Swimming For Beginners E-Book

Nicola Gill

• Herausgeber: Bedford Square Publishers
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2023

Seitenzahl: 424

Beschreibung

'The perfect mix of funny, poignant and heartwarming.' - Good Housekeeping 'Warm, witty but also heart-wrenching read' - Red Magazine 'Touching and witty. I adored Loretta and her relationship with Phoebe' - Lisa Snowdon. 'This heart-warming and creative contemporary fiction is a story of unexpected self-discovery.'- Woman's Weekly 'Full of heart and depth.' - Prima Book of the Month 'Funny, heart-warming read - it made me laugh and cry' — Nikki Smith, author of The Beach Party 'Eleanor Oliphant meets About a Boy' — Gillian Harvey 'A beautiful read full of heart and depth' — Nina Pottell, Prima Magazine 'An absolute joy' — Nancy Peach 'Brilliantly funny' — Louise Hare Swimming For Beginners will show you how a child can open your heart even if you aren't a mother. Loretta has her life under control. She's chasing a big promotion, she's marrying the "perfect man" and she has a flawless five-year plan. This plan does not include children. But when a complete stranger asks her to watch her six-year-old daughter in an airport and never returns, both their lives will be changed forever. A little human in fairy wings and sparkly cowgirl boots will turn Loretta's world upside down and maybe, just maybe, show her exactly what she's missing. Overflowing with humour and heartbreak, Nicola Gill takes us on a relatable journey of self-discovery through the power of a child's love. 'Brilliantly funny, incredibly touching and so relatable.'- Louise Hare, author of This Lovely City 'Please meet my new favourite book.' - Jessica Ryn, author of The Extraordinary Hope of Dawn Brightside 'Heartbreaking and life-affirming, an absolute must read' - Tim Ewins, author of We Are Animals

Leseprobe

Praise for Swimming for Beginners

‘Swimming for Beginners is the perfect summer read. It’s funny, smart and will break your heart a little (and put it back together again). The characters jump off the page and the dialogue fizzes with humour, as control-freak Loretta finds herself making room for six-year-old Phoebe in her life. A compelling page-turner that shows you what happens when you think your life is all mapped then fate intervenes. Funny, poignant, romantic and uplifting – this book has everything. I loved it!’

Eleni Kyriacou, author of She Came to Stay and The Unspeakable Acts of Zina Pavlou

‘Please meet my new favourite book. I roared with laughter and wept buckets for Phoebe and Loretta. So much heart on each beautifully written page and one to read again and again.’

‘Touched me so deeply. Loretta and Phoebe are incredibly well portrayed and sharply observed and I already miss them!’

Jessica Ryn, author of The Extraordinary Hope of Dawn Brightside

‘A heartfelt tale of love, loss and coming back to life.’

‘Moving, insightful and evocative.’

‘Brilliantly observed – a touching story about finding love in the most unlikely of places.’

Gillian Harvey, author ofPerfect on Paper

‘From the moment we met Phoebe in her fairy wings and sparkly boots, this book swam away with my heart. Poignant and uplifting, it addresses loss, sadness and the horrible feeling of never quite fitting in, but with a lightness of touch and humour that makes it a pleasure to read.’

Eleanor Ray, author ofEverything is Beautiful

‘I loved spending time in Loretta and Phoebe’s world. Brilliantly funny, incredibly touching and so relatable. Another fabulous book from Nicola Gill.’

Louise Hare, author of This Lovely City

‘Heart breaking and life affirming, an absolute must read.’

‘As a parent, this book absolutely killed me. It’s spot on and a complete page turner.’

‘Gill’s writing is funny, punchy and addictive, I gobbled this novel up.’

Tim Ewins, author of We Are Animals

‘I love, love, LOVED this book! A massive great hug of a story: warm, funny and big-hearted. Uplifting fiction at its very best!’

Louise Mumford, author of Sleepless

‘I ADORED it. It’s original, refreshing and full of soul. A truly unforgettable read that’s heartbreaking and spirit lifting in equal measure, with characters and life lessons that will stay with me forever.’

Helly Acton, author of The Shelf and Begin Again

‘This story was so compelling and easy to read, it was hard to put down. The witty writing and pacing keep the story moving and I devoured it in two sittings.’

Sharon M. Peterson, author of The Do-Over

‘I loved this book which made me both laugh and cry, often at the same time. Little Phoebe and the wonderfully quirky Loretta captured my heart from the very beginning with all their imperfections, social awkwardness and complex emotions. Nicola Gill has expertly crafted a page-turning, emotional and relatable novel which will warm every heart. The perfect book to curl up with. I absolutely adored it.’

Louise Fein, author of People Like Us

‘A Nicola Gill book is always a treat and I loved this so much – laugh out loud funny, warm-hearted and feelgood, with characters that jump off the page. Loretta and Phoebe are the kind of characters you miss as soon as you turn the last page.’

Frances Quinn, author of The Smallest Man

‘I adored Swimming for Beginners. It’s both laugh-out-loud funny and incredibly touching in equal measure. Nicola Gill has created such fabulous characters in Loretta and Phoebe, and I shall be thinking about them for a long time to come. Wonderful.’

Charlotte Levin, author of If I Can’t Have You

‘Nicola Gill never disappoints: funny, pithy and always satisfying.’

Anstey Harris, author ofWhere We Belong

‘A beautiful read full of heart and depth.’

