July, 2000
A drop of hot wax fell on her thumb, but Ingrid didn't flinch. She stared down at it, numb to the pain, then at the candle burning in her fists, the little flame and the liquid wax beneath it. It reminded her of the birthday cake she'd had just last week. Hard to believe the woman who'd made her that cake and stuck ten tiny candles into it now lay lifeless in a coffin.
More wax trickled down the candle and onto Ingrid's skin. It barely stung. Her friend Filip watched her from the corner of his eye and tugged on his mother's black skirt. Frau Ionescu passed her candle to her husband and knelt down to clean Ingrid's hands and instructed the girl to hold the candle with the tips of her fingers.
She complied with automatic motions and did not lift her gaze from the concrete floor.
Filip scuttled closer to her once his mother stood back up. He offered Ingrid his hand to hold. She looked at it blankly for a minute. Took it. The boy leaned in to whisper in her ear.
"Granny Lena's with the angels now. She'll be fine."
The wailing song of the clerics officiating the funeral rites resounded in the church.
"My granny's dead," the girl retorted.
He tightened his grip. "I'll take care of you," he murmured, "no matter what."
Ingrid glanced up at her mother and grandfather standing at the other end of the coffin covered in carnations. Her mother had bothered to take a bath for once and wear something other than stained rags. Her grandfather, likewise, and both had the decency to look miserable, at least for now—at least in church.
The congregation began to move in unison, as the casket was picked up and the clerics led the people outside. Frau Ionescu took the children's candles and passed them to her husband, then grabbed Ingrid's freed hand. Filip did not let go of her other one.
The clerical wail continued as they walked out into the cemetery, towards the grave that had been dug for Elena Covaci. She had no family here. She'd married young in Transylvania and fled south with her husband, to his home and family. Ingrid had often visited the graves of her grandfather's parents and siblings, whenever granny Lena took her to church.
Even as a little child, Ingrid had felt sad at the thought of her poor granny all alone so far away from home. It made her cherish their bond even more, because each other was all they had.
And now her granny was gone, and Ingrid was alone.
The girl struggled not to cry. She didn't want to, not in front of all these people – not in front of her mother. Tears always led to a beating, so Ingrid had trained herself not to shed them. Now without her grandma there to hold her through it, there was no point in crying, anyway. It only made her head hurt.
She hadn't cried when her granny dropped dead in the middle of the courtyard after a heated argument with her good-for-nothing husband.
She hadn't cried as she sat and slept on the floor all through the wake, at the foot of her granny's coffin in the big day-room.
She couldn't possibly start crying now, when the casket was being lowered into its final resting place in the ground.
The mass of black-clad figures, the screeching wails of clerics and mourners, the smell of burnt incense and candles – her senses blurred together into a confusing whirlpool, like dirty cold water swallowing her up that time she nearly drowned in the river.
Ingrid scrunched her eyes shut. Wished for a moment that she was back knee-deep in the angry river, her footing loose on the slippery stones at the bottom of the muddy water. Hoped the current would drag her down, keep her there and she would never have to open her eyes again.
*
July, 2017
Ingrid and Ian encountered each other again at breakfast the next morning. Arthur was away for the weekend, to tend to his sick old mother in Belfast. Ian handed her an envelope as he greeted her.
"You got mail," he said.
"Oh, really?"
She went to sit at the table and sliced the envelope open, smiling when she read its contents.
"What is it?" Ian asked, curious.
"A wedding invitation," Ingrid answered.
"Oh, dear. Good thing I don't get those anymore."
She laughed. "Have the funerals started yet?"
His eyebrows furrowed, but this morbid remark did not seem to shock him as others had.
"Goodness, no. Not among my generation at least. You seem really pleased about your invitation," he said, to turn the conversation back to a merrier topic.
"Yeah, two of my old housemates are getting married. And this is the first wedding invitation that I get as...Ingrid only. Just me, myself and I." A cloud passed over her face. "I mean, obviously, back in New York, we got a lot addressed to Mr and Mrs Astor. Look, they only wrote my first name on this one."
