But an hour later, it’s still showing as unread.
We do some chores and as a reward, I read Effie a few more pages of the reptile book. Suffice to say, her interest in snakes far exceeds mine. Secretly I hope this enthusiasm will be short-lived. Some of her interests endure; most don’t. All are intense, most are factual (Thomas the Tank Engine is a rarity). On the upside, it makes buying presents easy.
I’m rescued by a video call from my parents. It’s often scheduled on a Sunday, just before Mike is likely to arrive. In the rare event he turns up, Effie can blow them kisses and depart,but if he doesn’t, they happily distract her for a while. Today, Effie tells them all about her reptile book and finds a shared fan in my father, who recalls his own childhood love of herpetology. In nature, Effie is so unlike me and completely unlike Mike; I sometimes wonder where she got her genes. Then I see her interacting with my father and I go, “Oh, yeah.”
When the doorbell sounds, Effie’s head whips around, her eyes alight. She calls out a hurried goodbye to her grandparents and disconnects the call before running to the door. She’s still not tall enough to reach the lock, so she has to wait until I get there, her little foot tapping.
But outside is a delivery driver, hoping I’ll take my supermarket order early as he’s in the area. He’s pre-empted my agreement by unloading several crates. Effie’s mouth drops and she retreats. She’s not keen on strangers. While I haul my shopping to the kitchen area, she sits back down on the sofa, picking up the reptile book she’d been showing off to her grandpa. She’ll be telling Mike all about it as soon as he arrives, although I doubt he’ll be interested.
Mike likes footie, booze and sex. There is zero overlap with his daughter’s love of penguins, bridges, dolphins, Egyptian mummies, and now, snakes. Either Effie finds it impossible to fake enjoyment of football or it has never occurred to her to do so, but her disinterest is plain. Mike similarly shows little interest in Effie’s enthusiasms but he’s an adult (supposedly), while she’s a child.
She’s quiet as I put our groceries away. She doesn’t ask for treats as I bundle her lunchbox chocolate bars into a cupboard. Nor does she share chirpy comments on the pictures in her book or ask for help on a word she can’t puzzle out. I surreptitiously send Mike two more messages and shut myself in the loo to call him, but the call goes unanswered. Time ticks by toward lunch;Effie stays on the sofa while I move about preparing food. Still no Mike.
This will be the third visit in a row he’ll have missed. The first he cancelled. Fair enough. But the last was a no-show, which is where this one is rapidly heading. I put Effie’s sandwich on the table along with mine and we sit and eat while I make chitchat about her call with my parents to keep her distracted. Only when we’ve finished eating do I glance at my phone and say, “I don’t think Daddy’s going to make it today.”
Effie’s bottom lip trembles but she bites it. I see her thumb rubbing up and down her forefinger, the only other sign of her distress. She holds still while minutes pass. I let her have the space she needs. I know my daughter. I don’t offer false explanations or excuses or, even worse, hope. And I don’t force her into a hug, which comforts me more than her.
Finally, she turns to me with those large, luminescent blue eyes, the only physical trait she got from her father, and says, “He’s not a very good daddy, is he?”
And I can only regret once more the choices in my life that made Mike her dad. “No, sweetheart,” I say. “Sometimes he’s not.”
Setting Boundaries
Many articles have been written, and many courses run on becoming a successful entrepreneur. Most of those articles mention one key attribute that runs through all the founders of thriving businesses: perseverance. When I left my meeting with Anders on Friday, I had not considered this, but I am reminded of it as I set my bag down under my desk on Monday morning.
On my desk is a box with distinctive burnt orange packaging, stark against the pristine white surface. It’s unmissable to me or anyone else in the office who should walk on by. I recognise it immediately. I don’t even have to read the blocky lettering of the logo to know it’s one of the finest artisanal chocolatiers in London. It is actually my favourite chocolatier.
I check around, even under the box but there is no note. For one moment, I stand frozen. It has to be Anders though, right? A box this big is extortionate. It’s an extravagant gift. Or maybe it’s not a gift for me? Maybe he’s reconciled with Imogen and wants me to send this to her? But that doesn’t make sense. Anders is atech guru who could get this delivered with one click. It’s on my desk. It has to be for me.
Finally, I engage my brain. There’s no packaging, so it must have been hand-delivered. It's someone who works here, but if it’s one of the guys, that’s even more problematic than the mystery gift-giver being Anders. Whatever it is, whoever it is, it’s trouble. It would only take one employee to see it for tongues to start wagging and, unfortunately, too many of them would wag with salacious glee.
I’m bending over, rooting through my handbag, praying I’ve stuffed a foldaway bag in it somewhere, when I hear the worst possible words.
“Morning, Cora.”
I shoot up, my head missing the desktop by an inch. Steve of the Man-Bun, as Dana has dubbed him, is in front of my desk, a laptop bag strapped across their chest. Today, the topknot is missing, replaced with a sleek ponytail hanging between their shoulder blades. Their eyes lock straight onto the orange beacon sitting on my desk.
“Wow!” they say. “Your boyfriend must have stuffed up big time.”
“I’m single,” I correct automatically, then realise my mistake. There has to be a reason for expensive chocolates. If I don’t supply one, their imagination will.
“It’s a gift for a friend,” I lie. I hate lying. “I had it delivered here. So I can take it with me tonight.” That should work. Lots of our staff get stuff delivered here.
“Lucky fellow,” Steve says, tipping their head.
Damn Anders. A box of this size and value must be a token of interest. “Woman,” I correct. “It’s for a woman.”
“Oh!” Steve’s eyebrows rise. “I didn’t realise.”
Damn it. “A friend,” I add hastily. “She’s a friend. It’s a significant birthday… and she’s going through some stuff.” Please God, don’t let them pry any further.
Steve's smile breaks out. They really have a lovely smile. It’s just a shame about the ponytail. “I’m glad to hear that.” Then they catch themself. “That you’ve got a friend.” They obviously think again. “And not that she’s going through stuff.”
This is excruciating. “I was just looking for a bag to carry it in, but…” I trail off with a shrug.
“Oh, here.” They unzip their satchel and pull out a tote bag printed with the name of a chip manufacturer. They offer it to me. “Drop it back to me tomorrow.”
I don’t want to encourage them, but I can’t leave the box lying around much longer without it generating more attention. How many more lies would I have to tell? I take the bag, smiling my thanks, and shove the troublesome chocolates inside. When I’ve safely stashed it under my desk, I ask, “Did you want Anders?”
