Conditional Love (40 page)

A tremor of fear ran down my spine. I glanced over at Donna’s office. She was standing in the doorway, arms crossed, eyeballs dangerously wild. I could feel the static electricity fizzing off her from twenty paces away.

This had to be something to do with last night. Had somebody complained about me? Phil? Frannie? Donna couldn’t be mad because I’d left without saying goodbye, surely?

My first instinct was to grab my bag and run for the hills. But what the hell, whatever I’d done, it couldn’t be that bad. Besides, I wanted an audience with Donna, might as well kill two birds with one stone. I took the envelope out of my bag.

I made it over to the boss’s office on shaky legs and closed the door behind me. To my surprise, Donna directed me to her own chair. I sat down and she perched on the corner of her desk, looming over me.

The phone rang. She lifted the receiver slightly and slammed it back down again without breaking eye contact.

I swallowed and then caught sight of the screen on Donna’s laptop in front of me. I blinked and swallowed again as
The Herald
’s Facebook page came into focus.

The latest post, made after my picture of the floral arrangements wishing our fans a Happy Valentine’s Day, was by me. My body slumped as I read the first line:
Worst night of entire life, Valentine’s Day massacre …
I didn’t read on.

Bum. I’d posted my late night whinge to the company’s Facebook page instead of my own. In the dim light of the taxi, I hadn’t noticed my error. This was precisely why I never ever usually posted work stuff from my own phone. It was only because I didn’t have a separate camera with me that I did so last night.

I rested my elbows on Donna’s desk, covered my face and groaned.

‘I’m so, so sorry, Donna. It was a momentary lapse of concentration. It will never happen again.’

Donna snorted. Apology not accepted then.

My heart was racing. Abuse of the company’s social media sites, whether intentional or not, was a sackable offence. I should know; I wrote the bloomin’ policy.

‘Have you any idea of the damage you’ve caused with this little stunt?’

I assumed it was rhetorical question and kept quiet.

‘Ryan and Frannie are considering suing the newspaper.’

I was dangerously close to tears. This was way worse than the whole dog’s bollocks slip of the tongue.

‘We’ve had over eight hundred comments so far about Freddy Krueger and nightmare haircuts at Fringe Benefits. Several major advertisers are threatening to pull their campaigns and there are more people viewing our Facebook page now, in our darkest hour, than since
you
set it up last year.’

It occurred to me that the ‘all publicity was good publicity’ mantra that I’d heard Donna use in difficult times must only apply to our clients and not to
The Herald
. Again, I kept quiet.

I shuddered as something else struck me. Our Facebook comments were linked directly to Twitter. I risked a glance at her. She had an ugly rash all over her neck and her lips were wrinkled and prune-like.

‘What about Twitter?’

‘Sixty-five retweets including
The Times
,
Private Eye
and virtually every tweeting hair salon in the county. And that cross thing –’

‘Hashtag.’

‘Whatever,’ spat Donna. ‘Hashtag-I-hate-my-job is trending on Twitter!’

Wow!
My
comment was trending on Twitter! For a moment I was almost proud. My face must have given me away.

Donna leaned forward and whispered fiercely into my face. ‘Meanwhile you – the employee, handpicked by the board and the only one with the BLOODY password – drop the company in the shit and then promptly turn your phone off.’

It was that wafer-thin nurse’s fault. No one really needed to turn their phone off in a hospital; everyone knew that was a myth so you’d have to use their expensive payphones. But I was so flustered last night that I did as I was told. I thought about telling Donna that I’d been visiting a friend in hospital, to get the sympathy vote, but one look at the tip of her nose, which was white with fury, told me not to bother.

Donna shoved the laptop closer to me. ‘Remove all the comments and write your password down. The IT department will do the rest.’

Seconds was all it took to remove the Facebook post, all the comments and the original tweet. The damage was done though.

‘And that’s the last thing you’ll do for this newspaper.’

I could see she was channelling Lord Sugar as she raised a pointed finger at me and opened her mouth.

‘Wait,’ I cried. I held my envelope out to her.

She tore it open and her eyes scanned the contents.

‘I would like to offer my resignation.’

