Deserved

5.

Good things didn't happen to people like me.

The recession had hit Lincoln Cove, hard. Jobs were suddenly harder to come by, folk scrambling for the few positions that floated around these parts. Overqualified people were forced into menial labor, losing brain cells just to raise enough for their daily bread.

It was a demoralizing time.

But Cerys Dunaway was a savvy woman. She'd had her ducks in a row, ready to sell her successful business on, just before everything went to hell. I remember it like yesterday, her sitting me down and assuring me that my job was safe. I'd been shocked, embarrassed and overwhelmed even, as those who'd worked for her for years were clearing out their desks. They removed photographs of loved ones, ready to pack into cardboard boxes, mournful expressions on their faces. That day, I presumed an angel was looking down on me. I, alongside four other workers was to stay with the company in the transitional period, as per the contract with the new owner.

I'd worked in close proximity with Cerys over the term of my employment and therefore, in spite of my relatively short span with 'Star', I would prove an invaluable resource once the company went through its renaissance period. That's what she told me, anyway. Her eyes however, told me another story.

I saw pity there.

It was a look I knew well. A look I despised, even if on this occasion it saved me my job. I didn't know whether it was my clothing, my hair, or my personality, but throughout my life I had grown accustomed to being regarded with the same sad expression, and it was tiresome and humiliating all at once, but I knew from the offset that I'd begged for this job. That I'd laid my heart out there, practically on my hands and knees asking for a chance.

Pleading for it.

It was a lot easier to keep going, to push on and do whatever I needed to do to make this work, than look back down the road we'd travelled. If appealing to the good nature of those around me helped us, then so be it.

So I stayed on board that sinking ship, hopeful that the new manager would look at me as a bright, enthusiastic addition to their team, someone who would strive for success. And maybe some day I'd be the kind of woman I saw strutting down Main Street. They held their heads high, perfectly blow dried hair, immaculate make up, and crease free two pieces. I'd watch those women like some wide eyed open mouthed celebrity follower, marvelling at the ease with which they moved through coffee shops and delis, almost gliding from errand to errand.

That kind of woman had a grip on her finances. She took whatever s**t life through at her and laughed in its face. Cyrus deserved a mother like that. Not a crushed, heart broken, crumbling shell of a woman, always desperate to make ends meet. Always desperate to look well put together when in actual fact I could wear a couture gown and still look like I'd ripped it from a hanger, in a thrift store, for a dollar.

Vivienne Charlston had made it clear she didn't like me from the second she set eyes on me. Some people have this effortless, unspoken way of making others feel about an inch tall. She was that kind of person. Her assistant Lisa was the nail in the coffin, so to speak. I'd been banking on resuming my current position, with the promised benefits I'd be afforded after a year of service to the company. My heart dropped as the two of them sat down with me, detailing my new role. One that wouldn't cover those coveted benefits for myself and Cyrus. Worse still, I would be paid just enough to cover bills and rent, leaving us scraping pennies together at the foot of every month.

Amusement glittered in their eyes, I could see it, as I realized from now on I'd just be some dogs body. I didn't have a degree to fall back on, or any experience to wave in their faces, to highlight me as an employee to revere and admire.

As I said, good things don't happen to people like me.

Evil bastards win massive cash prizes every day, psychotic CEO's with a penchant for sleeping with anything with a pulse, rake in millions per annum. And people like my ex husband have others hanging on their every word, high on a power trip and their own vile greed.

I had a one bedroom rented apartment, where everything direly needed replacing. The wallpaper stank of cigarette smoke from the previous tenant. There was a definate abundance of rodents in the roof and Cyrus sorely needed a new bed. I diligently stashed away whatever I could save every month but it added up to sweet f.a, especially with the cost of keeping a car, and the clothing Cyrus got through at a rate of knots. Having a kid was expensive. But I couldn't go running to my ex. I'd rather die than stand before that man, asking for a hand out.

Blinking away his image, I felt the heavy crushing sensation in my heart that plagued my dreams, and hands gripping my desk I shook my head, as if telling him from afar that he would never ever hurt us again. In reality? I was still looking over my shoulder with every step I took. It was exhausting living like this, the constant fear that he'd stride into the office, or be sitting outside the apartment when I arrived home. I'd be stupid to think he'd given up just because I ran away. If he couldn't have something, that only made him want it more.