Nina Pottell, Prima Magazine

SWIMMING FOR BEGINNERS

Nicola Gill

For Mum. Love you always.

Contents

Cover

Praise for Swimming for Beginners

Title Page

Dedication

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Chapter Thirty

Chapter Thirty-One

Chapter Thirty-Two

Chapter Thirty-Three

Chapter Thirty-Four

Chapter Thirty-Five

Chapter Thirty-Six

Chapter Thirty-Seven

Chapter Thirty-Eight

Chapter Thirty-Nine

Chapter Forty

Chapter Forty-One

Chapter Forty-Two

Chapter Forty-Three

Chapter Forty-Four

Chapter Forty-Five

Chapter Forty-Six

Chapter Forty-Seven

Chapter Forty-Eight

Chapter Forty-Nine

Chapter Fifty

Chapter Fifty-One

Chapter Fifty-Two

Chapter Fifty-Three

Chapter Fifty-Four

Chapter Fifty-Five

Chapter Fifty-Six

Chapter Fifty-Seven

Chapter Fifty-Eight

Chapter Fifty-Nine

Chapter Sixty

Chapter Sixty-One

Chapter Sixty-Two

Chapter Sixty-Three

Chapter Sixty-Four

Chapter Sixty-Five

Chapter Sixty-Six

Chapter Sixty-Seven

Chapter Sixty-Eight

Chapter Sixty-Nine

Chapter Seventy

Chapter Seventy-One

Chapter Seventy-Two

Chapter Seventy-Three

Chapter Seventy-Four

Chapter Seventy-Five

Chapter Seventy-Six

Chapter Seventy-Seven

Chapter Seventy-Eight

Chapter Seventy-Nine

Chapter Eighty

Chapter Eighty-One

Chapter Eighty-Two

Chapter Eighty-Three

Chapter Eighty-Four

Chapter Eighty-Five

Chapter Eighty-Six

Chapter Eighty-Seven

Chapter Eighty-Eight

Acknowledgements

Also by Nicola Gill

About the Author

About the Publishers

Copyright

Chapter One

Big social gatherings are like running – I know they’re good for me but, God, they’re painful.

I had to take deep breaths before walking in here tonight, tell myself five times that it would be okay and I wasn’t going to bolt home. So tempting to get in my pyjamas and lose myself in a book, though. I could even pick up a takeaway.

Samira only invited me tonight because she had to. We’re part of a team of three at work and, as she’s genuinely friendly with Zoe, she had little choice but to include me. I got the pity invite, in other words.

Normally, I would have pretended I was busy, but Samira happened to catch me in a rare ‘I should make more of an effort’ moment of weakness. This wasn’t unrelated to the fact I’d just had a call with my mother, the main purpose of which seemed to be telling me how she worries I’m ‘all work, work, work’ and ‘never seem to have any fun’.

So, here I am gulping metallic-tasting Prosecco out of a penis straw, trying not to mind that the two people I know said cheery ‘hellos’ when I arrived but then went back to the conversations they were having. This left me to make small talk with strangers which is very much not my forte. I never see the point. I don’t need to know what someone does for a living, I’m perfectly well aware that it’s warm for this time of year and I don’t have a funny story about how I know Samira.

I’ve done okay so far, though. I negotiated the introductions (wondering why so many of the women have absurdly puffy lips and eyebrows that look as if they’ve been daubed on with felt tip), put on my pink ‘hen’ sash and tiara without complaint and managed to be very discreet about sanitising my hands under the table. (Why do people insist on shaking hands? Nice to meet you, let me transfer microbes all over you.)

Harriet, a small loud thing who organised tonight, tells me I’m lucky because even though I’m late, there’s still time for me to have my tarot cards read.

‘Oh, no reading for me, thanks.’

‘Everyone has had one,’ Harriet barks. ‘That side room over there.’

I rise from my seat. There’s no point making a fuss. Or thinking about how I could be halfway through a lamb pasanda right now.

Anne the tarot reader has a doughy face and tiny dark eyes like currants. She is dressed like an estate agent and exudes very little in the way of psychic powers (not that I believe in such things).

‘Do you have a specific question about your future?’

There is one question about my future I’m obsessed with right now and that’s whether I’m going to get this big promotion I’m chasing. There’s no way I’m opening my heart to a complete stranger, though. ‘No thanks.’

Anne starts moving the cards around and spouting nonsense. ‘Blah, blah, blah aura … blah, blah, blah energy … blah, blah, blah you’ve experienced pain in the past …’ (Who hasn’t?) ‘Ah ha,’ she says, turning over the final card. ‘I see a child in your future.’

It’s all I can do not to laugh in her face. She must have thought she was on to a safe bet saying that to a woman in her thirties who’s wearing an engagement ring, but if there is one thing I’m 100 per cent certain of, it’s that I don’t want kids. Why on earth would I take a blowtorch to my life like that? ‘Err, I don’t think so.’

‘It’s the Empress card,’ Anne says sullenly, rapping her forefinger on it.

I glance down at the card which depicts a woman in what looks like a winceyette nightie with a crown and sceptre. ‘Riiiight.’

Anne’s eyes flash and she draws in a deep breath before sweeping up the cards.

‘Bye then,’ I say.

I go back to the group.

‘What did she say?’ Jenna asks.

