Page 4 of The Wishing Tree Beside the Shor
Harrison’s answer to every problem is to throw money at it, and if that doesn’t work, throw larger amounts of money at it. ‘I can’t do that. I don’t want to go back there. I haven’t been home in fifteen years.’
‘You go to visit your father occasionally, don’t you? I distinctly remember you saying that was how you’d spent a holiday once.’
‘Yeah, but not … properly.’
‘I’m going to level with you, Felicity. This is ahugeclient for us and we couldn’t risk them going elsewhere, so I’ve taken a leap of faith and indicated I have this land for them, but I don’t yet have a signed agreement from the owner. It looked straightforward. I never expected it to go wrong like this. The care home owner has got cold feet with all the protestors and is dillydallying about signing, but if we can stop the protest quickly, he’ll soon be back on our side. This is no time for your silly family disputes. Youaregoing to Lemmon Cove, youaregoing to go undercover as a protestor, youaregoing to find out what it’s going to cost to shut these people up, and this isnota request.’
‘You can’t—’ I start, my voice rising with indignation.
He rolls his eyes. ‘This is a chance for you to move on from being my assistant and start to head up your own projects. If we deliver on this without problems for the client, they’ve got their eye on several other spots around the UK and they’re going to be coming to us forallof them. We’re going to be busy, so it’ll be time for me to get a new assistant and for you to oversee your own project, have your own office …’
An office would be nice. Right now I have a desk in the corner of his office and if he wants to take a private call, I get sent out into the corridor to twiddle my thumbs until he’s finished, and then yelled at for wasting time. A project would be nice. Something of my own. Seeing the potential in different spaces and selling that to a client … It’s what I’ve wanted since I started here. I’d love to show him that I’m capable of more than making tea.
‘So you’ll do it then?’
I don’t know why he phrases it as a question when it’s clearly an instruction. He threatens to have me replaced at least once a week. I live in London; I can’t afford to be fired for refusing this.
Maybe it won’t be that bad. I’ve got an idea of where the care homes are, and they’re a good few miles away from Sullivan’s Seeds where I used to work with Ryan Sullivan; also I know the company went into liquidation years ago. The chances of him still living there are slim to none. I always get jittery when I think about going home, but I’ve gone back for visits and never seen him around, and this could be a much easier job than it sounds. A youngster who owns a campsite could be easy to sway. Harrison hasn’t given me a budget yet, but he’s usually pretty generous when it comes to removing obstacles. A chunk of money, even the promise of a spot of land elsewhere. It shouldn’t be difficult to offer enough to put an end to the protest. I could be in and out within a day; no different from family visits.
Harrison takes my quiet overthinking as an agreement. It wasn’t, but I also know I have no options if I want to keep my job, and I haven’t been collecting his dry-cleaning and polishing his shoes for the last four years just to give up now. This is an opportunity I thought would never happen – a chance to prove that I can be a reliable and valued member of the team, capable of more than non-work-related errands and wiping down tables and refilling water jugs.
This is what I’ve always hoped for. I’ve always wanted to travel for work. I left Lemmon Cove all those years ago for an opportunity in a job that involved travel and when that fell through, I ended up in a series of dead-end admin jobs until I landed here, with promises of training and promotions and working my way up the corporate ladder. So far, none of them have come true, but this could finally be my chance.
‘There we go. Now you’re all up to speed.’ Harrison pats me patronisingly on the shoulder like this was the plan all along. ‘I have total faith in you, Felicity. You’ll get this sorted in a jiffy.’
He has more faith in me than I have in myself. And he’s been exceptionally good at hiding it up until now. Generally he doesn’t trust my ability to open a bottle of milk for his morning tea. ‘And if I do this, I’ll get my own projects? My own office?’ I prompt, determined that if I have to face going back to Lemmon Cove, I’m doing it for a good reason.
‘If you succeed, this client is abigfirm with unlimited money and a budget to build several hotels in unspoiled spots around the country.’ He gives me a lion-like smile. ‘And if you fail, our firm will have lost their biggest client and we’ll all hold you personally responsible.’
