by Heleen Kist
Further along, sun-seekers hung out in groups on the large open grassland that divided the city in two, their portable barbecues infusing the air with the scent of fried fat usually associated with Friday night.
Five American-looking tourists wearing baseball caps sat on the grass up ahead, mesmerised by two jugglers with colourful ribbons threaded through their dreadlocks throwing unlit fire torches through the air. I passed a group of teenagers leafing through the giant programme of the Fringe Festival, an annual smorgasbord of arts and culture that stole Edinburgh from its residents every August.
The elm-lined path along the middle brought me straight home to Marchmont. My tenement’s front door groaned. A gust of wind threw papers from the console table onto the floor. I crouched down and gathered it all up to sort again into piles for each of my fellow apartment-dwellers. In my three years here, nobody stayed long enough to want to invest in post boxes. Through a few bribes, I’d at least convinced the postman to put a rubber band around the stuff for me.
Someone had discarded the free newspaper you get on the bus. Half the front page consisted of Adam Mooney’s face. Movie star’s play under threat, read the headline.
A quick, reluctant, scan of the article revealed that female demonstrators were blocking ticketholders from entering the theatre at showtime, verbally shaming them for supporting a man accused of sexual assault. What was the point? The scandal wouldn’t impact box office takings — it had been sold out for months. I supposed they were hoping to cause enough disruption for the actor to cancel and go home. I climbed the stairs and wondered if he would. Probably for the best. Get the whole sodding thing over with. Forget he hurt Emily.
I swung the door into my flat. Atticus meowed.
‘Hello, there.’ I scooped him up. With my thumb, I stroked the ginger fur above his nose. He purred. ‘Let’s see what we’ve got today, shall we, greedy chops?’
The cupboard over the sink held a carton full of sachets of clucktastic chicken and purrfect pork I swore smelled the same. Atticus wound his striped tail across my legs, circling. ‘You’re not helping.’
I sat on the tiles next to my glutton hoovering up his food. ‘Slow down, buddy. You’ll choke.’ I knew better than to stroke him when he was eating. My gaze wandered across the apartment while I waited.
Four overflowing bookcases took up most of the walls, novels placed two-deep on the many shelves. The occasional picture frame interrupted the line of colourful spines: a youthful portrait of Mum holding me as a baby, the obligatory capped-and-gowned graduation shots for both my undergraduate and graduate degrees, two silhouettes of little girls reading with flashlights inside a tent. Another one of Emily and me, posing ruddy-cheeked, pig-tailed and wellie-clad outside Peebles library. So alike, then, only me brunette, her blonde.
I sighed, tears prickling behind my eyes. If only I could make the last few weeks disappear. As if summoned, Atticus abandoned his bowl, stepped over my leg and landed his heavy body on my lap, offering comfort. He rolled onto his back, shamelessly exposing his full, white floof. After a while, I pulled the mobile from my jacket pocket and pressed the speed dial.
Emily didn’t pick up. For a moment, I contemplated popping round and checking up on her, but I hoped it meant she’d finally gone out. I shut my eyes and drank in the quiet. There had been enough people to deal with for one day already. And it was my turn for something to eat. Conflicted, I vowed to try again later.
I set the Nokia aside where I could still hear it. It fulfilled an important function of late: I’d programmed things such that my mobile would receive a text message when Emily posted on Twitter. The device would alert me at its loudest setting. My role was to phone Emily and berate her for disobeying my orders to stay away from the cesspool that was causing her such harm. Just because I didn’t use social media myself didn’t mean I couldn’t work it.
The texts had slowed in the last five days, Emily seemingly accepting her mental health was too high a price to pay for curiosity.
It still puzzled me: why Emily thought she wouldn’t be identified when giving the interview about her night with Adam Mooney to that blog. Edinburgh is a small town. You’re never far from prying eyes.
But nobody could have predicted the scale of the backlash, or its duration.
I got up and walked to the fridge, Atticus close behind, hopeful of a double dip.