‘That I was going to have a baby. Which is absolutely ridiculous—’

‘Aww, lovely,’ Jenna says. She whips out her phone and starts showing me pictures of her baby. He looks like a potato.

‘He’s gorgeous.’

It’s the correct response and Jenna’s eyes light up. I feel like I’m on a gameshow and the buzzer has just sounded: Score!

Jenna starts telling me about the potato’s nappy rash. The ‘poor little mite’ has a bottom that’s red raw; she’s been to the doctor three times now but none of the creams they have given her have made a jot of difference.

And people find me dull.

My mind drifts to the meeting I have in New York next week with a prospective client. I am very excited about it, especially as Greg, my boss, made no secret of the fact this could be the clincher in terms of my promotion. I picture myself in the conference room. The world is neat and ordered, I am giving the presentation of my life, I am surrounded by people who don’t talk about nappy rash.

A hyena-ish laugh from further down the table snaps me back into the present.

Jenna is still talking about the nappy rash. She feels so responsible because, if she hadn’t tried towelling nappies, none of this would have happened. It’s all very well worrying about the environment but what about poor little Zack?

It strikes me, not for the first time, that I have no idea why our society venerates motherhood so much. Why everything, from newspaper articles to TV commercials, peddles the idea that a halo appears somewhere around the third trimester, turning hitherto normal women into the epitome of selflessness.

In my experience, mothers are just as shitty as the rest of us and I’m pretty sure Jenna would shoot a polar bear in the face if the trade-off was Zack’s bottom being restored to its former levels of health.

I don’t say this, of course. I’ve learned it’s almost always a good idea to keep my thoughts to myself. She’s a quiet one, people say, or she likes to keep herself to herself.

I’ve had to work on this skill. I changed school often as a child and every time I made myself the solemn promise that I’d learn from previous experiences. I’d be more like my oh-so popular sister. I would edit between brain and mouth. This would always work for a few days and then something (me) would slip out.

I tried to look like everyone else too. You’d think that wouldn’t be hard in school uniform but, somehow, I always managed to get it wrong. My hemline was too long, my bunches too babyish, my shoes too ‘sad’.

I tune back into the conversation to see we have reached the obligatory oversharing part of the evening.

Harriet blurts out that her husband never goes down on her.

Jenna says she isn’t sure if having a baby wasn’t a massive mistake.

Kate admits she hates her ‘dream job’ in TV production.

Christ, it isn’t even 10 o’clock! I sit back on the red velvet banquette, sip my Prosecco and try to smile.

Why is this emotional incontinence considered a good thing? I don’t want to open my heart here any more than I do on Instagram. I don’t believe a ‘good cry’ ever makes people feel better, think a problem shared is often a problem doubled and know the world would be a far nicer place if people learned to control their anger.

‘You’re very quiet, Loretta.’ Harriet’s eyes are locked on me.

‘Oh, y’know.’

Harriet cocks her head to the side in the manner of a small dog.

I squash down a wave of irritation. I don’t have some big secret I want to discuss and if I did, I wouldn’t pick to share it with Harriet who I barely know (even if I do now know that she always showers before sex and keeps everything very tidy down there).

‘When are we going dancing?’ Farida says. ‘It’s not a proper hen party if we don’t have a boogie.’

I murmur my approval. At least if we go dancing people will stop behaving as if they are on The Jeremy Kyle Show.

‘Maybe we could try that new place in Frith Street?’ Harriet says.

Maybe? Has Harriet not decided where we’re going? If I’d been in charge of tonight, every part of the itinerary would have been planned to within an inch of its life. Not that I would ever be in charge of anyone’s hen night. I have friends (sort of) but I’m certainly not anyone’s best friend.

Hmm, that’s not strictly true – I may be Robert’s best friend but only in a de facto sense because he generally ‘doesn’t have time for friendships’. Robert is my fiancé, a statement that, four months after his proposal, still seems improbable. I say proposal but there was no going down on one knee or single moment. We just started talking about how we’d been together a few years and it made sense to think about pooling expenses. Plus, there are considerable tax breaks when you’re married.

‘Let’s have another round here, first,’ Harriet says.

I excuse myself to go to the toilet, not so much because I have to pee but because I need a few minutes locked in the cubicle in blissful solitude. Does anybody actually enjoy events like this? They’re just so exhausting.

I sit on the toilet long after I’ve finished my wee, savouring the silence. They have extremely unusual wallpaper in here: lots of illustrations of people in different sexual positions. Perhaps that would be a good thing to talk about when I return to the hens? Something funny and light and suitably risqué. I know I’d find a way to make it uncomfortable, though.

When I come out of the cubicle, Zoe is outside brushing her hair. Zoe is the closest thing I have to an actual friend at work. I like her and she seems not to mind me. She sees me in the mirror and smiles. ‘Hey you.’

‘Hey. You having a good night?’

‘I really am. What about you?’

‘Yeah, great.’

Zoe is staring at me, and I realise she probably thinks I’m washing my hands for too long. What she doesn’t realise is that most people don’t wash their hands for nearly long enough. It needs to be a minimum of forty seconds with lots of hot water and soap and you need to wash between all your fingers and right up your wrists.

‘Did you look at the client feedback on the creative work?’ I say, over the sound of the hand dryer.

‘Let’s not talk work,’ Zoe says.

Her tone is light but I feel rebuked. I got it wrong. As usual.

‘You’re not going to try to sneak away early tonight, are you?’ Zoe says.

