The Couple: An unputdownable psychological thriller with a breathtaking twist

by Sarah Mitchell

  * * *

  I am back at the department shortly after lunch. Agatha looks so relieved to see me I guess she has been worrying I might have forgotten about her birthday and gone straight home from the tribunal.

  ‘Still all right for tonight, Claire?’ she says, even before my bum makes contact with the chair.

  ‘Of course,’ I say, brightly. My finger is throbbing under its waterproof plaster. A small reminder of yesterday evening’s entertainment. Little does Agatha know how close to the wind the birthday ship has actually sailed.

  We spend the rest of the afternoon working, or I do, at least. I’m busy ploughing through my first case for Monday, trying to get my head around the different factions hell-bent on destroying Syria, while Agatha consults her watch every two minutes and trots back and forth to the drinking fountain. She appears so tense I start to question whether I’ve actually done her a favour by making the birthday drinks bigger than she intended. Maybe she would have been happier with only Jane and Nigel and me? However, it’s too late to do anything about it now.

  By five o’clock the office is fragmenting towards Friday night meltdown. Several people have already left, ostentatiously lugging bags bulging with papers as their justification for an early getaway. The noise level is ramping up, nobody is bothering to keep their voices at the normal library-like hush while some colleagues are openly chatting or messaging on their phones.

  ‘Can I get you some water, Claire?’ Agatha is standing by my desk, clutching a plastic cup with such force that the side of it has buckled. She must have asked if I want a drink at least four times during the course of the afternoon.

  ‘No, honestly, I’m fine. I really need…’ I gesture at my papers.

  ‘Sorry.’ Just as her pale-blue gaze drops to her shoes there is a short blast of music from the other side of the room followed by gales of guilty laughter.

  With an exaggerated sigh I close my file. The intricacies of the relationship between Hezbollah and President Assad will have to wait until after the demands of my hedonistic weekend. Long live democracy and a country where the worst its leaders do is make errors of judgment and occasionally have sex with unsuitable people.

  ‘Shall we go and get ready?’ I ask Agatha.

  ‘Get ready?’ Quickly lifting her head, she gives me a half-smile that seems more like a panic reaction.

  ‘Yeah, I was going to change a bit, before we go out.’

  ‘Right.’ There is a small pause before her hand flaps uncertainly at her trouser suit. ‘Actually, I haven’t brought anything else to wear.’ She sounds like she is confessing to a crime.

  ‘OK. Well it doesn’t matter.’ To be honest, I don’t suppose I would be bothering to make an effort either were it not for my engagement at The Ivy. I haven’t mentioned the dinner to Agatha; the right moment never materialised during the course of the day. The only moments were ones when I could all too easily imagine her face cracking open with disappointment at the prospect I might abandon her before the evening was over.

  Inside one of the cubicles in the ladies’ toilets I wriggle out of my dress. The garment is a tight-fitting, scooped-neck, sleeveless design, and when I take off the shirt underneath, add a necklace and some stilettos, the ensemble transforms from everyday office worker into sexy sophisticate. I am happily familiar with this particular transformation because I wore the exact same thing on my first weekday date with Angus, measuring the scale of his appreciation by the length of time his eyes lingered on my hips as I entered the bar. I am hoping the outfit might rekindle the electricity of that night, the conviction I saw him form in the three seconds it took me to cross the gap between the door and his bar stool that I was worth hanging on to. The final step in the process requires only the usual artwork with standard-issue face paint from Boots and shaking my hair into a caramel cloud, which is achieved by pulling off my scrunchie and holding my head upside down as I brush out the tresses.

  Outside the loo I am surprised to see Agatha. She is standing with her back to the cubicle, facing the row of sinks, and in the mirror above the taps I am almost certain I see her drop something inside her handbag and shut it with a snap before she swings around to face me. ‘Wow, Claire! You look so different! I mean,’ she stumbles awkwardly over this potential gaffe, ‘that is, I think you look great!’