Donna narrowed her eyes and chewed the inside of her cheek. She looked at me for a long time. I couldn’t be sure, but I got the impression that she was thinking back to that moment in the ladies’ loos last night. I stared back at her, willing her to take pity on me.

‘Please, Donna. I’m planning on re-training. A resignation would look so much better on my CV than a dismissal. And last night, well, there was a lot going on, let’s say. Not that that’s an excuse. Well, it is –’

Donna held up her hand. I clamped my mouth shut and she gave me a curt nod.

‘I accept your resignation. Out.’

Wonders will never cease. I sighed with relief.

She flicked her head at the door and I scarpered.

forty-four

Well, that didn’t quite go as planned.

By eleven o’clock I was back in the flat, staring at myself in the hall mirror. It crossed my mind as I winced at the dark circles under my eyes that perhaps I hadn’t even been out of the flat. Maybe I’d simply overslept: the whole Facebook faux pas could have been a dream, my resignation could be still in an envelope on the kitchen table and I was just horribly late for work.

The plastic handle on the carrier bag was cutting into my fingers and I dropped it to the floor with relief.

A photograph of me with Tyrone from
Coronation Street
fell out on the carpet.

Ah, proof: I really had cleared all the tat out from my desk.

‘I’m unemployed,’ I informed my reflection.

The silence in the flat was oppressive. I put the radio on, the kettle on, the washing machine on and felt better.

I set myself up on the kitchen table: milky tea, a Go-Ahead breakfast bar, notepad, pen and laptop, muttered ‘Right then’ several times and tried not to panic.

A quick game of Solitaire led to the best of three and before I knew it the morning was gone. I nearly jumped out of my skin when my mobile rang.

Please let it be Nick.

No, no, don’t let it be Nick! I don’t want to talk to him. Yet. Maybe not ever.

It was Emma, letting me know that Jess was out of hospital and on her way back to their parents’ house.

It was good news and just the interruption I needed to gird my loins. I turned off Solitaire and Googled ‘Interior Design courses’.

My plan was still sketchy, but last night I realised without a shadow of my usual doubt that life was too short to spend even one more day doing something that didn’t inspire me. What
did
inspire me was interior design.

I had derived so much pleasure from working on the layout for my own house and doing that little job for the cowshed. I hadn’t felt so alive, so passionate about anything since I was a raw recruit at
The Herald
all those years ago, when I’d had my future all mapped out.

It was scary, letting go of the security of a monthly salary, a steady career and the knowledge that I could do the job blindfolded. But I owed it to myself to walk on the wild side for once.

Plus if I hadn’t gone, they would have pushed me anyway, but I decided not to dwell on that.

I filled in a few forms online, requested several brochures and felt pleased with my progress.

Next job was to make a few phone calls.

‘Hello Mr Whelan, this is Sophie Stone.’

‘Hello Miss Stone, not in any trouble I hope?’

Was it just me, or did he actually sound hopeful?

‘I don’t think your granddad would be very pleased with me,’ I said. ‘I’ve been rather rash.’

I brought him up to speed with recent events and my new employment status and warned him that I might need him to act as my solicitor if I decided to sell the bungalow. I also asked him to write a letter on my behalf to Marc and Strong Developments with copies to go to the planning office and my ex-architect. Mr Whelan ummed and ahhed and I heard his pen scratching as he made notes.

‘My granddad had another saying,’ he said.

‘Go on.’

‘What’s the worst that can happen?’

Bankruptcy, homelessness and professional humiliation sprang to mind but I thanked him and rang off.

The second name on my list was Max Fitzgerald, the financial advisor. I dialled her number and braced myself.

‘Oh yes,’ I heard her tapping on a keyboard in the background. ‘Got your file here. I called you “the rainy day ditherer”.’

Max confirmed my suspicions. Without a job, I wouldn’t get a mortgage and without a mortgage I couldn’t build a house. She gasped in horror when I told her I was thinking of selling the bungalow, started wittering on about sluggish markets, return on investments and maximising assets. By the time I got off the phone, my head was spinning with percentages and interest rates but I had a plan. She had convinced me to tart the bungalow up a bit and rent it out. This would give me a monthly income and I would still have the option to build my dream home as soon as I joined the ranks of the workers again.

It was a nice thought.

There was one name left on my list: Nick Cromwell.

