Imogen wanted to talk about the launch on Tuesday.
Beth read the message to me over the telephone without adding any interpretation. That alone told me how frightened she was.
“She says there’s concern from the venue.”
“What sort of concern?”
“She hasn’t said.”
“Then ask.”
“I know.”
I waited.
“Could you sit with me while I work out what to say? Not say it for me.”
“Yes.”
We met in a corner of the library café after my shift. Beth brought the contract, the schedule and a notebook. She had underlined the tasks she’d already completed.
“I don’t want to use what happened to make them keep me,” she said.
“What do you want them to consider?”
“Whether I can do the work.”
She said it more firmly the second time, writing the sentence at the top of the page.
The worry from the venue turned out to be two worries. First, would Beth be available if the investigation required her time? Second, would the event attract unwanted attention?
Neither was an accusation. Both could cost her the job.
“I can’t promise nothing will happen,” she said.
“Nobody can.”
“Martin would tell me that was why I shouldn’t have taken it.”
She looked startled after saying his name.
I did not rush to cover the moment. His absence had not removed his arguments from her mind.
Beth listed what she could honestly offer: completed plans, clear supplier contacts, an assistant for the event day if agreed within the budget, and prompt communication about any necessary change.
She drew a line through the phrase I can manage whatever you need.
“I used to write that,” she said.
“Why have you crossed it out?”
“Because I can’t. Nobody can.”
In its place she wrote the hours she expected to be available and the date of the next planning call. They were less impressive-looking promises and considerably more useful.
She also separated work she had completed from work still waiting for client decisions. There was no accusation in the list. It simply stopped every unfinished task appearing to belong to her.
I recognised something I ought to try at home. Not a speech about fairness, just a clear account of what had been agreed and what remained somebody else’s decision. Beth caught me studying the page and offered to email the format. We both laughed at the idea of a project schedule for our marriages, though I wasn’t entirely joking.
“Not an assistant doing everything while I hide,” she said.
“Then specify the work.”
She did. I corrected one spelling error and kept my opinions about events to myself.
When Imogen called, I moved to another table. Beth had asked for company before and afterwards, not an audience to a business conversation.
From a distance I watched her sit straighter. She made notes. Once she shook her head, then spoke for long enough that I stopped counting the seconds.
The call ended. She looked at the notebook for a moment before beckoning me back.
“They’ll keep me.”
“That’s good.”
“With the cover arrangement. Which is sensible.”
She turned the notebook towards me. At the bottom she’d written a name and a time to speak to an experienced colleague about the event day.
“She asked whether the police had told me I couldn’t work. They haven’t. I said that, and nothing more.”
“Good.”
Beth smiled.
“You can say it this time.”
We ordered cake. She ate most of hers, which felt more significant than anything I could write in a message to the others.
Then she showed me the comment that had started part of the venue’s concern. Someone had posted beneath a local news item that Martin’s wife had arranged to meet him and then mysteriously disappeared.
“I was at a book club.”
“And you’ve told the police.”
“Should I answer?”
I read the thread only far enough to see that strangers were arguing with other strangers about things none of them could know.
“You could spend your whole afternoon correcting people who won’t read the answer.”
Beth put the phone away.
“I’ve got a supplier to ring.”
That was her decision. I was glad of it.
Before leaving, she thanked me for not offering to speak to Imogen myself.
“I wanted to,” I admitted.
“I know. You’re getting better.”
I laughed, mildly offended and mostly pleased.
Outside, she went towards the bus stop with the notebook under her arm. I watched her join the queue, an ordinary woman carrying work home. Whatever else the week had taken, this remained hers.
At Number Twelve later, I told Vivienne only that Beth’s contract was continuing. She seemed genuinely relieved.
“That’s something,” she said.
“It’s quite a lot.”
She nodded.
On her table lay the red notebook. A loose page protruded near the back. I could see a date at the top: 22 October.
I didn’t read further. It wasn’t mine.
But as Vivienne closed the cover, she said something that made me stop reaching for my coat.
“At least I’ve got a record of the evening. We won’t have to rely on everyone’s nerves.”
I remembered the evening too.
I did not remember her taking attendance.