Tamsin James

Two Short Stories 

Everything I know

‘Are you really going to give me grief for an interview that you insisted I do?’ 

Damian chuckled. ‘Course I am.’

‘Guess that shouldn’t be a surprise.’ Lucy fell back into the train seat and turned to look out of the window. Grey clouds sat heavily above a streak of orange sunset. Empty fields flew past, disappearing into the dusk. She was so tired. It was only a couple of hours to Euston but then there was the trek across the city to her flat, the coming battle with commuters and tourists onto the underground, in heels, with a suitcase – it felt impossible. Maybe she could get a cab? Without a client, a cab felt like an unnecessary luxury. But she really had earnt it.

On the other side of the table, Damian snorted, she thought in amusement. He was sat back in his seat, feet planted wide, holding a magazine up to his face. Lucy’s own photo looked back at her from the cover of PA Today. 

‘You’ll never look hugely professional,’ the photographer had said ‘but let’s lean into the friendly.’ Lucy had tried not to let herself dwell on that too long. But even as she focused on following his increasingly complex instructions (‘look away, now swing back around to me. Shoulders down. Head up. But chin down. Good. Now sit on this stool. And look relaxed!) it had played quietly in the back of her mind. Over a decade in this job, a director, but she wasn’t professional. Even with her expensive haircut, and the makeup, and zipped into the dress that felt like armour. Still, Damian was pleased. 

‘Wouldn’t want to look too slick,’ he said, ‘that’s not why the clients like you.’

She had long made it a policy to not think about photos of herself taken for work. Damian would commission company shots for the website or corporate mailouts and it was best just to dress smart, brush her hair and get on with it. When she heard the junior female staff fretting about them, she would have a quiet word. 

‘Do you think any of the blokes are wasting their energy worrying about this?’ she’d ask. Usually they’d brush her off, humour her and wait until she’d started to walk away to check their makeup again. Except once, when an intern had called her an inspiration. 

‘I wish I could learn not to care like you.’ 

All the money on clothes and shoes and haircuts. All the extra time in the morning to dry her hair and do her makeup and that is what she achieved. Someone unprofessional. Someone who looked like they didn’t care.

Lucy hoped the version of her on the magazine cover was the one the clients liked. It felt so far away from her. Each time she saw the photo her sense of disconnection grew. PA Today had launched a big promotion at the party conferences, handing out free copies in all the conference centres. Lucy knew nothing about it until a client pointed it out, a day into the Lib Dem conference. 

‘Bet Damian’s thrilled about this, isn’t he?’ 

And then she began to see stacks of the magazine, of her own face, everywhere. By the following week at the Labour conference it had become a running joke. Every time she joined a meeting someone would say ‘well, if it isn’t the bright future of public affairs!’ 

But over the last few days at the Conservative conference it had become unnerving. Wherever she went people caught her eye in recognition, people she had never seen before. Discarded copies of the magazine littered the cafes and hotels, the pages of the interview stuck together with spilt drinks. Sometimes Lucy had even seen her face staring up from the pavements near the conference centres, trodden into puddles. Worst of all, the protestors outside the conference had seen them, and they picked her out as she waited in the queue at the security gate, staring her down as they chanted. 

‘Fuck the Tories, get them out.’

Damian had certainly been thrilled. He’d grabbed handfuls of the magazines and thrust them into the hands of everyone they met – clients, contacts, politicians. It was typical, Lucy reflected, that it was only now that the conferences were over, and they were finally on the train home, that he was actually getting around to reading the interview itself.

A splattering of rain hit the carriage windows, and Lucy sat, watching the droplets trace their paths across the glass.

‘I see you got my line in,’ said Damian.

‘What’s that?’

‘That cross-party cooperation will need to go covert.’

‘Hmmm.’ She made a non-committal noise.

‘I was going to use it for that opinion piece next week. Guess I’ll need to think of something else now – you could have warned me you’d filched it.’

Lucy remembered the line. She remembered how pleased she’d been with the alliteration when she said it to the interviewer. It had echoed in her head, so she’d used it that afternoon in a strategy meeting with Damian and her favourite clients. And it had obviously struck Damian too as he had used it nearly every day in the weeks since then. She was accustomed to the egotistical dissonance of hearing her words come out of Damian’s mouth. It turned out she had a talent for capturing an idea in a memorable phrase and while it was, really, a small skill she was pretty sure it was not unimportant, not in their line of work. In her early days of working for Damian, as his lobbying company’s most junior intern, she’d enjoyed the secret game of planting ideas in their conversations and hearing them voiced with his authority to powerful people. Later on, she’d pulled him up on his unconscious thieving, mostly with good humour. Now, though, now she just felt too tired to litigate the origins of this particular idea. 

