The Show Must Go On

Chapter Six: Long Lost

Chapter Six Soundtrack: Long Lost by Lord Huron

The weekend was sunny and crisp. It's only Monday, but I'm walking to the office with a new sense of purpose.

I'm proud of myself. It's unfamiliar.

But Sandra thinks I'm making progress, Barry greenlit my diverse writers' programme, I'm seeing Mei this week, and I stopped at the florist en route for flowers.

Nas hates tulips. I buy two bunches, and a pain au raisin too. It leaves a trail of crumbs down my vintage jumpsuit. It doesn't faze me.

Nothing will faze me today.

Not even Nas.

Not even Barry.

Not even my mother.

I drop one bunch of flowers off for Katie at reception, who has just returned from her honeymoon. She's tanned to her hairline and glowing with joy.

'Thank you!' she gushes. 'It'll be your turn next.'

Ah. That fazed me. Never mind. I plaster on a smile and tell her how radiant she looks.

The other bouquet I leave on my desk, positioned to block my view of Nas. He doesn't comment on them, but he rolls his eyes at the pastry crumbs.

I arrange the tulips carefully, a spread of pink and orange and gold, and they droop across the edge of the vase in defiance of my best attempts. Somehow this charms me. Each petal glows in the sunlight. I haven't bought flowers in years: I'd forgotten how much I love them.

In fact, I haven't bought flowers since Ben's funeral. It put me off them. I was sent so many that they rotted on their stems and the whole flat smelled of death. I couldn't leave bed to throw them away.

 Mei pulled me out, eventually. She washed my hair, emptied my bins, and made me lasagne (the only thing she can cook). She reminded me about this job and what it had meant to me, and to Ben, even if he wasn't here to see it. She walked me in on my first day, miles in the rain, and waited at home for my return. She saved my life, as much as she did any of her patients. Her, and this job.

I remember those first few weeks—after Ben died—as a vacuum of sound. I couldn't even feel grief. When I started work it was only because, as Mei reminded me, my rent wouldn't wait for my feelings. But it also gave me the first emotion to break the silence.

Rage.

At Nas, of course.

When I first arrived, weeks later than planned, he was all charm. He bought me lunch, warned me about the handsy Head of Finance, and earnestly complimented the short films I'd produced. I'd liked him. He'd been likeable. I was grateful he didn't pry into my grief. Instead, I told him where I lived, where I'd worked, what I dreamed of creating. He'd called us a team.

Then, a few weeks in, I'd forgotten my glasses on my desk, returned after work, and heard him ask Barry why I was there.

I've been running this for years, and she shows up weeks late, unqualified, unprepared, and keeps zoning out in our meetings. What am I supposed to do with her?

I felt something then. I felt it so strongly that my body trembled with it. I hid in the bathroom, and for the first time, I sobbed.

Then I wiped my face, took myself out for sushi, and swore I would prove him wrong. I would make him tremble, too, tremble with rage and grief and embarrassment, and he wouldn't ever make me weak again.

I like to remind myself of that on Mondays.

He's especially charming on Mondays.

'You're always so much better at this,' Yvonne is telling me. She's leaning over my desk, and probably has been for a few minutes already. I doubt she's noticed my inattention. As she talks, uninterrupted, she pokes the tip of her glasses into the corner of her eye. It's hypnotic, and a little repulsive.