‘Of course not.’

We go back to the table, and I see Jenna has moved seats. Despite myself, I feel a little pang of hurt, especially as I made such an effort to look interested as she droned on about potato-baby. I am now sitting next to Farida who smiles awkwardly and asks me how I know Samira.

‘We work together.’

‘At the ad agency?’ Farida sounds incredulous. I’m used to this. Farida, like many others, can’t envisage me in a job that screams ‘people person’. They don’t realise that work me is a very different creature. I interact well with clients and, to a lesser extent, colleagues – it’s life’s unscripted moments I find hard.

‘Cool,’ Farida says, eventually managing to close her mouth.

I squash the urge to tell her I’m actually very successful at work. That I was in AdTalk’s Thirty To Watch Under Thirty.

Harriet taps the side of her glass with a spoon and rises to her feet. ‘Samira, as your maid of honour, I wanted to say a few words. I first met Samira three years ago, although I feel like I’ve known her my whole life.’

There is a chorus of ‘awws’.

‘When we first met, neither of us was in a good place. We’d both been dumped.’

A series of boos.

‘We were at rock bottom.’

Rock bottom? Really?

‘We have shared a journey to wellness.’

A ‘journey to wellness’? Who does this woman think she is? Gwyneth sodding Paltrow? She does seem like the sort to steam her vagina, although if earlier revelations are anything to go on, steam is the only thing blowing up there.

‘I quickly discovered you were one of the kindest, most loving and most generous people I’ve ever had the privilege to know.’

Lots of the women have tears in their eyes.

‘And one of the strongest.’

That just goes to show that Harriet doesn’t really know Samira that well at all because, while I’m the first to say that she is kind and big-hearted (look at her inviting me this evening), I would not describe her as particularly strong. The only person at work I’ve seen cry more than her is Maddie, and she’d win gold in the weeping Olympics.

‘Not a day goes by when I don’t think how lucky I am to have you in my life.’ Harriet’s voice cracks. ‘When I don’t thank the universe for bringing me this awesome, inspirational, wonderful woman.’

Jeez, maybe they ought to get married?

‘Tom is the luckiest man in the world.’

Everyone breaks into applause which I join in with a beat too late.

‘We love you, Samira!’ Harriet raises her glass aloft.

Lucky I’m never going to be anyone’s maid of honour. I definitely couldn’t do that kind of speech. It was hard enough listening to it.

Drinks are poured and conversations started. Suddenly, I become aware I have zoned out and haven’t been contributing at all. This is against the rules and a wave of panic churns in my stomach. It’s okay to let other people do most of the heavy lifting when it comes to conversation, indeed most are only too happy to talk about themselves, but you have to appear engaged by throwing in the odd ‘umm’ and ‘yeah’ and laughing in the right places. Sometimes, you have to initiate a conversation too – at least once in an evening.

My mind goes horribly blank. Shall I talk about the unfolding crisis in Afghanistan? No, wrong vibe. Shall I talk about the book I’m reading? None of them look like readers. Maybe I should tell a joke? Urghh, what am I, six?

I turn to Farida. ‘So, you like your eyebrows very pronounced then?’

Chapter Two

I’m standing in the airport check-in queue when a suitcase is wheeled over my foot. I look up to see a slightly feral-looking child dragging a bright orange suitcase and trotting along next to a woman who is an older version of her.

The pair of them are chattering away, oblivious to the fact I’ve lost what feels like a layer of skin off the top of my foot.

Irritation fizzes through my veins as I watch them walk away. I was already grouchy. Not only am I nervous about this crunch meeting in New York, but I’m still smarting about the performance appraisal I had on Tuesday. I’d been looking forward to it, and I realise that makes me sound weird, but I know I give the agency everything I have. So, I was pretty chipper as Greg ushered me into his office. It’s not called his office because officially Burnett White is an open-plan agency. However, Greg commandeered that meeting room about four years ago to ‘make a few calls’ and it’s been his ever since. This has always made me deeply envious. I want walls, to be able to shut everyone out. All that inane chatter about what they did the night before or whether they fancy sushi or burritos for lunch (a conversation that usually starts while they are shovelling their toast or porridge into their mouths).

I reach the front of the check-in queue, where an uninterested-looking woman with lipstick on her teeth takes my passport and asks if I packed my own bags.

Greg started the appraisal by talking about my strengths and successes. Then he steepled his fingers and said it was time to discuss my weaknesses.

I knew exactly what he was going to say: I work too hard; I need to be better at delegating.

‘In a smallish agency like ours, it’s important you really mesh with your team.’

What?

What the fucking what?

Greg was talking again. I watched his fleshy lips move but I could barely take in the words. I caught phrases like ‘seamlessly working with your colleagues’, ‘cohesiveness’ and ‘morale’.

And that’s when it hit me like a punch to the solar plexus. Greg was saying people don’t like me.

Suddenly, I was fourteen again and my mum was telling me she worries I ‘don’t seem to have many friends’. She can’t understand it, she tells me. She is such a social person and so are my dad and my sister. Why am I so … so … She pauses, seemingly unable to find the word. She wishes I could make a ‘little more effort’. I bite back the urge to scream she has no idea of the effort it takes to get through every single school day.

Greg’s comments last Tuesday stung every bit as much. Work is my safe place. The thing I’m good at.

I walk through the busy airport, the memories making sweat prickle my armpits and nausea start to rise.