  ‘I’m not finished yet.’ I get out my make-up bag and prop it on the ledge above the taps. As I begin my normal routine with foundation and lipstick, Agatha washes her hands very slowly. Her reflection reminds me of a small, docile animal. A lamb waiting for the slaughter. Or the snowy-white animal that followed Mary around, until it probably drove the poor woman completely bonkers and forced her to kill it.

  ‘Agatha?’ I say.

  Her gaze shoots up with quick expectation. ‘How about we use my hairband to tie up your hair?’

  ‘Do you think that’s a good idea?’ She looks like I’ve suggested she take off her knickers.

  ‘Sure.’ I put down my mascara and move behind her, gathering the lank tresses away from her cheekbones and twisting them into a high braid. All the while I feel the tension in her shoulders, the temptation to run. When I’m finished I pat her shoulder. ‘There. Look!’ The hair is not a complete fix, but it is an improvement.

  Agatha studies herself in the mirror, and I do the same. A work in progress. As I wonder what other enhancements might be possible, I become aware of a smell. Faintly alpine, I assume it’s a cleaning product.

  ‘Here,’ I say after a moment, ‘try taking off your jacket.’

  The plain white shirt she is wearing makes an ungainly cushion in the top of her waistband, however when we untuck the cotton to hang over her trousers and turn the sleeves halfway up her forearms the appearance is actually quite bohemian. Possibly the beginnings of cool.

  ‘Wait…’ On a roll, I raise my hand towards Agatha’s throat in order to undo the top two buttons. Her wrist flies towards mine as if to stop the intrusion, however it draws to a halt about an inch from my own, hovering uncertainly. Easing the cotton open, I catch another gust of that same sharpish, pine-like odour. Agatha’s mouth is slightly open, her breath is heavy with self-consciousness and her cheeks are pink. Her cheeks are pink, I realise, despite the fact it is November and nobody could possibly describe the departmental ladies’ toilets as cosy. All at once I understand that what I am smelling is gin: cheap gin. Although the situation is really quite obvious, I’ve come to the party late because I never had Agatha down as the type who would swig from a bottle in secret – it shows how wrong most of us are about people most of the time.

  I glance towards her handbag and, following the direction of my gaze, her face floods crimson.

  ‘Dutch courage?’

  She gives a brittle little nod.

  ‘No harm in that. Although’ – I try a smile – ‘you’re not supposed to be terrified by the prospect of your own birthday drinks!’

  She doesn’t smile back. Instead her eyes are bright with embarrassment, and also possibly the gin. ‘It’s different for you, Claire,’ she murmurs.

  I could tell her that in fact it’s not so very different for me, only these days I’m able maintain the illusion, the necessary facade, the holy trinity of confidence, competence, and belonging, better than most. It’s an art we all have to cultivate. Sink or swim, and sometimes you only find your water wings at the point when sinking becomes a real possibility.

  The moment is interrupted by the peal of my mobile. For a second we both regard my bag like it is a child tugging on a sleeve at a particularly inopportune time. When I finally dig out the phone, assuming it will be Angus, or bloody Vodafone again, my hand freezes. I am almost certain that the number displayed on the screen belongs to Mark.

  I glance at Agatha, who is doing a very bad job of pretending not to watch me, and then back at the phone – the treacherous, temptress snake in the dubious Eden of the women’s toilets. Unlike Eve, however, I have to be concerned about appearances and regard
less of the obvious question as to whether I should be speaking to Mark at all, I clearly can’t speak to him in Agatha’s earshot. Besides, I have arrived at a crossroads. A junction at which Angus points one way, together with hard-won respectability and a beautiful house, while Mark and the complicated ghost of Daniel points towards a dark and twisted trail in the opposite direction. The decision ought to be easy. I thought I had already made up my mind. And, after all, Mark is not here to look at or touch, to dizzy me with want by the pressure of a single finger on the inside of my wrist. The trouble is, since the fiasco of yesterday evening and the ruined meal I haven’t been able to stop worrying that not only do I not know Mark, I barely know Angus either. And, despite what they may believe, neither of them actually knows the first thing about me.

  Whilst I am still prevaricating there is an abrupt return to silence as the ringtone expires mid-trill. I return the phone to my bag without comment and pass Agatha my favourite lipstick. ‘In for a penny…’

  She hesitates before taking it, as if I’m a favourite aunt who is passing her a sweetie that she daren’t refuse for fear of seeming rude.