She turned the invitation around to show him and let him pick it up to inspect it closely.
"Rose and Lisette, such beautiful names. Twelfth of August. I suppose you'll need the day off?"
Ingrid smiled. "It's a Saturday, I don't think you'll miss me much."
He nodded. "Do me a favour and remind me later at the office to jot it down. Just to be safe."
"Will do, bossman."
"Don't..." He leaned against the countertop, one hand in the pocket of his trousers and the other holding his cup of coffee. "Don't call me that, please."
Ingrid chuckled and stood up to start fixing her own breakfast. "Sorry. And... speaking of days off. I'm going to need next Monday off, too."
"Why?"
"It's..." She hesitated, eyes trained on the steaming coffee machine. "Very personal. It's the one day in the year that's sacred to me. I don't care much for Christmas or Easter or New Year's or whatever the fuck else...July tenth is the one day a year that I really need for myself."
The glassy depth of her eyes struck him to his core. "I see. I'll...make a note on that, too."
"Thank you," she murmured.
As she filled her mug, she glanced at him from the corner of her eye and saw he watched her with undisguised tenderness. He only knew bits and pieces of her life story and she guessed he might be thinking of her dead husband. Ingrid felt the need to set the record straight.
"It's not what you're thinking," she said out loud.
"How could you possibly know what I'm thinking?" The pity cleared from his eyes, replaced by bewilderment for the most part.
"It's what people usually think. Employers, in particular, who read in my file that I'm a widow and automatically assume that the tenth of July is the anniversary of my widowhood. It's not."
"What is it, then? If you don't mind me asking, of course."
"It's the day I died inside." She gave a grim snicker and took a plate of leftover pizza to the table. "My grandma died on the tenth of July, mere days after my tenth birthday."
His face convulsed with sorrow and compassion. "Oh, Ingrid, I'm so sorry. That must have been...I can't even imagine."
"No one can and I'm not asking anyone to. I'm just asking for the time."
"Of course. I'll see to it myself."
"Appreciate it...bossman." She winked.
He rolled his eyes. "Cut it out."
She grinned into her slice of pizza and he couldn't help a smile.
*
The group chat exploded in the run-up to Ingrid's twenty-seventh birthday. She had to turn off her internet while she was at the office and stressed about it all day, in addition to all her other responsibilities. Ingrid hadn't had a birthday bash in years and she did not enjoy the prospect of having one now.
"You alright, love?" Priyanka asked her during a meeting.
Ingrid was so focused on what Arthur was presenting that it delayed her response.
"Oh, yeah, I'm fine." A curt smile. "Thanks, Pri."
"What are you having for lunch?"
The question irritated her. Ingrid did not find it an appropriate time to talk about lunch.
"Dunno yet."
"I'm going to this Vietnamese place just around the corner," Priyanka said. "Wanna join me?"
"Sure," Ingrid said quickly, just to get her to shut up.
"Cool."
Although the three of them worked mostly out of Ian's office, they rarely met for lunch. Ian lunched with his managers, Priyanka had her friends in accounts payable and Ingrid was often stuck with Arthur. Deep down, she felt relieved she didn't have to spend another forty or fifty minutes listening to him blabber on about his mother and his nieces.
When the meeting was over, they regrouped in Ian's office, had an informal chat about it and split up for lunch. Arthur had packed his own and looked despondent when the women announced they were going out for Vietnamese. It was the first time the two got to spend time completely by themselves.
"How do you like it here?" Priyanka began in the elevator.
"It's a lot to take in," Ingrid admitted.
Priyanka smiled. "You're doing great."
"This is not exactly my definition of great."
"Really? I'd love to see you doing great by your own terms. Believe me, other girls would have broken down ten times by now."
Ingrid snorted. "Is the work hard? Yes. Is it impossible? No. I've survived worse."
