Page 4 of The Twilight Garden

Abby was silent, and Gemma could imagine what she was thinking. Perhaps even now mouthing at a colleague that it was Gemma on the phone and rolling her eyes in incredulity. Maybe it was obvious, but Gemma wanted to hear it straight.

‘So how come I didn’t know then?’ she pressed. ‘I didn’t think I’d taken my eye that far off the ball.’ She half said it in jest, waiting for Abby to jump in and tell her not to be silly, but the silence lengthened, and pretty soon it was all too evident that not only had Gemma not been able to see the ball, she hadn’t even been able to see the playing field.

‘I’m sorry, Gemma,’ said Abby eventually. ‘But you had other things on your mind, and it was just office tittle-tattle. I honestly thought you would have known.’ She paused. ‘So where does this leave you?’

Gemma gave a nervous laugh. ‘Looking for another job, I guess.’

Abby’s breath sounded heavy from the other end. ‘We’ve already replaced you, otherwise I’d… And it’s Rachel, you know, one of the graduate crop from a couple of years ago, so it’s not even like it’s someone new.’

‘Rachel? But she hasn’t got half the experience⁠—’

‘Gemma…’ interrupted Abby gently. ‘She’s been doing your job for the past year, to all intents and purposes. And she’s good, she’s⁠—’

‘I see… I didn’t realise. I thought I was still covering my accounts. I thought my clients understood my situation.’

‘They might have, Gemma, but that didn’t mean it didn’t inconvenience them. It didn’t mean they postponed their campaigns until you were ready to deal with them again. I had to cover you, put someone in place to do the work you couldn’t, have endless phone calls and meetings with them to reassure them that we, the agency, weren’t working any less hard on their behalf, and that our advertising strategies were just as dynamic as they always had been. Gemma, their business was worth hundreds of thousands of pounds to us. Did you really think we could just put all that on the back burner?’

‘No, but you said… I thought…’ Gemma swallowed. ‘You made it sound like everything was okay.’

‘And it was, because I made it okay. Gemma, I’m sorry. I know it sounds harsh, but I told you what you wanted to hear because you had enough on your plate and because… your work with us in the past counted for something.’

‘In the past?’ Gemma paused. ‘In the past, but not recently?’

There was an ominous silence from the other end of the phone.

‘Gemma, you know how it is in this game. People are only as good as their last successful campaign and it’s been a couple of years since you… In any case, to make that happen, work has to be your highest priority. All I’m saying is that, quite understandably, during the last little while, yours was not. I’m sure things will be different now, but…’

‘You can’t offer me a job.’

‘I can’t, I’m sorry. There aren’t any vacancies, but even if there was something at your level, business is business and I couldn’t comfortably recommend you for the type of role you’ve just left. The evidence to support any application just isn’t there.’

‘So what was I supposed to do? Let someone else care for my dying mother?’

‘Of course not, you did what you had to do. And God knows, it can’t have been easy. I couldn’t have done it, I know I couldn’t. It was probably the bravest and hardest thing you’ve ever had to do, and absolutely testament to the person you are. But you must have known there’d be… consequences.’

‘No, Abby, stupidly I didn’t. But that’s my fault, and my problem.’ She blinked rapidly, pressing her lips together for a few moments before she spoke. ‘Anyway, it’s good to talk to you, and thanks for your time, I quite understand.’

‘Look, Gemma…’ There was a sigh from the other end of the line. ‘I’ll keep my ears open, okay? And if I hear of anything, I’ll let you know.’

‘Thank you, that’s really kind, Abby— Oh, I’d better go, someone’s just rung the doorbell. Thanks again.’

Gemma hung up, staring at the front door, where there was, of course, no caller, no surprise visitor telling her she’d won a million pounds in the postcode lottery. If only. Wearily, she slid from the stool and flicked the switch on the kettle. Wasn’t tea the answer to everything?

It was tempting to give in, go to bed and let sleep, or what passed for it these days, provide a respite from the emotions assailing her. She wanted to cry. Or better yet, scream. Scream her indignation, anger, stupidity and naivety – all ably supported by the shifting foundation that was grief.

Prodding a teabag around her mug, it occurred to her that Abby wasn’t the only one with contacts. Gemma had spent years in advertising – she knew loads of people who could help, and… She closed her eyes and focused on her breathing. Who was she trying to kid? Yes, she had contacts, all of whom would know exactly what had happened to Leonard Associates, and would also doubtless know about Neil McPherson’s new agency and, by extension, her own fall from grace. She’d let people down over the last two years and, whether she’d had good reason to or not, in the cut-throat world in which she used to work, that counted for nothing. Gemma wasn’t entirely sure she’d ever been Somebody, but one thing was very clear: now she was Nobody.

Taking her drink back to the breakfast bar, she cradled the mug in her hands, taking comfort from its warmth. Abby had been right about one thing. Looking after her mum had been the bravest and the hardest thing she had ever done, and she’d succeeded in that at least. Not in keeping her mum alive, but in caring for her, right up until the end. She never once gave up, never once thought the task was beyond her, and she’d become a master at being resourceful, at solving problems and finding solutions born out of her own intuition. If anyone could find a way through her current predicament, it was her. She just had to apply some logic and a degree of lateral thinking to the problems.

It was as she was peering at several stray tea leaves in the bottom of her mug that she remembered the advertisement she’d seen in a magazine while waiting to see her doctor. She couldn’t recall it fully, hadn’t had the time to digest all the details, but she did recall the flicker of interest it had raised. Leaving her mug by the sink, she grabbed her coat and bag from the bottom of the banister, quickly giving her face a once-over in the hall mirror. It was still only the middle of the afternoon and the surgery was just a five-minute drive away.

The waiting room was still as full as when she had left it earlier, and she took a seat awkwardly, wondering how weird it would look to instantly be riffling through the magazines there. Far better to appear like any other patient waiting for their appointment and give it a few moments before casually perusing the stack on the table. She eyed it now, trying to decipher the titles from the limited view afforded her. It wasn’t a magazine she’d seen before but the cover was green, a landscape of rolling hills – she could remember that much. She folded her hands into her lap and adopted a suitably patient pose.

Her first foray into the stack offered her a gardening magazine, a golfing title, a copy of HELLO! magazine from three years ago and an issue of Good Housekeeping. Gemma chose the latter and flipped open the front cover while surreptitiously studying the waiting room to see what other people were doing. Most were glued to their phones, but two other people were reading and, like her, held their magazines flat in their laps, so there was no way Gemma could check the titles. She pretended to study a page with interest while the clock on the wall ticked on.

Half an hour later, Gemma was pretty certain the magazine she was looking for was no longer there. There’d been an occasion about ten minutes ago when the waiting room had miraculously almost emptied, four people being called within moments of one another. At that point, apart from herself, only one other remained, an elderly chap who was studying the gnarly bones of his hands and didn’t seem remotely interested in anything else that might be happening. Gemma took the opportunity to have a good rummage, but came up empty-handed and since then, more people had arrived. She was stumped. Eventually, chiding herself for being so ridiculous, she approached the reception desk.

The phone began to ring before Gemma was even halfway through her enquiry, and it was clear the receptionist hadn’t the time or inclination to be dealing with matters of a non-medical nature. Her reply was polite but dismissive, the wave of her hand indicating that Gemma should carry on looking. Gemma paused, gave a smile and moved to the next window to speak to a colleague in the dispensary.