The Little Things (2 page)

‘That’s great to hear,’ I say. He ignores me.

‘There are going to be some fairly big plans happening in the Middle East shortly,’ he continues, and I lean forward in my seat, awaiting the detail.

But, as a sullen quiet descends on the room, I can virtually feel the tumbleweed tickling my toes.

I desperately need to do something to stop myself from speaking, to stop nonsense spilling out of my mouth, so I lean in, pick up my glass of water and take a polite sip.

At least, that’s the intention. In reality, I miss my mouth entirely and tip half the contents of my glass onto my blouse as if I were attempting to recreate a Paul Hollywood recipe in my
cleavage.

As he continues talking, oblivious, I do my best to conceal the fact that my front is now covered in self-administered dribble by leaning forward in my seat and crossing my arms. This does give
the impression that I have some sort of muscular-skeletal defect to my shoulder, but at least it covers the damage as I realise I stopped following what he was saying about thirty seconds ago.

‘In order to be able to fulfil our ambitions in some areas, we’re having to cut back in others. You’ve been around long enough to know how it works.’

‘So you’re cutting back again?’ I ask, trying to buy some time.

He nods. And, for a second, I actually wonder why he’s telling me this.

Until the usually muted Keith Blanchard begins talking again.

‘I’m very sorry, Hannah. It’s unavoidable.’

I swallow. ‘So . . . to recap . . .’

He crosses his arms with the vague shadow of regret in his eyes.

‘There’s no longer a position here with Panther for you, Hannah.’

My throat goes dry as I repeat his words in my head, trying to make sense of them.

‘You’re . . . you’re getting rid of me?’

‘Everyone here is really grateful for your contribution,’ he says, and for a pathetic split second I almost believe him. ‘But in order to take the company in the direction we
want, we have to make some difficult decisions.’

‘And I’m one of them?
I’m
one of your difficult decisions?’ I croak. He doesn’t need to respond. ‘But who are you sending to the Middle East if
it’s not me?’

‘We have someone in mind for that position already.’

My jaw clenches as I try to hold it together. ‘Okay,’ I croak, straightening my back. ‘Thank you for the opportunities,’ I add, hoping this sounds incredibly dignified.
‘I can’t pretend I’m not very sorry to be going but obviously I will relish the chance to discover all the new doors that will open for me.’

‘I’m sure there’ll be many, Hannah,’ he says.

‘Me too,’ I reply pointedly. ‘Hundreds, in fact. Or . . . um . . . a respectable amount anyway.’

I close the door behind me to see George from IT hovering over Julia’s computer, where he’s been a near permanent fixture lately. He’s a lovely guy – soft-spoken and
nice-looking in a certain light, or at least I think he is underneath his recently grown beard, which is on the luxuriant side these days.

She looks up expectantly and I am at a loss as to what to say.

So, in order to stop myself crying, I tell myself loud and clear that – in the words of a song Bernard had playing on Radio 2 this morning – I am strong. I am invincible.
I am
woman!

And surely I’ll be snapped up in another high-flying career in no time.

Five months later

It’s amazing how much use one person can get from a single dressing gown. This time last year, I hardly used mine. It was just something my mum bought me for Christmas, a
fluffy pink affair that makes me look like a giant, radioactive candyfloss.

Yesterday, I got to the opening credits of
Loose Women
before I realised I was still in it. And it was only when, a couple of weeks ago, I actually considered opening a bottle of Sauv
Blanc before I’d got out of it that I registered how much standards had slipped.

At least James isn’t around to see, though – either the state of me, or the flat. Oh, I’m not saying the place looks like one of those programmes about hoarders, featuring the
sorts of houses where the body of a dead yak could remain hidden for months without anyone noticing the smell over everything else.

But things aren’t how they were. I leave teabags at the side of the drainer, globules of toothpaste stuck on the bathroom sink. And I even leave it two days – sometimes several
– before I use the Cif on the hob. Oh, this is dangerous living indeed.

I glance at my watch and realise it’s nearly time to Skype James. I plod into the bedroom, pull on some jeans and a nice top, before applying makeup and a dollop of dry shampoo, which
makes my hair look almost passable if I close the curtains and position the webcam next to the dimmest lamp in the living room.

