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“What?” She looks up.
“My slide,” I gesture at it. “I’m trying to land on the right language, and I’m not quite sure I’m there. It’s about the importance of working with local state schools.”
Her expression flickers, just the tiniest amount, but it’s enough that I know something’s wrong. I’ve learnt to read Claire’s micro-expressions by now.
“What sort of input?”
“I just want your opinion on whether this will make sense to the board. How to phrase it to the audience.”
“I mean— I don’t really know anything about… you know… those kinds of people.” She waves her hand. “Like the fancy people on the board. I’m not like them. They’re not the sort of people I want to be.” She trails off looking flushed.
I frown. What? Of course I know she’s not like them.
“Claire. I meant because you work in marketing. You literally make presentations for a living.”
“Oh.” Her face goes pink. “Right. Yes. That.”
I walk over and sit next to her. The picture she’s painting is of Ashcroft, rendered in broad brushstrokes. She’s painting it as it was a few weeks ago, with golden leaves falling, a few on the pavement outside the gates.
“That’s beautiful by the way.” I gesture to the picture. “But I have to ask, what did you think I meant?”
“Nothing. Sorry.” Claire doesn’t look at me. “I was just being stupid.”
I put an arm over her shoulder. “What’s wrong?”
She exhales, and her shoulders sag with the breath. “I thought you wanted my advice because… because I come from a ‘certain kind’ of family. Which is exactly what Mum always says I should leverage. I don’t want you asking me something because of that.”
I hate that she still sees herself like this sometimes, she’s so much more than her “family”, but it’s hard to break patterns that have gone on for years.
“That’s not what I meant at all.” I press a kiss to her hair.
“I know,” she winces. “Sometimes I just get defensive and it comes out before I can stop it.”
The pair of us sit in silence for a moment. I don’t want to push her to say anything more, I just want her to know that I’m here. And I’m always willing to listen.
She takes my laptop and turns it towards herself. “Let me take a look.”
She flicks through all of the slides and then back to the top, expression focussed.
“Your hierarchy’s all wrong.”
“My what?”
She gives me a look. “Tom. Nobody is reading a slide with three paragraphs, four bullet points and a chart all competing for attention.”
“I thought the chart looked nice.”
It does look nice. I used colours. My favourite colours: bright yellow, deep blue, a vibrant green. It’s eye-catching… I think.
Before I can protest she’s already moving things around. Half the text disappears.
“Oi.”
“You don’t need it.”
“You haven’t even read it.”
“I don’t need to.” Claire shrinks a textbox. “You’re presenting this. If it’s important you’ll say it. The slide should support you, not replace you.”
