Rebecca entered for her interview and froze when she saw who was seated in the managing directors office.
For two decades, Rebecca Graham had overseen paperwork, manned the phones, smiled at visitors who hardly deserved it, and brewed tea with such finesse for her superiors that she nearly found herself promoted to head of staffroom catering. And yet, none of that saved her from redundancy. Thats life for you.
And so, here she was, facing an interview for the first time in twenty years.
She stood in the hallway in front of the looking glass, giving herself a stern talking-to. The suit looked presentable. Her hair was tidy. Her facewell, there was no masking forty-six years, but she carried them well. The most important thing: do not be flustered. Its only a job. Just a new office, a new desk, new phone calls.
Her friend, Margaret, had insisted on accompanying her and delivered a pep talk in the lift:
Keep your chin up. Youre the best candidate. Twenty yearsno small feat.
Twenty years, Rebecca echoed. And still shown the door.
Exactly, and youve experience to show for it.
Margaret, Rebecca said, youd better dash to your own desk before youre late.
The office sat tucked away down a quiet lane in the heart of Cambridge. The building fancied itself a bit grand: faux columns out front, shining glass doors, a security man in a blazer watching everyone go by. Rebecca straightened her back, deep breath in, deep breath out, and stepped inside.
At reception, the secretary motioned up the stairs.
Managing director will see you nowroom three-oh-two on the next floor.
Up to the third floor she went. Down the corridor, she stopped at the door with its smart brass plaque.
Rebecca knocked. Entered.
And there she stopped dead: behind the desk sat Peter.
Her former love. The one shed once plucked a splinter from, cooked shepherds pie during university revision nights, forgiven for things which ought not have been forgiven. The one shed lost sleep over for three long years.
He looked straight at her. She looked straight back.
A pause stretched on as only such moments canwhen you decide to leave or to stay, and theres no third way.
So this, Rebecca thought with a strange calm amusement, is what people mean by fates sense of humour.
It stung that Peter looked well.
Truly, in all her imaginings across the last eight years, whenever Rebecca had pictured running into her old husband, she had seen him as withered by disappointment, or at least softened with a bit of a paunch. Surely something must happen in eight years to someone who once knew how to wound so sharply.
But he was as composed as everimmaculate in a tailored jacket, hair neatly brushed, the air of a man well-reconciled with his conscience. The temples a little grey. On the desk, a laptop, a diary, and a tiny cactus. A cactus, of all things. Fitting, somehow.
Rebecca, he said. Not Ms Graham, not good afternoonsimply Rebecca. As if theyd just parted ways after dinner the evening before.
Hello, Peter, she replied.
Peter indicated a chair. Rebecca sat, resting her handbag in her lapsomehow it was important to be holding something, if only a bag.
I have your CV here, he nodded towards the desk. Already had a look.
All right.
Twenty years as PA. Impressive tenure.
Thats right.
He spoke steadily, business-like, focusing just past herat her left ear perhapsthe look of someone who knows the story but pretends its unfamiliar.
So, were playing professionals, Rebecca realised. Very well, lets play.
Tell me about your most recent role, Peter continued.
So she did.
Careful, measured, to the point: her duties, the daily volume of paperwork, the digital systems, the team she supervised. All the while, in her own mind, a very different conversation was taking place.
This is the man who once told you, You never understand me, before vanishing off with Helen from accounts.
What systems did you use? he interjected.
She listed them, but her thoughts lingered: This is the man for whose sake you ate barely more than a cracker for months and tossed in bed for half a year.
Did your responsibilities include meeting clients or partners? Peter asked.
Yes, arranging and supporting executive-level meetings and contract discussions.
This man. Sitting there, immaculate jacket and all.
Peter nodded, making notes, or at least pretending to. Rebecca watched his pen from the corner of her eye. The irony was almost poetic. Or perhaps properly cruel.
Outside, leaves littered the lane in true October fashion; indoors, eight years, a bitter divorce battle, the row over the cottage, the long nights ringing Margaret without uttering a word because words simply choked her.
And here he was. With his cactus.
What led to you leaving your last job? he asked. The tone was neutral, only a managers question.
Department made redundant. Whole section disbanded.
I see. A brief pause. Did you work closely with senior management?
Yes. My role required regular dealings with the MD and the board.
And you can handle confidentiality?
I can.
Peter looked at herreally looked. Rebecca met his gaze, without smile or malice, simply steady.
All right, he said, setting down his pen. Perhaps we could continue this conversation more informally. Shall we have some tea?
That was when Rebecca sensed a shiftsomething tensed inside, but it wasnt fear. Rather, the anticipation of a different sort of conversation looming. One for which she ought to be ready.
I dont mind, she replied calmly.
Peter rose and busied himself at a small kettle by the window. His back to her. Rebecca watched him, certain he was about to say something meaningfulor awkward. Something for which, no doubt, hed suggested tea.
