Free I Hope You Dance by Beth Moran Page B

okay; this is salvageable. She doesn’t know what’s causing the ripping sound. Maybe it’s just my stomach gurgling with interview nerves. Or a mouse scrabbling about behind the skirting board. Or a ghost… Just sit absolutely still, do not move a SINGLE MUSCLE below your neck, and get through the next few minutes.
    Vanessa narrowed her eyes. “Is there a problem?”
    â€œNope. No. Not a problem. I’m great. It’s great to be here. This is great. Isn’t it? I love job interviews…” My voice trailed off into one of those weak, embarrassed laughs. Vanessa perched herself on the edge of a normal-sized metal chair a few feet away, and smoothed out her black silk skirt. The mass of frizzy curls that had spent the nineties in a pineapple ponytail were now sleek, chestnut ringlets. She pursed glossed-up (and I suspected plumped-up) lips and stuck out her large, pointy chest.
    â€œWell, you’ve certainly embraced the size zero look. Half my customers would pay to show that much skeleton.”
    Yes, Vanessa. I should write a book. “ The Bereavement Diet: How Losing Your Partner Can Lose You Those Pounds!” Or “The Poverty Plan to a Slimmer You: If You Can’t Buy, You Can’t Eat!”
    â€œUm, thanks. You look, um, great. The shop too. That’s… great.” I squeaked that last word at a pitch I suspected was undetectable to human ears.
    Vanessa raised one eyebrow. “Yes. Perfect exam results might get you a nice certificate, but they can’t teach you how to succeed in the real world. Business acumen is what matters, not being able to complete a quadratic equation.”
    I was further impressed. I couldn’t remember Vanessa ever turning up to a maths lesson, let alone listening enough to pick up words like “quadratic”. Or “equation”.
    â€œSo. Tell me about yourself. What have you been up to since leaving Southwell? Didn’t you go to university?”
    â€œYes. I went to Liverpool, to study maths. But only completed my first year.”
    â€œReally?” Vanessa’s two-inch fingernails tapped away on her iPad screen. “What happened?”
    â€œI had a baby.” Vanessa Jacobs knew this, of course. She knew that I knew she knew. This was about establishing the pecking order. As if it needed to be established. I remained frozen, sitting bolt upright, trying not to be distracted by the breeze tickling my spine.
    â€œYes, I heard a few rumours. We all presumed it must be David Carrington’s. But then, if it was, you wouldn’t be needing a job, would you?”
    I said nothing. The prickles of heat intensified across my chest and neck. There was no way on this earth I was going to let Vanessa Jacobs see how his name affected me. See how the memory of her smirking over his shoulder as she wrapped herself around him still punched me in the gut.
    â€œYour boyfriend died?”
    â€œMy partner. Yes.”
    â€œSorry to hear that. It must be depressing finding yourself alone at your age.” Vanessa swiped a hand across the screen of her pad. She did not look sorry. “Work experience?”
    â€œI’ve worked in various office jobs. Temping, admin stuff, some accounts.”
    â€œCV?”
    â€œYes.”
    She looked up, waiting.
    â€œIt’s in my bag.” Squeak.
    â€œWell, can you please get it out of your bag so I can see it?”
    No! I can’t actually. This preposterous dress designed for an underfed child pixie will not allow me to do that.
    She tapped her pointy shoes a few times on the wooden floor.
    As slowly as if either trying to hide the fact I was drunk, or missing several of my vital faculties, I leaned forward and reached the corner of my bag with the tips of two fingers. Quickly coughing to smother the sounds of the further destruction of the pixie dress – rriiippp! – I yanked the bag close enough to open it and remove my CV while