Chapter 6 #2
As soon as I’d seen a sobbing Ginny, I knew the likely problem.
We’re too small to have a proper human resources unit.
The head of department would normally deal with this sort of problem, except this problem was the head of department.
It had to go to Anders. And Anders needed a witness in case anything was said that warranted disciplinary action.
Still, my imagination is running overtime. Visions of a tearful Effie, her bottom lip trembling at my abandonment, loom large. I can picture the silent accusation in her eyes. The fear her mother is becoming as unreliable as her father; her safe world falling apart.
By the time I pull up at the after-school club, I’m expecting the worst. Any hopes that maybe she’s curled up on a beanbag lost in her reptile book are dashed as I walk through the door.
Effie is standing at the table, her coat on, her schoolbag and lunchbox at her feet.
Her face is set, mouth clamped tight shut, as if she dare not open it.
Her face is turned toward the clock. She ignores me, acting as if she hasn’t noticed my flustered arrival or my profuse apologies to the staff member.
“I’m so sorry!” I exclaim. “There was an issue at work.”
The playworker shrugs. She probably hears the same excuse every day.
“It’s okay,” she says, letting me off the hook.
I’m not one of her regular offenders and there is another child awaiting collection.
I’m not the last parent. Effie, though, is not so understanding.
She pulls out of my hand as I try to take hers.
Four-year-olds can only feel. They cannot understand what they feel, and even Effie, smart as she is, lacks the words to articulate emotions.
Conversely, her fear of my rejection results in her rejection of me.
We walk out of the building side by side but not touching.
When she is in her car seat, as I hand her the earphones, Effie unwinds enough to say, “Bad Mummy.”
My heart plummets. Bad mother, bad friend, and only moderately good employee.
I consider piling on her misery by stopping at a supermarket but that might push Effie over the edge.
She doesn’t have meltdowns that much anymore as we have both got better at avoiding them.
But the noise and lights and people for an already stressed child would be too much. Better to add bad hostess to my résumé.
The feeling of being a terrible mother doesn’t diminish as I empty fish fingers and potato wedges out of their packaging onto a baking tray.
I bang them in the oven, rushing Effie’s meal with fast food items. She sits at the table eating alone, as I’m due to eat later with Dana and Fiona.
They’ve got a babysitter for Max and are coming over for a grown-ups-only meal.
It’s a chance for me to give a little back to our friendship.
“What was the best thing that happened today?” I ask so Effie can’t answer with one word. But Effie isn’t biting. She knows how to hold a grudge. She gives me a look of scorching contempt.
“So, what was the worst thing?” I try, hoping the opportunity to vent overrides her self-imposed vow of silence. No chance.
I rack my brains to think of anything about my day that might interest her but draw a blank. I consider making something up but if Effie does respond, her curiosity is often greater than my knowledge. If she discovers I’m lying, she’ll trust me even less.
Irritatingly, she would have forgiven her father by now.
And I get it. I’m supposed to be the reliable one.
So my offence when I let her down is greater.
But it doesn’t stop me from feeling aggrieved too.
Effie finishes her food and pushes her plate away but I won’t let her get away with this, even if she is mad at me.
“Don’t forget your plate,” I remind her.
I can see the lift of her shoulders as she draws in a deep breath, as if she’s only just hanging on. Then she stands and brings her plate to the drainer above the dishwasher before she turns her back.
“Do you have any homework?” I ask.
“Done,” she mutters, walking toward her room. “While you weren’t there.” I wince and let her go. Sometimes Effie needs time alone in her cave. I give her space.
Alone in the kitchen, I contemplate my empty cupboards, racking my brains for inspiration for something I can possibly serve Fiona. There isn’t even enough potato wedges left over.
I’m searching online for recipes with crackers when the door buzzer sounds.
I open the door. An older man in a shabby puffer jacket stands on my doorstep, holding two large boxes. “Delivery. What name?” he asks.
“Cora Mills,” I say, struggling to recall what I might have ordered.
He stretches out his arms, and on autopilot, I take the load. It’s heavy. And warm. Then, the delivery man turns and is gone before I register the logo on the boxes. It’s an upmarket restaurant where Anders often takes investors.
“Wait,” I call out. “These aren’t for me.” But like a snowflake on a warm car bonnet, he’s vanished.
What now? I put the boxes on the table and pick up my phone. The restaurant takes an age to answer.
“I’ve just had a delivery,” I explain.
“Is something wrong with it?” a smooth voice asks. This is not the sort of place that assumes the customer is an idiot.
“It’s somebody else’s. I didn’t order anything from you.” I’m anxious that someone is expecting their food – enough for a party judging by the weight – and isn’t going to get it.
“Let me check,” he says, unruffled, unlike me. “Perhaps you might give me your name?” His tone is respectful, as if he is asking for the ultimate intimate disclosure.
I give it, expecting the restaurant ma?tre d’ to realise the restaurant’s mistake immediately. But he recites my address back to me.
“That’s my address,” I confirm dumbly.
“Then everything is in order.”
