Charlotte had spent twenty years managing paperwork, answering phones, smiling at visitors who rarely deserved it, and making tea for the managers with such flair that she was once nearly promoted to head of hospitality. And yet, shed been made redundant. Thats life for you.
Now, there was this interview. The first one in twenty years.
Charlotte stood in the hall mirror, giving herself a stern pep talk. The suit was fine. The hair was fine. The facewell, you cant hide forty-six years, but she looked presentable. The key was not to get flustered. Its just a job. Just another office, another desk, a new set of calls.
Her friend Holly insisted on accompanying her and offered a pep talk in the lift:
Hold your nerve in there. Youre a professional. Twenty years on the job; thats no small thing.
Twenty years, echoed Charlotte. And I was still let go.
So what? Thats experience.
Holly, said Charlotte, smiling. Off you go to work.
The office was tucked away down a quiet lane in London. Four stories, some attempt at grandeur: columns, glass doors, a uniformed security guard. Charlotte straightened her shoulders. Took a deep breath. Then walked in.
The receptionist pointed to the third floor.
The director is expecting you. Room three-oh-two.
Third floor. Long corridor. Door with a plaque.
Charlotte knocked. Entered.
And frozesitting behind the desk was Simon.
Her ex. The very one shed once nursed through flu, baked scones for during exams, forgiven for something she ought never have forgiven. The one she couldnt sleep properly after losing, for three long years.
He looked at her. She looked back.
After a pause so long youd normally either walk out or stay foreverthere is no third optionCharlotte thought, with a curious sense of calm, Well. Fate does love a joke.
Simon looked well. Annoyingly so.
Honestly, over the last eight years, Charlotte sometimes imagined running into her ex-husband. In those thoughts, he was always rather the worse for wear: a little bald, perhaps shabbier, certainly with a belly. Something should have happened to a man so capable of hurting others over eight years.
But, apparently not.
Simon was there behind the directors desk, sharp in a good jacket, a perfect trim, and the air of someone whod long ago made peace with his conscience on generous terms. Hair tinged with grey at the temples. A laptop, diary, and a tiny cactus on his deska cactus, of all things. Classic.
Charlotte, he said. Not Mrs. Fletcher, not even hello, just Charlotte. As though theyd last parted after dinner last night.
Hello, Simon, she replied.
Simon gestured to the chair. Charlotte sat, resting her bag on her lap. She seemed to need to have something to hold.
I have your CV here, he said, nodding towards his desk. Ive read it.
All right.
Twenty years as a PA. Impressive record.
Yes.
He spoke calmly, businesslike, his gaze fixed somewhere off to her lefta professionals trick, when pretending to be detached.
Right, so were pretending to be professionals, Charlotte realised. Fine. Lets play.
Tell me about your last role, said Simon.
Off they went.
Charlotte described her previous position. Calm, clear, precise: her responsibilities, the systems managed, team size, processes. Meanwhile, in her head, another conversation was running:
Thats the same Simon who once told you You just dont understand me, and left for Lisa from accounts.
What software did you use?
She listed them. Meanwhile thinking: Thats the same man whose leaving made eating and sleeping impossible for months.
Did you handle meetings with senior partners?
Yes, I arranged contract discussions and top-level appointments.
That was him. He was right there, behind his desk, in a smart jacket.
Simon nodded, jotting notes in his diaryor pretending to. Charlotte caught the movement of his pen with half her attention and thought: Life truly does have an exquisite, sadistic sense of irony.
Outside, the lane was peaceful, leaves on the pavement, standard October. But inside that office, there were eight years worth of divorce papers, disputes over the flat, more over the cottage, nights spent calling Holly and saying nothing because she simply couldnt speak.
And here he sat. With a cactus.
Why did you leave your last job? Simon asked, voice strictly professional.
Redundancy, Charlotte replied. The department was dissolved.
I see. He paused. Did you work closely with the company directors?
Yes, I regularly interfaced with the MD and board members.
Are you trustworthy with confidential matters?
I am.
Simon stared at her for a few seconds. Charlotte met his gaze. No smile, no hostilityjust even.
Good, he said at last, setting down his pen. Id like to continue this conversation in a less formal setting. Perhaps over tea?
At that moment, Charlotte felt a shift inside. Not fearsomething else, a sense that things were about to move to a different conversation entirely.
I dont mind, she replied, steady as ever.
Simon got up, moved to the small kettle by the window. His back to her. Charlotte watched him, bracing for whatever hed say nextsomething significant, or awkward, that justified the tea.
The kettle hissed and gurgled.
You look well, Simon said, still with his back to her, suddenly on first names terms.
Charlotte said nothing.
He set a cup before her, then took his seat.
I mean it.
She looked at the cup, then at him.
