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too-jovial tone, and I feel sorry for him again. This is not his fault. It cannot be a pleasant task, breaking such bad news to your significant other.
    “William’s always on the look out for fresh, enthusiastic new blood.”
    So that is it. I am too old! And here I am fondly imagining that my life will begin at thirty.
    “It’s nothing personal. The management just feels that you might not be quite ready for this—maybe in six months’ time. Just bide your time, darli—Emma,” he says, and I think that he’s very distracted if he nearly called me “darling” at work. And he’s calling me “Emma,” instead of “Emmeline.” This is not a good sign…
    “Just keep your head down and come up with some more wonderful ideas, and I’m sure you’ll get it.”
    And then the telephone rings and Adam grasps it like a life jacket on a sinking ship. I’m still not really taking in the news he’s just given me. Or the fact that he really has forgotten my birthday.
    “Hello. Er, yes. Yes, of course.” He eyes me surreptitiously, his face slightly flushed.
    He keeps glancing across as he’s talking, very uncomfortable that he is taking this phone call while I am in the room. Which smells of dead rat.
    “No, not yet. She’s here with me now. Yes. Me too. Byeee.”
    And as he’s mumbling into the telephone, I’m getting an even stronger smell of dead rat. This is all wrong. And Adam only ever says “byeee” to me. It is our special good-bye phrase. I feel my heart sinking further into my mock snakeskin shoes.
    Abruptly, he gets to his feet and grasps his garment bag.
    And then I actually notice that he’s holding his garment bag and I am even more confused. This cannot be right.
    “Adam, where are you going? Why do you need luggage?”
    “I’m sure I told you I’d be away this weekend,” he tells me in his best “let’s be reasonable” voice.
    “No, you didn’t. I’d have remembered.”
    “I’m sure I did,” he says, stalking across the office to retrieve the lovely leather briefcase that I bought him for our three-months-together anniversary. “It’s a business weekend. Mainly meetings and golf. It’ll be boring, but frankly, we have to keep the clients happy.”
    I don’t believe this. He can’t have forgotten all the planswe’ve made. And I am about to open my mouth to tell him so when the telephone rings again, and Adam lunges for it with an apologetic, relieved smile.
    “It’s for you.” He frowns a few moments later as he passes me the receiver. “Your mother.”
    “Happy birthday, Emmeline.”
    My mother, like Adam, insists on using my full name at all times—I think she still hopes that I’ll turn into a radical feminist. I mean, of course I believe in women’s rights, but not to the point where I’m committing felonies and getting thrown into prison.
    “I wouldn’t usually call you at work, but George and I are off to the country for the weekend with the Smythe-Joneses—we’re doing a protest march on Sunday against fox hunting, and what with the time difference between England and the States, I thought I’d catch you now.”
    “Thanks, Julia,” I tell her as I anxiously watch Adam shuffle a sheaf of papers (my mother thinks that family labels are outdated and has insisted that I call her Julia instead of Mum since my sixteenth birthday).
    “Darling, I’ve sent you a card with details of your birthday present. I thought I’d make this one something special, seeing as thirty is such a landmark,” she tells me, and I wonder if she’s bought me another pair of shoes.
    It’s amazing, isn’t it? I’ve just been told that I’ve been passed over for promotion for no good reason whatsoever, my boyfriend seems to be suffering from amnesia regarding birthday plans, and all I can think about are new shoes.
    “You’ll love it,” my mother tells me in a no-nonsense, Mrs. Thatcher voice. “You’ve bought some goats for a village in Uganda to help the Msoze family