7. Holly, Melbourne

Iopen an old computer file and search through documents, looking for something to update. The office is almost empty – maybe I should leave early. It looks like other people have. I'm keen to wander the city with my new camera before the afternoon light fades. I've neglected photography for months, what with having to sort out a care facility for Mum and Jack coming into our lives, but now that Mum's settled, I'm desperate to get back to it.

I forget about finding work to do and open a photography website. Just as I start reading about camera settings for architecture shots, my manager's name flashes in the bottom corner of the monitor. I slip on the headset and click the call answer icon. ‘Hi, Sasha.'

‘Hi, Holly,' she says in a quiet voice. ‘If you're free, would you mind coming to my office?'

‘Sure,' I say, relieved that I'll finally be given a project to take on. ‘On my way.' As I pass my colleagues' desks, it dawns on me that one of them disappeared mid-morning and didn't return, and the other went for a late lunch.

When I knock on the office door, I'm surprised to see Sasha talking with Maria, the HR manager. ‘Holly. Come in,' Sasha says, standing and pulling out a chair for me. ‘You know Maria, don't you?'

‘I do,' I say warily.

Maria gives me a quick smile. ‘Hi, Holly.'

Sasha clicks the door shut and sits back in her office chair. ‘Thanks for coming at such short notice.'

‘No problem,' I say, glancing between them. Maybe this is about a role in the new department.

Sasha rests her elbows on the desk, laces her fingers together and holds them to her mouth. Odd body language for someone who's about to offer me a new job. It must be something else. ‘Is this about my leave?' I ask. ‘I know I've got too much. I was about to book some time?—'

Sasha holds up a hand. ‘No. Not about your leave.' She clears her throat and looks at Maria, who gives her a nod. ‘It's, um, it's about your job.'

Her sombre tone causes my stomach to clench. ‘Oh.'

‘You might have noticed that the workload in your area has reduced since we've developed the new buildings and physical spaces team?' Sasha says.

She poses it as a question, and I reply with the first thing that enters my head. ‘I hope their first job will be to come up with a new team name, because "buildings and physical spaces" is a bit of a mouthful.' They both stare at me and my face warms. ‘Yes, I have noticed, but since we won the tender for the Swanston Street building, I thought there'd be something for me to do.'

Sasha audibly swallows, Maria looks down at her notepad, and I suddenly feel quite foolish.

‘That project's gone to the new team, being a building,' Sasha says.

‘And a physical space,' Maria adds, quickly turning away when I shoot her a look.

‘I'm not sure why you didn't apply for one of the new project manager roles, Holly?' Sasha says.

The pity in her eyes unnerves me. ‘Oh, um…' What can I say? Finding a care home for Mum, visiting her most nights, trying to catch up with Adam and his family, and looking after my man-child partner, the house and now his eight-year-old son every second week has sucked away my life. But I simply say, ‘I guess I didn't realise the restructure would take so much work from our area.'

Sasha's sigh carries the weight of bad news. ‘Due to budgetary restraints, we won't be able to retain all positions, which means we have no choice but to make some redundant.'

The ball of dread in my stomach unravels and spreads through my body. I rub my arms, feeling a chill through my thin jumper. ‘Redundant. Wow. Those … poor … people.' A piece of fluff on my tights catches my attention, and I pick it off.

‘Holly,' Maria says softly.

I lift my head.

‘Your position is one of them,' she says.

I point to myself. ‘Me. Oh.' I look at Sasha, but she closes her eyes, her brow creased.

‘I'm sorry, Holly,' Maria says. ‘I know you've given so much over the years, and you've been – you are – a valued employee, which is why we're sorry you didn't put in an application for one of the new PM roles. These redundancies aren't about anyone's capabilities; it's business. The additional project management roles are no longer tenable.'

‘I have no job,' I say.

‘We've calculated your redundancy package,' Maria continues, bulldozing over my feelings with her rehearsed spiel. ‘I'll email you the details, but given you've been here seven years, it's generous. Certainly enough to give you time to find a new job. And of course, you'll receive an excellent reference.'

