Chapter 5
SAMMIE
There’s a moment, right before you fall, where your brain realises it’s happening but your body hasn’t got the memo yet. Then, all at once, right at the last minute, your limbs fly out in all directions to try to save you. But it’s too late.
Honestly, I don’t even know how it happened. One minute I was up, right as rain, walking through a field on a site visit, then the next I was face down in the dirt. And, boy, am I dirty.
I’m always as careful as I can be on site visits.
I don’t have to do them too often, but sometimes going out to the sites and looking around is the only real way to see what’s going on, so I leave the safety of my desk, I put on my steel-toed boots and my hard hat, and I head out.
You would think the weight of the safety gear would anchor me, but it doesn’t.
The ground here is so soft, the kind that spontaneously melts beneath your feet. One wrong move and you’re down. Technically, it could happen to anyone. Today, it happened to me.
It wasn’t an especially impressive fall, or (thankfully) an injury-causing one; it wasn’t even a comedic one. Just me, up one minute, down the next. Not that I’m wishing I had got hurt – of course I’m not – but at least, if I had, people would’ve had sympathy for me.
I work in an industry where it’s much harder to be female.
It’s an extra step, an obstacle to overcome, a way for the job to be that little bit harder.
I wish I could say it was only the old-school blokes who didn’t see this as a woman’s job, but a lot of the younger men have a similar attitude.
I’m constantly having to prove that I’m just as good as them.
So obviously, when I fall over in front of a team of men who I’m supposed to be leading, I just know what they’re all thinking (even if they aren’t).
That I’m a ditzy, silly blonde. One who can’t even manage her own feet – so why should I be leading this project?
I like to think the self-doubt keeps me sharp. Instead, I think it keeps me overworking, trying too hard to please people.
At first, when I hit the mud, there was silence.
Then, when it became apparent I was uninjured, everyone started laughing.
Not the cruel kind, more that instinctive, human laugher that erupts during awkward moments.
A couple of them tried to smother it, to pretend they weren’t amused – I probably preferred the honesty.
I immediately jumped up, I laughed it off, and I carried on doing my job. I even made a little joke. Something like: ‘Well, that’s one way to check the ground conditions.’ At least that got a laugh too.
And now here I am, driving home, on a seat covered with a tapestry of plastic bags, desperate for a long soak in the bath. I’m trying to get my overthinking out of the way now – somehow I imagine it will carry on into the night though.
I think what bothered me the most was my incompetent colleague Dave’s reaction. He was actually quite nice about it, which is great, but would he have been nice to a man? I want to be treated like everyone else, even if it isn’t the best.
‘Take this as your sign to finally take some time off,’ he told me. ‘Recharge your batteries. We need you firing on all cylinders.’
There was no malice in it, I’m sure, which makes it difficult to object without sounding unhinged.
He thinks he is being kind. He probably is being kind.
But there is something about the timing of it, coming directly after I have fallen over – like, I hate that he thinks my falling is a stamina issue, because I haven’t been taking much holiday, as though I’m just a silly, sleepy girl who needs a big rest to keep up with everyone else. Ugh.
Yes, obviously, I would love a holiday, but right now, well, where would I go?
Who would I go with? It’s not a terrible idea, to focus on my work, because the higher I climb up the ladder, the better the pay, the better the perks, the better the holiday.
Plus, at that point, I might actually have someone to go with. And wouldn’t that be better?
By the time I pull onto my road, I’ve probably replayed my fall at least twenty times in my head.
Sometimes simply imagining it, feeling every second of it again.
Sometimes I save myself. Sometimes I style it out, like I meant to lie down on the floor, and look, while I was down there, I solved our drainage issues.
I’m that good. But in most of them, I imagine people saying terrible things to me – things they would never say, even if they thought them – and I start imaginary-arguing back.
I park, gather my things and head inside.
I look like a swamp monster, and I feel muddy in places I couldn’t have physically got muddy.
That’s how dirty I feel. Mum is going to have a fit when she sees how filthy I am.
I’d be surprised if she didn’t march me back outside to hose me down.
I suppose I should consider it a perk, that she’s nominated herself as house cleaner, but it would be nice if it could have happened without her pointing out that I’m still as messy as I was when I was a teen.
I’m not that messy, I’m just busy. After a long day at work I want to decompress, eat, wash the mud away and try to sleep before it turns midnight for once.