Greg started spouting some nonsense about how dolphins like to swim with dolphins and how it’s important to be part of the pod. Then he wrapped up the meeting all smiles, as if he hadn’t just casually hurled a grenade into my world. Fury coursed through my veins. My previous boss Paul would never have given me an appraisal like this. He didn’t require me to be a sodding dolphin.

Now, I could picture Greg taking this promotion away from me. See him giving it to Maddie instead.

Maddie meshes with the team; swims with the pod. They don’t appear to mind that she frequently lets her personal life affect her work. She seems to lurch from one relationship drama to the next and is often to be found crying in the toilets. Just the other day, I walked in to find her weeping as she applied the M&S grapefruit hand cream that HR had placed in there as ‘a little morale booster’. I had no choice but to ask if she was okay and was rewarded by a blow-by-blow account of how her fledgling relationship seemed to be going wrong. How she’d told the guy she loved him the night before, but he hadn’t said it back. And I soothed and cajoled and fetched more loo roll, but inside my head there was a voice screaming: YOU NEVER SAY ‘I LOVE YOU’ FIRST!

The queue to go through security is long and snaking. The child who wheeled her suitcase over my foot is just ahead of me. My foot is still sore, and I feel a flash of annoyance, although I guess I am partly to blame for wearing flip-flops. Robert did point out they weren’t a very practical choice. ‘What happens if the plane crashes and you need to escape quickly?’

Robert is someone who considers all eventualities. That’s why he’d never travel to India or try to park in the West End on a Saturday night.

The child is chattering away non-stop to her mother and appears to be unable to stand still. Her outfit is as loud as she is. She is wearing a bright green dungaree dress, a yellow top, hot pink tights and, just in case this ensemble might be a little understated, silver boots and glittery fairy wings.

A headache starts to pulse behind my eyes. Strangely enough, I have always loved airports, drinking in the sense of excitement and possibility, but this bit, while undeniably important, is never fun. The staff whose piercing stares make you feel guilty even though you’ve done nothing wrong, the chugging down water you don’t want because it’s time to dump your liquids, everything from your tampons to your breath freshener being caught on camera for all the world to see.

The queue is moving particularly slowly today and I squash down a wave of impatience. At least I’m not in a hurry. I always leave plenty of time – just watching a stranger have to run towards a departure gate gives me palpitations.

Robert is exactly the same. He often jokes he knew I was a keeper the minute he realised I was the only person in the world who likes to arrive at the airport as early as he does. We both think you need to eliminate the possibility of being derailed by something unexpected.

Like my appraisal has derailed my life.

The hours directly after leaving Greg’s office are blurry in my mind, but I do know that evening I bolted home the second I could, grateful that Robert was out and not there to witness the shuddering, snotty mess that was curled in a foetal position on the bed.

When I was eight years old, I started at my third new school in as many years. I was frenziedly pursuing Martha Baker and her posse. This caused nausea to churn in my belly and my eczema to bleed and weep. Suddenly, it dawned on me that it would be infinitely less painful to just stop trying. This wasn’t a conscious thing – I was only eight – but more of an instinctive reflex. I was a warthog hiding from the lions.

My new way of existing in the world calcified as I grew older. I would always prefer people thought me standoffish rather than desperate. I had occasional moments when I broke cover, of course. At uni, I managed to make a few friends, mainly other ‘peripherals’. Dating was also surprisingly okay, since many men seemed happy to put up with you being a bit ‘weird’ as long as you’d sleep with them. In my working life, there have definitely been times when I’ve felt like one of the gang, especially if there was a particularly intense project to force me and my coworkers together. Zoe, Samira and I have definitely bonded a little since working on the Kitkins account together, for example. I do have an almost uncanny ability to say the wrong thing or misread social cues, though. I guess lack of practice makes very far from perfect.

By the morning after the appraisal, I was done licking my wounds and ready to fight back. As I sat on the tube, I opened my Moleskine notebook, turned to that day’s to-do list and made some additions:

Sign up for agency softball

Listen to Pete’s boring stories (no noise-cancelling headphones!)

Have lunch with someone

Ask Maddie how it’s going with her boyfriend

To mix metaphors, it was time to stop being a warthog and be a dolphin instead.

I would treat this like any other work assignment. I would set goals and, every day, I would assign myself tasks to help me to achieve those goals. Operation Mesh With The Team was underway.

Orange suitcase kid has broken into a loud tuneless song. It isn’t doing a great deal for my headache – or presumably the sanity of anyone in the vicinity – and I wait for the mother to tell the girl to be quiet. She does no such thing, however, instead staring at her offspring with unabashed delight. Dear God, people can be so blind when it comes to their kids. It’s like that woman at the hen do being convinced her potato-baby was beautiful.

‘Hi,’ the child says, catching me looking at her. ‘I’m Phoebe and I’m going to Spain to meet my mum’s friend who has a little girl who is just a bit older than me and called Skye and it’s the first time ever I’ve been on an aeroplane.’

‘That’s nice.’

The child nods earnestly, her fairy wings jiggling. ‘Where are you going?’

‘New York. America.’

Her eyes widen. ‘That’s very far, Sophie P in my class at school went there once and she told me that, and she also said they have cheese that comes in a tube – like toothpaste but cheese!’