‘You can stop moping now we’re on the way home.’ Damian had put the magazine down and was looking straight at Lucy.

‘I’m not moping, I’m just exhausted. I’ve barely seen my flat in a month.’

‘Sure, you’re moping.’

‘Just post-conference blues. You forget, you missed out Lib Dems this year. And you went home early from Labour.’

‘I’ve still been working.’ Damian seemed to puff up slightly inside his tight shirt, leaning imperceptibly forward over the table.

‘I didn’t say you weren’t working! I’m sure you got loads done in the office.’ She breathed. The look on Damian’s face told her something else was required. ‘I’m obviously just jealous of your energy,’ she said. 

‘Well, you should take a bit more care of yourself.’ 

‘Uh huh.’ She was so tired. 

‘By the way, you need to keep an eye on that new girl you hired.’

‘Molly?’

‘Yeah, Molly. She’s not quite on the ball.’

‘She isn’t?’

‘No, she’s struggled the last few weeks while you’ve been out the office. Had you been covering for her?’

‘Not at all, I’d been really impressed with how fast she was picking things up.’

‘Well, Ben says she’s not up to speed yet.’

‘Of course she’s not up to speed, she’s only been working with us for six weeks! At six weeks in Ben was still struggling with the photocopier!’

‘Yeah, well, Ben’s always been more of a big picture kind of guy.’

‘I think I made a strategic mistake, not being a big picture kind of guy.’

Damian chuckled but he wasn’t really listening now, he had turned his attention to scrolling through his phone. 

She remembered remonstrating with Damian last year that Ben wasn’t pulling his weight, that he left his team to sink or swim with barely any oversight and then tore into them for mistakes he should have picked up on. 

‘He spends all his time going for coffee and gossiping on the phone!’

‘So?’ said Damian. ‘We are lobbyists!’

‘So, if he did his job properly, you wouldn’t have had to take the education clients out to dinner last night to smooth over the deadline he missed. I wouldn’t be doing travel logistics for his energy conference.’

‘But his clients love the insight that he brings to the table, he looks beyond the horizon.’

‘We can all look beyond the horizon and have a better chance of calling it right than Ben! And if I wasn’t picking up the pieces of his problems, I’d have more time to gather some policy insight of my own.’

‘Lucy, calm down. You and Ben just have different strengths, that’s all. I need his intelligence and your attention to detail to make this team work.’

At the far horizon, where the clouds were almost black, Lucy saw a small prickle of lightning.

Sighing, she picked up her phone and glanced at the chaos of her inbox. Damian, sitting opposite her, was bashing the phone screen with his thumbs, shooting out random emails to members of staff as thoughts came into his head.

‘Why don’t we go through all the follow-up actions from the conferences now, client by client, then I can send the teams one email each?’

‘It’s easier for me to do it like this.’

‘You’ll be cross when they get confused and miss something.’ 

‘Oh, stop fussing.’

Damian didn’t always like her attention to detail.

She would need to check up on Molly when she got back, make sure Damian witnessed her successes before he could decide she didn’t ‘fit.’ What had she done to earn Ben’s displeasure?

Early on, she and Ben had been allies, both very young with no connections, laughing together about the ridiculous jobs they had managed to get. He was charming when he wanted to be, and back then he had wanted to charm her. Occasionally he could be tetchy when it was obvious that Damian was favouring Lucy, although much of the time Damian just seemed focused on her clothes, making sure she was projecting the right company image. 

‘Damian says I need to get smarter,’ she told him. 

‘That’s a bit harsh, I mean you don’t have a first-rate mind but you’re not stupid.’ 

A pause.

‘My clothes, Ben. Smarter clothes.’

They had hung out less after that.

You’re not stupid.

The words churned through her mind.

You’re not stupid. You’re not stupid.

The rain was getting a bit harder now, hitting the train window like gravel thrown from the sky.

She dragged her focus back to Damian. His knee had nudged hers under the table, demanding her attention. 

‘Did I mention I finally got coffee with Keith this morning? He’s given us a slot to pitch to him next week so make sure you’re back to your peppy best by then.’

‘Next week?’

‘Yup.’

‘Next week when I’m on leave next week?’

‘Hmm, nope. Doesn’t sound like you’re on leave anymore does it?’

Lucy realised, too late, that she hadn’t congratulated him on getting the pitch. She was so tired.

‘It’s great you got the pitch. Are you sure you can’t do it without me?’

‘Not now you’re the company star I can’t.’ Damian tapped the magazine and grinned at her. Not his nicest grin.

‘I could just do with a few days’ rest.’ 

