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It’s because he was searching my face, looking for the girl he met last week, and clearly he couldn’t find her anywhere either.
‘So, how’s it all going?’ my dad wants to know on Saturday afternoon, eyes shining with excitement even through the phone screen as we FaceTime. ‘First week done! Are you settling in okay? Getting on alright with the others? Your new flatmates can’t be any worse than the last lot – thestateof that kitchen sink in your uni halls when we visited to pick you up for summer, honestly … Are they being nice to you? Inviting you to things, including you? What about your team – is your new manager giving you enough guidance?’
‘Dad,breathe.’
He does, taking an exaggerated, melodramatic breath so big it makes his cheeks puff out like a chipmunk, and comes sputtering back out of him in a laugh that’s warm and familiar. I’m exhausted, but that laugh revives me a little. I readjust my hold on thephone, tucking my knees up to my chest, and answer his questions in order.
Summer is creeping in lazily this year, filtering in at the very edges: a too-brief golden hour, and sudden and vibrant splashes of lush green leaves appearing on trees where they hadn’t been the day before, pale but bright dawns creeping earlier and earlier into the morning.
I’ve made an escape to St James’s Park for a little while. As I explain to my dad now over FaceTime, it’s not that I don’t like the other interns – but between seeing each other at work and sharing commutes and accommodation, it’s nice to have a little breathing space for a while.
Plus, I’ve been on edge all day, frazzled from a sleepless night replaying my confrontation with Lloyd and cursing myself for falling for his act last week and believing he could genuinely have liked me, when he obviously doesn’t want much to do with me at all. Which I must be making obvious because Elaine keeps asking if I’m okay, and I think if she does it one more time, I might break down and tell her everything. She seems lovely, but I’ve only known her a week – what if she blabs to everyone else?
Besides, I have to be better than this. I promised myself I’d get through this summer and not fall at thefirst hurdle – I just didn’t expect that hurdle to be a cute guy.
Obviously, I don’t mention the boy drama to my dad. Instead, I focus on the work stuff, pleased that I can give a good report there. I’ve started to get to work reviewing some projects alongside Laurie as a bit of a ‘practice run’ before I take the reins myself next week. So far, it’s been like learning to ride a bike with the stabilizers on.
When I say that, Dad laughs again. ‘And knowing you, you’re itching to get them off already. I’m sure you’ll have found your footing there before you know it, Anna, I wouldn’t stress too much.’
‘I know. I’m trying.’
Although what I actually want to tell him is that it’s not as easy as he seems to think. Sure, the Project Development team have taken on four interns over the past couple of summers so they must be used to having an amateur around, and sure, they gave me a thirty-nine slide PowerPoint of information explaining the sorts of tasks I’ll be doing with step-by-step flow diagrams … But they’re also currently a team-member down, run off their feet, and so used to having an intern around that the novelty has apparently worn off. I’ve noticed more than a couple of eyerolls if I ask them to explain something they deem obvious andbasic. I want to prove that I’m useful, that I can handle it – not sit around asking silly questions, a total inconvenience to everybody.
Plus – none of their previous interns made the cut for a graduate job afterwards. My manager, Michaela, joked to me that maybe I’ll be the first.
Imayhave taken it as a challenge.
I do tell Dad something that’s made it a little tricky to settle in – that, at random intervals throughout the week, we’re all corralled back into a single group and introduced to various teams or managers. It’s supposed to help us build a better understanding of all the cogs in the machine that is Arrowmile.
‘Let me guess,’ Dad tells me, his bushy eyebrows twisting upwards. ‘You’d rather just get your head down with a list of tasks.’
He’s not wrong, but I say, ‘Some of it’s been quite interesting. Like, the Senior Partner for the Marketing department was an intern five years ago. Five years ago! And now she’s leading the department! That’samazing. Her name’s Molly, and she’s agreed to get lunch with me next week so I can pick her brains, and –’
‘And see how that can be you, next?’
I don’t deny it, and Dad gives a small, affectionate chuckle as he shakes his head. My stomach knots asI think he’s about to make another comment about how like my mum I am, but all he says is, ‘There’ll be no stopping you, Annalise. Watch out, world.’
I smile, but I should’ve known it was too good to be true.
‘Your mum would be so proud of you,’ he says, and it takes all my willpower not to hang up the phone there and then.
Like I want her to be proud of me. Like it matters. Like Icare.
She forfeited any right to be proud of me when she picked her career over us, and walked out of our lives almost thirteen years ago. Who needs to be there for their daughter when they have a shiny, impressive, high-flying job that’s much more interesting to spend time with?
‘Have you told her about the internship?’ Dad presses, in a way that suggests he already knows the answer.
‘So that we finally have some common ground to talk about? No, thanks.’
Dad inclines his head in surrender and, thankfully, lets it drop.
He doesn’t need to know that part of me secretly hopes Mum might see the update on my LinkedIn profile about how I’m doing a prestigious internshipthis summer. I’m aware how pathetic it sounds that the only communication I might have with my own mother would be viaLinkedIn, of all things.
We chat a little while longer. I tell him a bit more about my week, then ask how my brothers are doing. Dad flips the camera around and takes me to the dining table, where my half-brothers Oliver and Christian are doing homework, so they can say hi.
They’resupposedto be doing homework, anyway. Oliver, who’s slightly older at nine, shoves a red Nintendo Switch under a sheaf of papers hastily. I try to smother a laugh, and hear Dad sigh. He rummages under some half-filled-in maths worksheets for it, prompting Oliver to mutter, ‘Thanks alot, Annie,’ because it’s apparently my fault (it usually is, but I know he never really means it).
Christian throws a plastic ruler at his brother. ‘Itoldyou you’d get caught. Dad, canIplay on the Switch later?’
