Joe nodded. I wasn’t telling him anything he didn’t already know.
‘Didn’t you think it was weird that Maurice has got all those things and his brother doesn’t?’ I asked.
I saw Joe hesitate, thinking again of the rules of client confidentiality he was bound by. But he said, ‘Of course. But I put it down to his having worked mostly casual jobs as a self-employed musician, all the time he’s been here, whereas Maurice had a stable job in local government. They’d have made sure all his papers were in order.’
‘But didn’t you wonder why Maurice didn’t make sure his brother got his nationalisation sorted and all his papers straight? I mean, he would have done, surely?’
‘Alice, people do all kinds of unlikely things. It’s not for me to question why Maurice didn’t tell Wesley to get hold of a copy of his birth certificate, or proof of when he arrived here, or any of that stuff. Maurice isn’t my client, anyway.’
‘Yes, I know that…’
‘And anyway, I couldn’t have done. Their parents split up forty years ago. Their dad went up to live in Scotland with another woman, and he’s almost certainly dead now. And their mum went back to Grenada and she passed away some time in the 1990s. There’s no record of anything. It’s not like I haven’t tried.’
‘I’m not saying you did anything wrong.’
‘Good, because I didn’t. I’ve worked hours on this case, not just in the firm’s time but in my own. And we’re going to fucking lose without some kind of miracle.’
We looked at each other across the table, then Joe squeezed my hand.
‘I’m sorry. It’s just getting to me. I think Wesley’s not being honest with me, and I don’t know why. Why would a respectable, church-going bloke like him lie? Especially when I’m the only thing right now between him and flight out of here to Grenada?’
Because there’s something he’s even more afraid of.
Even though Maurice had asked me to talk to Joe, it felt like I was about to share a secret that should have been kept, as it had for so many years.
I took a deep breath. ‘Not Grenada. Jamaica.’
‘What? No, it’s Grenada they’re from.’
‘Maurice is. Wesley’s not.’
‘So the two brothers have different places of birth? Wesley never said. But I doubt it changes anything much.’
‘No, but something else does. They’re not brothers.’
Joe opened his mouth to speak, then closed it again. I could see his mind working furiously – the mind he’d once told me proudly that his uni tutor had described as ‘a fine legal brain’. And now, that fine legal brain wasn’t allowing him to jump to any conclusions that might be wrong.
‘Okay, Alice. I think you need to explain before my head literally explodes.’
‘Hold on, I think first we need another drink. And more crisps.’
I hurried to the bar, trying to get the facts straight in my head again. While I waited, I looked again at the people around me – their suits, their handbags, their confident voices and swishy hair. They were all just embarking on their careers in banks and law firms and insurance companies, like Joe was and I had been. I remembered how proud I’d been to become part of this world – like I’d achieved something amazing.
But now I realised that I hadn’t really. I’d started life with all the opportunities anyone could possibly have, never really wanted for anything. Of course I’d worked hard, but would hard work have got me here if I hadn’t grown up in a nice area with good schools? If I hadn’t had loving, comfortably off parents who would have sacrificed anything for me to succeed? It was impossible to know; they hadn’t had to, because succeeding had been so easy. How different my life had been, I thought, from Maurice’s. Coming here with nothing but a battered cardboard suitcase and his parents’ dream of a better future, carving out a life for himself, becoming by any measure successful – only to have it all torn apart because of an accident of birth.
I carried our drinks back to Joe and sat down, and then I told him everything that Maurice had told me. How he’d come to Britain with his parents, alone, as a child of eleven. How, after his parents had split up and his mother returned to Grenada, he’d decided to stay because now he had a good job and London felt like home.
How, on 14 May 1983 – he remembered the exact date; of course he did – he’d been out with friends to a jazz club in Soho and seen a man a bit younger than him playing the saxophone.
