Course Correction

The house has a surprisingly specific acoustic profile.

Mitch walking from the bathroom to his office makes a low creak-and-shuffle that I spent three unsettling weeks blaming on the building. The boiler sounds like someone considering the cello and deciding against it. Mitch's desk chair has its own noise when he shifts forward towards the screen, and I can recognize it from downstairs without thinking.

His voices carry too.

There's his normal one, warm and generally more amused than the situation deserves. He has another for people being difficult in meetings. It doesn't sound much different, but the timing changes and people tend to shut up.

The one coming through the ceiling now is different again. Slower than usual, gentler without turning soft, with more room left between words.

The voice he uses with anxious people.

"Let's stop there a minute."

He pauses briefly.

"You've not done anything wrong."

Another person cuts in, their tone clearer than the words.

Mitch doesn't raise his voice. He waits for a gap small enough to speak.

"I know you're frustrated. Let her finish."

It goes quiet. Then he starts again, backing up and explaining it a different way.

He's probably already explained it perfectly.

I watched him make the slides. They were well structured, and he rehearsed the difficult parts twice. He still spent ten minutes wondering whether the order made sense.

His chair scrapes back upstairs.

A few seconds later, he turns up in the kitchen doorway in his training shirt, headset still around his neck. His hair is flattened on one side where the earcup's been sitting.

He stands there watching me.

"You're hunching."

"I'm not."

"Your left shoulder's about three inches above the other one."

I'm hunching. I've been hunching for forty minutes.

I straighten.

Mitch walks over and takes my coffee.

"That's mine."

"You've ignored it since my last break."

Then he drinks it.

"Ugh, cold."

"I was going to have that."

"Course you were." He glances at the screen. "I'm between sessions. You alright?"

"I was before you stole my coffee."

He makes two fresh coffees, passes one to me, then leans back against the counter and looks at me.

I know that look. He's noticed something and is deciding whether to say it, which usually means he already has a theory about what's happening in my head. He gets it right often enough that he keeps doing it, despite the occasions when he's confidently wrong.

"Your training voice is unbearable," I say.

"Worked, though."

"You don't know that."

"You straightened up."

"That only proves I was hunching."

Mitch takes a drink and keeps watching me.

"Well, something's definitely bothering you."

"My call's at half eleven," I say. "You need to go upstairs."

"You're throwing me out of my own kitchen."

"I can't run a professional meeting with you sitting three feet away trying to analyze my face."

"When do I ever do that?"

"You are right now. Go upstairs."

He smiles.

He picks up his mug and passes behind me, resting a hand on my shoulder and kissing my hair on the way.

"Alright, I'm going."

"Good."

When I turn back to the screen, my shoulders are level and I'm sitting like a person with a functioning spine. But my heart is still treating the calendar invitation as an active threat.

I have prepared.

Preparation is one reliable variable. It should count for something. The nerves arrive anyway, even for a call happening through a screen.

Four people are already in the call when I join, which means I have failed to be the first. I record this as procedural information rather than evidence of anything.

Dominic joins nine minutes past the hour and gets us started.

Priya raises a point about the South East figures.

She's wrong.

I let her finish. Interrupting won't fix the numbers, but it will make everyone look at me while I explain why she's got the wrong version open.

"Sorry, just to check," I say. "Is the version you've got the one from yesterday morning, or the updated one from yesterday afternoon?"

Her attention shifts to me on the screen.

"The morning one."

"There's a corrected version in the shared folder. I think the later one will match what you're looking for."

This is the sentence I use because it's polite and, technically, true.

What I mean is: You've opened the wrong file.

I don't say that.

Dominic nods. "Great. We want to present these to the wider group as well. Face-to-face, probably on your office day. You'd lead it, Freddie."

"Yes," I say. "Absolutely."

I'd planned yes.

Absolutely wasn't planned, and it makes me sound much more enthusiastic than anything happening in my head.

"Brilliant," Dominic says, and carries on.

Face-to-face remains in my head after Dominic has moved on. The invitation gives me nine names and a conference room. Nothing in it explains why I need to be there.

I realize I've stopped listening and pull my attention back in time to answer a question about the North West figures. The adjustment is already included. I tell Dominic where it sits in the workbook.

A minute later, I'm looking at the invitation again.

The call ends at twelve nineteen.

My phone vibrates.

Mitch: You done?

I read the invitation again.

Me: You can come down now.

He's beside me less than a minute later.

He sits without asking and reads what's still open on my screen.

"You alright?"

"I don't really know."

He waits.

"They want me to present the numbers." I move the cursor over the attendee list without clicking anything. "In person."

"Right," Mitch says.

"I said I would."

"Can you do it remotely?"

I look at him.

"They said face-to-face."

"Did they say why?"

"No," I say.

"Then ask."

I turn towards him. "Ask if I can avoid the thing they've specifically asked me to do?"

"Ask if there's a reason it needs to be in person."

"They might say there is."

"They might. Then you'll know."

I look back at the invitation.

"I've already agreed."

"You agreed to present the numbers. You didn't swear an oath to the conference room."

"That may be how Dominic understood it."

"Tell him you'll give the best presentation remotely. Worst likely outcome is he says no," Mitch says.

"And doesn't tell me why."

"Possibly. You'll still have asked."

He says it as though ordinary people do this all the time.

They probably do.

"I don't like asking for different treatment."

"You're asking about the format."

"It'll sound like I can't manage it."

"You can manage it on a screen."

"Yes," I say.

"Then ask."

I pause, and he leaves the silence alone.

"I could ask," I say.

"You could."

"You can stop doing that."

