‘Imogen, what I just said about Mackenzie—I was indiscreet. I want you to go through those features ideas with me at 4 o’clock.’ Harri sees some life, some energy flicker in Imogen’s face. The shoulders rise. The spine tilts. ‘OK, I mean, of course.’ Imogen turns back towards the office, and Harri has to pretend she is taking her papers on a tour of the building in order to avoid an awkward walk beside her. As she ascends the stairs, she feels the acid sting of failure. She’s got it wrong, again. Imogen reached out kindly, bravely, generously. All Harri had to do was show up, respond, be human, but she blew it.

Oh, love. I’m sorry. I want to be friends. But I’m your boss, and I’m not sure I know how to do both.

Chapter Fifteen

Imogen tries to get her breath back

Imogen

Today is our official launch day, and I can’t be late. We’ve all spent the last two weeks writing, preparing, cramming—I feel as though I’m about to sit an exam. So when my bag starts buzzing as I exit the tube, I’d like to ignore it, and concentrate on getting to the office as quickly as I can. But when I see the caller ID, my lungs are punctured by a stab of panic. I pick up, while walking at a half trot, half gallop.

‘Mum! Is everything all right?’

‘Oh, you know, same as always, we’re rubbing along, your dad’s trying some new tablets so he’s sleeping better, so he’s not been so…anyway, I’ve just not heard from you in a little while.’

‘I’m sorry. Just been a bit tired, getting used to the new commute! I think it’s just hard now, because I’m still getting used to it. I’ll be back to normal soon, I’m sorry.’ How on earth can she make me feel so guilty, in a single sentence, from hundreds of miles away? It’s a superpower.

‘Maybe you could come home soon? Have a nice rest.’ How would it be a rest? The moaning, the constant criticism, then the shouting. Hoping Mum doesn’t cry. Just thinking about going back is exhausting.

‘Maybe in a couple of weeks. Mum, I’m late for the morning meeting, can I call you back?’

‘Love, I really think you’re working too hard. Are you getting enough sleep?’

It’s Mum’s favourite question, and there is no good answer. Define ‘enough’, Mother. Technically I suppose I must be getting enough rest, otherwise I’d be clinically dead. ‘I’ll be fine, I’ve just got to get through these first few weeks. Can I ring you at lunch?’

‘Of course, of course! I’m taking your dad to the doctor’s but if I miss you, I’ll call you straight back.’

‘OK. Love you!’