‘Um.' I shake my head. ‘How much will I get, exactly?'

Sasha blinks at me, her eyes watery, then taps the keyboard and twists the monitor my way. ‘We need to give you eight weeks' paid notice, plus twenty-one weeks for your seven years' service, plus an additional four months. You'll also get paid out your annual leave, and the long service leave you've accrued to date. So, around sixteen months in total.'

Maria interjects. ‘The first four weeks of the notice period you can work if you like, and you can either come in here or work remotely.'

‘What do you expect me to do for the month if my position is redundant?' I snap.

Maria's cheeks turn pink and she glances down at her notepad.

‘Finding another job like this will take ages,' I say.

Sasha twists the monitor back. ‘You have excellent skills and experience, Holly, and people always need project managers.'

‘Except this office,' I say, a little more sharply than I intended.

She gives a regretful sigh. ‘Look at it this way – it could be a fresh start. A chance for you to do something you've always wanted to do. A career change?'

‘I wasn't really looking for a career change,' I say. ‘I like it here. I've been here since I finished my master's.' I screw my eyes shut and pinch the bridge of my nose. ‘Okay. So, what happens now? Do I leave and not come back?'

‘That's up to you,' Maria says. ‘You can take the weekend to think about what you'd like to do for the next four weeks. We understand this is a difficult and stressful situation, so do what's right for you. You can speak to a support person now – we have someone waiting – and we want to ensure that you have friends or family available to you outside of work this evening. If you don't, we can?—'

‘It's fine. I live with my partner. Do I have to speak to a support person?'

‘You don't have to, no,' Maria says. ‘But we think it might be helpful.'

I stand, suddenly too warm and struggling to catch my breath. ‘I need fresh air and to walk. I just want to walk.'

‘Do you mind if I call you later to check in?' Maria asks.

‘I'd rather you didn't. I won't be working for the rest of the afternoon.'

‘Of course not,' Maria says.

I head back upstairs and stare at the contents of my desk. I have very little to pack up since I had a clear-out when I was bored last week. I go to switch off my PC and spot the email with my formal notice already waiting. I ignore it, grab my bag and camera and head for the lift, but Sasha is racing towards me.

‘Holly,' she gushes. ‘I am so, so sorry.'

‘Have you known about this for ages?'

She shakes her head. ‘No. I wasn't sure what was happening, which is why I urged you to apply for one of those jobs. I found out yesterday. I fought to keep your position and have you moved to the new team, but they wouldn't budge.' The anguish on her face is genuine and she's always stood by me.

‘I'm sorry I didn't listen to you,' I say.

She frowns. ‘I am too.'

‘They really expect me to work the next month?'

She huffs. ‘Fuck them. Don't do that. You've got more than a month's sick leave, right?'

I nod.

‘Go to your GP, tell them what's happened, get a medical certificate for stress and take all your sick leave.' She waves her hand in the direction of my desk. ‘If you don't want to face anyone next week, come in over the weekend and do anything you need to do. Email us the certificate on Monday and tell HR you won't be back.' She gives another regretful groan and throws her arms around me. ‘I'm sorry we're losing you. List me as a referee, won't you?'

I return the hug and step away, my chest hollow. ‘Bye, Sasha.' I take a last look around the office where I've spent the past seven years and leave.

Outside, the city bustles with trams, buses, cars and pedestrians. Everyone getting on with their lives with no clue that the person who has just exited this building has lost their secure, decent-paying, good-benefits job. I walk along Queen Street, welcoming the winter sun and cold air on my face. Instead of taking the normal route to my regular tram stop, I turn down Little Bourke Street to escape the noise and try to process what's happened. But my only thought is, I have no job.

An old building on the corner of a laneway catches my eye. Chairs and tables are set up outside, Parisian-style, the overhead heat lamps aglow. Inside, behind the large windows, a few people nurse wine glasses. The aged concrete and uneven shape of the building automatically make me reach for my camera. I check the settings, which I fixed last night ready for architecture photography, and adjust them slightly to suit the soft light. So that the asymmetrical structure is prominent, I focus on the west-facing side of the building, snapping a series of shots until I have a few I'm satisfied with. I slip the camera away and move closer to the door. The plaque above it reads Caleb's Wine Bar. A glass of wine is exactly what's needed right now.