I hated him so much.

And it made the pain in my chest worsen, till I was bent double over my desk, vaguely aware of voices behind me.

'Ahem, Andrea? Your presentation?'

Shit.

Hands shaking, heart scaring me with its palpitations, I gathered the gusto to erase him temporarily from my mind and face the demon at hand. A week ago, I'd voiced the tentative desire to organize a corporate party with a Hawaiian theme. It had been a moment of madness, as I sat daydreaming about the life I wanted, the life we wanted. Cy and I. I told Vivienne that I deserved a shot, and I think she was so surprised to hear me speak up, that she agreed to hear my pitch.

Probably for her amusement.

But she wasn't going to get the last laugh this time.

I'd worked hard. Staying up into the wee hours deliberating over the fine details of the Hawaiian luau, tailored to a very high brow clientele. We didn't just cover our locality, Vivienne was well thought of, and flew as far as Europe to arrange ostentatious gatherings of all kinds, bar mitvahs, birthday parties, weddings, even the growing trade in divorce parties. Vivienne insisted that the whole of the team, two floors worth of employees, sit in on the meeting. I didn't see that this little get together warranted the attention of everyone, but I knew people like her. She wanted to see me fall flat on my face.

She wanted to see me fail. I was merely entertainment to her. The human equivalent of a stress ball. Someone to pick on and intimidate, berate and undermine. But I took it all, maintaining a dignified silence, because if I didn't have a job, we'd be homeless, or worse still, be forced to crawl back to our former home. A place far worse to me, than spending the rest of my days incarcerated. The very notion had me standing up from my desk, a sudden surge of energy was all the strength I needed to do this. Even in my cheap outfit and ballet flats, i knew my ideas were inspired. I knew the client would be thrilled at my level of detail.

But as I started, all that confidence soon ebbed away.

My voice seemed an octave higher than usual, my hands shook as if I were having some minor convulsion.

I pressed on, aware that some of the team were talking amongst themselves, either bored of my spiel or just rude and ignorant. And when I looked up to find Vivienne in the room, I spotted her engrossed in her text messages.

And it stung.

Did I really expect anything more from a woman who failed to see why leaving on time, on my sons birthday, was important to me?

When I finished, there was no supportive round of applause. Nobody patted me on the back for the thorough job I'd done. Instead, the staff filtered out, sniggers echoing down the ranks as they disappeared back to their desks. No doubt to share a laugh at my expense.

I had no friends here. That was the bottom line.

And that's when I felt the familiar heaving in my chest.

Grow some balls. Please. Grow some balls.

I was left with Vivienne, Lisa tagging along for the ride. A shadow ready with her own dissection of my performance, I was sure.

The look on her face said it all. The glittering in her eyes told me that this wouldn't be kind.

'Andrea, that was.....interesting.' She struggled to think of that last word, and getting out of her chair, she sashayed towards me.

'My mother told me something, a long time ago, dear.' The sarcasm dropped off the sentence she spoke, adding to the terse atmopshere in the conference room. 'Stick to what you're good at. There's something to be said about not....running before you can walk. About staying within your skill set.'

And that was it.

No praise for standing up in front of the whole team.

No acknowledgement of the time and energy I'd put into the whole project.

Nothing.

I should have expected it. But the truth was, I had faith in my ideas. I thought she'd open her eyes for once and realize the potential in me. The potential I thought Cerys saw. And in the end? It was just pity. I was a worthless piece of scum to so many. Cyrus deserved so much more.

How could I ever get anywhere in life when I felt like I was being dragged backwards? Did I deserve this? Was karma teaching me a lesson for walking out on my husband? For leaving him behind? Didn't I vow to love him in sickness and in health, and his behavior? Could that be construed as sickness?

The second the clock ticked round to five, I hightailed it out of there. I wanted my son, and more than anything I wanted to run away, as far as I could get and never come back. But the reality bit me hard, and churned in my stomach like a washing machine.

I'd be back here tomorrow. And the day after that. Because this was all I had.