Page 125 of The Spark

‘You strike me as someone who ruminates a lot over the past – and the future, too. But Neve, when we spend all of our time looking backwards, or focusing relentlessly on where we’re going, we risk missing out on the life we’re living right now.’

‘I’ve stopped thinking about Jamie. And I’m not bitter any more. Despite everything that happened, I think it’s still possible to... appreciate him for who he helped me become.’

Meena looks thoughtful. ‘Who did Jamie help you become, do you think?’

‘Well, he encouraged me to pursue my career. He taught me a lot about ambition, and—’

I stop myself abruptly. I so nearly said love. Old habits die hard, I guess.

‘Lara was the one who suggested you might become an interior designer, wasn’t she?’

Hmm. This woman has a better memory than a teenager with a grudge.

‘And didn’t you say she encouraged you, too, not to make your whole life about Jamie? To think about work and being solvent and standing on your own two feet?’

I concede the point, and shortly afterwards, our session comes to a close.

As I leave, I think about what she’s said. I’d always been so certain it was Jamie who gave me the fire in my belly to really focus on my future. But now, as I make my way home through throngs of summer drinkers and football match-goers and couples strolling in the soft light of evening, I realise – perhaps for the first time – that all along, it was Lara. My wing woman. My sister.

It was Lara who proposed I work in interiors. Who pushed me to pursue it, to get work experience. Who reminded me there was more to life than what I had with Jamie. Who doggedly insisted I was my own, whole, person. Who taught me how to stand up for myself. Who showed me how to love, and how to be loyal, and that you can choose your family, if the one you were given isn’t up to the task. And that even if you have all the money in the world, time – and time spent well – is the only thing that truly matters, in the end.

It was Lara who encouraged me to live a life bigger than the one I had planned for myself.

When I get home, I stand in the kitchen for a few moments. Everything is shiny. Everything is clean. Everything is calm.

It takes a monumental effort, but I switch off the light and my phone, and go to sit down on the sofa. And then I allow myself to sob, really sob. Harder than I’ve ever sobbed before in my life. The kind of tears that get so out of control, you begin to wonder if they might never stop.

Two days later, Kelley calls me into her office.

‘How are you, Neve?’ she says briskly.

(The correct answer to this is only ever, Great, thank you, how are you?)

‘Great, thank you, how are you?’

‘Take a seat.’

I obey swiftly. My heart rate rockets. I can’t remember the last time Kelley encouraged anyone to make themselves comfortable in her office.

She gets straight to the point, telling me she’s been impressed with my recent work, in particular my contribution to the refurbishment of a Cotswolds hotel which has been widely picked up by the design and interiors press. That project was complex, and coronary-level stressful. But it’s been worth it now to know Kelley’s taken notice.

‘I’d like to offer you the role of head designer, Neve,’ she says, with characteristic detachment, as if we’re discussing the bin rota, or the merits of one electrician over another. ‘It will mean longer hours and more responsibility, of course. But I’m sure you’re up to the task.’ She shoots me a smile so short-lived I half wonder if it was some sort of spasm.

I exhale slowly, trying to prevent myself from shaking with joy and resolving not to think yet about the longer hours comment, because in my case, I’m not too sure they exist. But right now, none of that matters. I’ve done it. I’ve made it. This is everything I’ve been working towards for years.

‘Thank you. Thank you so much,’ I say, blinking at the chandelier hanging from the ceiling of Kelley’s office. Don’t cry, don’t cry, don’t cry.

‘No need for thanks. You deserve it,’ she says, so briskly I almost laugh, because only Kelley could promote a person with the same cool indifference as if she were issuing a P45.

Parveen and I head to the pub after work for a mini-celebration, where together we scrutinise every last detail of my promotion – our key agreed highlights being the pay rise, and getting to share Kelley’s assistant, and accompanying Kelley on a trip to Milan next month. Not to mention receiving my first ever company credit card. (We gloss over the extra pressure, and the stopping of more bucks with me. There’ll be plenty of time for me to flip out about all that further down the line.)

‘So, what’s next?’ Parveen asks me.

‘How do you mean?’

‘Well, what’s your next big life goal? You’ve got the promotion. Now what?’ She says this fondly, like she particularly loves my screwed-up way of thinking.

‘Actually, I’m going to bathe in the glory of this for a while.’

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