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Iamjust a kid playing dress-up. I’m not the #GirlBoss millennial stereotype I’ve always secretly looked up to and was trying so hard to emulate all summer, smashing glass ceilings and climbing the corporate ladder, with her houseplants and her whole life together. I’m not a grown-up. In America, I’m not even old enough to drink.
I’ve been so focused on making sure my life is set when Iamolder, I think I forgot somewhere along the way that I’m not actually there yet. That I might notbe for a while. That it might be okay, to just … be a teenager, and kiss a cute boy on my summer break.
By the time I return to the sitting room, Mum is fussing about with the little kettle. I wonder how many times she’s re-boiled it, waiting for me to come out of the bathroom.
‘I – I wasn’t sure how you took your tea, Anna.’
‘Oh. Um, milk, no sugar.’
‘How much milk?’
Again, she looks so uncertain. This isn’t the mum who met me for lunch a few weeks ago. This is … this is someone who realizes that, as my mum, she should know how I take my tea, and how much milk to put in.
‘Just, like …’ I try to gesture. ‘A tiny splash.’
A faint smile crosses her face. ‘Your dad always liked his tea strong, too. Like the milk barely touched it, I used to say.’
She finishes making it, handing it over while I take a seat on the plush sofa, and sets to the toggles and buttons on the fancy coffee machine to make herself a drink. ‘I’ve got some biscuits here too …’ she mumbles, and sets an open pack of chocolate bourbons on the coffee table. I almost expect them to be some posh brand, too, but they’re just regular Tesco ones. Nothing special.
Exactly like the ones that used to live in the bear-shaped biscuit jar in the kitchen at our old house, back when Mum was part of the family.
I reach for one, nibbling at it. It tastes like being five years old and sitting at the kitchen table, legs swinging under my chair, blathering on about school while Mum paid half a mind to me, and half to her computer. It tastes like innocence, and ignorance.
I’m only able to manage a little of it; the stress of this morning has stolen my appetite. Even for chocolate biscuits.
Mum sits on the sofa by me, dunks a biscuit in her tea and eats it whole.
I’ve already told her all about Lloyd. Our accidental meetings in the empty office. The late-night cake, the kiss at the summer party. That he came to the flat and stayed the night (although that’s all I mention on that one). I tell her about how I struggled to figure out who he was and how I thought he was probably some arrogant, entitled guy beneath it all because that was how he seemed around the office … That I pushed him away, because I chose the internship over him.
Now, I realize I’m not quite done.
‘I just feel like such an idiot. All this time, he was exactly who he said he was. He was never anybody different, that was just … in my head. But I keptthinking the worst of him, even when he kept givingmethe benefit of the doubt. I – Ilikedhim. I really liked him. I could’ve just – had that, you know? Let myself like him. But I didn’t, and now I’ve ruined it, and it doesn’t matter anyway.’
‘Oh, Anna, sweetheart.’ Mum tucks an arm around me, only seeming to think better of it afterwards. I feel her freeze a little, but she relaxes when I don’t shrug her off; I might have done if I didn’t feel so completely, wretchedly sorry for myself.
Across the room, my phone starts going nuts. I asked Mum if she could put it on charge for me, and I guess now it’s finally come back to life. I can bank on some of those notifications being missed calls and messages from my friends – Monty and Verity and Dylan, desperately trying to get hold of me this morning; the others, probably, after they found out and thought they should check in. Maybe some of them are teasing me about it in the group chat, trying to make light of it. I dread to think what the other notifications might be.
I wince. ‘How am I meant to go back there, after this?’
‘People will understand. Things like this – well, they don’t happenoften, but they’ll know it was someone being vicious. I’m sure it won’t even be all that bad, Anna, really. It’ll blow over.’
I try to say something, but all that comes out is a wobbly groan. I feel queasy again; I might actually bring up the biscuit and my breakfast this time.
‘Do you want me to … I mean, I could take a look at the emails. See how bad it is. Isn’t, I mean.’
I look up. ‘But Nadja – they said IT were going to retract it. That they did. It won’t be there anymore.’
‘It’ll be in your sent folder. It came from your email, didn’t it?’
I cringe to know that somewhere, there’s still a concrete record of those emails. But I nod, and wave Mum over to my phone, telling her my passcode so she can look for herself. She stands upright, the phone lifted so she doesn’t hunch over it, manicured fingers swiping efficiently. This looks more like the version of Mum I’m used to seeing online: cool, calm, confident.
Finally, she pauses, her index finger pulling slowly at the screen as she reads.
I sip my tea and try to eat the other half of my bourbon biscuit. I don’t want to see, but can’t take my eyes away. It’s like stopping to watch a car crash. Some warped, mortal part of my soul is compelled to witness the destruction.
Mum’s face is a mask as she reads – until finally, it’s not.
There’s a small gasp that sounds so fragile and raw I don’t know where it’s come from, not until Mum presses a hand over her mouth and I see her eyes fill abruptly with tears. The blood drains from her face, turning her ghostly pale beneath her makeup. Slowly, she sets my phone back down and blinks rapidly, but I don’t know whether it’s to cover the tears or if she’s just trying to get her head around something.
