longer than I was comfortable with. I couldn’t help feeling like I was third-wheeling something, but I wasn’t sure what.
‘Anyway.’ Paul cleared his throat before he continued. ‘I’ve had a think about things and, given the circumstances, I’m giving the promotion to Tara. Congratulations!’
‘What?’ My voice barely rose above a whisper. I couldn’t believe what I was hearing; all my hard work and dedication had come to nothing. My world slowly began to unravel around me and I knew there was nothing I could do to stop it.
My boss shrugged at me and got up to celebrate with Tara, who was jumping up and down and squealing like an excited toddler who’d just found a new box of crayons. She threw her arms around his neck and I noticed two pops of colour rise in his cheeks. The hug lasted a little too long and I was sure I saw a lingering look pass between them.
‘Thank you so much, Paul. I won’t let you down!’ she said, her voice shrill with excitement.
She scampered out of the office like an excited puppy, eager to share the news with her little coven of friends. When she closed the door, I turned to Paul. My arms were folded across my chest, like that would hold all my anger and disappointment in.
‘Better get back to work,’ he said, trying out a smile. ‘Lots of hotels out there we don’t have in our chain yet!’
‘Cut the crap, Paul; that promotion should’ve been mine and you know it! You said it yourself. My numbers were better than hers and I signed Mulberry House today. So, unless Tara managed to pull a master stroke and get us the bloody Savoy or something, I don’t see why you promoted her over me.’
Paul blew air out through his cheeks and laced his fingers together behind his head. ‘It’s just one of those things, Emily; better luck next time, eh?’
Something was off, I could feel it. There had been something in the way Tara had just leapt on him that didn’t sit right with me. But what could I do? Throwing baseless accusations around wouldn’t help and would probably put me in an even worse position. I gave him my best I’m-onto-you stare and stalked off, wondering how the best day ever had gone so badly wrong.
*
By the time it came to finishing for the day, I was more than ready to leave the office. I’d lost my dream job to none other than Tara bloody Murray and had had to listen to my mum finding fault with me for most of my lunch hour. Now it was time to go home, put my feet up and… Oh no. I screwed my face up as I realised I’d have to sit through yet another thrilling instalment of Things Emily Could and Should Be Doing Better.
‘Great,’ I said to the largely empty office. ‘This’ll be a barrel of laughs!’
Mum and Dad’s plush flat in the West End of Glasgow was like something from an interior design catalogue. It was decorated in subtle, muted shades of cream and brown with hardwood floors and sumptuous furniture. Tasteful photographs and artwork were strategically placed around the rooms, yet the whole place still managed to look cosy and lived-in. It had taken several meltdowns to achieve that look, including one about whether ecru or eggshell would work best in the living room.
Mum greeted me at the door, arms outstretched with a large bottle of champagne in one hand.
‘Hiya, darling!’ Her accent was thicker than usual; her vowels were slacker and her tone wasn’t as clipped. She’d obviously had her standard ‘few glasses of wine’. ‘Come away in, dinner’s nearly ready.’
I wondered if her tipsy state would mean she’d tell me what the ‘something important’ was from lunch that day. I followed her inside and the gorgeous smell of cooking ensnared my senses. Unless I was very much mistaken, it was my mum’s signature spaghetti carbonara.
‘Something smells nice,’ I said, hoping the compliment would lead in nicely to some subtle detective work. ‘Listen, I—’
‘Did I tell you Gillian from my book club’s been having an affair? Husband caught her in bed with their accountant last week and threw her out. Rumour has it she and the accountant are staying in a hotel somewhere and planning to start a new life in France!’
Mum shot me a serene smile as she bustled into the kitchen. I knew her well enough to read the message behind it: don’t ask me what I wanted to tell you about earlier; you’ll get nowhere.
I stood in the doorway to the kitchen while she chatted away happily and dished up dinner onto her favourite china plates. Behind me, I felt a hand on my shoulder: Dad.
‘Back for another one of your mum’s “inspirational pep talks” then?’ he said with a chuckle. ‘Good luck!’
‘Hey you, any more of your lip and you’re not getting dessert!’ Mum threw a smile over her shoulder as she sprinkled some Parmesan over the spaghetti. ‘Anyway, dinner’s ready.’
As much as I enjoyed tucking into Mum’s utterly delicious food, I couldn’t help wondering when the bombshell would be dropped. I kept looking for gaps in the conversation where I could bring it up, but they were both making it difficult. One minute, the topic was politics and the next Dad was passing on idle gossip from his mates at the golf club.
Eventually, I decided a direct approach was needed. I set my fork down and pushed my plate away from me.
‘Mum,’ I began, dreading the words that were about to come out of my mouth, and what might follow. ‘When we were at lunch today, you said you had something to tell me, but when I asked what it was you said it could wait till later. Well… it’s later! Could you just tell me what it is so I’m not worrying myself sick about it?’
Dad sighed and threw his cutlery down. ‘Pamela, you didn’t! I thought we’d already decided we weren’t going to tell her!’
‘She has a right to know, Simon! It might’ve been easy for you to keep this a secret for twenty-five years, but it hasn’t for me. Emily’s at an age now where she can make her own decisions—’
I shot up from my seat with such force that the entire table shook. ‘Instead of talking about me like I’m not here, tell me what’s going on!’
Silence fell over the table and Mum slowly got up, her face taking on an odd grey pallor. In all the years I’d known her, I’d never once seen her ruffled or flustered.
Until now.
‘Emily, you might not like what you’re about to hear, but please don’t fly off the handle.’
Dread crept over my skin and my eyes darted over to my dad, trying to get some clue as to what was about to happen from his face. It was set in a hard, stern line that gave nothing away. It was unusual to see him without his trademark carefree smile.
‘What’s going on?’ I fixed Dad with a hard stare, hoping he’d shed some light on the twenty-five-year-old secret he and Mum had been keeping.
Mum left the room and the silence grew even more uncomfortable. It was such a contrast from the lively buzz of conversation there had been just a few minutes ago. I looked at Dad again, but he didn’t meet my gaze.
‘We’ve always told each other everything in this family,’ I said. ‘What’s so bad that you and Mum had to keep it from me?’
His
