Page 2 of Counting Down To You

“So,” Farah says. “How are you doing, Ali?”

“I’m good!” But I sound way too over the top, the way I almost invariably do when someone asks me this question. I try to tone it down to something more believable. “I mean, you know, I’m okay.”

“No, you’re not,” Farah says bluntly. I’m not really sure what to say to that statement—I can’t work out if it’s a criticism or an observation. Farah taps her nails, painted the same color as her lipstick, against the table. Farah always manages to make me feel slightly frumpy, no matter how much effort I put in. “It’s December tomorrow.”

“Right,” I agree with a nod, still not sure where this is going.

Farah stops tapping. “Didn’t you and your friend have a tradition in December?”

The calendar, waiting for me at home. The memory of Robyn handing it to me from her hospital bed in January, a few weeks before she died, making me swear to complete it.

“We did,” I say as evenly as I can. No point in lying about it, is there? Because the advent calendar Robyn gave me was not an ordinary one. Instead of chocolate, inside the little squares will be handwritten challenges, folded on little pieces of paper. Challenges that I’ll have to complete, ideally before the new year but definitely by next December. I tried to explain it to Farah one year. Or, rather, I’d had to explain it to Farah, because Farah was the subject of one such challenge. Be brave and ask your boss for the pay rise you know you deserve.

I nearly got all the way through the challenge before nerves got the better of me and I started babbling, saying I was only asking because of this tradition with my friend. I got halfway through the explanation before Farah, thank God, held up her hand to stop me.

“I understand very little of what you’ve just said,” Farah had announced. “But you do deserve a pay rise. Leave it with me. I’ll sort it.” And that was that. One of the easier challenges, all things considered.

Now, Farah sweeps her long hair back from her face, then levels a look at me. “Look, I’ll cut to the chase. I don’t think you should be in the office right now.”

I frown. “You want me to work from home?” I’m thinking of my flatmate, Julie, who moved in earlier this year. We don’t get on hugely well, and the reason it works is because we’re on different shift patterns. If I start working from home, that whole system is going to crumble.

“No,” Farah says in the same blunt tone. “I don’t think you should be working at all.”

“I’m not sure what you…Wait.” Because an awful thought has occurred to me. “You’re firing me?” Panic makes my voice high-pitched. “I know I’ve not been as on my game as usual, but I—”

Farah holds up a hand. “Relax. Of course I’m not firing you. You’re brilliant at what you do. But I know this has been a tough year, and it’s going to be an even tougher month. I don’t think sitting in the office is going to do you any good, despite Cal’s attempts to brighten the place up. So I think you should take a sabbatical.”

“A sabbatical,” I repeat, dumbfounded.

“Yes. Just for December. Your job will be waiting for you come the new year.”

I stare at Farah. This has got to be some kind of joke. A really bloody weird joke. Or a test of how much I care about my job, maybe? I haven’t been as on form recently as usual, after all. I used to genuinely get excited about matching people with their perfect job, but this year I’ve struggled to work up the enthusiasm. Still, a test doesn’t feel like Farah’s style.

When Farah doesn’t offer any more context, I shake my head. “But I…I can’t just stop working.”

“Of course you can. Your boss is telling you to.”

“But…I need to work. I need the distraction.” And it’s true. Since I lost Robyn, my job is one of the only things that’s kept me moving, giving me purpose, a reason to get out of bed. I might not be enjoying the job all that much, but it’s better than the alternative.

“As Cal so astutely pointed out, there isn’t much in the way of distraction right now. It’s a quiet time, and this year seems quieter than ever.”

“But I—”

“This isn’t up for debate, Ali. Spend some time with your mum, maybe. Or go somewhere abroad. You’ve got holiday you haven’t used up, so we can keep paying you.” Farah hesitates then adds, in a gentler voice than I’m used to, “You haven’t taken a break since Robyn died, and I think you need to.”

Since Robyn died. The words reverberate around my skull. It still hurts to hear it out loud. Hurts to think that she’d still be here if she’d got the heart transplant she’d so desperately needed.

“Now, we can talk to HR if you want to,” Farah continues. “HR” being a woman called Hilda with a fondness for fizzy cola bottles. “Or are you going to listen to my good advice? You’ll only lose the holiday if you don’t take it.”

I can only sit there, staring like a bloody imbecile. Farah arches one dark eyebrow, expectant. And my inherent need to please Farah, to do what I’m told and be a good employee has me saying, “Okay.”

“Excellent. That’s decided, then. You can finish up for the day and hand over anything urgent to Cal, then I don’t expect to see you here tomorrow.” Farah gets to her feet and, when I do the same, pulls me in for an unexpected hug.

“Take all the time you need, hmm?” Farah murmurs. “None of this is going anywhere, I promise.”

I feel tears stinging my eyes. Because Farah is trying to help, because she’s been so kind this whole time, but also because I know that all this is going to do is make me feel even more lost. Still, I pull away and give Farah a bright nod. If my eyes are shining, she doesn’t comment.

“What’s up?” Cal asks when I head back to my desk.