The Pollyanna Plan

Chapter Two

Over the next week, Emma embraced the pile of work on her desk like never before, heading to the office for six in the morning and staying as late as possible without being threatened by the grumpy cleaner’s broom. For once, Henry didn’t come by to insist she take a lunch hour or inhale a lungful of polluted air – he had his head down, too, and whenever she spotted him in the corridor, he appeared as exhausted as she felt.

Although the days passed in a welcome blur of loan applications, nights were sheer torture as Emma wrestled with her duvet, eyes wide open, waiting for sleep to come. Eventually, she’d trudge to the lounge and camp in front of the flickering telly, praying the mind-numbing show on hair products would knock her out. Instead, she’d sit for hours, watching women get extensions clipped in, transform their locks from dry to luscious, and be sprayed with some kind of Miracle-Gro guaranteed to turn tresses to Rapunzel in no time. How could people believe all this, Emma had wondered? Optimism was a dangerous thing.

When she’d finally drag herself to bed again, her brain tumbled over with images of George and that final scene in the café. She wasn’t upset, of course – in fact, they’d seen each other so infrequently she didn’t even miss him – but George’s daily texts and voice mails claiming he needed to talk grated on her nerves. Why couldn’t he leave her be to deal with what happened and move on, the same way Mum had left her alone after Dad died? Emma had deleted the messages, trying to force George from her mind.

After yet another sleepless night, the shrill ring of the alarm clock jerked her eyes open Thursday morning. Outside, the sky was dark, and rain tapped against the windows. She snapped on the bedside light, squinting against the harsh glare reflected off the white walls.

Emma trudged to the bathroom and stood under the hot spray, hoping the heat would make her alert. Thank God she had a lot of work on her desk. She could comfortably bury herself in reports until late tonight, late tomorrow night, all weekend . . . relief flooded in that no matter what else happened, people always needed money. The well of loan applications would never run dry.

Sluicing citrus shampoo through her hair, Alice’s words about how she had no life circled around her mind. What was with the desperation to see her take up knitting or pottery, or getting off her head at raves?  Emma wasn’t the exception – most City workers didn’t have lives. Their job was their life, and there was nothing wrong with that. Why couldn’t people just be proud; impressed with what she’d accomplished?

Dad would have been, Emma thought, scrubbing her skin with the loofah. In fact, Dad would have believed she could be CEO in no time, although he’d find her choice of the corporate route surprising. A smile lifted Emma’s lips as she thought of how he’d always encouraged her endless sketching of houses and rooms, buying notepads and pencils, and saying she’d make the world’s best interior designer.

But that unstinting positivity had also been Dad’s downfall, Emma reminded herself. He’d waited too long to check out the lump on the side of his throat, and by the time he’d visited the doctor, it had been too late. Within a couple months, her father had been gone. It was then Emma had learned positivity changed nothing in the long term. Much better to be unfailingly realistic about life and its harshness. And even that couldn’t prepare you for everything – look at what had happened with George.

After towelling off, Emma twisted her dark curls into a bun, stepped into one of her many grey trouser suits, slipped on her mac, grabbed an umbrella, and was out of the flat by half past five.

On the stroke of six, she pushed through the glass door of Gladstone, tension easing as she entered the plush confines. The receptionist wasn’t in yet, but the low hum of voices drifted from behind closed doors. Hmm, that was funny. Usually, she was the first one here. Dropping her handbag by the desk, Emma settled into her chair and booted up the computer, losing herself in the flow of numbers.