A text beeps on my phone. ‘Ready for you now, gorgeous. Is your computer on? xxxxxx’

‘One minute! xxxxxx’ I reply, before dashing back for a quick tidy-up – which involves kicking my mags, scratch cards and hard-skin remover out of shot. James appears on screen
almost as soon as I’ve fired up the computer.

It’s early evening in Dubai and he’s outside on his balcony, in front of the swimming pool that came as standard in his five-star apartment.

He’s in a soft, cream, linen shirt and his tan makes him look like an Instagrammed version of James Bond – younger, fitter, altogether more gorgeous. I decide not to let him into the
fact that the only productive thing I’ve done in twenty-four hours is sign up for a website called Wacky-Bingo.com.

‘Hello there.’ He smiles, making my insides swirl.

‘Hi, James,’ I reply, shuffling into a more seductive position. ‘Wow, it looks roasting out there.’ There is a faint glisten of sweat on his brow.

‘Oh, it’s way too hot. Too hot for me, anyway. I’m in the office all day, though, so I suppose I don’t have a chance to notice it, anyway.’

‘You don’t have to say this sort of thing for my benefit,’ I tell him.

He holds my gaze momentarily and realises he’s convincing no one. ‘Well, okay. It’s great here. But it’d be a hell of a lot better if you were out here.’

I had to spend a long time persuading James to go out to Dubai while I stayed behind looking for work there. I considered going over to do my job hunting there, but it felt like too much of a
risk – and I was (stupidly) certain an employment offer would appear in no time. So, after Keith Blanchard identified him as the guy for the job I’d assumed (to my abject embarrassment)
had my name on it, this was the only sensible option. I miss him like mad, that goes without saying, but I know I did the right thing. There was no way I would have put him in the horrendous
position of feeling duty-bound to stay out of some sense of loyalty to me. He felt awful enough about the whole thing as it was.

‘I’ll be honest, Hannah,’ he says, running his hand through his hair. ‘I feel a little . . . out of my depth.’

I shake my head. ‘That’s silly, James. You’re more than capable.’

‘You should’ve had this job. I still think that.’

I swallow, grateful for the reassurance. ‘Have a bit of self-belief, James. You’re doing brilliantly out there. Besides, I know this set-up – with you there and me here –
isn’t ideal, but we’re making it work, aren’t we?’

He doesn’t answer at first. ‘Have you had any luck job hunting?’

‘Yeah, a couple of leads.’

His face brightens. ‘That’s great. Any of them out here?’

I hesitate. ‘Not sure yet.’

Fortunately, his doorbell rings. ‘Listen, I need to run, sweetheart. I’ve got a cocktail party this evening.’ I try not to visibly react to this news, but clearly fail.
‘It’ll be as dull as ditchwater, I just know it.’

‘Yeah. Sounds like hell,’ I tease. He laughs as the doorbell rings again. He hesitates in his chair momentarily.

‘You look so beautiful, Hannah,’ he tells me. I feel tears prick in my eyes. ‘We’ll do this again tomorrow, shall we?’ I nod. ‘I love you.’

‘I love you too,’ I manage.

Then he blows me a kiss and is gone, to sip cocktails with the glitterati. But, hey, at least
Doctors
is starting and I’ve got half a Galaxy left in the fridge.

I manage to keep myself busy for the rest of the day, even if I’d struggle to pinpoint exactly how. It involves going to the shops to stock up on provisions, a bit of
light dusting, then a chat with my mum, then Julia, and various people on Twitter I feel as if I’ve known for years, even though we’ve never addressed each other using more than 140
characters.

Aware that it’s important not to let myself go completely, I also do my Davina DVD, which I enjoyed the first fourteen or so times, before I could recite the entire thing more accurately
than the Lord’s Prayer.

If I’m honest, I miss the gym, but I had to give up my membership three months ago, along with any general belief in my own self-worth. Not that I’m wallowing.

At 3 p.m., I resolve to read a little – a proper book, not just one of my copious mags with Kim and Kanye on the front – when the doorbell rings. I respond to this by dropping my bag
of Doritos and glaring at it with the same shifty-eyed suspicion with which an armed fugitive might contemplate whether there’s an FBI SWAT team behind the door.

I scuttle to the intercom and press the button. ‘Hannah? Hannah are you there?’

It’s my sister, Suzy.

She’s eight years older than I am, and is basically Superwoman, except for the tights, which she avoids in order to keep yeast infections at bay.

