had marked, BRASS, that she had had an assistant to do all this type of manual work in her life. In fact, she’d had two. One of them, Kim, she’d rather forget. She had given her her first break and, in return, the ungrateful brat had stolen her contact book and then promptly resigned and was now clawing her way up the ballet world while Anna was holding what looked like a Mexican death skull between finger and thumb.
Anna had had people to move boxes and post parcels and send emails to the people she’d rather avoid. Her status had defined her. Had made her who she was. She liked the fact she had her own office with her name on the plaque on the door. She liked the fact people came in to ask her advice or crept in in tears and shut the door to bitch about some mean old cow in another department. She liked the signature on the bottom of her email and the fact that she didn’t follow most of her Twitter followers back.
She patted the beads of sweat from her face with a folded piece of tissue she’d got from the bathroom and blew her hair out of her eyes. The room had heated up like a furnace and she felt like a rotisserie chicken slowly browning.
She had been somebody. And it didn’t matter that at about three o’clock, most days, she had stood in a cubicle in the toilets holding a Kleenex to her eyes after catching a glimpse of the dancers rehearsing and thinking, That should have been me. Before blowing her nose, telling herself that this was just life, this is what happens, this feeling is weakness and you’re not weak Anna Whitehall. Then calling up Seb, all bright-eyed and smiling voice, asking if he wanted to go for cocktails after work, her treat.
Anna lifted up another brass object: a revolting frame shaped like a horse-shoe, and thought of her old air-conditioning unit, her ergonomically designed chair, the fresh-cut flowers in her office, her snug new season pencil skirt and a crippling pair of beautiful stilettos.
She wanted to grab her old boss by the shoulders and shout, Look at me, now! Look what you’ve made me become, you stupid idiot! Why did you have to scale down the PR department? Why?
‘Everything all right back there?’ Mrs Beedle had pulled back the curtain and was watching Anna as her lips moved during her silent tirade. The cat was curled up under Mrs Beedle’s arm, nestled on the plump outline of her hip. A wry smile was twitching the woman’s lip as she said, ‘Christ, you still stand in third position.’ She shook her head.’ Well I never, you’ll be doing pliés in here next.’
Anna, who hadn’t noticed how she was standing, moved immediately and leant up against the stack behind her.
‘Haven’t got far, have you?’ Mrs Beedle peered at her work.
Anna frowned. ‘I thought I’d done quite a lot. Look. I have boxes for all the different items. Here‒’ She waved her hand along one of the lines of shelves. ‘China, figurines, brasses, decorative plates, medals…’
‘Maybe.’ Mrs Beedle said with a shrug. ‘I’m going for lunch and, as it’s so quiet, I’m going to shut the shop and make a couple of deliveries. I’ll be back, what? Three-thirty? Four?’
‘What should I do?’ Anna asked, her forehead beading with sweat, her shorts dusty, her fingers rough with dirt, her Shellac chipping.
‘Just carry on as you are. No point stopping now,’ Mrs Beedle said and backed out, shaking her head at the marmalade cat. ‘She has a lot to learn about work this one, doesn’t she? A lot to learn. Always the little princess.’
‘That’s it, I fucking hate it here.’ Anna was sitting opposite Seb in the King’s Head. She could feel the dirt and scum from the shop nestling into her pores.
The pub was as she remembered. Flock wallpaper in red velvet and gold, and a deep-maroon carpet worn threadbare by the end of the bar where the regulars stood. The bar top was dark mahogany, shiny under the low glass lamps and dappled with patches of split beer. Silver tankards hung from hooks around the lip of the bar top, swinging below the spirits that were mostly different types of whiskey. One side of the room was booth seats, and a smattering of round wooden tables. At the back was a dining room that had placemats with hunting scenes or ducks flying.
‘Here, drink this, it’ll make you feel better.’ Seb put a glass of yellow wine down in front of her.
She held it up between finger and thumb, inspected the colour and said, ‘I very much doubt it.’
Seb tried to hide a smirk. ‘It can’t have been that bad.’
‘I don’t think I can talk about it.’ She sighed, taking a sip. Then, unable not to, said, ‘She made me clear out the stockroom. Urgh, look at this, sing-along piano tonight.’ She picked up a flier that was resting between the mustard and tomato ketchup bottle on their table.
Seb took a sip of his pint and read over the list of songs. ‘Knees Up Mother Brown. It’s like the good old days.’
Anna took another sip and winced. ‘I did a really bad job.’
Seb glanced up. ‘Why?’
‘Because I didn’t want to do it.’
‘Anna.’ His brow creased. ‘You kind of need this job. We seriously don’t have any money and if you want a wedding…’
‘Sebastian.’ She leant forward. ‘I get six pounds fifty an hour. Whether I have this job or not, it’s not going to cover a wedding. No, I have to get back to London, I have to do some serious looking.’
‘Come on. You know there’s nothing out there at the moment, and the commute will really cost.’ He traced the beads of condensation down his glass. ‘You’re just going to have to get on with it.’
‘What if I can’t?’ she said, and he sighed like he was exasperated with her. The sound took her by surprise, she’d never heard it before. This wasn’t the way their relationship worked. Seb adored her. That was their dynamic. It had been since the moment she had walked out of Pret a Manger with her sushi and can of Yoga Bunny and he had walked straight into her, fresh from his interview at Whitechapel Boys’ School, fumbled his briefcase and said, ‘Wow, god, Anna Whitehall. Didn’t expect to bump into you of all people. Wow.’
Really all she wanted now was for him to hate being back as much as she did.
As the fan in the corner of the pub whirred away like it might take off, circulating the stale beer-soaked air, they sat in silence for a second. Murmurs of laughter drifted in from the tables outside the front that Anna hadn’t wanted to sit at in case she got bitten by mosquitoes.
‘So how was your day?’ she said in the end.
Seb held his hands out wide, ‘Now she asks!’ he said with a smile. He was good at changing the atmosphere, at not holding a grudge. His aim in life was for everyone to get along, not like Anna who could cling onto a grudge like nobody’s business. But, as usual, she felt herself get sucked into the lines that crinkled around his eyes as he smiled and winked at her across the table.
She rolled her eyes. ‘Did you save any poor, badly educated children?’
Seb was back in Nettleton to make a difference. To give back. To do for the new Nettleton generation what their teachers had done for him. Anna could barely remember a teacher, let alone anything good they’d done for her. She could vaguely summon a memory of being whacked
