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Just so I can boast about it to people who might give me a job. But that’s different.
‘I’m ambitious so I can get a good job and do everything right and soIdon’t have to abandon my family like you did. Not so I can sit in for Karren Brady onThe Apprentice.’
She whispers, in a very small and faraway voice, ‘That’s not quite confirmed yet.’
‘See? You just don’t care! Do you? You never did! But, what, now you think I’m successfulenough, you want to take the credit for it? Boast about how you’ve got an ambitious daughterjust like youto make yourself seem even better in the papers and stuff?’
I’ve always secretly hoped she’d notice the things I posted online and see how well I was doing without her – in spite of her. But this isn’t satisfying like I thought it would be. It just makes me resent her.
Mum stares at me, aghast. ‘Anna!’
The waiter has approached our table again but I notice him hesitate, thinking better of stepping into the middle of this right now.
I gather up my bag and cardigan, hands trembling as they ball into tight fists around my things. ‘If you were thinking of giving me an early birthday present, I think I’d like the same as I had for my sixteenth birthday – for you toleave me alone.’
I’m shaking as I stand up, doing my best to hold my head high as I storm out without even ordering my lunch. Mum calls after me, standing, too, but I ignore her. She ignored me for long enough, didn’t she? Maybe she should know what that feels like.
I’d never speak to Gina like this.
But what good is having an absentee mother who suddenly wants to treat you like a grown-up if you can’t talk back to her?
It’s Friday night, so I should be doing something fun and exciting. I should be out at a club with my friends, sipping cocktails while I flaunt my ID to a bartender, having fun and enjoying the summer before I have to go back to uni.
But the last year hasn’t offered up any evidence that I enjoy clubs, so I made some excuses to avoid a big night out with everybody tonight. Plus, they’re still hung up on the exciting reveal of who my mum is, and I don’t think I can stomach another round of questions about her. When I check Instagram Stories and see some of the other interns having a fun night in a dark place with flashing lights, packed with sweaty, shouting bodies, I’m relieved I’m not there having to pretend I’m having a better time than I actually am.
Instead, I’m in a place that’s much more comfortable.
When it’s empty at night like this, the Arrowmile offices remind me a bit of the library at uni. Sometimes I stayed late to prep for an exam or test, but most of the time I went just so I didn’t have to deal with the party girls I lived with. Between nine o’clock at night and around two in the morning, when I’d normally find myself there, it was always almost empty, with a few other lone souls or insomniacs wandering the stacks or settled down in a booth with their feet up and earbuds in. There was a camaraderie between those of us in the library that late, even if we never spoke and rarely exchanged eye contact.
Once or twice, I fantasized that I’d see a cute boy there, and we’d meet each other’s gaze and smile, and share a little moment, and then maybe after a few more times of seeing each other around we’d start a conversation, and he’d be someone like me, someone who understood me, and it’d be a sweet, romantic connection that would spark a real relationship.
Those kinds of daydreams were only in my most exhausted and sleep-deprived moments, though. More actual dreams than daydreams, really.
I must be in a similar state tonight to be thinking about it, and to find myself drifting away from my desk and the work I’ve somehow let pile upagain. It really is never-ending; I don’t know how anybody here does it.
I head for the lift, my empty mug in hand. When the doors open and I step out onto the twelfth floor, my eyes are already seeking him.
And he’s there.
Somehow, I think I knew he would be.
Tonight, unlike the last time our paths crossed late at night like this in the office, the lights are on. I see Lloyd in the kitchenette, filling the kettle up; he doesn’t seem to have noticed the sound of the lift or my arrival, but when I hesitate, suddenly not sure what to say or do or why I even came up here looking for him, he looks over.
He looks … not pleased to see me.
To put it lightly.
A frown settles on his face and a muscle ticks in his jaw.
But at least he doesn’t tell me to go away. Instead, he sighs, like he was almost expecting this too, and adds some more water into the kettle, gesturing for me to set my empty mug beside his on the counter.
His shirt today is a little more casual, a lightweight blue flannel over a white T-shirt. The sleeves are rolled up again but now they’re lopsided, one of them coming loose. A stray curl falls over his forehead; he’s wearing his glasses again. There are bags under his eyes, a weariness to the slope of his shoulders. He looks as exhausted as I feel.
For perhaps the first time, I’m not sure what to say to Lloyd. I’ve never been short of words with him before. But right now, I replay our last interaction – the look in his eyes and the venom in the way he called me a hypocrite, and I can’t even find it in me to demand an apology. I think he was probably right.
Lloyd takes a deep breath, and relief washes over me. Thank God, he’s going to speak first.
‘So, your mum.’
