I bristle at his words and try not to show it. Is there anything he should know? The obvious answer is no. My life away from the office is none of his damned business. Of course there’s nothing he should know. There are things he could know – but that isn’t what he asked.
The first page shows the company’s sales since the beginning of the year. I’m rock-bottom – and not by a little bit. I’ve got a third of the sales of Mark, who’s at the top; and only a little bit over half of what Claire has done. She’s second from bottom. I’m the very bottom of the chasm. After me, there’s zero. Natasha is only a little below Mark, the complete cow.
The second of the A4 sheets is an annual report of my sales in terms of pounds. It’s steady for the first few years and then starts a slow decline until the final year – this one – which is like a lemming plunging from a cliff.
So, no, there’s nothing he should know – but I need some way of explaining this utter shambles.
‘My husband and I are separating,’ I say.
It’s the second time in as many minutes that I’ve surprised him and Graham almost falls off his seat. I’m not quite sure what he was trying to do but I think it was to appear intimidating but he leant forward at the wrong time, his elbow slipping off the desk and almost sending him head first into the keyboard. He just about catches himself and then straightens his shirt as if it never happened.
‘Oh,’ he replies. ‘Well, I suppose I know something about that…’
‘I’ve not told many people.’
Graham relaxes into his seat and takes a large breath. I wonder if he was going to fire me, or simply rant and rave for a bit. He’s never been the best motivator and his man-management is along the lines of having a few in the pub after work alongside a tipsy ‘sort it out’. Either that or a shoutathon in his office.
The red is fading from his cheeks and it feels like I’ve avoided the worst of the telling-off. He’d probably spent the morning building up to this, so it’ll be a let-down for him.
He runs a hand across his scalp and there’s a moment where I wonder if he might be about to try it on with me. Ask me out for a drink, or something. By anyone’s standards, it would be fast work.
That’s not it at all, though. It’s wishful thinking that anyone might look at me in that way and there’s an odd ambiguity that I don’t want anything to happen with Graham – but I’d still appreciate that feeling of being wanted.
Graham stares off to the side at his wall of photos of himself. He takes a few seconds, probably considering his words. He slumps slightly in his chair and sighs.
‘Do you need time?’ he asks. ‘I know I did after me and Isobel broke up.’
His sudden sadness is such a shift of direction that I’m lost for words. He’s shrunk in front of me and the red in his face has faded back to flesh.
‘I, um…’ It’s such a surprising offer that I have no idea how to respond. I think it’s startled him as well.
‘It’s fine if you do. I didn’t realise you were having problems.’
‘Perhaps in the future,’ I say. ‘I’m okay for the moment. I know things haven’t been going well this year but I’m hoping things will settle down.’
He examines me carefully and then nods slowly. ‘If you’re sure.’
‘I think work will help take my mind off everything. It’s been a complicated few months as we try to sort everything out.’
He snorts. ‘At least you’ve got your own job. Isobel took half of everything – and she hadn’t worked a day in her life. Shouldn’t be allowed.’
I say nothing, not wanting to point out that running a home is a job as well. I know Graham owns a house that an estate agent would describe as ‘spacious’, so keeping that in a decent state would take plenty of hours.
I gently slide the chair backwards. ‘I’ll try calling that Declan again,’ I say.
‘If there’s anything else I can do…’
I’m already out of the chair when it strikes me that if ever there was a time to ask a tricky question, then it’s now. Graham is rarely in this forlorn a mood as it is, let alone when he’s feeling sorry specifically for me.
‘Can I ask something?’ I say.
He nods, hard to read.
I touch the papers that I’ve left on his desk. ‘I know this isn’t the best time what with this and all…’
‘Speak now or forever hold your peace.’
‘It’s just… with me separating from Dan… managing my money’s going to be a bit different.’
His eyes narrow and then he rocks back as he realises what I’m after. ‘You’re asking for a raise?!’
‘I know my figures are leaning the wrong way, but perhaps if I can hit some targets, we could decide on a bonus? That sort of thing. Dan’s going to have his money and I’ll have mine. My daughter’s eighteen now, so child support isn’t really in play – and then we have to figure out what to do with the house. I think—’
He holds up a hand to stop me. ‘I’ve been through all this with Isobel,’ he says. ‘I don’t need to hear it all again.’ He bites his lip, shakes his head, but it’s more in pity than annoyance. ‘Look, I’ll think about it. You sort your numbers out and I’ll see what I can do.’ He nods at the door. ‘Now, for the love of God, go sell some systems.’
Chapter Seventeen
Considering there was a moment where I thought I might get fired, almost negotiating a pay rise isn’t a bad outcome. Perhaps I do have some sales skills remaining after all. Admittedly, I had to throw about the ‘poor me’ routine – but others have done far worse than that to gain a lot less. It’s true as well. Money after the separation will be an issue. One of many to add to the list of my current concerns.
There’s a couple of hours in the afternoon where I almost forget the whole waking-up-in-a-field-thing. I fire off a few emails to current clients that are friendly enough, making sure they’re happy and so on. It’s a potential minefield because, if there are problems, I’m opening myself to getting chapter and verse about it. I’d sacrifice that for being able to upgrade even one of them to a better package.
After that, I email Declan to ask if he has any further questions from our meeting yesterday – and then send a few cold emails to companies who I think might be interested in what we’re selling. I search for upcoming trade conferences and forward a couple of links to Graham, suggesting that I could represent the business there.
It’s all basic stuff – but it’s better than the motions I’ve been going through over the past few weeks.
It’s four o’clock when my phone buzzes with a text from Olivia.
Sry 4 overeactin last nite
At first I read it as ‘over-eating’ – which would be incredibly unlike her. I’ve worried plenty in the past over whether she could be bulimic or anorexic. There are so many stories about how hard it is for young people nowadays. It was bad enough when I was young, with the magazine photos of models and the like. But now, with social media and the way everyone’s life is shared, it’s so much worse for young people like Olivia. As it is, I don’t think she has had any actual eating disorder, it’s simply that she goes out of her way to keep herself slim. Nothing wrong with that, of course, if that’s her choice.
When I do get the correct meaning, it’s still out of character. Olivia isn’t usually one for apologising – and certainly not to me. Her motto seems to be, ‘Never apologise, never explain’. She’d make a good spy.
My thumbs feel fat as I struggle to tap out a reply. I press more than one letter at the same time and autocorrect is being as unhelpful as usual. I get there in the end.
Nothing to apologise for. Any sign of Tyler?
She replies almost instantly:
No. Was hoping u cud drive me round l8r