Page 11 of When We Were Young

Emily

I’m dreading Friday afternoon, and it arrives sooner than ever.

Florence Harding’s dad (as he will forever be known) arrives later than usual to collect his daughter from her guitar lesson.

He doesn’t say ‘hello’ when I buzz him in, and he takes the furthest seat from the counter.

Kay squirms in her chair. She was only trying to do me a favour, setting me up with a handsome single guy, and I’d thrown it back in her face.

The ticking of the clock on the wall is deafening.

I should apologise, try to explain. I can’t sit through this every Friday.

Kay’s eyes are on me as I stand and go through to the waiting area.

Mr Harding looks up from his phone as I take the seat next to him. ‘Let me explain––’ He goes to interrupt, but I continue, ‘Please?’

He nods.

‘Kay was telling the truth. I am single, but I’ve been single for a long time, so I panicked. Sorry for the mixed messages.’

‘It’s only coffee.’ His tone is kind.

‘I know. I don’t know why I made a big deal out of it.’

‘Does that mean you’ve changed your mind?’

‘Well… no, but…’

‘Look, why don’t we swap numbers and if you change your mind, you can drop me a message? No pressure, okay?’

‘Okay.’

He brings up a new message on his phone and I tell him my number. He types something, and my phone pings back at my desk.

‘Ms Lawrence!’ booms Mrs Taylor from behind the counter, making me jump out of my skin. ‘Can I see you in my office? Now. Please.’

My cheeks flush. How long has she been standing there? I hate the way she adds ‘please’ as an afterthought. It’s worse than not saying it at all.

Mr Harding whispers, ‘God, it’s like being at school !’

I stifle a chuckle, but Mrs T’s eyes are burning holes in me, so I get up saying, ‘Well, I hope that explains the process.’

I scurry off to follow Mrs T to her office. She sits behind her desk but doesn’t invite me to.

‘That’s the second time I have caught you flirting with that man in school––’

I can’t believe what I’m hearing. ‘Excuse me?’

‘May I remind you school is not a place to organise your social life, neither is it a dating agency.’

‘I––’

‘I will not have my staff carrying on with parents.’

‘I was just explaining––’

‘You can stop there,’ she says in a tone usually reserved for disobedient boys. ‘I heard you giving him your personal telephone number.’

I don’t know what to say.

‘You leave me no option but to issue you with a verbal warning,’ she adds.

‘A verbal warning? For giving someone my telephone number?’

‘It’s not just that. Ever since the car accident, your conduct has been questionable.’

‘What do you mean “questionable”?’

She counts on her fingers. ‘Taking excessive sick days, countless physio appointments, talking to me in a disrespectful tone, flirting with a parent, at school , when you’re supposed to be working. It’s simply unprofessional.’

I stand there, my mouth flapping, and as I go to speak, she’s talking over me again.

‘If I don’t see real improvements in your conduct over the coming weeks, the next step will be a written warning.’

My heartbeat pounds in my ears. ‘I’ve worked with you for ten years and you’re giving me a verbal warning?’

‘You leave me no choice.’

‘Well… you leave me no choice.’

She raises her spindly drawn-on eyebrows.

‘You can stick your verbal warning,’ I tell her, my voice trembling. ‘And you can stick your job.’

Her mouth falls open.

‘You’re nothing but a bully, and it’s about time someone stood up to you.’ I whip around and stride to the door.

‘You’re fired!’ she calls after me.

I hesitate in the doorway, then turn back. ‘Too late,’ I tell her. ‘Weren’t you listening? I already quit.’

I slam the door behind me.

As soon as I get in the house, I kick off my shoes and head straight for the fridge. The soft glug of wine from bottle to glass soothes my raw nerves, and when the first gulp hits my stomach, my shoulders sag.

‘Fuck,’ I say aloud, knowing Liv is at Chloe’s.

I sit at the kitchen table and cover my face with my hands. I stare into the darkness of my palms, replaying the entire conversation in my mind, wincing at every embarrassing detail.

How the hell am I going to pay the mortgage?

It’ll be okay. I’ll get another job. People get new jobs all the time.

By the time I’ve drained the second glass of wine, my thoughts become blurry at the edges. Who stays in the same job for ten years? That’s not normal. It’s time for a change.

My phone pings.

Kay: Where did you go? What happened?

I don’t know how to even begin to explain.

Then I spot the unread message Florence Harding’s dad left earlier: Whenever you’re ready.

He signed it with a coffee cup emoji.

I groan.

My neck is killing me. It’s been bothering me since the crash, but now it’s throbbing, and it keeps locking up. It must be from holding my shoulders tense the whole way home.

I pop the heat pad in the microwave and set the timer.

Liv’s laptop is charging on the counter.

We had an online safety workshop at school the other day; the speaker said to check your child’s search history regularly.

Now’s the time to check it, while she’s not around.

As I wait for the laptop to fire up, the microwave pings.

I retrieve the heat pad, drape it around my shoulders, and settle at the table with the laptop and another glass of wine.

I navigate to the browser history and scroll through the list.

All the homework-related searches are interspersed with questions about bands or song lyrics.

I knew it – she can’t focus on her studies if she’s listening to music.

She says it helps her concentrate, but clearly, it’s a distraction.

Scrolling further, I find searches on ‘how to do a messy bun’ and ‘how to use tightliner’ – whatever that is.

I’m intrigued. Liv’s not a girly girl. Is this because Nathan Hall’s on the scene?

I’m finishing up when at the bottom of the list I spot ‘Will Bailey – Rare Radio Interview 1997’.

Seeing his name sets my heart pounding. Liv asked so many questions after the crash I should have known she wouldn’t drop the subject.

My finger hovers over the track pad. I have an overwhelming twisted desire to hear his voice.

Even as I click, I’m willing myself not to.

An image flashes up on the screen, and it’s so loaded with memories I screw my eyes shut to block it out.

But it’s no good. It hangs in my mind as though burned into my retinas.

I know every part of that picture: the relaxed pose, the dark of the room, and the light on his face.

I know because I took that photograph.

I remember that day; I remember the weather; I remember what I was wearing.

It seems like yesterday and a lifetime ago all at once.

Tears come despite my tightly closed eyes.

When I finally open them, blinking, all that’s in focus through the tears is the play button.

I don’t know why, but I have to press it.

I brace myself as a female voice says, ‘Now I’m joined by Will Bailey ahead of his gig at the Roundhouse tonight.

’ There’s a smattering of applause and she continues. ‘Hi Will, thanks for joining us.’

He says one word, ‘Hello––’

I slam the laptop shut and shatter into a million pieces.