The mum, who has huge, tired eyes and spectacularly messy hair, smiles at me before turning to put her bags into the plastic crates. All the while, the child keeps talking at her. Can she have a new sticker book for the plane? She’s very hungry now. Sophie P has been to Spain once and she said it was hot.

No wonder the mother looks so tired. I can’t imagine ever having a child. Of dealing with all the mess and chaos they bring.

When it’s my turn, I place my laptop, phone, and bag in a crate. I walk through the scanner, my mind drifting to the task ahead of me when I reach New York. The client owns an upmarket group of private members’ clubs. The sort of places you might describe as bougie if you weren’t of the opinion that people who use that word are punchable. They are just about to open their first London outpost. Officially, they are happy with their existing ad agency. Unofficially, they have agreed to talk to Burnett White. Not a proper full-on meeting, they said, that would be disloyal to their current agency, just a ‘chat’. They stipulated they didn’t want a whole team turning up in New York, just one person. Something I’m sure will be hugely comforting to the incumbent agency when they discover an account worth millions has walked out of the door.

I scoop my belongings out of the plastic crate. I have to ace this meeting. As the thought registers, another immediately collides with it: the middle section of my presentation is flabby. It can be fixed, of course, but I feel a rush of self-hatred at having had it wrong in the first place, especially as I have already shown it to Greg. No point learning to be a dolphin who swims with the pod if I can’t even get my job right. I don’t have time to dwell on this thought, though, as I turn and suddenly find myself flying through the air, before landing flat on my face on the filthy floor.

‘Whoopsie,’ comes a small voice. ‘You fell over Timmy the tiger.’

From my new vantage point, I can see that the small orange case has black stripes and eyes.

‘Are you okay?’ the child’s mother says.

‘I’m fine.’ First my foot and now this. I need to get as far away from this child and her case as possible. I stand up and dust myself off. I feel embarrassed somehow, although I can’t think why.

‘Are you sure? You went down pretty hard.’

‘Absolutely fine,’ I say, rubbing my throbbing wrist.

‘Oh look, your lovely white shirt is all dirty now.’ The woman turns to her daughter. ‘Phoebe, sweetheart, you really are a hazard with that thing. You need to be a bit more careful.’

‘It’s fine,’ I say quickly. ‘Honestly, I should have been looking where I was going.’

The woman rakes her hand through her messy hair. ‘Can I at least buy you a cup of coffee or something to say sorry?’

I can’t think of anything worse than having to make awkward small talk with the woman and her child. ‘That’s very kind of you—’

‘I don’t drink coffee but Mummy does and she says most grown-ups do as well which I think is weird because I tried some once and it was very yucky.’

The child seems to speak without full stops or even discernible pauses to breathe.

‘I’ve a few things I need to buy from the shops,’ I say.

‘We’re going to have our lunch at the airport,’ Phoebe says. ‘Even though it won’t really be lunchtime, but we’ll be hungry you see so we’re going to have some, and Mummy says I can have whatever I want but I must have one healthy thing too. Are you going to have some lunch before you go on your aeroplane to go to America?’

‘Umm, probably.’

‘I need to do a wee first before anything else because I really need one quite badly so we have to go now and if I don’t go quite soon, I might even do a wee on the floor even though I’m not a baby at all ’cos I’m six.’

‘TMI, Phoebe,’ her mum says, laughing. She turns to me. ‘Sorry about tripping you up. Have a good time in New York.’

Chapter Three

My first priority was to get as far away as possible from the girl, her mother and their offers of coffee. Once I’d done that, I immediately found a café and started to fix that middle section of my presentation.

I am slightly put off by a couple at the next table who are sucking each other’s faces. Why do people do that in public? Robert and I have never been like that. I think back to our date night last Wednesday evening. I may not be that socially aware, but I did clock the waiter’s look of pity when he brought our wine: you’re one of those couples.

Robert and I were both glued to our phones at the time. Which isn’t de rigueur when you’re dining in somewhere a review described as ‘London’s most romantic restaurant’. When there’s a soft colour palette, flickering candlelight and cosy nooks, you’re supposed to have your eyes and hands fixed adoringly on each other and not your inbox.

They say opposites attract but the two of us are the same person. At the hen do, Samira went on a drunken ramble about Tom and said that one of the things she loved most about him was that he constantly surprises her. I don’t get that at all. What I love about Robert is that he doesn’t surprise me. I know exactly where I am with him.

We both hate big parties, musicals and people who go travelling and then bore the hell out of you talking about how they found themselves, when really all they did was put off grown-up life for a year to be off their faces on magic mushrooms on a Thai beach.

The couple at the next table are really ramping things up now. I’ll say one thing for the pair of them, which is they’re extremely bendy. That said, they’re quite putting me off my superfood salad. I have a well-calibrated airport routine that always involves a light meal. This means not only am I able to avoid soul-crushing airline food, but I can use the whole flight to work without interruption.

After scarfing down the last of my rather tasteless quinoa (if indeed there is any other sort), I head for duty-free.

Robert and I are both driven and ambitious. When Greg asked me to go to this client meeting in New York, I realised it would mean bailing on a longstanding plan Robert and I had to go to the Cotswolds for the weekend. But I also knew Robert would be completely sanguine about that. ‘That should help the promotion effort along nicely,’ he said. ‘And we can go to the Cotswolds another time.’

We often talk about how all the sacrifices we’re making now are for future Loretta and Robert. Very occasionally, I question this in my head. Shouldn’t we be prioritising a bit more fun together now? Will there even be a future Loretta and Robert without that?