They lowered their sunglasses on their eyes almost simultaneously as they stepped outside.
"Tell me more," Priyanka urged her.
Ingrid shook her head. "It's...a lot."
They waited in silence at the red light. Other pedestrians tried their luck when cars slowed down or got stuck.
"Do you have a problem with me?" Priyanka inquired all of a sudden.
Ingrid laughed. "Believe me, if I'd had a problem with you, you would have known."
Priyanka seemed to like that answer. "You know, there's been a lot of gossip going round about us."
Ingrid rolled her eyes. "Yeah, I imagine working out of the boss's office does that."
"It's mainly you and me, though," Priyanka added. "Arthur is a plain, white, middle-class man, no one ever has anything to say about him. But you and I are two beautiful brown women, ergo not smart. And since we're not smart, we must have got the job by unorthodox means."
Ingrid grinned. "What, do they think we're having wild threesomes in the CEO's office?"
Priyanka tilted her head, considering the proposition. "I wouldn't exactly mind. I mean, have you seen that arse?"
They laughed.
"Too bad he's married. And a fucking gentleman."
They turned into a side street and Priyanka led the way into the Vietnamese restaurant. The owner greeted them and pointed them to a free table. They sat opposite each other. At Priyanka's recommendation, Ingrid ordered a chicken dish with noodles and vegetables.
"Do you have Facebook?" Priyanka picked up the conversation once they settled in.
Ingrid gave an affirmative answer and they exchanged friend requests.
"Oh, wow, you're one of those people," Priyanka said, checking out Ingrid's profile.
"Which people?"
"With no last name on Facebook."
Ingrid shrugged, digging into her noodles. "I'd rather be just me, nothing else attached."
It looked like Priyanka had gleamed her meaning. "Astor is not your maiden name, is it? Can't be. Doesn't sound Romanian. And you asked us to delete it from our phones from day one. Keep you as Ingrid only in our contacts."
"Like I said...it's a lot."
"I'm sorry to hear that."
Ingrid grunted at her noodles. "What do I do to keep people from feeling fucking sorry for me?"
Priyanka apologised and steered the conversation towards harmless topics. They talked about their studies and their careers, about the future of the Brennan Company and their roles in it. When Priyanka asked for the bill, Ingrid ordered another serving of chicken and noodles to-go. It earned her a series of confused looks.
"Still hungry?"
Ingrid shook her head, but didn't answer. She got up and went to buy a water bottle, too. Priyanka followed her, cash in hand to pay for her lunch. On their way back, Ingrid sought out the homeless man she'd spotted as they'd crossed the street and took a detour to leave the food and water with him.
"Here you go, buddy," she told him, "hope you're not allergic to gluten or a vegetarian."
The man gave a croaky laugh. "I can't exactly afford to be either, now can I, love?" He accepted the lunchbox and water bottle with shivering sunburnt hands.
"Well, hope you like Vietnamese food, then."
He wore a tattered hat on his head overgrown with greyed, matted hair. "God bless you, sister."
"Save your blessings," Ingrid replied, walking away. "You need them more than I do."
Priyanka had been waiting for her at the corner of the street. "We all ought to do that more often," she said.
"Yeah, well, everybody's on a clock. There's never any time to stop and smell the roses. Or in this case, feed a homeless folk."
"The sad truth of corporate life."
"Money makes the world go round, Pri. And we have to keep it comin'."
They stopped for five more minutes just outside the office building, so Priyanka could have a smoke. Ingrid went to get coffees.
"By the way," she began, handing Pri her cappuccino, "did I ever tell you some people in New York thought I was Indian?"
Priyanka puffed out smoke. "What? Stupid Americans!"
"A lot of them really are. I mean, Trump got elected, didn't he?" Ingrid took a sip from her coffee. She intended to save most of it for later, when she could load it with whiskey. "Not all of them, though."
"No, of course not. What would you say to them?"