She has, however, juggled a career as a GP with having four children, all boys.

I sometimes try to remember back to the time when we all thought Suzy wasn’t the having-children kind. Then, before we knew it, along came four lovely little things: Max, who’s nine;
the twins, Leo and Noah, who are six; and, just when we were all convinced that she and Justin – her husband – couldn’t possibly have time for any between-sheets action, she
became pregnant with Ollie. She’s since confided that he was an accident (‘A happy one, I swear!’), one that occurred after they let their guard down on holiday in Spain when the
boys were at the Teeny Boppers’ disco party, learning how to do the Macarena.

I don’t think she’d claim any of it has been easy: if you’re ever invited over to her house for Sunday lunch, you’ll notice that the place is so noisy and chaotic that it
takes several days for the ringing in your ears to stop. But she’s stopped noticing that other people don’t live with the permanent tinnitus of bickering over the Xbox or tuneless piano
practising; to her, the chaos is normal.

‘I’ll let you up,’ I reply, glad I made the effort to get out of my dressing gown earlier.

Suzy steps into the room, layered in Zara and Boden, before looking at me in the way you’d examine a corpse dredged from a canal. ‘Oh, Hannah,’ she sighs. ‘You look
awful.’

‘Thank you for that vote of confidence.’

‘Somebody needs to tell you the truth,’ she mutters, in this awful, sympathetic voice that doesn’t suit her in the slightest. ‘I bet James keeps insisting you look like
Scarlett Johansson.’

‘Yes, as a matter of fact,’ I say defiantly.

‘I’m sorry to tell you this. But he’s lying.’

I tut. ‘Talk about kicking a woman when she’s down. Have you forgotten I’ve just lost my job?’

‘I think you’re stretching the definition of “just” a little, aren’t you? Look I’m not trying to get at you, I promise,’ she says, rubbing my arm.
‘Can I make a cup of tea? It’s a flying visit before I get back to surgery, but I’ve got time for a quick one.’

She heads into the open-plan kitchen as I realise I’ve failed to hide my Doritos in the living area and shove them under a cushion.

‘The thing is, Hannah, I’ve
tried
the softly-softly approach. So have Mum and Dad.’

My parents have been ceaselessly supportive. On the first day of my redundancy, Mum sent Dad round with a cooked dinner on a plate – some smoked haddock, baked beans and potato –
covered with tin foil, which he handed to me as if I were some sort of meals-on-wheels case.

‘We’ve all tried reassuring you that something will come along soon,’ she continues. ‘And where it’s got you is . . . precisely nowhere.’

‘It’s not as if I’m not trying,’ I argue, though, if I’m entirely honest, my efforts have started to dwindle as time has gone on.

In the first few weeks after I was laid off, I leaped out of bed every morning so hungry for employment I was virtually dribbling. Then it became apparent that the jobs suited to my experience
and hard-won qualifications seemed to be nonexistent. Problem is, we’re reaching a critical point.

‘How can you possibly still be affording this flat? James can’t still be paying for this
and
his new place in Dubai?’ she asks.

‘No. I insisted he stopped because I thought I could cover it with redundancy money. Which runs out in about . . .’ I pause to work it out. ‘Three weeks ago. He doesn’t
know that, by the way.’

She frowns. ‘Still no sign of any employment, then?’

I consider lying to her, but there’s absolutely no point. Since she had kids, Suzy is like a ninja version of Miss Marple: she works out the truth in a nanosecond.

‘I’ve become unemployable,’ I whimper.

She purses her lips, not approving of self-indulgence, either. ‘That can’t be true.’

‘You’d think so, wouldn’t you?’ I mutter. ‘There’s absolutely nothing out there, Suzy. I’ve looked into tons of jobs in Dubai, mountains of them, but
none of them are what I’m looking for. And there’s very little closer to home, either.’

‘You need a stopgap,’ she says, bringing over a mug of tea. ‘Something to tide you over until a more suitable job comes up.’

I let out a breath. ‘I’ll go to the jobcentre this afternoon and try again,’ I promise. The thought makes my stomach twist.

‘Well, don’t do that just yet. I might have a solution for you.’

‘Is it a great marketing job for another luxury-car manufacturer, paying similar salary and just designed for my set of skills?’

‘Hmm. One of those descriptions could apply.’