Should we be more like the couple who put me off my salad?

I push these thoughts away. Robert and I do have fun together, especially on holiday. We want the same things from life, we always have loads to talk about and he isn’t going to suddenly break my heart. I don’t think I’ve ever had my heart truly broken and, from seeing it happen to friends, who have had to take time off work because they couldn’t do anything but lie on the sofa and sob while they forensically dissected every conversation they and their ex had ever had, I know I don’t want to. That’s why I can’t understand anyone being reckless with their heart, giving it away willy-nilly so some undeserving person can do as they please with it. Generally, I have been the one to do the dumping, not least of all because if I sensed even the slightest hint of it, I’d be in there first. I was upset after my break-up with my first serious boyfriend Mark but not ‘can’t go into work upset’. I can’t really imagine being like that, and I certainly don’t understand the ‘can’t live if living is without you’ vibe which is surely nothing but a mawkish song lyric.

A man is buying a neck pillow. Does he not realise how much more expensive they are here – not to mention the fact they’ve been groped by the germ-laden fingers of multiple passengers? You couldn’t pay me a thousand pounds to put one near my face.

I glance at my watch and see I still have a full three hours until my flight takes off. Which is great because, while I still have internet, I want to research all the people who will be attending the meeting. I already know quite a lot about the senior client, Remy, of course, but it would be a huge mistake to underestimate the other people in the room. I know for a fact there are normally at least seven decision-makers involved in a company changing ad agencies. I have already studied everyone’s LinkedIn profiles, poring over where they worked before, where they studied, and checking if we have any shared contacts. My biggest worry is a woman called Maxine because her sister works at the incumbent ad agency.

I leave duty-free and join the long queue for the coffee shop.

When Robert asked me how my appraisal had gone, I couldn’t bring myself to tell him about the negative stuff. He knew I was expecting it to be nothing but a praise-fest, and it felt kind of shaming to admit that wasn’t what had happened. Especially as the thing I was pulled up on was effectively not being likeable enough. I don’t want Robert thinking I’m not likeable.

This queue is taking forever. I drum my foot impatiently, wishing I didn’t have an overriding need for caffeine.

I wonder now if I should have told Robert the truth? But everyone wants their partner to see the best of them, don’t they? That’s why you close the bathroom door when you’re shaving your legs or bleaching your moustache or doing a poo.

Anyway, there’s no need for me to tell Robert the truth because I have my ‘weakness’ in hand now and am not going to let it stand in the way of this promotion. Operation Mesh With The Team will fix things. The morning after the appraisal, I didn’t put in my noise-cancelling headphones, instead making actual eye contact with people as I asked them if they had had a nice evening. I made Samira a cup of tea and suggested Zoe and I grab lunch together. I listened as Pete regaled me with a tale about a dream he’d had. (Side note: did anyone ever open with the words ‘I had a strange dream last night’ and then go on to thrill their audience?) The story – and I use that word in its loosest possible sense – went on for nearly four minutes and I kept thinking about all the work I could be doing in the time.

I also asked Maddie how things were going with her and Alex. Admittedly, that interaction took a turn for the worse when she said I sounded surprised that it was going well.

‘It’s just, normally, if you say you love someone and they don’t say it back, it’s not a great sign, is it?’

Maddie’s face looked as if it was melting.

‘I mean not usually. There are always exceptions.’

‘Some people are just slow burners,’ Maddie said emphatically. ‘It takes them a while to voice their feelings.’

‘Right. Or they don’t have them. I mean, he probably does. He’s probably not a douchebag.’

Maddie said she had to go to a meeting.

No wonder this queue is so slow. People keep insisting on talking to the poor barista. As if he gives a damn where they’re going or if they’ve treated themselves to Premium Economy because you only live once. The woman at the front is telling him she is going to Milan to see her son. He is working out there, a very good job in IT. He married an Italian girl who is nice but a bit fat. She is quite worried about her husband because he is a very nervous flyer. He is sitting quietly in the lounge now, trying to do some breathing exercises.

Why do people feel the need to share their life stories with strangers? I open my email and see the subject line: Agency Family Fun Day!!! There is nothing guaranteed to be less fun than a day with ‘fun’ in its title. Normally, I would decline the invitation in a heartbeat but, with the need to mesh with my colleagues uppermost in my mind, I’ll have to go. I message Robert.

Loretta

Fancy coming to the agency summer fun day with me? BBQ, rounders etc. Sunday 19 June.

Robert

Can’t think of anything worse than a day spent playing team sports with a bunch of advertising tossers.

I am tempted to remind Robert he is marrying an ‘advertising tosser’ in a few months’ time but I can’t be too annoyed as I wholeheartedly share his lack of enthusiasm for the event and, to an extent, people in advertising.

Loretta

It’s at Greg’s house. Think it will help my promotion efforts …

Robert

Oh, go on then.

Finally, I reach the front of the queue and, coffee in hand, I scan the room for somewhere to sit. The airport seems particularly packed – maybe a flight or two have been cancelled. I spot a free seat and am making my way towards it when a man with a large blue rucksack catches sight of me out of the corner of his eye and races towards it.

I scan the room again. There is an empty seat over in the corner near the windows. I head towards it, giving blue rucksack man a dirty look as I pass.

