Amira shrugged, uncomfortable as always with this line of questioning.
‘Neither really. My mum is Indian and my dad was Irish, so I ended up this mutant creature who doesn’t look like anyone. What do you think of this dress? Be honest.’
She had got used to heading off enquiries into her complicated heritage, but immediately she regretted her choice of topic.
‘It’s gorgeous,’ said Paula sincerely. ‘Is it new?’
The guilt was instantaneous. Amira’s fingers flew to the bold-flowered-print Ted Baker dress she’d agonized over a couple of days before. She hadn’t meant to go shopping. She and Tom had banned themselves from buying any new things for the next, oh, fifty years or so. But as she’d been walking to the Tube after work she’d started thinking about Rachel and how she always looked so perfectly put together, and she’d allowed herself to think for the first time about the possibility of promotion. If she took the job – of course, she wasn’t committed yet – she’d need to start looking smarter. And that had got her thinking about the weekend and how she had absolutely nothing decent to wear. What would be the harm in just going to have a look? She wouldn’t buy anything. She’d only be thinking ahead to when she got the . . . well, when she’d need to dress better, and would have the salary to do it too. So she’d detoured via Oxford Street and gone into the department store, and there had been the dress and she’d tried it on and fallen in love. And even though they were on the very edge of their overdraft limit in their joint account, and her credit was maxed on the joint credit card plus the two store credit cards Tom didn’t even know about, she’d still taken out yet another store card and bought the dress, her euphoria lasting as long as it took the sales assistant to wrap it up in tissue and deliver it into a thick paper bag. But back home she’d felt consumed by self-loathing. She’d shoved the bag into the back of the wardrobe, vowing to return it the next day. But somehow the dress had remained in the wardrobe. When she’d put it on earlier, she’d felt fantastic, but now Paula’s well-meaning compliment reminded her of just how she’d be getting this promotion (if she took it) and then she had an image of Tom’s face creased with worry, and she felt suddenly damp with shame.
Dinner was in the hotel dining room. On the way down, Amira and Paula agreed to make an effort not to be intimidated by the presence of their bosses and to just enjoy being in a nice hotel with everything paid for. But even before they’d sat down, their resolution floundered. Mark and Rachel sat on opposite sides of the table with a spare seat next to each of them. All the other chairs were occupied.
It wasn’t much of a choice, but Amira would definitely prefer not to sit next to Rachel, not least because she’d have Sarah on her other side and she didn’t trust herself to talk to her at the moment, particularly not when she’d had a few drinks (which she very much intended to do). Just what was Sarah playing at? She’d always sworn she was going to stop at two kids. Always joked that she and Oliver never had sex anyway, so it wasn’t so much a choice as a fait accompli. If she’d changed her mind, the least she could have done was give one of them a heads-up. It was they who’d be picking up the slack for her. Again. No wonder there was a spare chair between Rachel and Sarah, who was looking very fed up. Just as long as she didn’t have to sit . . .
Too late. Paula was already squeezing her way around to the far side of the table to take the empty chair next to Mark, who had the look of someone trying too hard to appear pleased. Resigned, Amira took the seat between Rachel and Sarah.
‘Phew, thank God it’s you,’ whispered Rachel.
Amira was shocked. Though she knew what Rachel thought of Paula professionally, it still seemed horribly indiscreet of her to express favouritism so openly, even if no one else could hear. She glanced at the almost-empty bottle of wine in front of her boss and wondered how much of it she’d had. Those glacial eyes were sharp enough to cut yourself on. Once again, Amira was flushed with self-hatred – this time for allowing herself to be party to the kind of office politics for which she and Tom had always reserved their ultimate scorn, lying on the sofa watching the conniving and backstabbing in reality shows. She knew he’d be horrified about what had been going on in the office, which practically amounted to a witch-hunt of Paula and Sarah. But then almost immediately, she was switching the blame on to him. After all, it was partly his fault she had to compromise herself like this. If he’d just taken some financial responsibility earlier, they would not be so stressed about this mortgage and she wouldn’t have to kowtow to a bullying boss.