Page 43 of Leaning In

I smile politely as he launches into the story.

Again.

This is the third time I’ve heard it.

The first was over the dinner my mum organised, the second was during drinks last week, and now here we are once more with the Argentinian steaks and the hedge fund manager named Scott. It’s not a bad story, but it’s beginning to sound like a favourite song. One he plays repeatedly without really caring who’s heard it before. But this is probably what dating in your late twenties is like. Recycled anecdotes and pleasant dinners. I could point out that this is the third time that I’ve heard the story, but that would make things awkward and awkwardness always feels a bit like failure.

“Oh, actually,” I interrupt lightly as we pause at another crossing, “Mrs Ambrose was telling me she worked at a gallery in New York when she was younger. In the nineties, apparently. She knew loads of artists before they got famous.”

“Really?”

“Yeah. She said half of them were impossible and the other half lived entirely on cigarettes and black coffee.”

Alexander laughs politely. “Sounds about right.”

The traffic light changes and we cross the road.

“She gave me the name of a gallery her husband still works with occasionally,” I add. “Apparently he’s a freelance artist now, but she said he spent years doing commercial work before that. He was away for a project, but I might reach out to him. It would be interesting to talk to someone who made a creative career work.”

“That’s good,” Alexander says easily. “See? Your mum networking for you again, she’s good at that.”

I wait a moment, half-expecting another question about the gallery or the artist, or about why I suddenly sound more animated talking about this than I have done all afternoon.

But instead Alexander says, “Anyway, Scott was convinced nobody outside Argentina understood proper steak temperatures…”

And just like that we’re back in the Hamptons again.

October

Chapter 17

Tom

James has a pint waiting for me when I arrive at the pub, and I slide into the seat opposite him with a nod of thanks. I need it. The board’s rejection of my proposal landed in my inbox at four o’clock, and I’ve got my sister’s housewarming tonight, where Claire will almost certainly be. I still don’t know what I’m going to say to her.

One crisis per pint.

Or maybe not. I left my car at Kath’s after helping her and Sam move, meaning I’ll be driving home tonight. So two crises per pint.

The wooden chair creaks slightly, and the carpet has certainly seen better days but most of us teachers at Ashcroft are unswervingly loyal to The King’s Head. It’s seen us through plenty of leaving parties and end-of-term celebrations, along with numerous evenings of ranting about the introduction of a new curriculum.

“To surviving another week,” James toasts.

“To the pile of marking waiting for me this weekend.” I salute with my pint.

James chuckles. “Ah, the glamorous life of educators.”

I take a long sip, letting the bitter edge of the ale ground me. “I just got a rejection about the facilities programme.”

James grimaces, he knows how hard I worked on it. “Sorry, mate. That’s crap. They’re scared of anything that even hints at change. But just keep chipping away, you never know what’ll happen in a few years.”

“I know.” I trail a thumb over the condensation on the edge of the glass. “I’m not sure why, but this time I thought the board would agree. They said that I could present again at the end of term, and they would consider the idea of ‘once a week’ sports access. But yeah, nothing about any of my broader ideas, or more than one evening of pitch access.” I take another long pull of my drink. “I just wish that trying to persuade them to do something decent didn’t feel like trying to push a boulder up a hill with my face.”

I scuff the carpet with the toe of my shoe. I need to stop throwing myself a pity party at some point, but right now I’m letting myself wallow in my annoyance.

“That’s not a full rejection," James says. "And they want to hear you present, which means the board can’t pretend you don’t exist anymore.”

Ugh, he’s apparently determined to be optimistic.