It isn’t until I am nearly there that I spot the orange suitcase and silver boots. I am about to turn around when the child sees me.

‘Hello! I bought a new book to read on the aeroplane and some sweeties and a sparkly pink butterfly hair clip and Mummy bought some boring things like shampoo and medicine for grown-ups and wipes because you can never have too many.’

I stand rooted to the spot. I do not want to sit next to these two. However, I can only see one other free seat and that looks as if it’s wet.

‘I didn’t even have time to have my lunch yet even though I was quite hungry but that’s okay because we’re going to have it right now, isn’t that right, Mummy? I’ve got an egg sandwich in French bread, it’s called that because it comes from France and it’s really crunchy, in France they don’t call it French bread though they call it bag … bag …’

‘Baguette?’ I say, as I sit.

‘Yes!’ the little girl says, clapping her hands together delightedly.

‘I have a bit of work to do,’ I say, pulling my laptop from my bag.

‘I do work for school, spellings and maths and sometimes stories which is what I like best because I’m good at them.’

There is something strangely adult about this child. You wouldn’t be surprised if her conversation suddenly turned to house prices or pension plans, or if she said ‘oof’ when she sat down.

I pull up Maxine’s Facebook profile and scroll through her about-info, photos and recent posts. It suddenly occurs to me that, although I have been looking forward to a few days’ break from Operation MWTT, there is never any real respite from trying to make myself likeable. I feel as if it’s a mission I’ve been failing at since I was six and no one wanted to come to my birthday party. ‘I don’t understand it,’ my mother hissed to my father. ‘I thought the ice skating would swing it.’

I shake my head as if to dislodge the negative thoughts. I’m not completely socially inept. I think some of my clients even quite like me.

I see that Maxine is getting married in September. Excellent – I can slip in a casual mention of my own wedding and within seconds she’ll be talking about dresses and cake designs and flowers.

The little girl is swinging her legs backwards and forwards. I have to admit the silver boots are pretty fabulous. Although I don’t want kids, if I was ever to change my mind, I’d definitely want to buy them cool clothes and not dress them in those horrible frumpy old-fashioned things that involve loads of smocking.

My nostrils are suddenly assaulted by the sulphuric smell of egg and I look up to see the child chomping a baguette as big as her head. Crumbs rain down all over her but neither she nor her mother seems to care.

‘Why are you going to New York?’ she says.

‘Phoebe,’ her mother says. ‘Let the lady do her work.’

I smile and go back to my Facebook stalking. I can feel the child’s eyes boring into me, though, and start to feel guilty I didn’t answer her question. ‘I’m going to New York for work.’

Chapter Four

Of course, it was a grave error. By answering that one question, I opened the floodgates and Phoebe started chattering away, her words tumbling over each other in their hurry to get out. And it isn’t just her either. It turns out the mother, who introduced herself as Kate, is just as loquacious. It’s as if the two of them are taking part in that radio gameshow where you’re not allowed to pause.

Neither of them waits for the other to finish before speaking themselves, merely turning up the volume to be heard. Sometimes, they conduct two entirely separate conversations and sometimes, as if by happy accident, they intersect.

I look across the departure lounge where blue rucksack man is sitting peacefully reading a book, entirely undisturbed by any of the people around him. Lucky, seat-stealing bastard.

Kate is wittering on about the blister the size of a walnut on her left heel, while Phoebe is talking about how Sophie P doesn’t like Sophie G and neither of them like Olivia or Zara.

The headache I thought I’d nipped in the bud with extra-strength tablets starts to pulse behind my eyes. I really want to go back to looking at Maxine’s Facebook profile. ‘I should prob—’

‘Zara had a party where you got to paint plates or mugs or things,’ Phoebe says. ‘But she didn’t invite Sophie P or Sophie G.’

‘I haven’t seen Janey since she moved to Spain,’ Kate says. ‘Although we message each other about a million times a day. She’s renting a gorgeous little finca in Murcia. Do you know it? It’s in the south-east. Looks absolutely to die for in the photos …’

My mind drifts away from the chatter coming in my direction. I’m not sure my lunch with Zoe went that well. She kept firing questions at me about me and Robert which made me uncomfortable and then she said, ‘You don’t give very much away, do you?’ and it was kind of jokey but kind of not.

The child’s high-pitched voice snaps me back into the present. ‘My mummy is thirty-one.’

‘Oh, okay. Me too, actually.’

‘It’s a great age to be!’ Kate says, beaming.

A nonsense comment if ever there was one. There is nothing inherently good or bad about being thirty-one.

‘Janey has got a little girl who’s just a bit older than me,’ Phoebe says.

Kate squeezes her arm. ‘She has, and I bet you two are going to get on great.’

‘And Janey has a new boyfriend,’ Phoebe says. She adjusts her fairy wings. ‘Which is lovely because it’s a bit lonely when you’re in a new country and you don’t really know anyone except your child.’

This clearly parroted observation tells me Kate must discuss things like this with Phoebe. This seems bizarre and yet, in a way, totally unsurprising. In the short time I have spent with them, I have noticed they speak to each other more like a couple of girlfriends than mother and daughter.

‘It was a real coup de foudre,’ Kate says.

‘What’s a coup de fool-re?’ Phoebe asks.

Kate scrapes her hair back into a messy bun and laughs delightedly. ‘Coup de foudre. It means love at first sight.’ She turns to me. ‘Do you believe in such things?’