  * * *

  When we return to the office Jane, Nigel and a handful of others are gathered around my desk. Even if a couple of those I spoke to yesterday seem to have dropped by the wayside, I am pleased to see there is still a respectable number. A few actually appear to have smartened themselves up, although, it has to be said, not quite as dramatically as Agatha and I have done.

  ‘We were about to give up on you,’ Jane calls as we approach. ‘We thought you must have gone ahead.’ She looks to Nigel for confirmation of their recent dilemma, but he is too busy staring at Agatha. The red lipstick was the best and final touch, as it often is. I feel quite proud of myself. I see her return his gaze with a brief, self-conscious smile, before her head drops. A question flickers across my brain: the obvious question.

  We are downstairs in the foyer when I remember that I’ve left the candles I bought the birthday girl in a carrier bag under my desk. ‘I won’t be a minute,’ I say. ‘I have to go back for something.’ There is a collective groan at the prospect of further delay while Agatha shoots me a look of alarm, as if she thinks that even now, on the cusp of battle, I might desert her. ‘Don’t wait,’ I tell the assembled audience. ‘I won’t be long.’

  However, the weekend exodus means I have to wait ages for one of the lifts. They are too busy on the upper floors, collecting loads of eager bodies and pouring them into the foyer like migrating wildebeest in search of spring grass, except that in this case the lure is liquid and very rarely green. Once I do finally manage to retrace my steps, I find our level is practically deserted. A couple of stalwarts are still beavering away – you have to be a particular kind of loveless saddo to be working late on a Friday – otherwise the office is settling into its weekend slumber.

  I try not to think about the missed call from Mark. How easy it would have been, in retrospect, to speak to him, to say to Agatha, ‘I’m just going to step outside for a moment and take this in private.’ I should be pleased I resisted, smug perhaps, yet the stronger emotions, needling beneath the fabric of my sexy dress, are regret and curiosity. And plain-old lust. It seems that doing the right thing can feel just as unsettling and unsatisfactory as doing the wrong thing, and can be a hell of a lot more boring.

  I retrieve Agatha’s present from under the desk, where it is languishing with my discarded work shoes. The candles have been folded in yellow tissue, and with Sellotape from the stationery cupboard I am able to create a reasonable-looking package. After that, I sign the card simply ‘from all of us’, adding lots of jolly kisses.

  Hurrying back to the lifts, I reach for my phone. It’s such an instinctive reflex to check for texts and notifications, to generate that little starburst of endorphins, I can even kid myself my actions are nothing to do with Mark. The self-deception lasts just as long as it takes to see the record of his missed call plastered like a reprimand across the screen, at which point I immediately start to hunt for a voice message.

  ‘Claire! Heavens!’

  ‘God! Sorry.’ I’ve walked straight into Maggie. She looks first at my face, and then my outfit, and I see the reassessment happening behind her eyes like a satnav system recalculating a route after a missed turning.

  ‘Off out, are you?’

  I haul my thoughts away from Mark. ‘It’s Agatha’s birthday. Some of us are going to Kelly’s.’

  ‘I see. Good.’ I can tell Maggie is wondering if Kelly is a place or a person, her gaze darts about my dress, as if unsure of the safest place to land. ‘In fact, I did want to have a word… perhaps now isn’t the best time?’

  ‘The others are waiting for me,’ I say apologetically. I’ve been gone at least fifteen minutes already and Agatha will probably be in a blue funk. Besides the last thing I want right now is a conversation with Maggie about work, or my headaches, or whatever else she has in mind.

  Either Maggie doesn’t notice, or she deliberately ignores the hint. ‘I suppose you’ve heard about the High Court case that’s been brought against the Home Office?’ she says. ‘For taking too long with asylum claims.’