‘You know what they say, Alice,’ he’d told me, leaning across the table in the Nag’s Head, his hat on his lap, ‘about love at first sight? Like you’ve found someone you’ve always been looking for without knowing it. That’s what it was for me. And I was fortunate, wasn’t I, that it was the same for Wesley?’
‘But it wasn’t a happy-ever-after ending,’ I said to Joe. ‘It was the eighties, after all. People were starting to panic about AIDS. And religion was really important to Wesley, and the church he goes to – I think they’re Pentecostal or something – believes homosexuality is a sin.’
Joe was listening intently, his wine and crisps forgotten.
‘But they moved in together anyway. Maurice says he didn’t know it was possible to be so happy. But they couldn’t come out. They decided that the only way for them to be together was to pretend that Wesley was Maurice’s younger brother, who’d recently come out from Grenada to join him. So that’s what they did. And they lived like that almost forty years.’
‘Didn’t it occur to them that they might get found out?’
‘Why would it? There were loads of people who’d come out here from the West Indies, and most of them were undocumented.’
Joe nodded. ‘The Windrush generation.’
‘That’s right. And besides, the longer they carried on living that lie, the harder it became to tell anyone. I think they hoped that they could just carry on forever. A few years back, when there was all that hostile environment stuff and illegal immigration was being cracked down on, Maurice said they were both worried – of course they were – but they didn’t feel there was anything they could do. They just hoped it would all be okay somehow.’
‘And then Wesley’s father passed away, and he tried to apply for a passport so he could go home for the funeral and was detained as an illegal immigrant.’
‘And here we are.’
Joe took a big swallow of wine. To my surprise, he was smiling.
‘You know what? This is great.’
‘What? Why? Wesley’s going to be sent back to Jamaica.’
‘Maybe he is. But I think, once we tell that story to an appeal judge, he might not be. Homosexuality’s a crime in Jamaica. There’s a strong human rights case for allowing him to stay, and good cultural and religious reasons for them having… dissembled.’
‘You really think so?’
‘There are no guarantees, Alice. You know that. But I’ve got something to work with now. I really think there’s hope for them.’
Twenty-Seven
I didn’t forget about what had happened that night with Gordon. Of course I didn’t; no one could have. But I managed to force the memory down into a place where it was safe, locked away, so that I could see Gordon every day in the office and smile, and ask intelligent questions, and perform my work competently.
It helped that now – since that very first wretched, horrible morning – I had Joe. There was our first date, when we went to a cocktail bar near work and discovered that we both loved chocolate oranges and the Avengers and cheesy ‘knock knock’ jokes. And the date after that, when we went to Pizza Express and quite honestly I can’t remember a single thing we ate or drank because when we said goodbye outside the Tube station he kissed me and it was everything. And then the third date, which was at his flat and we both knew it would end up in his bed, and it did.
So I was happy. Seriously, giddily happy. And I was working flat out and seeing Heather and my other friends for nights out, and enjoying having a bit of money for the first time in
my adult life, so I could get my highlights done in a flash salon in Shoreditch (spoiler: my hair looked just the same as when my mum’s hairdresser in Reading did them) and buy a couple of sets of sexy matching underwear to wear when I went out with Joe.
It was my happiness, more than anything, that allowed me to compartmentalise what had happened that night. That and the fact that Gordon never gave any hint that anything had happened at all. He was cordial and professional. He gave me advice and praised my work. He never so much as shook my hand. And although I couldn’t help noticing that he gave me more challenging and interesting tasks to do than Rupert, when it should really have been the other way around because Rupert was in the second year of his training contract and I was only in my first, I put that down to the fact that I was working harder, and anyway Rupert was rumoured to be almost certain to be offered a job in Mergers and Acquisitions once he qualified.
So, like I say, I compartmentalised the events of that night. I tidied them away in a place in my mind where I hardly ever needed to look, and I hoped that, one day, I’d be able to remember what Gordon had done without that sick-making rush of panic and shame and just see a thing that had happened to me, long ago, when I was drunk – a thing that wasn’t so bad really, given how much worse it could have been.
