by Celia Walden
That pretty, snub-nosed blonde, all of seventeen and certain this was a joke, had laughed. Because the idea that ordinary people who ate Sunday lunch in pubs then went off and died was laughable. So Jill had asked the girl whether they still had that nice Ribera, ‘the Vega something we had three years ago and loved’, and they’d polished off a bottle over their four-hour lunch, before ordering two more glasses to drink with their apple crumbles.
It had been raining when they left the pub, and Jill had been pleased this cancelled out plans of a walk and gave them a languorous late afternoon in which to work their way through the papers together, wordlessly swapping supplements in the order decreed decades ago. Only instead of curling up with her, Stan had fixated on that sconce.
‘Oh.’
For a period after Jamie’s death had been made public, Jill had got used to seeing his name in the news. But the case had long ago been closed – ruled a ‘clear-cut suicide’ – and it had been weeks since she’d last come across anything pertaining to either her former colleague or the Vale. So the impact of those two words destabilised her almost as much as the grinning portrait beside them.
‘What?’ Still engrossed in his wires, Stan didn’t turn around.
‘There’s a piece in the Times property section about the Vale sale to Creighton Mackintosh. A big piece.’
‘The sale was always going to get out. Roger Creighton is a big name. You’re worried they think we leaked it?’
‘No, no. There are quotes from him. He says he wants to make it “the biggest working theatre in west London”.’
‘Good for him.’
Jill nodded, her eyes drawn back to the paragraph on Jamie, the ‘site’s tragic recent history’, and that defiantly vital face pictured alongside it.
‘They’ve gone and rehashed the whole thing.’ She shook her head. ‘It’s the last thing Maya and the girls need.’
Seeking some indistinct form of reassurance, Jill looked up at her husband, but still he didn’t turn, and she took in the dwindling trails of fuzz Johnny the barber had shaved down to what Stan called ‘a tapered number two’ before they left.
‘That was always going to happen. As soon as the assault claim came out … Then you’ve got the theatre with its forgotten lantern – manna from heaven for journalists, isn’t it?’
Wishing she’d never bought the paper that had allowed Jamie back into their lives, even for a moment, Jill turned the page. But it was too late. And like a door that won’t quite close, no matter how hard you slam, something jammed.
‘You knew about the lantern?’ She spoke more to herself than Stan, remembering even as she did so that in all the press coverage of Jamie’s death there had been no mention of the concealed glass structure on the theatre’s roof. In fact the only person who had ever mentioned it to her was Nicole.
Beneath the ‘three for two’ M&S polo shirt she’d bought him, her husband’s shoulder blades were rigid, the tendons in his neck taut beneath that ‘tapered number two’ – and there was still time to take the question back. But when Jill saw her husband’s shoulders slump, she knew it was too late, and the whisper of fear inside turned into an inner howl.
‘What he did to you … what he did to the company we spent a lifetime building.’
‘Shush.’
Out jabbed Stan’s elbow as he inched his screwdriver round and around. ‘Jamie had no respect for that.’
‘Shush.’
‘No respect for women and that poor sick girl he used as a scapegoat. No respect even for my death.’
Her eyes still on her husband’s neck, Jill was taken back to the last time she’d seen Jamie. The truth he’d spat out at her. The laptop left open on the kitchen counter as she’d given up tracking his journey home on the company database. The sleeping pill her husband had given her: that same neck dissolving into soft focus as it took effect.
‘He was so drunk when I got there.’ Stan went on in a low voice she didn’t recognise. ‘Drunk and desperate to show me the Vale’s little “oddity”.’
The sconce was back up, and Stan laid his screwdriver gently down on the mantelpiece.
‘He would’ve fallen anyway.’
For a second, neither of them moved.
Then Jill heard herself speak, brisk and schoolmistress-like: ‘That’s enough.’
Freeing herself from the paralysis that threatened to engulf her, she reached behind the sofa for the switch and flicked. It was bright, too bright. And in the moment that Stan finally turned to meet her eye, she yearned for those old shadows to hide behind. But there was no going back, and grateful that her limbs could still carry her, Jill went through to the kitchen and pulled out their Nicholson Waterway Guide from the drawer.
‘Now that we can see again, let’s work out where we’re headed next.’
Because it was all about making those new memories. And if they could just keep moving, slow and steady, some of the old ones could surely be forgotten.
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
This book came into being thanks to the infinite patience and razor-sharp eye of my agent, Eugenie Furniss. Every scribbled ‘brutal!’ from you, Eugenie, made me happier than you know, and my late, great friend and agent, Ed Victor, would be so pleased to know that you took over where he left off.
My editor, Rosanna Forte, provided the best advice any author could wish for. Thank you for believing in Payday’s plot and characters to the extent that Jamie’s comments sometimes left you fuming – and I was forced to remind you that ‘he isn’t actually real’.
Thalia Proctor, Laura Vile, Stephanie Melrose and the whole Sphere team at Little, Brown have been so brilliant and tireless, and I’m excited to work with you all again on the next book.
I owe a special debt to Alexandra Kordas at 42 Management & Production, whose energy and enthusiasm lit up many a bleak, locked-down day. I’m also deeply grateful to Malcolm Ward, for taking the time to read some of the most sinister passages that will ever have landed in his inbox; to Simon Raw, for putting me in touch with Her Majesty’s Theatre’s wonderful Stage Manager, Stewart Arnott, and to Emily McCullagh, for her expertise and rapid email response time, despite having far more important things to do.
Much gratitude to Mike Beveridge of Canal and River Cruises Ltd for providing me with insights no amount of research could have yielded; to John Goodall for sharing his vast knowledge of all things architectural, and to Vincent Galea for his legal prowess. It doesn’t go without saying that any mistakes are my own.
Thank you to my friends Darryl Samaraweera, Jessica Fellowes, Kate Johnson, Caroline Graham and Alice Evans for their help, support and time, and to Paul Paolella, for being the inspiration behind ‘that scene’.
It’s only because of the Telegraph’s generosity – in allowing me to take a sabbatical – and with the assistance of Maria Flor, that I was able to find the time to write. That you then read Payday over a single sleepless night, Cory, meant so much to me.
I’m beyond grateful to my family: Olly, Frank, Mum and Dad. Elise, you were more helpful than any nine-year-old should have been in coming up with ever darker twists and turns. And Piers, thank you for putting up with my random and often gory questions – ‘Should Jamie survive being impaled on railings or be killed outright?’ – mostly late at night when you’re trying to get some sleep. You’re right: my pillow talk does need work.