After the End(92)

I don’t speak for a second, somewhat floored by this lecture. The mention of Blair’s swim club, and my pathetic excuse to avoid helping out, makes me feel even more of a dick.

Blair grins. “I know, I’m like your mom, right?”

“Oh no. You’re much, much worse.” I pause. “So . . . I guess I’m a decorator.” I feel a tiny stab of nerves. Painting Nancy’s friends’ condos was something to do to fill the time, a way of putting some cash in Mom’s pocket. I didn’t have to rely on it for a steady income.

“I guess so.”

Until now.

“I can’t rely on Nancy’s impressive black book forever.”

“You need a plan.”

“I do.”

“If only you knew someone who had experience in strategic change.” Blair sighs. “Someone, say, who’d won project of the year in 2011 and 2012 . . .”

“Touché.”

“Shall we get the bill? Seems you’ve got work to do.”



* * *





It is a hundred times easier to write a plan for someone else’s business than for your own. I delete a dozen attempts, do the math a dozen more times. It takes three weeks, another lunch with Blair, a whole load of cursing, and the return of my old nemesis, Fear of Failure, but I walk into the bank with projected figures, a SWOT analysis, and evidence of demand, and walk out with a loan big enough for a van, a marketing campaign, and a new set of brushes. Max Adams Decorating Services is in business. I walk out, too, with something I’ve not had in a long time. Pride.

I send Blair some flowers. It feels like the least I can do, after she gave me the kick up the ass I needed. I attach a card. One good turn deserves another. Count me in for your Thursday-night swim club.





forty-two





Pip


   2015


I’m sorry, sir, there’s nothing else I can do.”

“But I’ve flown with you for more than twenty years!”

“We’re grateful for your loyalty, sir, but the Met Office issued a fog warning and—”

My customer, a man in his sixties, with a loud shirt and wide lapels on his suit jacket, flings out an arm towards the exterior doors. “Fog? Does that look like fog?”

“The fog is clearing,” I say patiently, “but unfortunately we now have a backlog of passengers—”

“A backlog?” The man appears to be hell-bent on repeating everything I say. He turns to the queue behind him, like a barrister addressing the jury. “Hear that? We’re a ‘backlog’ apparently. That’s great customer service.”

“I can offer you these refreshment vouchers with our compliments—”

“Vouchers!”

I just stop myself rolling my eyes, instead keeping a neutral expression on my face until the loud-shirted man eventually runs out of steam. He takes the vouchers and goes off to grumble somewhere else for the six-hour predicted delay before his rescheduled flight.

Not everyone takes the news so badly.

“More time for Christmas shopping,” says one passenger with a grin.

“We can’t control the weather,” says another.

I check in a heavily pregnant woman and her partner, scanning the doctor’s letter to make sure the dates fit. “I’ll move you to an aisle seat,” I tell her. “Make sure you walk around at least every thirty minutes, and drink lots of water.”

“Told you.” Her partner nudges her.

“She doesn’t think I should fly at all,” the pregnant woman says to me, “but it’s my brother’s wedding, and it’s Antigua, for God’s sake—this might be my last proper holiday for years.”

I laugh. “It might well be.” I tap my keyboard, checking availability on their flight. “Look, I can’t do anything in upper class, but if I bump you up to premium you’ll have a bit more leg room.”

“Thank you!” They grin like kids let out of school early, their joy infectious.

“Have a great time.” I print their boarding passes and hand back their passports. “And good luck with the birth.”

“And you!” The pregnant woman nods towards my bump, which—at twenty weeks—is now unmistakable, as though my coming clean about the pregnancy were permission enough to balloon.

My shift is coming to an end, when I see Lars standing nearby. He checks his watch—he’s waiting for someone. I feel my cheeks colouring, and I hide them in conversation with the girl taking over from me, but he’s still there when I slide out of my seat and pick up my bag. I’m conscious of my bump, feeling more ashamed than ever of the last time we met. Yes, I tried to kiss you. Yes, I’m married. Yes, I’m pregnant as well. Surprise!

“Hi!” Lars walks towards me and drops an air kiss by one cheek. “Your friend Jada told me your news. I thought I’d drop by to say congratulations.”

“Oh! Thanks.” He was waiting for me.

“I wondered if you had time for a coffee.”

“I have a hospital appointment.” I point to my bump, abdicating responsibility for my availability, and thus avoiding the risk of an awkward conversation about what happened in Johannesburg.