My insides turned to jelly just thinking about him and Frannie Cooper last night. And the business with his ex-girlfriend. What a shocker, what a let down! Even now, after I’d heard it with my own ears, I couldn’t believe it of him. Everything I knew about Nick seemed at odds with this new information and my poor brain was struggling to process it.

Still, it didn’t matter, I couldn’t afford to build a house now anyway. No more house meant no more Nick. What he did, or had done, in his private life, was none of my business. Perhaps this was for the best.

My thumb hovered over his number. I was poised to call him and confirm that yes, I did wish to withdraw the planning application. I felt sick at the thought that this was the end.

The end? End of what? We hadn’t even started.

I was being ridiculous. He hadn’t exactly bombarded me with calls this morning, had he? Interflora hadn’t rung my doorbell, straining under the weight of flowers and forgiveness notes.

I pressed dial and waited for someone to pick up. I would be courteous but business-like. I would banish this lump that was forming in my throat before….

‘Cromwell Associates,’ panted Poppi. ‘Sorry. Out of breath. Playing Frisbee with Norman in the garden.’

‘It’s Sophie Stone.’

‘Oh, thank my granny’s guts for that! I thought it was that Cooper woman again. Nick’s refused to work for her and she’s been on the phone every five minutes.’

The news gave me my first smile of the day.

‘Is Nick there, please?’

‘Oh my God, Sophie! What happened last night?’ she squealed.

‘Er, what do you mean?’

‘Nick appeared this morning looking like he’d spent the night on a park bench and now he’s buggered off – ’scuse my French – to Manchester.’

I knew exactly what must have had happened. Phil Strong had touched a nerve. Nick’s past misdemeanours were threatening to affect his reputation, forcing him to face his responsibilities; he had gone to visit his ex-girlfriend and his child. Better late than never.

I forced myself to harden my heart. It was absolutely nothing to do with me.

‘How did he seem – contrite, guilty, ashamed?’ I probed.

‘No,’ said Poppi, sounding confused. ‘More like really, really angry. Like when he found out about the other application you’ve made for Lilac Lane.’

We were both silent. I was thinking that angry wasn’t the best frame of mind to be in for a meeting with a small child. I didn’t know what Poppi was thinking.

‘Can you tell him –’ Tell him what? I hesitated. I couldn’t say it over the phone. I needed to see him face to face, to draw a line under our relationship. ‘Tell him I’d like to meet him. Soon as he can.’

‘It’s true then?’ said Poppi in a hurt voice.

‘Yes, I’m afraid so.’

I grimaced as I put the phone down. There was a slight chance of misunderstanding there.

forty-five

A week later and things in our little household had moved on apace. Jess had gone back to school this morning, clutching a peanut butter sandwich made by me and a fruit salad containing superfoods to boost her immune system made by Emma. Apart from one wobble when I flicked the telly on to
Call the Midwife
by accident, she was doing really well.

Emma was this very minute winging her way to London to accept a runner-up prize for her silver jugs. When the Chairman had heard why she didn’t turn up to the awards ceremony, he had invited her down for a tour of the academy and lunch at his private club. She was so excited that she’d even worn a dress!

I, on the other hand, had spent the week at the bungalow, dressed in my scruffiest clothes and warmest jumpers. I called it Operation Spruce Up. The letting agent and I had hatched a plan to get the place on the rental market in time for the Easter rush. The rent he had suggested was huge! Village appeal, apparently. The money would easily cover my share of the rent on the flat and help towards my other expenses. Student life was looking more and more like a reality.

The disappointment of having to postpone building my own home was hard to swallow, but I still had the flat with the girls and what you’ve never had you can’t miss, right?

The one thing that I hadn’t yet come to terms with was Nick.

He hadn’t been in touch.

I carried this round with me constantly, like a stone in my shoe that I just couldn’t shake out.

Nick hadn’t called or texted or emailed or anything. I’d thought about contacting him, giving him the benefit of the doubt. What if Poppi had forgotten to pass on my message? I could have called his mobile and put the phone down again before he answered. Just to remind him that I exist. But I did nothing, pride got in the way. Because even if it was Poppi’s fault, if I meant anything to him, wouldn’t he have wanted to talk to me by now?