A cheese sandwich in my hand, I crossed the living room to the sofa, resigned to dealing with life’s administrivia before I could bury myself inside my book again. I removed the elastic from the post and discarded all the un-addressed leaflets that cluttered the planet.
What remained were a bank statement and a postcard with an image of a volcanic terrain, ragged red-tinted rocks at the base of a grey, sun-lit peak; the word Lanzarote hovering in the sky. My mother was on holiday with Oliver, her boyfriend. Or should I call him her partner after all this time?
Wish you were here.
Always the same; unlikely to be true. Yet it brought a smile to my face.
I didn’t understand what Mum saw in Oliver, although he was a nice enough chap and he seemed to treat her well. She still reassured me he wasn’t there to take Dad’s place. Such a silly thing to worry about: Oliver was a lanky, bearded florist and Dad ... I thought about my father’s masculine, muscular arms hoisting me onto his square shoulders. No contest.
Plus, I was a twenty-five-year-old woman.
5
EMILY
It felt good to be clean again. A white cotton turban held Emily’s hair in place while she executed the cosmetic routine she hadn’t seen the point of for a while. Foundation, blusher, concealer — oh but to conceal oneself entirely — eyeliner, eye shadow, lip liner, lipstick. Not the glossy type; matte. A quick brush of her neat, plucked brows completed the picture of groomed professionalism.
She waded through the sea of discarded clothes to pull a fresh gym kit from the wardrobe. She inhaled the lavender scent of the sports bra and wrapped it around her breasts. It was lucky she liked yoga, otherwise she’d never have the flexibility to reach that high up her back to fasten the tricky second hook. Athletic leggings and a short-sleeved top later, she blow-dried her hair, wondering if the scarf she’d settled on the night before was still the best choice.
A seamstress’s mannequin stood in the corner of her bedroom, covered with long fabrics that danced in the rays of the morning sun. She’d wanted to wear the Hermes scarf, with its fierce jaguar roaring from an Aztec-inspired throne of bright-coloured feathers. Her prized possession. What a message that would send. Sadly, it was just too short.
No, she’d measured with precision and would have to make do with the dark-blue one with silver stars she got from her mum last birthday. She hoped people wouldn’t read too much into that.
Emily knotted the scarf around her neck air-hostess fashion. The resulting triple-layered waterfall fell under her chin, the small ends of the knot sprouting from the side. It was one of many knots she’d mastered; most recently thanks to a magazine tutorial, but earlier during her era as enthusiastic cub scout. They would come in handy today.
She scrunched her nose at her reflection in the mirror. Not a great combo. Never mind. It wouldn’t be for long, anyway. She gave the vivid jaguar a last, longing look and headed for breakfast.
There was little in the fridge beyond a collection of glass jars that stood on sticky circles, hints of green on the top layer of the liquid inside. They’d be someone else’s problem.
The first bite of her cereal confirmed the milk was off. She poured the rest of the two pints onto the rot in the sink. With her spoon, she picked at the flakes in her plate and forced herself to finish. She needed her strength.
The pear in the fruit bowl was squishy to the touch. She bit into it, making sure to avoid the brown bruise, and held her hand out to catch the juice. She placed the core in the grey compost bucket and threw the plastic milk bottle in the blue recycling tub, where it balanced on a heap of cardb
oard and paper.
She found her trainers underneath a fleece throw by the TV. Her work bag rested by the door, a gorgeous red leather briefcase she’d treated herself to when she’d first started at Pure Brilliant PR & Events. Its large rectangular shape could be cumbersome when running from client to client or visiting different venues where she staged events, but it made her feel smart. Serious. And yes, glamorous. Her clients might be technology companies dominated by people who wouldn’t know fashion if it hit them in the face, but that didn’t mean she couldn’t bring style to the mix.
She riffled through the vast pile of papers she’d plonked back on her dining table, unable to find the Empisoft folder. She shrugged and placed her laptop into the padded middle section of her bag, safe. It was right to return it.