‘But come on. You should be thrilled – you’re indispensable! I’ve made your reputation.’

‘You have?’

‘Well, it was me who put you forward for that interview.’

‘They wanted to interview a senior woman, unless you’d sent them to another firm, I was your only option!’

‘I would have done, if I hadn’t thought you were up to it.’ 

‘Pah!’ Her anger surprised her into inarticulacy. Her anger surprised her. She’d thought she was too tired to be angry.

The rain was pouring down now, and its insistent beat pulsed behind the silence.

You’re not stupid.

‘Alright, whatever,’ said Damian. ‘Of course I’d never have done that. But still, because of me, everyone knows that you’re the brains behind the operation now.’

Lucy felt her stomach lurch. Like the train had taken a corner too fast. When had it been, last night, or the night before? Late, in the hotel bar when everyone was a bit tipsy, Damian had bought a round of champagne and toasted Lucy, calling her ‘the company’s star’. Their client, Charles, had said ‘well, we know who’s the brains behind the operation now,’ winking at Lucy. 

Laughing, they were all laughing. 

She had made sure to say, ‘Damian taught me everything I know.’ She wondered if she’d said it quickly enough. Or maybe she hadn’t sounded sincere enough. 

Now Lucy took a deep breath and gave Damian her warmest smile. She was about to tell him again ‘and you taught me everything I know,’ to make a joke, to make him laugh, but she couldn’t. She was so angry. She was so tired. She was so tired of being angry and always biting that anger down.

You’re not stupid.

Damian’s words still hung between them. He stared at her, challenging her to respond. Everyone knows you’re the brains behind the operation now.

She smiled her broad friendly smile at Damian. She wondered what was about to happen.

‘Good,’ she said. ‘So they should.’

A lifetime’s work

It was a normal, tedious Saturday afternoon and Sister Marie-Thérèse had nearly reached the end of the recitation. There were only a few tourists scattered around the chapel and she could tell that their attention had drifted, they were betrayed by the old chairs that creaked as they shifted in their seats. Every noise produced a hushed echo that reverberated from the polished floor and tiled walls. 

The Sister’s attention had also drifted. She had been on duty, presenting to chapel visitors, every afternoon this week. Every afternoon she had recited the script of facts in French, English and Italian. She had repeated it most afternoons for years and in that time the script had barely changed. It seemed likely that the Vatican changed the liturgy more often than the convent updated the script on the Rosary Chapel, a reflection that Sister kept to herself. Sister Jacques-Marie would have found it amusing but since she died over a decade ago, Marie-Thérèse had not found anyone else in the community who welcomed her jokes.

‘Thank you for visiting the Chapelle du Rosaire de Vence. In the following rooms, you will find Matisse’s designs and a short film of Sister Jacques-Marie, where she talks about the artist. Please do ask me if you have any questions before you leave.’

With a small nod of the head, Marie-Thérèse sat down on the chair to one side of the altar. She was grateful for the seat, her feet ached from standing so long and she could feel the distant thudding of pain in her right hip getting closer. She was slowly slipping into old age and she was not sure if she could accept its indignities with as much stoicism as her companions at the convent. 

She didn’t expect any of the visitors to approach her with questions. The nun’s habit had once been an invitation to people to talk and confide but in recent years it seemed to hold people at bay. And she knew that underneath the black veil she did not have an approachable face. Neither had Sister Jacques-Marie but when she spoke she had drawn people to her, partly for her memories of Matisse but also for herself. Marie-Thérèse missed being on the edge of those easy conversations. There was too much silence now.

She felt a little sorry for the tourists who had come to the chapel today. Outside, the sky sagged with heavy grey clouds and when the door at the back opened, a surprisingly cold wind whipped in. The chapel was designed to be filled with the brilliant light of the Riviera, without it the interior was muted, and the stained-glass windows were dulled. It had the air of a dingy municipal building. 

A few sightseers walked past her on their way out of the chapel, mumbling thanks while avoiding her eye. How could she be welcoming if people would not even look at her? The moment of frustration, from tiredness, pain and thirst, passed in an instant leaving an ache of guilt. She closed her eyes. ‘Bless them, Father,’ she thought. ‘And help me do better.’

At first, when she opened her eyes, she thought the chapel was empty. Then she noticed that the woman was back. Every day this week she had come in, sitting by herself and staying until she was asked to leave. It was unusual, most people came once. They would listen to Marie-Thérèse or one of the other nuns talk about the chapel with varying degrees of interest, maybe walk around for a few minutes before leaving, picking up some postcards on their way out. There was something in the concentrated stillness of this woman that stood out, and that the Sister thought she understood. 