Inside, jazz plays on low volume and the space is warm from the overhead heaters. A staff member behind the bar is on the phone with a fed-up expression that vanishes when he notices me. As I approach, he gives me a ‘won't be a sec' finger-raise. He hangs up, huffs a little and says, ‘Sorry about that. Things always happen on a Friday arvo, don't they?'

‘Ha, they certainly do.'

‘What can I get you?'

A wine list is written in white marker on the blue tiled wall behind him, which I scan quickly. ‘Something white? Any recommendations?'

‘Depends on what you like. And your mood.' He wipes his hands on a towel and pulls a glass from an overhead rack.

‘I like crisp and dry. Nothing too sweet or heavy. And my mood…' I frown. ‘I've just been made redundant, so…'

He winces. ‘Oof, that's rough. Worse than my little dilemma.' He gestures to a small table in the far corner. ‘Take a seat. I'll bring you something.'

I weave between the wooden tables to one by window, get comfortable and dig out my phone to message Nat.

In a wine bar in the city. Just been made redundant.

Nat and I met at work, starting our jobs a week apart. We bonded over being the new employees and quickly became good friends. She left to go on maternity leave but didn't return. Instead, she found a part-time job closer to home. Her husband works with Tom, which is how Tom and I met.

As I wait for my drink and Nat's reply, it occurs to me that there are zero expectations on me right now because everyone thinks I'm at work. It's strangely freeing and my body loosens.

The barperson appears with a tray and places down a carafe of water, a glass of white wine and a small bowl of green olives. He points to the wine. ‘Thought you might need a large.'

I give a short laugh. ‘Thanks. I think so, too.'

‘This is a fumé blanc from Tasmania. It's fresh but has a creamy texture and a warm aftertaste. Good for a winter's day.' He tilts his head sympathetically, his kind eyes taking me in. ‘And for soothing the soul.'

I lift the glass to my nose and breathe in a delicate citrus scent. I sip and let the tangy flavour swish around my mouth. ‘Mmm. Lovely. Exactly what I needed.'

‘Let me know if you want anything else. Olives are on me.'

I pop one into my mouth as he walks away. Free olives and an expensive glass of wine on a weekday afternoon – already my life is different.

My phone buzzes with an incoming call and Nat's name flashes on the screen. ‘Hey,' I say.

‘Shit, Hols. What's happened?'

I groan. ‘Restructure, not enough work for all of us, and I stupidly didn't apply for the new PM jobs when they came up, thinking I'd be okay.'

‘That is so crap. Please tell me you got a decent pay-out at least?'

‘Sixteen months.'

She gives a low, impressive whistle. ‘Well, that's something. Takes a bit of pressure off. What did Tom say?'

‘Haven't told him yet. I only found out half an hour ago, left work and stopped in here. I don't want to tell him on the phone – he's going to hyperventilate about me losing the seventeen per cent superannuation benefit.'

‘Fair enough. Hey, I've got to run to a meeting, but I just wanted to check you were okay. I'll phone you tonight. I won't say anything to Marc until you've told Tom.'

‘Thanks. Chat later.'

I end the call and casually glance at the two people who came in while I was on the phone. They're on bar stools facing each other, knees touching. One runs her finger along the hem of the other's skirt, then rests her palm on her knee. My job woes are momentarily forgotten as a pang of longing flares. I miss those tiny actions that carry such loving sentiments, and in moments like this, I miss my ex-girlfriend Lily, or at least, what we had in the beginning. I thought I might've found it with Tom, but it's obvious now that I chose him for all the wrong reasons. Still bruised from Lily's infidelity a year after we split, I wanted a safe relationship and Tom provided it – older than me, sensible, his own home, a trusting energy. My love for him grew as our relationship developed, but it was never a love that fully consumed me.