The kettle hissed. As he poured, he spoke, not turning:
You look well, Peter said quietly, suddenly using you as in familiar terms, not business.
Rebecca said nothing.
He set a mug down before her, resumed his seat.
I mean it.
Rebecca glanced from her tea to him.
Thank you, she said evenly.
He paused.
Rebecca, I want to say somethingnot as director, but as someone whos known you well.
Now this, Rebecca noted, was intriguingand slightly hazardous. Rather like a pilot emerging from the cockpit with the sort of face that makes everyone sit up, certain something important is about to be said.
Im glad you came here, Peter stated.
Just a coincidence, Rebecca said.
Perhaps. He offered a faint smile. Still, Im pleased. Youre a consummate professional, and thats exactly what I need.
All right.
But I would like Peter hesitated, choosing his words as if crossing thin ice. Id like us to be clear from the outsetno old stories, if possible. A blank slate.
This was it.
Rebecca set her cup down.
A blank slate, she thought. So thats what its called. Eight yearsa blank slate. The property disputea blank slate. The months of barely eatinga blank slate too, in his mind.
She held his stare, taking her time, studying him every bit as one might study a map before choosing the road.
Peter, she said, let me be sure Ive understood: youre offering me this job on the condition that I forget everything thats happened?
He arched an eyebrow.
Im offering to start afresh. Theres a difference.
No, said Rebecca. Its the same thing.
Silence. And the cactusstubby and utterly indifferentsat between them.
You see, she went on, I wont dredge up the past. Ive no wish or patience for it. But I wont pretend it never happened either. It did, and its part of my life, not a page for someone else to tear out.
Peter regarded her, wordless.
Im here for a job interview, Rebecca reminded him. Not an evening sentimentally reminiscing. If you want an experienced head of admin, with twenty years experience, Im happy to discuss terms. If you want someone happy to act as if eight years ago never happened, thats not me.
She picked up her mug and sipped. The tea was good, she noted with a private, unexpected pleasure.
Peter sat in silence, watching her with an expression she took a moment to recognise. It was respect.
Youve changed, he said.
Yes, Rebecca agreed. Its been eight years.
Peter crossed to the window, took a long look at the narrow lane and Cambridge rooftops, then turned back.
Rebecca. His voice was softer now. I know I was wrongthen. This isnt about a blank slate. Youre right. It happened, and I handled it badly.
Rebecca watched him, surprised.
Shed played this meeting out a hundred ways in her mind: Peter angry, Peter aloof, Peter condescending. Him simply saying, I behaved badly was not a scenario shed anticipated.
Its good to hear, she managed. If a little late.
He nodded. Yes. It is late.
The hush that followed had no sharp edge, only quieta restful sort, as after all important things have been said.
As for the job, Peter continued. Id like to offer you the role of Head of Administration. A step up from PA. Good pay, solid terms. The decision is yours.
Rebecca pondered.
Ill think about it, she said.
Fair enough.
She rose, collecting her bag. Peter rose too, without the managers airs, only as himself.
Rebecca, he called just as she reached the door.
She turned.
Thank you for not walking out when you saw me.
Rebecca considered before replying.
I hadnt expected to stay, either, she admitted.
In the corridor, she paused for a moment outside the office door.
Out in the lane, Margaret waited, takeaway coffee in hand. She clocked Rebeccas face and asked instantly:
Well?
They offered me the job, Rebecca replied.
A good one?
Yes. Head of Administration.
Margaret paused, taking this in. And whos the boss?
Peter.
Margaret stared. Peter? Your Peter?
My former, Rebecca clarified.
And you?
I told him Id consider it.
Rebecca took a sip of the cheap coffee. It was no match for the directors blend upstairs. But it felt more familiar, somehow closer to home.
They strolled along the lane, leaves crunching underfoot in that unmistakable October way. The sunlight gave only a half-hearted glownot enough to warm you, only to make itself known.
But its my choice now, Rebecca said with a quiet smile. Not his. Not anymore.Margaret squeezed her arm. You know, she said, I think youd be brilliant.
Rebecca smiled, slow and real. Thats the point, isnt it? I finally believe it, too.
They walked on, heels echoing on old pavement, as new plans quietly took root within her. Whether she said yes or no, Rebecca knew something had shifteda weight gone, a chapter closed, or maybe just a window letting in fresh air.
Ahead, the street curved toward the river. Work, love, endings and beginningsthey all flowed in their own time. Rebecca straightened her shoulders, imagined herself behind that new deskor perhaps, somewhere entirely different.
She let the autumn breeze lift a lock of her hair and, for the first time in years, allowed herself to look forward.
When Margaret chattered about lunch, Rebecca laughedfree, unexpected. She hadnt lost anything today. In fact, shed found something shed nearly forgotten: the person shed always been, and the rest of her life, waiting just outside the door.