"Just the truth. That technically, I'm Romani, rather than Indian. Well, at least half, I've never met my father."
Priyanka frowned with her cigarette between her lips. "What's 'technically' supposed to mean?"
Ingrid felt glad that her colleague got hung up on that detail, rather than the last part of her sentence. "It means I'm only part Romani and besides, I never really identified as such. It was never part of my upbringing and growing up, it never became an issue. I only realised much later, after I'd left the country, that I was...a little different. I never felt different, so skin colour was never part of my identity."
"Good for you," Priyanka replied and, seeing Ian approach, waved him over.
"Hello there, ladies. How was your lunch break?"
Ingrid noticed his wedding ring as he lit himself a cigarette.
"Quite fruitful. Did you know Ingrid was Indian?"
Ian frowned. "Really? I thought you were just...very tan."
The women laughed.
"Technically," Ingrid glanced at Priyanka, "I'm at least half-Romani."
His frown did not subside.
"I've never met my father," she added, by way of explanation.
"Oh, I'm – "
"Don't," Priyanka cut him off, "don't say you're sorry. She's had enough for one day."
"Thanks, Pri."
Priyanka held up her hand and they bumped fists. "We're Facebook friends now. We have to look out for each other. Have you got Facebook, Ian?"
He blew out smoke. "Um, no, not a fan. I feel I'm too old for Facebook."
"Oh, tell that to my mum! Does your mum have Facebook?" Priyanka asked Ingrid.
"God, no. Not that I know of."
Ian laughed. "See, this is why I wanted young blood on my taskforce. So I wouldn't have to embarrass my kids on social media."
"That explains it." Priyanka put out her cigarette and tapped a text on her phone.
Ian soon drew the last smoke from his own stub and crushed it on the bin. They all walked into the building, with Ingrid trailing behind until Ian stopped and waited for her to go through before him. She held her coffee to her chest and avoided his eye.
Security guards greeted him with a sort of authentic reverence that showed they did genuinely respect him and weren't just sucking up to the big boss. One of them even went out of his way to keep the little glass gate open for Ian and co.
"Good day, Mr Brennan, how's the missus?"
Ingrid felt him tense up as he followed close behind her.
"She's having it much better than the lot of us, George," he said, "on a beach somewhere in Spain. Barcelona, I believe."
The guard got them an elevator. "Won't you be joining?"
"Would if I could, but there's too much work to do." They shook hands and Ian stepped into the elevator just as the doors were closing.
"Spain!" Priyanka exclaimed. "Are you sure you can't find something for us to do over there?"
"Sorry to disappoint." He stuck his hands in the pockets of his trousers. "I'll make sure we have time to go to the beach in New York, though."
"Coney Island does not exactly compare to Barcelona," Ingrid put in.
"Well, it's better than nothing."
"Agreed! I'll pack a bikini."
Ian then mentioned something about work and it switched their business mood on in an instant. Ingrid managed to sneak away at some point, to pour some whiskey into her coffee cup. She took a hearty gulp once she'd fixed her drink and waited, head thrown back, for the heat to kick in like a drug rush.
At the end of the day, Murphy drove her, Ian and Arthur home and she could finally catch up with the mess on the group chat. The girls had settled on dinner and then a night out in a club that sounded vaguely familiar to Ingrid. She wished her birthday hadn't fallen so conveniently on a Friday this year. As it was, she didn't have an excuse to skip out.
To Ingrid's surprise, Sienna had so far had only positive contributions to the conversation, confirming her presence and never once hinting that she might actually not be able to make it. Ingrid threw her phone on her bed and sat at her desk, with her notes and her laptop. She was leading the meeting next Tuesday, as opposed to the usual Monday. As he'd promised, Ian had given her that day off.
Ingrid sighed. Maybe celebrating her birthday in a nightclub wasn't such a bad idea after all. It would be the best place and time to pick up someone who could satisfy her most primal needs. Preferably someone not married.