But I knew that the memories were there. I knew when I woke up in Joe’s bed sometimes sweating and gasping out muffled screams from a nightmare. I knew when a tall man with a briefcase brushed against me on the Tube and I felt my heart racing so hard with shock and fear I could hardly catch my breath. I knew because I made sure I was never, ever alone with Gordon in the office at night.
Heather never tried to pressure me into saying anything, and as the weeks and months went by she stopped asking me quite so often if I was okay. She only asked me the once if I’d told Joe what had happened, and I guess my horrified reaction put her off ever asking again.
And soon, my six months in Intellectual Property were over and I moved on to my next seat, in Litigation, and then on to Tax. And I moved home too, all the way to South London with Joe. I started to feel like my life was following its pre-ordained course, like everything was going to be all right, like that night would never impinge on my life again.
And then, when I’d been at Billings Pitt Furzedown for just over a year and living with Joe for three months, something happened to rip that compartment in my mind wide open again.
It was a Sunday in October. Joe and I had had friends over the previous night, and we’d sat around in our living room drinking Merlot, eating nachos and watching Luther on Netflix until almost four in the morning, and I woke up feeling scratchy-eyed and fuzzy-headed. But that didn’t matter. It was Sunday, Joe was next to me. Soon he’d wake up too, and we’d have our usual minor argument about whose turn it was to get up and make coffee, which would be resolved by the other one agreeing to make breakfast. We’d spend what was left of the morning slobbing around in our pyjamas and eventually get dressed and go out for a walk, possibly ending with a pint in the Star and Garter. In the evening, Joe might make his famous special fried rice, and we’d eat in front of the TV, then go to bed early and have lazy, comfortable sex.
Not the most exciting day in the world, but every bit of it felt perfect, because I’d be spending it with Joe.
I sat up in bed, swiped my phone to life and tapped through to my social media. And straight away, it was like a cloud had passed over the sun. There was a hashtag trending. Trending everywhere: on Facebook, on Twitter, on Insta, on Buzzfeed, even on the front page of the Guardian.
Women were talking. All over the world, they were sharing stories that were different, but also the same.
‘He pinned me against a wall.’
‘He said I was asking for it.’
‘I felt like it was my fault.’
And, over and over again, ‘I’m speaking out.’
I tapped through to WhatsApp and tapped a message to Heather.
Have you seen that thing that’s trending?
#MeToo? Yup, on account of not living under a rock. You okay?
Ish. I feel kind of weird. Like everyone’s looking at me and waiting.
They’re not. Have you changed your mind though? About talking to HR?
Don’t know. But I think so.
She sent me a fist-bump emoji.
I’m here if you want to talk, K? Love you.
Then Joe woke up, turned over and reached for me. I lay with my head on his shoulder for a bit, thinking. Then I said I’d get up and make coffee.
The rest of that day went just like I’d thought, only I didn’t enjoy it as much as I’d expected. I was silent and edgy, and Joe kept asking if I was okay, but I said I was just hungover. But I wasn’t. I was rehearsing in my head what I was going to do the next day. Should I ask for a meeting with Samantha, the head of HR? Should I send her an email? Should I talk to Gordon first? Should I talk to Joe first?
I couldn’t decide. Each option seemed worse – more frightening, more exposing – than the last. And by the time I arrived at my desk the next morning, I still hadn’t decided. On social media and in the mainstream press, #MeToo was growing and growing. More and more women were talking about what had happened to them – celebrities, politicians, ordinary people like me.
It should have emboldened me, but it didn’t; it only made me more apprehensive, more unsure. What if Samantha thought I was just jumping on a bandwagon, attention-seeking, making #MeToo all about me?
I imagined what Heather would say: ‘You can do it. You’re strong. You’ve got this.’
You’ve got this, I told myself, reaching out an unsteady hand for my desk phone. But just as I touched it, it rang. My hand sprang back like I’d been stung, and I could feel cold sweat breaking out on my palm.
