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sandwiches, apples, and to wash it down, we’d share a bottle of sparkling water.
    My father would just sit there and cry silently. The tears would roll down his cheeks, and he’d not do anything to stop them. Sometimes people would look at us and then stare sympathetically at me, which confused me because Dad’s tears were something you stopped noticing after a while.
    I used to talk to Dad, not about emotions or anything. I stuck to facts. I’d tell him how many trees were in the garden. How much every separate item of our lunch had cost. I’d read out the football scores to him, right through to the third division. I’d go through the television guide, what was on each channel, even the digital ones that we didn’t have. He’d nod away at me so he’d seem to be listening, but then he’d turn and say something like: “Your mum was so beautiful. I never knew what she saw in me. Even now, every time she goes out of the door, I think she won’t bother to come back. She always seemed so precious. I was scared to touch her, you know. Scared I’d break her or something.”
    Then we’d go back up to the ward, and I’d look at Mum and try to see what he’d seen in her. We were never sure how much she took in, but the nurses said it was important to keep trying to stimulate her. I’d tell her some of the things I’d just told Dad, and he’d nod away again, as if I was right. As if he remembered. And then he’d touch her hand, and I saw that he still saw her as precious, was still worried he might lose her. She became whiter and whiter the longer she stayed in hospital, until she seemed to become part of the hospital bed. Her skin was as transparent and papery-dry as the sheet. Dad and I got browner, though, from all the picnic lunches we had in the sun. Then one day I looked at my parents’ hands together, and it seemed Mum had already died. Her hand looked like a marble effigy next to his.
    When Dad went into hospital not long afterward, it seemed like a cruel joke. Some of the nurses even remembered us. I sat in the garden on my own then, although Sally came with me a few times. She took me out for lunch once. We had chips, I remember, and my tears kept flowing. Just like Dad’s.
    Eventually, the waiter came over. “Is everything all right?” he asked. I guess he was worried I’d cause a scene or something.
    Sally was wonderful. She looked him up and down, and then she said: “No. Everything is not all right. These chips have upset my friend very much. Can’t you see how sad they have made her?”
    We laughed then. It was the first time I’d laughed for about a year and I had been afraid I’d forgotten how to, but when we got back to the hospital, they told us Dad had passed away while we were out. He’d just given up the fight, they said. But I knew he’d died of a broken heart.
    This is why I would never pretend to be ill to have a day off work.
    See also True Romance
    imposter syndrome
    There was another interesting speaker at work. She told us that we had to believe we were worthy of our positions in life, but that just made us laugh because she didn’t seem to understand that most of us secretaries think the opposite—that we’re actually much better than the position we’ve ended up in.
    Still, she also said a lot of things that made sense. She said that many women have this arrow hanging over them. They think that at any minute, someone is going to walk over to them, whatever it is they’re doing—even if (especially if) they’re in the middle of something important— and tell them that they’ve been found out. That they’re not good enough to continue. Please, could they leave the room and let someone better carry on in their place.
    My body felt electric. I couldn’t believe other people have this arrow too. It follows you around, pointing at you in a crowd and telling you exactly what you are doing wrong. Sooner or later, someone else is going to spot it and realize exactly how