  Yes, I have. I’d be hard-pressed to have missed it, given all the recent media coverage and political handwringing, and I’m not sure what to make of it. Grim for the asylum seekers to have to live with an uncertain future, but it’s not as if the caseworkers spend all day with their legs on the desk drinking coffee or filing their nails. The world is fucked up and everyone wants to come to the UK. It’s bound to mean there’s a bit of a queue. ‘Um… yes,’ I say vaguely. I take a small, rather pointed, step towards the lift.

  ‘So, I was wondering if you might want to get involved. Be part of the in-house defence team?’

  I swing back towards Maggie. ‘Really?’

  ‘Well, with a degree from Cambridge you have excellent academic qualifications. Better than most of your colleagues.’

  I blink at her directness, and the fact I wasn’t expecting to have to talk about my Oxbridge credentials on a Friday evening. ‘I suppose so.’

  There’s a small pause while Maggie waits for me to continue, to add something more positive, no doubt.

  When I don’t elaborate, she says finally, ‘Let’s discuss it further on Monday,’ and starts to walk away. After a few paces she stops and turns around. ‘Everything all right, Claire?’

  ‘Yes, fine,’ I say, because we all say that all the time, since the alternative is far too complicated.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Kelly’s resonates with low-level amber light from the ochre paintwork, the golden upholstery and the bulbous lamps hanging low over the bar, while black-marble partitions create intimate squares of seating. It’s rather like walking into the centre of a honeycomb. I have been wanting to come to this particular drinking hole since it opened a couple of weeks ago, and it would seem that a lot of other people feel the same way too because it’s heaving. The tables have all been taken – probably since mid-afternoon – so most of the clientele are thronged in a loud, amorphous mass running the length of the bar.

  I finally spy Agatha and the others at the far end of the room. Nigel is leaning over the top of the counter trying to attract the attention of one of the harassed guys hard at work behind it. From the fact that Nigel is brandishing an empty glass in each hand, I’m guessing the first round has already happened without me.

  ‘Sorry, that took me longer than I expected,’ I say into Agatha’s ear, after weaving a path through the jam of bodies to reach them. She is wedged into a tiny space right beside Nigel and appears slightly taken aback by my apology. It occurs to me she might not have been watching the clock as closely as I thought. Before I can say anything else Nigel turns around with two large glasses of white wine, one of which he passes to Jane and the other to Agatha.

  ‘Claire,’ he says, ‘what can I get you?’ He has to shout above the din.

  I tell him I’ll have a white wi
ne too, although actually I’m more interested in the fact that Agatha is following Nigel’s every movement as attentively as if she were trying to spot the sleight of hand in a magician’s trick. They couldn’t be any closer without actually standing on top of each other. The answer to my earlier question is pretty obvious and it provokes in me an immediate, visceral unease, the sense that it – whatever it is – will end badly. For Agatha, that is, not, of course, for Nigel.

  I accept my drink and tell myself not to be unduly pessimistic. There is no reason why tonight might not initiate a wonderful romance for them both, except that I am an expert at lopsided relationships. I know first-hand the different variations their dark, unhappy paths may take, and this particular imbalance stands out a proverbial mile. A moment later I realise Agatha is laughing at something Nigel has said, a witticism I couldn’t hear because the cacophony is too loud to make normal conversation possible. I also see she has nearly emptied her glass. I reduce the pace of my own sipping, as if, via some subconscious reflex, this might slow her down too. The effort is wasted, however, since tonight Agatha’s powers of devotion are concentrated entirely on Nigel.

  About an hour later I decide the time has come to give Agatha her present. In the meantime Jane has bought a round and now my turn has arrived. As I distribute the fresh booze I figure the little celebration might lessen the speed of the impending car crash that is apparent from Agatha’s increasingly pie-eyed glaze, and at least when I’ve performed both my birthday and drink-buying duties I will be free to leave. I might even get to The Ivy early, and at this rate Agatha won’t even notice I’ve gone.

  Once everyone has a full glass, I yell above the racket to get their attention. Then I take the botched yellow packet out of my handbag and mumble a sentence or two about it being Agatha’s birthday and the gift being from all of us. From a few of the slightly startled looks which accompany this announcement, it’s clear several people have completely forgotten about this side of the evening altogether. ‘Happy birthday,’ I say with a flourish, and together we manage a ragged, collective toast.