The client had liked the designs last week. On Tuesday afternoon, he liked them less.
Mary listened to him explain this while watching a delivery van make three attempts to turn in the narrow street below her flat. She had muted herself after the first attempt because she'd said a word that might have affected the future of the contract.
“Something stronger,” the client said. He sent her two examples, one of them full of gold lettering. “My partner thinks these have more confidence.”
His partner hadn't seen Mary's work before this morning. Now both of them wanted her to explain it in person on Monday, before deciding whether to give her the next stage.
Mary looked at the armchair in the middle of her screen. She knew how to sell the furniture. She hadn't worked out how to sell the design to the men who owned it.
When the call ended, she wrote STRONGER HOW at the bottom of her notes and shut the laptop.
Adam was coming at six. She still needed to buy something for dinner. Instead, she opened the laptop again.
At twenty past five, Ruth called.
“Is it a bad time?”
“A moderately bad time.”
“June needs numbers for Sunday. Have you replied?”
“Not yet.”
“Mary.”
“I was going to. Now I've got a work meeting on Monday and I think I'll have to use Sunday evening to prepare.”
Ruth asked what meeting. Mary explained, though she knew it wouldn't sound particularly difficult once she put it into a few sentences.
“That sounds like a good opportunity,” her mother said.
“It is. It would be a better opportunity if they agreed what they wanted.”
“There'll be people at the hall who could use you too. The trustees have contacts. You might need more than one client.”
Mary rubbed a hand over her face. Ruth wasn't wrong. That made it worse.
“I can't pitch to these people and come out looking like I haven't thought about their questions.”
“Could you get it ready before Sunday?”
“Some of it. I need to practise explaining it to someone who hasn't been inside my head for a fortnight.”
She glanced at the clock. She had forty minutes to become a woman with dinner ingredients.
“Tell June I'm sorry. I really can't do both.”
Ruth sighed, then agreed. She asked if Mary and Adam were still seeing each other, and Mary said he was coming over.
“He's welcome on Sunday whether or not you come,” Ruth said. “Please remind him.” Paper rustled at her end of the call. “June asked me to check all the names. He contributed too, and people will want to ask him about the signs.”
“I'll tell him.”
“I don't want him thinking Saturday was the invitation.”
“He knows.”
“Good.”
When they hung up, Mary sent June a brief message, put on shoes and went to the shop. By the time she got back, Adam was outside her building.
She held up a bag containing bread, tomatoes and a packet of pasta.
“I'm being continental.”
“You look angry with it.”
“The bread's innocent. It's been a long day.”
Upstairs, he helped her unpack. She let him make dinner while she told him about the meeting. He asked to see the designs. She said no, too sharply, and then stopped.
“Sorry. I need a little while away from them.”
“All right.”
He went back to chopping a tomato. She leaned against the counter and watched him, relieved not to have to make the refusal nicer before he would accept it.
“Mum says you're still welcome on Sunday. I can't go.”
“I heard about your meeting.”
“That's why. I'd like a run-through, and Sunday will be the last chance.”
He scraped the tomatoes into a bowl. “You could come for an hour.”
“If I go, I'll stay. June will need someone to help with chairs, or I'll start talking to somebody. Then I'll be awake at midnight hating everyone.”
“Fair enough.”
“You should go if you want to.”
He looked at her. “Would you mind?”
She would miss him. She had been imagining seeing him on Sunday even before the client call. It wasn't the same as having a reason he should miss the gathering too.
“No. It's your invitation.”
“There are people I could talk to. About work.”
“Then go. I might borrow June for an hour before it starts.”
They sat down with the pasta. Adam had made enough for four, and Mary was hungry enough not to object. He told her about a customer who had tried to remove wet lettering with a sponge because he thought a capital R was a mistake. She listened, grateful for a problem that wasn't hers.
After dinner he washed the pan. She dried it and put it away, then realised he was waiting for her to move so he could get to the other side of the sink.
“We don't fit,” she said.
“We can take turns.”
He stood behind her while she finished, his chin touching the top of her head for a moment. She put down the towel and turned round.
“I'm frightened I'll have to go back,” she said.
He lifted his head. “To the city?”
“If the work dries up. Before I've properly started living here.”
“You haven't lost this job.”
“I know. I can be worried in advance.”
He didn't promise she'd never have to leave. She was glad of that, though she would have liked to hear it. She put her arms round him, still standing in the narrow gap by the sink, and held on for a while before letting him go.