ONE DAY(79)

‘Okay, well what else is coming up?’

‘Nothing.’

‘Nothing?’

‘There’s this thing where they have robots fighting and you have to sort of introduce the robots . . .’

‘Why do the robots fight?’

‘Who can say? It’s in their nature, I suppose. They’re aggressive robots.’

‘I don’t think so.’

‘Okay. Car show on Men and Motors?’

‘What, satellite?’

‘Satellite and cable’s the future, Dex.’

‘But what about terrestrial?’

‘It’s just a little quiet out there.’

‘It’s not quiet for Suki Meadows, it’s not quiet for Toby Moray. I can’t walk past a television without seeing Toby-bloody-Moray.’

‘That’s TV, Dex, it’s faddy. He’s just a fad. You were the fad, now he’s the fad.’

‘I was a fad?’

‘You’re not a fad. I just mean you’re bound to have ups and downs, that’s all. I think you need to think about a change of direction. We need to change people’s perception of you. Your reputation.’

‘Hang on – I have a reputation?’

Emma sits in the low leather chair and waits and waits, watching the office at work, feeling a slightly shameful envy of this corporate world and the smart-ish, young-ish professionals who occupy it. Water Cooler envy, that’s what it is. There’s nothing special or distinctive about this office, but compared to Cromwell Road Comp, it’s positively futuristic; a sharp contrast to her staffroom with its tannin-stained mugs, torn furniture and surly rotas, its general air of grouchiness and complaint and dissatisfaction. And of course the kids are great, some of them, some of the time, but the confrontations these days seem more frequent and more alarming. For the first time she has been told to ‘talk to the hand’, a new attitude that she finds hard to reason with. Or perhaps she’s just losing her knack, her motivation, her energy. The situation with her headmaster certainly isn’t helping.

What if life had taken a different route? What if she had persevered with those letters to publishers when she was twenty-two? Might it have been Emma, instead of Stephanie Shaw, eating Pret A Manger sandwiches in a pencil skirt? For some time now she has had a conviction that life is about to change if only because it must, and perhaps this is it, perhaps this meeting is the new start. Her stomach churns once more in anticipation as the PA puts down her phone and approaches. Marsha will see her now. Emma stands, smoothes down her skirt because she has seen people do it on television, and enters the glass box.

Marsha – Miss Francomb? – is tall and imposing, with aqualine features that give her an intimidating Woolfish quality. In her early forties, her grey hair cropped and brushed forward Soviet-style, her voice husky and commanding, she stands and offers her hand.

‘Ah you must be my twelve-thirty.’

Emma squeaks a reply, yes, that’s right twelve-thirty, though technically it was meant to be twelve-fifteen.

‘Setzen Sie, bitte hin,’ says Marsha, unaccountably. German? Why German? Oh well, best play along.

‘Danke,’ Emma squeaks again, looks around, settles on the sofa, and takes in the room: trophies on shelves, framed book covers, souvenirs of an illustrious career. Emma has the overwhelming feeling that she shouldn’t be here, doesn’t belong, is wasting this redoubtable woman’s time; she publishes books, real books that people buy and read. Certainly Marsha isn’t making it easy for her. A silence hangs in the air as she lowers the venetian blinds then adjusts them so that the exterior office is obscured. They sit in the half-light, and Emma has the sudden feeling that she is about to be interrogated.

‘So sorry to have kept you waiting, it’s unbelievably busy, I’m afraid. I’m only just able to fit you in. I don’t want to rush this. With something like this it’s so important to make the right decision, don’t you think?’

‘It’s vital. Absolutely.’

‘Tell me how long have you been working with children?’

‘Um, let me see, ’93 – about five years.’

Marsha leans forward, impassioned. ‘And do you love it?’

‘I do. Most of the time, anyway.’ Emma feels as if she’s being a little stiff, a little formal. ‘When they’re not giving me a hard time.’

‘The children give you a hard time?’

‘They can be little bastards sometimes, if I’m honest.’

‘Really?’

‘You know. Cheeky, disruptive.’

Marsha bridles, and sits back in her chair. ‘So what do you do, for discipline?’

‘Oh, the usual, throw chairs at them! Not really! Just the usual stuff, send them out the room, that kind of thing.’

‘I see. I see.’ Marsha says no more, but emanates deep disapproval. Her eyes return to the papers on the desk, and Emma wonders when they’re going to actually start talking about the work.

‘Well,’ says Marsha, ‘I have to say, your English is much better than I expected.’

‘I’m sorry?’

‘I mean, you’re fluent. It’s like you’ve been in England all your life.’

‘Well . . . I have.’