On an impulse, Marie-Thérèse decided to go and talk to her. Her legs and hip were stiff and getting to her feet was ungainly. She walked slowly over to the woman and sat down heavily in the seat next to her. The wood underneath her creaked. It was not an auspicious start.

‘Bonjour.’

‘Bonjour.’ Sister Marie-Thérèse heard the unmistakeable English accent.

‘Ah, would you prefer English?’ she asked.

‘Yes, if that’s ok?’

‘Of course. You have come here every day?’

‘Yes.’

‘Are you on holiday?’

‘I suppose.’

She sounded sullen, almost sulky. And why was she sitting like that? Sitting on her hands like a child when she was a grown woman. This was like pulling teeth! Marie-Thérèse began to regret initiating the conversation. She took a deep breath. Maybe she was just shy, that was something she could understand.

‘Can I ask why? There are not many people who make so many visits.’

‘Oh, I love Matisse.’ The words seemed to break out of her and she smiled a broad transforming smile at the Sister. ‘Surely everyone who comes here does?’

‘I am really not so sure. Sometimes it feels like the chapel is just, just a place they have ticked off an itinerary. Tell me, why do you love him?’ The words could have sounded abrupt, demanding. The Sister hoped they didn’t.

‘I think I always have. The first time I ever went to a gallery was a school trip and I was so bored – I think we all were, we were too young. But just before we left, they showed us The Snail and I loved it, immediately. Everyone else wanted to go to the gift shop and go home. I could have… I could have stayed for hours. I couldn’t explain why, I still don’t think I can.’

‘Ah, a coup de foudre.’

The woman nodded. ‘A few weeks later I insisted my Mum take me back there, I wanted to show it to her. I needed her to see this wonderful thing I had found.’

‘And did she appreciate it?’

‘I don’t think she could love it like I loved it.’

They sat in silence for a moment. Sister Marie-Thérèse remembered, back when her name had still been Adèle, dragging her sister through the fields to the village chapel. She had wanted her to see the morning sunlight pour in through the large stained-glass window behind the altar. They had been going to that church all their lives, but that summer it had felt suddenly special and she had wanted to share it with the person she loved most in the world. Nicole had come, a little reluctantly, into the dark coolness of the chapel, had sat with her in the pew for a couple of minutes. Then she had begun to fidget, impatient to get back outside.

‘But don’t you think it’s beautiful?’ Marie-Thérèse had asked.

‘Yeah, it is pretty, Della.’ But there was none of the awe, none of the wonder that Adèle had felt. That she had wanted to share. That she thought it deserved.

She had often wondered if it was that susceptibility to beautiful things that led her to God. It had certainly led her here, to this chapel. But was it a good thing to be so afflicted? She’d always suspected that it was a weakness, a flaw in her character, something God knew and saw.

‘It must be wonderful, to belong here.’ The woman was looking at Marie-Thérèse with interest. And the Sister was not sure how to respond. Sometimes she wondered if she had been right, to spend her life here. The thought still surfaced that the Lord could have made better use of her in a different House, that she should have been more useful. But as a young woman, she too had thought it would be wonderful to belong here. It was her small private shame, remembering how it had been the chapel, the light and colour of the chapel, that had decisively drawn her to her Sisters. Finally, she replied:

‘We worship in beauty. It is a gift.’

The woman had shifted in her seat and, obviously uncomfortable, had brought her hands out from under her legs, placing one hand over the other in her lap.  She had long fingers, elegant hands, the sort of hands an artist would draw. But Marie-Thérèse noticed that the right hand, the one she had covered, shook with a persistent tremor. 

‘I have been waiting too long for beauty in my life. I’ve lived in London for twenty years, but I barely ever go to see The Snail, there is always something more sensible, more urgent to do. I knew I wanted to come here but I kept putting it off. I thought it could wait for the right time.’

‘You decided you had waited long enough?’

‘I had waited too long. This was a journey I needed to make.’

‘Ah, you are on a pèlerinage.’ 

The woman looked puzzled, and Marie-Thérèse, searching back through her mind, could not find a word the woman would know. 

‘A journey of devotion…a…oh, it escapes me.’

But at that moment the sun brightened and the chapel was flooded with light and colour. The brightest blue, the warmest yellow and the most verdant green patterned the white tiled floor and fell across their bodies. It was the closest thing to sitting in a painting. The woman had turned her face up to the window, her pale features illuminated. The colours spilled across Marie-Thérèse’s white habit, the light warmed her soul.

From far away, the Sister heard the woman softly exhale, as though a long-held breath had been released.

Neither of them spoke again. They both knew why they were here. They sat together, in beauty and in joy.