should soften it and make myself seem more human. I add a line.
I like to bake and my Victoria sponge has won awards.
A little voice inside warns against boasting. I tell it to hold its tongue, that this is important and I know best.
Next comes “Future Plans” and I toy further with the idea of saying I want to write a novel, but seeing as how almost everyone seems to be doing that these days, I pick a different path.
At school I was good at art and Mam still has some of my first attempts at pottery gathering dust in glass-fronted cabinets. The teachers hung my picture of a fruit bowl in the main hall, in a glass frame. It wouldn’t be too much of a stretch for my schoolmates to learn this creative streak carried on.
My husband and I plan to open a small gallery showcasing my line drawings.
I’m fairly sure nobody will get me to do an improvised sketch there-and- then, and if they do, I’ll claim the muse is absent and look troubled. If push comes to shove, I’ll claim repetitive strain injury.
I read through all I’ve written.
It lacks something. Although it’s no less dishonest than my first profile, there should be a final touch.
I think back to the hostile phone conversations, the pieces torn from local newspapers, second-hand news passed on by Mam. What do all those bitches have in common. Nearly every last one likes to brag about one thing.
We’re also trying for a baby.
I hit submit.
A message arrives in my inbox confirming the profile is now on-line for anyone to see.
Seven
Everyone at work knows where I was on Saturday. They’ll all want the kind of details I’m too shaken to share. What can I say? They have lovely wallpaper but Audrey is psychotic?
I get into work early and hide in a box room with the ticket printers, insisting I’m too busy to be disturbed. By ten-thirty, I crave human company and stick my head round the door.
Sharon waves and rolls her eyes as an elderly woman counts pound coins onto the counter. Bryn shoves tickets into envelopes and everyone else is busy on the phone.
‘Bloody hell,’ someone says and we all look round. ‘Read your email, quick.’
A gentle wave of surprise washes through the box office and I want to run to my own computer, instead I lean over Bryn’s shoulder.
‘What’s going on?’
‘See for yourself.’
The email is from Nina. Probably one of the usual reminders about getting time sheets in on time and not hanging wet coats in the upstairs cloakroom.
‘What does she want now?’ I say. ‘Has someone left the milk out of the fridge in the staffroom.’
‘Read it,’ he insists.
From: Nina Turner
To: All Staff
Subject: Farewell
Dear all
As some of you may have heard, I am leaving the Pal- ace Theatre today after six years during which time I have made some great friends. It has been a pleasure working with most of you.
I’ll be having a little get together on Friday at six in the Stage Door bar for those of you who can make it. I’ll be staying in Manchester and hope to stay in touch with some of you.
Nina Turner
Management Assistant
‘Did you know anything about this?’ Sharon says.
‘Why would I?’
‘You’re management. Did he mention it on Saturday?’
It’s like everyone remembers at once.
‘What was the house like?’ Bryn says. ‘Do they sleep together or is it separate beds?’
‘It was lovely actually,’ I say. ‘Really nice.’
I feel my face glow. I’m such a rubbish liar.
‘Really?’ Sharon says. ‘Are you sure about that?’
Brian puts his head round the door and everyone pretends to be busy.
‘Did anyone get back to you from marketing?’ he says and I shake my head. ‘Fine, leave it with me.’
When he’s gone the questions start again.
‘I heard he caught Nina going through his desk, has he sacked her?’
‘How the hell would I know?’
I’m saved by the sandwich man. Insider information will always take second place to crisps and chocolate.
‘Get me a chicken and
I like to bake and my Victoria sponge has won awards.
A little voice inside warns against boasting. I tell it to hold its tongue, that this is important and I know best.
Next comes “Future Plans” and I toy further with the idea of saying I want to write a novel, but seeing as how almost everyone seems to be doing that these days, I pick a different path.
At school I was good at art and Mam still has some of my first attempts at pottery gathering dust in glass-fronted cabinets. The teachers hung my picture of a fruit bowl in the main hall, in a glass frame. It wouldn’t be too much of a stretch for my schoolmates to learn this creative streak carried on.
My husband and I plan to open a small gallery showcasing my line drawings.
I’m fairly sure nobody will get me to do an improvised sketch there-and- then, and if they do, I’ll claim the muse is absent and look troubled. If push comes to shove, I’ll claim repetitive strain injury.
I read through all I’ve written.
It lacks something. Although it’s no less dishonest than my first profile, there should be a final touch.
I think back to the hostile phone conversations, the pieces torn from local newspapers, second-hand news passed on by Mam. What do all those bitches have in common. Nearly every last one likes to brag about one thing.
We’re also trying for a baby.
I hit submit.
A message arrives in my inbox confirming the profile is now on-line for anyone to see.
Seven
Everyone at work knows where I was on Saturday. They’ll all want the kind of details I’m too shaken to share. What can I say? They have lovely wallpaper but Audrey is psychotic?
I get into work early and hide in a box room with the ticket printers, insisting I’m too busy to be disturbed. By ten-thirty, I crave human company and stick my head round the door.
Sharon waves and rolls her eyes as an elderly woman counts pound coins onto the counter. Bryn shoves tickets into envelopes and everyone else is busy on the phone.
‘Bloody hell,’ someone says and we all look round. ‘Read your email, quick.’
A gentle wave of surprise washes through the box office and I want to run to my own computer, instead I lean over Bryn’s shoulder.
‘What’s going on?’
‘See for yourself.’
The email is from Nina. Probably one of the usual reminders about getting time sheets in on time and not hanging wet coats in the upstairs cloakroom.
‘What does she want now?’ I say. ‘Has someone left the milk out of the fridge in the staffroom.’
‘Read it,’ he insists.
From: Nina Turner
To: All Staff
Subject: Farewell
Dear all
As some of you may have heard, I am leaving the Pal- ace Theatre today after six years during which time I have made some great friends. It has been a pleasure working with most of you.
I’ll be having a little get together on Friday at six in the Stage Door bar for those of you who can make it. I’ll be staying in Manchester and hope to stay in touch with some of you.
Nina Turner
Management Assistant
‘Did you know anything about this?’ Sharon says.
‘Why would I?’
‘You’re management. Did he mention it on Saturday?’
It’s like everyone remembers at once.
‘What was the house like?’ Bryn says. ‘Do they sleep together or is it separate beds?’
‘It was lovely actually,’ I say. ‘Really nice.’
I feel my face glow. I’m such a rubbish liar.
‘Really?’ Sharon says. ‘Are you sure about that?’
Brian puts his head round the door and everyone pretends to be busy.
‘Did anyone get back to you from marketing?’ he says and I shake my head. ‘Fine, leave it with me.’
When he’s gone the questions start again.
‘I heard he caught Nina going through his desk, has he sacked her?’
‘How the hell would I know?’
I’m saved by the sandwich man. Insider information will always take second place to crisps and chocolate.
‘Get me a chicken and
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