Nothing like that for a bit of motivation.
‘Go on.’ He shoos me away. ‘No time to lose.’
‘But the meeting …’ I point towards the room we came out of, a finger hanging limply in mid-air. I might have agreed, but I expected a few days to worry about it first. I mean, to plan, obviously. To prepare. There’snothingto worry about, but I didn’t think he expected me to gonow. What does he think I’m going to do? Jump on the traintoday?
‘You can claim your train fare back on expenses,’ he says, making me sure he has an ability to read minds. He also has a look that says “why are you still here?” ‘I’ll explain all to the lads in the meeting. They were impressed by our brilliant plan, don’t you think? I must give myself a pat on the back for such quick thinking.’
He reaches around and pats the back of his own shoulder. People don’t actually do that, do they?
‘Have fun, Felicity. Wear some … daffodils or leeks or whatever it is you Welsh people like. Dragons? Sheep? I’ll have your office ready by the time you get back.’
An office of my own. A job that feels like a “real” job. Colleagues who see me as an equal. It would be so nice …
And all I have to do is deceive a few old people and offer some youngster a chunk of money. Harrison makes it sound business-like and sensible, but it sounds like underhanded and deceitful bribery when I say it.
It’s business, I tell myself as I walk back to my desk. I am a professional. If Harrison really is going to let me head up my own projects, I’m going to have to get used to things like this. Making deals and thwarting protestors and overcoming obstacles. I’ve got to start somewhere. Maybe this is exactly what I was supposed to do with my life and I just need the opportunity to become a shrewd businesswoman who zips up and down the country for work, carries a briefcase, never has a hair out of place, and always manages to walk in high heels. Maybe she’s inside me somewhere and I need the right opportunity to find out. Maybe I was cut out for this shrewd businesswoman lifestyle and this’ll turn out to be a piece of cake … A shrewd businesswoman who doesn’t get distracted by thoughts of cake, obviously.
What could possibly go wrong?
Chapter 2
Why does my heart start pounding as the train gets closer to the South Wales coast? There is no way Ryan Sullivan still lives here. There is no way I’m going to accidentally run into him. He was ambitious; he wanted to travel and see the world. His family company is long gone from the area. He wouldn’t have stayed here.
I wipe sweaty palms on my jeans as the announcement of reaching the end of the line comes over the tannoy and I gather up my bags. I had no idea what to bring, no idea how long I’m likely to be staying, so I shoved some summery clothes into a holdall bag along with toiletries and overnight essentials.
I don’t do well with things I have no time to prepare for … I don’t do particularly well with things Idohave time to prepare for, but today has been a real flailing around in the deep end moment. At first I was glad that I didn’t have time to overthink it, but I’ve beenexceptionallygrateful for the four-hour train journey that my brain has spent inventing all the hypothetical things that could possibly go wrong, and having one final stalk of Ryan Sullivan on Facebook, but – like all the other times I’ve checked – he doesn’t exist on social media. I thoughteveryonehad an account on at least one platform, and while there are millions of Ryan Sullivans online, none of them arethatone. I know because I’ve stalkedalltheir profiles over the years. But wherever he is now, he clearly doesn’tdothe internet. Which is useful, in a way, because I’m not a regular Facebook stalker and it’s only once in a while that I decide to check if he’s got a Facebook account yet, but what would I do if he was actually on there? I’d like to say I’d send him a friend request and a bright and breezy message asking if he remembered me, but if I sent him a message, he’d know I’d been stalking him. He’d know I still thought about him often enough to seek him out online, so I’d probably just lurk and follow his every post and never comment or do anything to let him know I was watching.
And then I’d inevitably end up accidentally hitting a “like” button and he’d see it before I could undo it, and then he’d know that even though fifteen years have passed since I last saw him, when I’m lonely, or at the end of yetanotherbreak-up, I still think of him and wish I’d never kissed him. Maybe we’d still be friends if I hadn’t.