My voice was unsteady when I said, ‘Tax department, Alice Carlisle speaking.’
‘Good morning, Alice.’ It was Gordon. ‘I’m sure you’re having a busy morning, but are you able to spare a minute?’
‘I… Yes, of course I can.’
‘My office?’
‘Of course.’
I couldn’t feel my legs as I stood up. It was like I was having an out-of-body experience, watching myself walk past the ranks of desks to the lobby, seeing my hand press the button on the lift, looking down at the top of my head as it inched up towards the tenth floor, stepping through the doors and making my way to Gordon’s office, my head held carefully high and my back straight.
Gordon was behind his desk as usual, surrounded by files, a half-drunk cup of coffee next to him. I could smell it on his breath when he spoke.
‘Thank you for coming down, my dear. Take a seat.’
I did, and felt myself return to my body in a rush. My heart was beating like I’d sprinted up the stairs instead of taking the lift. My calves were trembling, sending my knees bumping against each other.
‘I know this is somewhat irregular,’ Gordon went on. ‘But I wanted to speak to you in person.’
If he apologised, what would I say? If he asked me not to tell anyone, would I agree? If he terminated my contract, how could I possibly manage not to cry?
‘I hear you’re doing well up there.’ Gordon smiled. ‘Max speaks highly of your work.’
‘Thank you.’ My voice sounded croaky. ‘It’s challenging work, but I’m finding it fascinating.’
‘And showing an acute grasp of it. That doesn’t surprise me – I always knew you had talent. And that’s why I’ve asked you here today, Alice. To get my offer in early, so to speak.’
‘Offer?’
‘A job. Here, in Intellectual Property. As soon as you qualify next year. I’ve been in touch with HR about it and they’re drawing up the necessary paperwork.’
I felt dizzy with shock and confusion. If he was offering me a job, it must mean that my memories of that night were wrong – that what had happened hadn’t been so bad after all. That I was exaggerating, being overdramatic and stupid. He’d already spoken
to HR. If I were to go to Samantha with my sordid little story, there was no way at all I’d be believed. I’d look like a fantasist, making up lies about a senior partner who’d been generous enough to offer me a chance most people would do anything for.
And if I said no, people would find out. I’d be known as the girl who’d turned down an opportunity for a career in the firm, who’d snubbed a senior partner. My career at Billings Pitt Furzedown would be finished before it had even begun.
It was, literally, an offer I couldn’t refuse.
It was also blackmail; a conspiracy of silence. It was thirty pieces of silver, like in the Bible – except it wasn’t someone else I was betraying; it was myself. But I didn’t see that then; I felt only shock and shame.
‘Thank you,’ I heard myself gasp.
‘You’ll carry on with your planned rotation to Mergers and Acquisitions, of course, but I’ll let the other partners know you’ll be joining us here. Congratulations, Alice.’
I thanked him again.
‘I told you I’d look after you,’ he said.
Twenty-Eight
Over the next ten days, I felt like I didn’t have time to think. Every moment that I didn’t spend going about my normal duties in the pub, I spent trying to save it. I drafted a letter to the local planning department setting out in exhaustive detail all the benefits the Nag’s Head brought to the community, and chivvied people in the pub, in the street and on social media to sign a petition. I put together a business plan and met with Heart of the Community, the charity that supported community pubs, to see if there was any chance of securing some funding from them. I chaired the first meeting of the steering group, but then happily handed over the chairman’s role to Maurice, who said that he’d been on more committees when he’d worked in local government than I’d had hot dinners.
I found myself hunched over my laptop at our kitchen table at six in the morning, and still hunched over it at midnight most nights, having put in a full day’s work in between. My eyes were permanently sore from lack of sleep and my shoulders burned with tension, but when I tried to rest I found myself jerking awake with worry about all the things that I still needed to do.
Just Saying: An absolutely perfect and feel-good romantic comedy Page 24