I don’t want to be doing the dishwasher, laundry, cleaning every surface and vacuuming.
By the time I’m done with all of that, it would be time to start again.
Right now, it’s great to have someone waiting for me, someone who I know will have prepared dinner. Yeah, it probably would be better to have a man waiting for me, but I’ll take what I can get.
This eve, all I want is a bath full of bubbles and a glass full of wine – or vice versa, to be honest with you.
The house is quiet, which is soothing after the day I’ve had, because I’m no stranger to arriving home to my mum screaming along to Celine Dion while she cooks – but I can’t smell anything cooking. I wonder if Mum has gone out?
I close the door behind me, lean against it for a second, and let out a long breath. I’m home, I need to leave my stress at the door, to try to relax.
I kick off my shoes, set my bag down and start thinking about what kind of takeaway I’ll order if Mum is actually out.
I’ll have my bath first – with my wine, obviously – and then I’ll put on something cosy, eat something terrible for me and watch TV until I fall asleep.
I can’t think of a better way to spend the eve.
I head towards the kitchen, already thinking about which bottle I plan to open, when something catches my eye.
I stop in my tracks because, as I peer into the living room from the hallway, I can see the back of a man’s head.
There’s a man sitting on my sofa. Don’t get me wrong, he looks like he’s made himself at home, so he’s unlikely to be a burglar, but I’m alarmed by his presence nonetheless.
I approach him slowly, quietly, and see that he’s got one leg stretched out in front of him, resting on the coffee table. He’s drinking from a can – one from my fridge – and it looks like he’s helped himself to some olives too.
He looks up as I finally arrive in front of him.
Oh my gosh, it’s Nico. Nico from last night. Hank’s son.
‘Hi,’ he says – with a level of calm that only unsettles me further.
‘What are you doing in my house?’ I ask, cutting to the chase. ‘Are you… Have you… You’re not stalking me, are you?’
He cackles.
‘No, Sammie, I’m not stalking you,’ he replies. ‘I hate to break it to you, but based on our interactions last night, you didn’t exactly come off as someone I would want to track down and see again.’
‘None taken,’ I reply – assuming he meant to add a ‘no offence’ to the end of that. ‘So what are you doing in my house, feet up, eating my olives, drinking my drinks…’
‘What is this, by the way?’ he asks, holding the can up.
‘It’s kombucha.’
‘I thought it was pop,’ he says, pulling a face.
‘It is – it’s mango flavour. It’s better for you.’
‘It’s horrible,’ he informs me.
‘Well, I’m sorry the service isn’t up to standard, I’ll be sure to do better in the future,’ I reply, sarcasm turned up to the max. ‘Now, if you wouldn’t mind telling me what the fuck you’re doing here, if you’re not in fact a stalker?’
‘I’m waiting,’ he says simply.
‘Waiting? Waiting for what?’
‘For my dad. He asked me to pick him up.’
‘Your dad?’ I reply – once again repeating his words to him. ‘Is he out with my mum?’
Nico shakes his head and I can’t help but pull a face at him. What the hell is he on about?
‘Where are they?’ I ask.
He doesn’t say anything. Instead he just points… upstairs.
My eyes widen in horror.
‘No?!’ I gasp.
‘Yep,’ he says with a nod. He sips his drink again, then pulls a face. It says everything about his attitude that he somehow thought it was going to suddenly get better. ‘This is really not nice,’ he says again. ‘The olives are great though.’
‘So glad you like them. What do you mean – they’re upstairs? Together?’
I don’t actually care that he likes the olives, and I can only think of one reason why my mum and his dad would be upstairs together. But… if someone could give me any other reason, that would be great.
I close my eyes briefly and inhale through my nose, but when I open my eyes he’s still there. So I suppose that says a lot about my attitude too.
‘Tell me you’re joking,’ I say.
‘I’m not.’
‘My mum is upstairs,’ I say carefully, ‘with your dad.’
‘Yes.’
‘In my house.’
‘I would assume she’s in her own room, if that makes you feel any better?’
It does – but not much.
‘You look like you’ve had a rough day.’
Is he saying I look rough?
‘Well, some of us actually have difficult, tiring jobs, in the dirt,’ I point out.
‘Ooh, all right,’ he says. ‘I was just making conversation.’
‘Don’t,’ I say, sitting down on the floor, lest I muddy the furniture.
There’s no way I’m going up there while the two of them are – oh boy, I can hardly say it – at it.