Thank you, she replied, steady as before.
Simon was silent for a moment.
Charlotte, Id like to say something. Not as a director, as someone who knows you.
Thats interesting, Charlotte thought. Interesting and possibly perilouslike when the pilot emerges from the cockpit with an expression that spells, news incoming.
Im glad you chose to come here, Simon said.
It was chance, replied Charlotte.
Perhaps. He smiled slightly. But I am glad. Youre obviously a professional. Thats clear straight off. I need someone exactly like you.
All right.
But Id like Simon hesitated, picking words as if stepping carefully across thin ice. Id like us to be clear from the start. A clean slate, so to speak. Without old stories.
There it was.
Charlotte set her cup down.
A clean slate. So thats the catch. Eight years and a clean slate. The court case over the flata clean slate. Three months unable to stomach fooda clean slate too, apparently.
She waited a few moments. Studied him as you would something you need a good, hard look at before making a decision.
Simon, she said slowly, Let me check Ive understood: youre offering me this job, so long as I agree to forget everything before today?
He flinched, almost imperceptibly.
Im suggesting we start fresh. Theres a difference.
No, said Charlotte. There isnt.
Silence. The cactus stood oblivious.
Look, Charlotte continued, I have no interest in bringing up the past. I havent got the energy, nor the wish. But Im not going to pretend it never happened, either. Because it did. And thats my lifenot just a page someone can turn over.
Simon watched her, quietly.
Im here for an interview, said Charlotte, not to reminisce. If you want a professional with twenty years experience to lead your admin department, lets discuss the terms. If you want someone wholl pretend that nothing happened eight years ago, thats not me.
She took a sip of tea. It was decent, she noted, in a faintly detached way.
Simon kept quiet. The look he gave her was one she recognised, after a moment: respect.
Youve changed, he said quietly.
Yes, replied Charlotte. It has been eight years.
Simon got up, walked to the window, stared at the street below, then turned.
Charlotte. His voice was softer. I know I was wrong. Back then. Its not a clean slate. Youre right; it all happened, and I handled it badly.
Charlotte studied him.
She hadnt expected that. Not at all.
For eight years, shed imagined this scene in a dozen ways. Hed be angry, or act indifferent, or make some condescending comment. Shed never imagined hed just say, I handled it badly.
Its good to hear that, she said, after a pause. Even if its late.
He nodded. Yes. It is late.
The silence that followed was restful, no longer tense. The sort that comes when everything has been said and nothing more is needed.
About the position, Simon said. Id like to offer you the Head of Administration role. Its senior to the PA role. Good terms. The choice is yours.
Charlotte was silent for a while.
Ill think about it, she replied.
Fair enough.
She got up. Picked up her bag. Simon also rose, with a genuine manner, none of the bosss formality.
Charlotte, he called as she neared the door.
She half turned.
Thank you for not walking out the minute you saw me.
Charlotte hesitated.
I didnt expect I would stay, either, she admitted.
Out in the corridor, Charlotte paused.
She stood silently at the closed office door.
Outside, Holly waited with a takeaway coffee. She saw Charlottes face and asked straightaway:
Well?
They offered me the position, Charlotte replied.
A good one?
Yes. Head of Administration.
Blimey. Holly was quiet for a second. And the director?
Simon.
Holly stared.
Simon? Your Simon?
My ex, Charlotte clarified.
And what did you say?
Said Id think on it.
Charlotte took the coffee from her, took a sip. The vending machine stuff was, admittedly, a step down from the real stuff upstairs, but somehow felt more familiar.
They walked down the lane together. The leaves squeaked under foot in that October way, the sun shone without much warmthmore to show its face than to really heat.
But now its my decision. Not his, Charlotte said, a faint smile playing at her lips. Not his. Thats for sure.Holly nudged her. So what will you do?
Charlotte paused, glancing back once at the façade that now seemed smaller than it had an hour ago. She curled her fingers tighter around the cup, feeling its warmth. For the first time in ages, she felt something stira gentle, tentative confidence. Life had tipped her into a new chapter, and this time, she was the one choosing the opening line.
Ill sleep on it, she said, her voice light. Make a decision tomorrow. Maybe Ill say yes. Or maybe Ill try something Ive never tried at all.
As they reached the end of the lane, Charlotte took a last look at the office. She found herself smilingnot the professional smile, but the kind that comes when you realize youre finally free of old stories, even as you carry them with you. The story didnt end the way shed once hoped or feared; it was simply hers to finish.
Come on, she said, linking arms with Holly. Lets get good coffee. The real stuff. Ive earned it.
And as the two friends disappeared into the bustle of the city, Charlotte felt Octobers cool air wrapped around her, bracing and cleana promise that, whatever tomorrow held, shed greet it on her own terms.