A coat wasn’t needed: it was a nice morning. She even looked forward to the walk to work. Fresh air.
Where were her keys?
Screw the keys.
She turned toward the door. As she grabbed the knob, she remembered one more thing. She sprinted to the kitchen, filled her green watering can to the brim and darted across her apartment soaking her houseplants with so much water she had to go for a refill.
She knew orchids shouldn’t get that much but it seemed the kind thing to do. ‘Sorry,’ she said, drowning her flowering, pink dendrobium. She put the can down and repositioned her red bag on her shoulder. She took a deep breath as she looked around her chaotic flat one last time and stepped onto the landing, closing the door shut firmly behind her.
6
ME
I wasn’t an early riser. Never had been. Getting in a little later to work than the others was a welcome perk of being the founder. Many of my colleagues were night owls, anyway. That tended to be the techie way. Justin and I agreed that people should be able to set their own schedules, in line with their personal biorhythms. Productivity was what it was about, and I had it down to a T. This freed up mornings for a slow start, and evenings for reading.
I turned my head and patted my pillow down to check the time: almost half past eight. Still dark, but only because of my heavyset, blackout-lined curtains. They kept the warmth in during winter nights and prevented the summer’s dawn from waking me at silly o’clock. The bird song was harder to silence, and it had roused me briefly a few hours earlier. I stretched my arms and legs into a star shape and let out a satisfied yawn. It popped my ears just as my mobile gave an almighty shriek.
I leapt out of bed and sprinted to where my phone lay in the living room, stubbing my toe on the door frame.
Atticus appeared by my side, his whiskers standing to attention. I peered at the small screen of my Nokia.
‘No!’ Nerves sprang to my neck with a vice-like grip. ‘No no no no no...’
My shallow breaths made my hands shake. I missed the numbers on the keypad. Tried again. ‘Pick up, pick up, pick up.’ Each echoey ring compounded my panic. ‘Where are you?’ I yelled. Atticus spread his paws, his eyes wide. ‘No. Atticus. Sorry.’ He scuttled toward the door. ‘Damn.’ I dialled again. Nothing. ‘Where the hell is she?’
I paced back and forth. The door. My keys. Do I go to hers? What if she’s not there? Why isn’t she picking up?
I cast my eyes to the ceiling, stood still, filled my lungs with air. Who else could I call?
Emily’s office?
Emily had been with a colleague when I’d first hired them for Empisoft’s public relations. Nondescript, early twenties. Highlights. What was her name? That Claire woman. Could I remember her last name?
Yes.
I dialled Emily’s work number and asked to be put through.
7
THAT CLAIRE WOMAN
The phone on Claire’s desk rang.
Claire glared at the phone from across the room. For goodness sake; she was only just through the door and hadn’t even had her morning coffee yet. She considered ignoring the caller, but she looked around and there was nobody else. She dashed to her desk, placed her bag and umbrella on the floor, and picked up.
‘Hello, Claire speaking.’
‘It’s Laura Flett. Where’s Emily?’ Claire recognised the name as the mousy girl behind Empisoft she’d once met. Why was she calling her? Claire’s point of contact for the conference was the marketing guy. And that tone! She’d been sorely tempted to say, ‘Good morning to you too,’ but she was too professional to let her sarcasm loose.
‘I’m Empisoft’s liaison at the moment. Emily is off sick. May I help?’
‘You don’t understand,’ Laura pressed, somewhat out of breath and unnecessarily shrill. ‘Emily’s not home. She’s not picking up her phone. I need to find her.’
Claire remembered her first day at work, meeting all her colleagues and hearing about their clients. She’d been slightly in awe of Emily, who’d been there a year already. Emily had positively glowed when she spoke about her favourite: Empisoft, the company founded by her best friend. She’d recommended Claire also try to find tiny, ambitious companies to represent, because you never know how fast they’ll grow. Emily convinced their boss Darren to take a chance on Empisoft with a discounted PR package — and crikey, had that paid off.
