agency that looks after Stirling Castle. As they walk across the ancient esplanade and enter the precincts of the Castle itself, a sense of excitement quells his unease.
For the moment.
‘How’s it been, then?’
Back in the office, Jon is engrossed in filling in a meeting report form and is only peripherally aware that someone is standing by his desk. As he’s on a main passageway to the kitchen, he has already grown used to comings and goings and has begun to filter them out.
‘Hello?’ The sing-song note of inquiry finally penetrates and he looks up to find the girl, Alex, standing next to him, laughing at his concentration. ‘Anyone in?’
He sits back in his chair and smiles. He can’t help smiling at Alex. She’s like a little bobbing robin, bright-eyed and spirited, hop, hop, hopping from one foot to another with a delightful vivacity. She reminds him of Mannie at her nicest.