Would I ever meet someone who would fully consume me long-term? There was someone once who might've done that, but she never gave us a chance. I grab my phone and open Instagram, then type ‘Casey Vassell' into the search field like I've done countless times over the years. It brings up no one familiar, so I type ‘Casey Vassell London'. That changes the results, but I still don't recognise anyone, and the few accounts I do check are set to private.

I've asked myself so many times why I didn't find out more about Casey or why I didn't tell her more about myself, but we lived for the moment and I thought we'd have plenty of time for that. She wasn't on socials, or so she said. Besides, the big social media platforms that are popular now either hadn't started then or weren't for our age group. She talked about art and her best friend – I recall her name was Jaz. She didn't say a lot about her family, but neither did I because we were young and trying to find our place in the world independent of our families. Talking about them just made me miss them more. Maybe it was the same for her.

I gaze out at the narrow street. What would I do if I found her anyway? Send a DM and say, Hi, remember me? I'm the one you spent an incredible two weeks with in Berlin when we were twenty. The one you ran away from and cut all contact with. The one who turned needy and tried to move to London to be with you and has forever regretted speaking those words. Oh, and by the way, I've never forgotten you, my heart has never healed, and you ruined me for every relationship that followed. So, how have you been?

‘Another?'

I spin around. ‘Sorry?'

The barperson points to my glass. ‘You've finished. Would you like another?'

I look at the empty glass. ‘Oh, so I have.' I shake my head. ‘No, thanks.' I pick up my camera bag and hold it up. ‘I'm going to take some shots around the city before the sun disappears.'

‘You're a photographer?'

‘In my spare time.'

‘Are you any good?'

I shrug. ‘It's been a hobby for a long time, and I studied photography at uni.' I open my Insta profile and pass my phone. ‘Judge for yourself.'

He scrolls through my feed and nods appreciatively. ‘You do events?'

‘It's not my speciality, but I'll do it for friends. I mainly do architecture and street photography. Sometimes portraits.'

He passes my phone back and pulls his own from his back pocket. ‘What's your username? I'll give you a follow.'

‘Oh, sure. It's Holly Craddock Photography. That's C-R-A-double D?—'

‘Found you.' He smiles. ‘You've got yourself a new follower, Holly Craddock Photography. We're actually looking for a photographer for an event tomorrow night. What do you charge?'

‘Oh,' I say surprised. ‘Like I said, events aren't my speciality.'

He scrolls through his phone. ‘Well, I'm looking at your feed now and you've got some good people and food shots here, wherever this was.' He turns his screen towards me.

It's a photo of Nat holding a large knife, the tip sunk into a layered chocolate cake. Her dark-blue eyes glint and I've captured her mid-laugh. ‘Ah, that was my friend's thirtieth birthday. Thanks, but you don't need to feel sorry for me because I lost my job.'

He grins. ‘I do feel sorry for you, for sure, but that phone call I was on when you came in was the photographer cancelling. I don't have time to find another one by tomorrow.' He gestures to my camera. ‘That looks like a shit-hot camera. You take great photos, and we need a photographer, fast.' He shrugs. ‘It's a small event. Just some snaps of guests, some wines, food. It's for our new website and our socials.'

I open my mouth to say no but catch myself. Why am I saying no? ‘Can I get back to you about the fee?'

‘Great! Of course.' He opens his arms wide and for a moment I think he's going to gather me into a hug. ‘I could hug you right now, but that would be inappropriate, so…' He sticks his hand out. ‘I'm Caleb.'

I shake his hand. ‘Nice to meet you, Caleb.'

He gestures to some customers who've just walked in. ‘Work calls. We'll message in the morning through Insta and sort out details?'

‘Sounds good.' I pull out my purse to pay for the wine.

‘Leave that. It's on me,' he says and rushes back to the bar.

I slip on my coat and head outside. Such a strange afternoon, and it's unearthed something in me – a glimmer of possibility. I swing the camera strap over my shoulder and start walking in search of my next photo subject.