"I'm not doing anything."

"You wait until I say the obvious thing, then act like I've done something impressive."

"You have," Mitch says.

"I've worked out that I'm allowed to ask whether I actually need to be in the room."

"That's correct."

I open a new message.

Hi Dominic,

Would it be possible for me to lead the session remotely? I'm comfortable presenting in that format and believe I'll be able to give the clearest account of the figures that way. If there's a specific reason the session needs to be delivered in person, please let me know.

Kind regards,

Freddie

I read it twice.

The final sentence sounds slightly defensive. I remove specific, put it back, then send the email before I can make the entire request disappear through editing.

Mitch watches me close the tab.

"Do you invoice by the hour?" I say.

"You couldn't afford me."

"I got promoted this week. I might be able to stretch to it."

"I know you were." His mouth twitches. "I was there when you told me."

Mitch finishes his last session at five.

His chair scrapes upstairs. Then there are footsteps, the tap runs for a while, and after that I can't hear him anymore.

I've already started dinner.

The chicken's in the wok, and the sweet chilli sauce is open beside it where either of us could knock it over.

Mitch turns up in the doorway with his headset still hanging around his neck.

He looks at the wok, then at me, as though both confirm he's made decent choices.

"Good day?"

"I guess. Yours?"

"Andrea spent half a session showing us her ceiling."

He takes a piece of chicken straight from the pan.

I hit his hand with the wooden spoon after he's already got it.

"Was the ceiling relevant?"

"Had a skylight."

"Useful."

"Quite nice, actually."

He washes his hands, which would've been more useful before touching the food, then comes up behind me.

His hands land on my waist. He leans in until his chest is against my back and watches over my shoulder.

"This doesn't require supervision," I say.

"Wasn't supervising."

"You stole food."

"I checked it."

"With your mouth?"

"Best available method."

I move sideways. He moves with me.

"Mitch."

He kisses the skin below my ear and lets go.

I wait until he has moved away before I reach for the plates.

I dish up and we eat at the table.

Once he's taken the headset off and rolled his sleeves up, he stops looking like the person I've heard through the ceiling all day.

"Dominic replied?"

"Not yet."

"Feel better for sending it?"

"I've now made it possible for him to reject the request in writing."

"You're cheerful."

"I'm realistic."

"He might say yes."

"He might also say no."

"True," Mitch says.

I look down at my plate.

Mitch doesn't tell me it'll be fine. He keeps eating.

"If it has to be in person, at least you'll know there's a reason."

"That assumes he provides one."

"He might."

"I admire your faith in management."

He smiles into his food.

Dinner's good. The chicken isn't dry and I've got the sauce right.

Mitch washes up afterwards while I dry.

"You're doing that wrong," I say.

"I'm washing it."

"You've put it in water and abandoned it."

"It's soaking."

"That's abandonment with better branding."

He pushes me sideways with his shoulder.

When he reaches across me for the cloth, his hand catches briefly at my waist.

"Go and sit down. I'll get this done."

"I can dry plates."

"I know."

I look at the two plates left beside the sink, then towards the sofa.

"Fine. Thanks."

By the time Mitch comes into the living room, I'm on the sofa with the controller, adjusting the settings on the new Resident Evil game I bought yesterday.

I look up.

He's wearing black shorts and a gym shirt that's tight enough around his shoulders to be deliberate.

I've made my views on his gym clothes clear before.

"You're staring," Mitch says.

I look back at the television too late for that to be convincing.

"Well, you're dressed like you're expecting cameras."

"It's all for you."

"Sure it is."

"You looked three times while I was coming downstairs."

"That sounds invented."

"It isn't."

"Observational accuracy is part of my profession."

"Sure is." His bag's slung over one shoulder. He checks his pocket for his keys, then notices the parcel on the sideboard.

It's been there six days. Sealed. Label on. Ready in every sense except the one that requires me to carry it outside.

"How you doing with the goals this week?"

"Okay," I say.

"Right. How many outings so far?"

"Office Monday. Yesterday I watered the plants in the garden."

Mitch opens his mouth.

I wave the controller towards the parcel. "That's tomorrow. Third trip, parcel returned, and both goals finished at once. Efficient."

"After work?"

"Yes," I say.

"Could go now, before you start this? Get it out of the way."

"Shop closes at six. That's in two minutes."

He says nothing.

"I can manage time."

"I know you can."

"I'll take it tomorrow."

"You still want to?"

"It's six minutes away."

"Freddie."

I look at the box.

I've checked the opening times enough that I could probably recite them. The label's already stuck on straight.

"Yes. I still want to."

"Want me to text you?"

"No, I'll remember."

"Alright. I'll trust you with it." He shifts his bag higher. "You know what happens if I come home from work tomorrow and it's still there?"

"And you might forget to check anyway."

He looks at me.

"Do I ever forget?"

I adjust the brightness one point lower, then put it back where it was.

"No," I say. "You don't."

He catches my jaw and turns my face up.

His thumb presses beneath my lower lip as the rest of his hand rests on my cheek.

"You're the one who chooses the goals each week."

"I know."

"And you're the one who said they help."

"They do."

"Good."

He kisses me, quick and hard enough that I lean after him when he stops.

He notices. Obviously.

He stands and picks up his bag.

"Don't let the zombies win."

"That's not really how the game works."

"See you later, babe."

"Have fun at the gym."

He leaves.

The door closes. The fridge hums. The boiler clicks. Somebody outside drops something and swears.

I start the game.

The parcel is still on the sideboard.

I've told Mitch I'll take it tomorrow, and I mean to.

That makes it feel largely dealt with.