Claire softened her voice. ‘She might be on her way to work still, Laura. I spoke to her yesterday. She said she’d be back today.’
‘Could you check if she’s there? Please. Her phone is ringing out. It’s important.’
Emily’s spot was two rows down from Claire’s, near the window. She craned her neck to see whether the work surface showed any signs of recent life among the many gizmos that cluttered it. ‘Hold on.’ She put the receiver down and navigated across. Emily’s red leather bag stood on her chair. So she was in. Claire looked around. No one. She dipped in and out of the surrounding conference rooms. Empty. The coffee area? Nope.
She gave her report. ‘Sorry to keep you waiting, Laura. She’s here. Her stuff is here. It’s just... I can’t find her. Can I give her a message?’
‘No! We have to find her. Quick. Have you checked the toilets?’
The toilets were a step too far. Laura’s insistence annoyed her, but it was also unnerving. Laura didn’t strike Claire as the dramatic type. Something had to be seriously wrong.
‘Laura, what’s this all about?’
‘I think Emily’s doing something stupid. She sent a tweet. A few minutes ago. And I’m worried sick.’
‘Why? What did it say?’
Laura sobbed.
‘Goodbye cruel world.’
8
EMILY
The basement gym was insulated from any office commotion upstairs. A small, windowless room with abysmal air circulation meaning that anyone entering was greeted by a wall of stale sweat, day or night. Emily knew from previous visits to take deep breaths before stepping in. Once you got going — properly going — your own perspiration would mask the odours of others.
If you wanted, you could turn on the smart speakers to play five pre-programmed soundtracks for the different recommended workouts. Today, she preferred silence.
A strange calm had descended on her the night before. And she’d made a plan. A plan that made complete sense then as it did again after an uninterrupted eight hours’ sleep — the first in ages.
The clock on the wall showed 8:20. Bang on time.
She’d turned her mobile off as soon as her message had gone. She couldn’t risk having her resolve weakened by reminders of what — or whom — she was leaving behind. It would be only natural for Laura to call. Dear Laura had been on her like a hawk since the abuse exploded; since the threats and condemnations directed at a previously anonymous woman by anonymous keyboard warriors veered to her and became personal. The online bile oozing into real life, engulfing her, suffocating her. Heat rose from her chest, spreading across her neck.
Emily Nairn. Emily Nairn. Emily Nairn. Everywhere.
That bitch who falsely accused a Hollywood hero of sexual assault. The ugly skank who should have been grateful to have Adam
Mooney’s tongue up her pussy — this from both men and women. The feminazi that represented all that was wrong with women these days. Her, a single target for the unleashed anger and frustration of a thousand men.
Yet somehow, she was also the anti-feminist who should be ashamed at devaluing the whole #MeToo movement with such a minor gripe. ‘Boo-hoo,’ they’d taunted online as if her pain was unfounded; her anguish so easily dismissed, her consent not valid.
They’d soon figured out her name. Their brother’s cousin or sister’s colleague told them it was her. Emily Nairn, the prick-tease that wouldn’t follow through. The cunt that needed to be taught a lesson.
Then: Emily Nairn lives at Flat 1/2, 78 Bruntsfield Drive.
Emily shook the haunting thoughts from her head and walked toward the cable function machine. It was as she’d recalled: a six-foot metallic frame housing a pulley system and stacks of weights on both sides. A suitably solid piece of equipment.
The metal was freezing cold.
Two bars for chin-ups protruded from the top, one for each hand. It would be easier to use those, but she needed the weights. Just gravity wouldn’t be enough.
She hunched down and slotted the yellow separator between the fourth and fifth weighted plate. A hefty tug on the handle. Did that feel right?
Don’t fuck this up.
She unwrapped the scarf from her neck and pulled at it twice, arms outstretched. She stranded one end through the right handle of the pulley mechanism and knotted it into place with a trucker’s hitch.