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I fume. As if he’ll free up my time. I’m just going to end up doing double the work.
“It’s actually impressive how consistently crap they are to us at this point. Just because I’m nice and get along with people doesn’t mean I’m a total pushover.”
Alicia laughs bitterly. “I guess you’ve just got to be mediocre in the right way for things to go well.”
I stay silent. I want to tell her she’s brilliant. That she’s better than half the management team combined. But she already knows that. The problem is, so does everyone else.
And Jack is distinctly not brilliant.
I can’t believe they’re just shifting my project. Four months of groundwork, all of it about to vanish into a handover email to Stephen, who will present it as a fully formed plan that occurred to him in the shower.
And the worst part is that I’d wanted to ask for more. This morning, still buoyed by my second session with Dr Pratesh, I’d drafted an email to Damien, our design lead, with some pieces I’d been working on for the cancer research campaign. But apparently if you wait too long to be brave, the world helpfully removes the opportunity.
“I need distracting from this before I break something. Is that a good book?” Alicia asks.
I hold it up so she can see the cover. “It’s about the American Revolution.”
She squints. “That’s… not what I expected from a casual break room read.”
“I needed something soothing.” I put the book down, marking the page. “So I picked a time period with powdered wigs, bayonets, and a complete breakdown of colonial rule.”
She chuckles. “Relaxing. Like aromatherapy, but with more musket fire.”
“Exactly.”
Her brown eyes twinkle. “Only you would call eighteenth-century political upheaval ‘soothing’.”
“I like history.” I shrug. “At least in history you know how things end.”
And I find the language in non-fiction books easier to read. Sometimes with my dyslexia I find some of the flowery phrases and convoluted descriptions in fiction make following the sentences more difficult. Nothing like that in my American Revolution tome. Just nice basic language and the occasional graph.
“Well let’s cross our fingers for Jack.” She salutes me and I giggle.
“Claire, do you have a moment?” John, one of the senior partners, leans into the room. “I wanted to chat with you about changing projects.”
“Sure.” I give up on my attempts to soothe myself with revolutionary history and send Alicia a quick eyebrow raise when he can’t see.
Fifteen minutes, and multiple apologies from management later, I’m back at my desk. I open a new email to Stephen, attach everything, write a clear bullet point summary and type “Happy to talk any of this through!” before staring at the exclamation mark. I remove it. Add it again. Remove it. Then send it.
Next I open a folder of previous school rebranding campaigns and start cramming. Instead of screening data, it’s curriculum structures, competitor schools and website templates. They’ve put me in a strategy role, meaning I have to sit in lessons, interview students, and try to shape the “school story”. No amount of pottery classes is going to make me feel less annoyed about this.
We start at Ashcroft in a week and I already feel out of my depth.
Chapter 22
Tom
Acup of coffee appears in front of me, and I look up to see James standing by my desk.
“Are you alright, Fordy?” He nudges the coffee towards me. He’s like my caffeine based fairy godmother, always appearing at my desk with a drink just at the right moment.
“Yeah,” I mumble. “Late night. I ended up staying up past midnight finishing off some essays and editing this presentation. I just want it to work.”
James was right, the setback from a few weeks ago has just fuelled my desire to get the board to agree with me when I present to them at the end of term. If anything, I’ve become more bull-headed with my plans. I’ve spoken to teachers from other schools, I’ve badgered someone from accounts into talking to me again about the financial aspects of the facilities outreach programme, and I’ve got testimonials from the charity where I work.
“This time will be your time,” James says supportively.
“I’m pretty sure you’ve said that before,” I scoff.