“But I didn’t order this!” A growing sense of desperation in my words.
Then a cold shiver goes through me. Or what if this is someone’s idea of revenge?
You see it in movies. I can’t afford this.
“What’s the name on the payment card?” I whisper, terrified I’m going to lose my holiday fund on something so fleeting.
“Anders Anderson the Third.”
Relief is rapidly followed by anger. I’m going to dismember him. Okay. No, I’m not. He is my boss. But I will have words. Which part of ‘No gifts’ did he misunderstand?
“Is everything in order, Ms Mills?”
“Um, yes.” What else can I say? There’s nothing he can do about this.
“Then I hope you enjoy your food. Good evening.” And the line drops, revealing the time on my phone. The boxes will have to wait until after Effie’s bath and bed.
Bath time with Effie is normally full of chatter as she tells me about her latest passion.
But today’s is a sullen affair. Effie is still punishing me.
I flip-flop between beating myself up, resenting being harshly judged for a rare infraction, and fuming at Anders's violation of my rules. If he thinks this will get me to accept his proposal, he’s so far wide of the mark he’s in the next county.
Effie declines my offer to read to her with a mute shake of her head. Then she hides her face in her reptile book. “Ten minutes only, and then sleep,” I say, leaving her to it.
Back in the kitchen, the boxes still sit unopened on the table.
After looking at them for some time, trying to decide what to do, I fetch a knife and slit the tape holding the box shut.
Might as well see what’s inside. The top raises, revealing a stack of cardboard bowls with clear plastic lids.
I spot hummus with a swirl of golden liquid, labneh with a grey-green herby za’atar, bronze-blistered flatbread.
There are more dishes I don’t recognise but it’s enough to feed a dozen people at least.
My hands drop to my sides. Mezze. Anders has sent mezze for my friends. I’m not insensitive to the thoughtfulness that underlies the gift, inappropriate as it is. The anger leaves my body in a breath.
The door buzzer sounds again. For one moment I hope the restaurant has discovered its mistake, but sense returns and I realise it’s only Dana and Fiona. They follow me into the kitchen, Fiona’s eyes alighting on the boxes.
“What are these?” she asks, her breathy tone a reflection of her admiration. She recognises the logo and, as a chef, she understands the significance.
I wince. “They’re from Anders. For tonight.”
Before they can interrogate me, I escape to check on Effie.
She’s asleep, her book still propped open on the bed before her face.
Her long lashes lie still on her cheek, so dark they look like they were drawn in brushstrokes of ink.
Strands of her dead-straight dark hair hide her ears.
With her light eyes covered, she’s almost a clone of me.
But the physical resemblance is all there is.
In character, she’s not at all like me. Parenting Effie is like trying to find buried treasure without a map. I hope to goodness I don’t screw it up.
I switch off her bedside lamp; a nightlight glows softly in the corner. Closing the door softly behind me, I make my way to the kitchen.
Fiona has unpacked the boxes for me. A plethora of tubs and three bottles of prosecco sit on the table. It’s a feast.
“Do you think he got a smidgen too much?” Dana comments as she surveys the spread.
“This could feed a trio of rugby players. Who does he think we are?” I can only agree.
Putting half a dozen tubs in the fridge hardly seems to make a dent in the amount of food.
I shrug her comment off and start assembling plates and knives.
“What’s this?” Dana says. I have no idea, but I’m saved from answering as she dips her finger into the sauce before licking it. “Honey,” she announces. “But with something in it. It’s delish. What’s the lump?” She points to the block in the centre, white with golden patches.
“Halloumi,” Fiona tells her.
“I’ve never tasted anything like it,” Dana says, an apologetic look at her partner.
Fiona looks over the banquet on the table. “Did you give him a blow job?” She laughs.
An image bursts in my mind. I’ve seen him shirtless only once, changing before an interview.
It was a glimpse, a few seconds max but my brain apparently grabbed the image and shoved it into long-term storage.
Because I see him now, his blue eyes gleaming, tawny chest hair curling between the slight mounds of his pectorals.
One dead straight line of hair passing between the shadows of his ribs, downwards over his taut stomach.
His black jeans strain to contain his erection as he says, “I’m gonna need you to suck this. ”
It’s so comical I should be laughing. Except heat floods through me.
I feel myself burning. I’m aroused. Jesus!
What is happening to me? I’ve never so much as ogled Anders before and now, I’m full-on fantasising about fellating him?
I’m horrified with myself. And that horror must show on my face because Fiona’s laugh stops dead.
“Oh my God! You didn’t, did you?” Dana is half hopeful, half astounded.
Trying to pass off the heat in my cheeks as embarrassment, rather than arousal, I recover enough to muster outrage. “I’d never do that. He’s my boss!”
Fiona glances between the two of us and steps in. “It would be a crime to let all this get cold. We should eat.” She picks up a plate and starts loading it with food.
Dana and I join her. But Anders has to stop. I need to have a serious talk with him about acceptable behaviour. Right after I’ve had one with myself.