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Back Careering Save as PDF
Chapters (64)
  1. Cover
  2. About the Author
  3. Dedication
  4. Chapter One
  5. Chapter Two
  6. Chapter Three
  7. Chapter Four
  8. Chapter Five
  9. Chapter Six
  10. Chapter Seven
  11. Chapter Eight
  12. Chapter Nine
  13. Chapter Ten
  14. Chapter Eleven
  15. Chapter Twelve
  16. Chapter Thirteen
  17. Chapter Fourteen
  18. Chapter Fifteen
  19. Chapter Sixteen
  20. Chapter Seventeen
  21. Chapter Eighteen
  22. Chapter Nineteen
  23. Chapter Twenty
  24. Chapter Twenty-One
  25. Chapter Twenty-Two
  26. Chapter Twenty-Three
  27. Chapter Twenty-Four
  28. Chapter Twenty-Five
  29. Chapter Twenty-Six
  30. Chapter Twenty-Seven
  31. Chapter Twenty-Eight
  32. Chapter Twenty-Nine
  33. Chapter Thirty
  34. Chapter Thirty-One
  35. Chapter Thirty-Two
  36. Chapter Thirty-Three
  37. Chapter Thirty-Four
  38. Chapter Thirty-Five
  39. Chapter Thirty-Six
  40. Chapter Thirty-Seven
  41. Chapter Thirty-Eight
  42. Chapter Thirty-Nine
  43. Chapter Forty
  44. Chapter Forty-One
  45. Chapter Forty-Two
  46. Chapter Forty-Three
  47. Chapter Forty-Four
  48. Chapter Forty-Five
  49. Chapter Forty-Six
  50. Chapter Forty-Seven
  51. Chapter Forty-Eight
  52. Chapter Forty-Nine
  53. Chapter Fifty
  54. Chapter Fifty-One
  55. Chapter Fifty-Two
  56. Chapter Fifty-Three
  57. Chapter Fifty-Four
  58. Chapter Fifty-Five
  59. Chapter Fifty-Six
  60. Chapter Fifty-Seven
  61. Chapter Fifty-Eight
  62. Chapter Fifty-Nine
  63. Epilogue
  64. Acknowledgements

I must tread carefully. ‘Mum, that’s so generous of you, but honestly, I’m knackered, it’s been quite a week. I just wanted to stay in with you and Dad tonight. Maybe see Jen another time,’ I finish, lamely. I can’t bear to tell her that Jen doesn’t want to see me, and I don’t know why. Dad leans over and snatches the money from Mum’s outstretched hand. Funny how he can move quite fast when he wants to. His face is inches from mine. His breath is hot, and I’m sixteen again, six again, and afraid.

‘Imogen.’

He always starts quietly. This is the worst bit. Slowly, slowly creeping up the rollercoaster, before the descent.

‘You come here, from London, full of your fucking airs and graces, and you think—YOU THINK—that now you’ve been on the telly with that rancid old slag, Dora Whatsit…’ Irrationally I am grateful that in this scenario, Dora is the rancid slag…‘that you’re too good for your FRIENDS? You’re too good for the Wheatsheaf? I’m ashamed of you. I’m ashamed to call you my daughter.’ The bowl flies past my right ear, hits the wall, shatters. Mum stares down at the table, where her own ice cream ought to be.

‘Dad, I’m…’

He takes my hand, squeezing my fingers a little too hard. He has never hit me. I don’t think he has ever hit Mum. But he knows exactly how to frighten us. He prises my hand back open. The tenner is now sweaty. He has tried to crumple it into a ball, but it won’t retain its shape.

‘Imogen, I don’t want to see you until tomorrow. Get out!’

I look at Mum, wildly. ‘Would you like to come?’ I will fail, but I can try.

‘No, love, I’d better stay here and clear up, goodness me! Accidents will happen!’ She laughs, softly, and I manage to hold my breath, run from the room, grab my coat, make the gate squeal and get all the way around the corner before I sink to my knees and weep.

The Wheatsheaf is an ‘old fashioned country pubbe’ that is ‘proud to be offering fine family fayre’. It was built in 1997. Everything here is wipe clean. If you linger too long, you might get laminated. But you can get a large glass of not entirely terrible red wine for £2.29. I head to the bar first. I need time to work out how to do this, and I need alcohol. I need to blot out the last hour.