The receptionist looked up from her computer.
‘Can I help?’
‘I have an interview at half past one, I’m a few minutes early I know.’
‘Name?’
‘Jessie Campbell. It may be under Jessica?’
The woman ran a polished fingernail along a list of names and ticked one off.
‘Perfect, take a seat. Someone will be with you shortly.’
Jessie helped herself to a plastic cup of water and chose a seat next to a tank of brightly coloured fish. That apart, the waiting room was the definition of clinical, with off-white walls and threadbare blue chairs, foam innards splaying out, ready to be picked at by nervous patients. All the magazines on offer were at least three months old, the covers curled. Her eyes rested on one with an unflattering picture of a celebrity wearing a spotted bikini, shielding her eyes from the sun, on the cover.
‘Jessie? I’m Pamela, head of the administration team. Pleasure to meet you.’ A woman in her fifties with ashy blonde hair, that she clearly had blow-dried on a regular basis, extended her hand. Jessie took in her accompanying cranberry jumper, complete with diamanté V-neck and could tell that Pamela was the sort of woman who smelled faintly of Olay face cream. The type who chatted endlessly at her husband about their upcoming week in Tenerife, while he desperately sought solitude in a newspaper. Who gave her neighbours home-made coffee cakes over the fence in exchange for gossip. Jessie extended a hand back and stood up.
‘Thanks so much for calling me in; it’s nice to be back on NHS soil.’
After asking a series of standard interview questions, that Jessie answered with relative ease, Pamela leant back on her chair. Her body language grew looser. Jessie took a sip of the water that another member of staff had dropped off at the beginning of her interview. Whoever she was, she had given a small, encouraging thumbs up after placing the drink on the table, before backing out of the room.
‘So, I can see from your CV that you’ve spent the last few years in Essex. What is it that’s brought you back to Sussex?’
Jessie paused. How honest were you meant to be in this type of scenario? Probably best to just keep it vague.
‘I wish I’d never left, really,’ she replied, in what she hoped was a positive and convincing voice.
It was the truth too.
‘I always loved living here and it felt like the right time to come back.’
This seemed to satisfy her prospective new employer who, Jessie suspected, was just being nosy, albeit in a friendly sort of way. They’d got on well throughout their half hour together in the small, windowless meeting room. Pamela seemed to particularly warm to Jessie when she’d mentioned her love of writing lists as a way of keeping organised. Her own handbag was full of lists: bills to pay, birthday presents to buy for various family members, what to pick up from Sainsbury’s for dinner.
‘I’ll be in touch very soon. Let me show you back out, my love.’
With the rest of her day free, Jessie decided to walk home. It was a bright Tuesday afternoon, the schools hadn’t yet finished for the day and the streets were quiet. The interview had left her riding high on a wave of newly accrued confidence; she had a sneaking suspicion that Pamela would indeed be calling her with an offer in the not too distant future. To celebrate, Jessie diverted via the shops on London Road, to treat herself to a new lipstick as an inexpensive pat on the back. A congratulations present for getting through her first face-to-face interview. As she waited, phone in hand, for the traffic lights to signal it was safe to cross, Jessie saw the flash of a man’s khaki jacket disappearing into a coffee shop on the opposite side of the street. Suddenly the air felt too shallow to properly inhale; her grip tightened involuntarily on her phone and her blood ran cold. She stood rooted to the ground, as though the tarmac beneath her had turned to quicksand, desperately trying to remember what it was that her counsellor recommended she do whenever she felt a panic attack coming on.
It couldn’t have been him. It was just a coincidence. Plenty of men wore parka jackets similar to Matthew’s. Besides, he couldn’t do anything to her in broad daylight in the middle of the street. Could he? She began to slowly count down from 100 to zero until her breathing slowed, and reminded herself that she was safe now. It was just taking a while to adjust. Perhaps she ought to hurry up and register with a new GP, to ask about increasing her dosage of sertraline, which she’d been prescribed to help manage her anxiety. The silver foil tray of calming Tic Tacs that she took religiously each night before bed, which she sometimes popped a few extra of when she struggled to sleep. They helped to block his face out. That and wine.
By the time she reached zero, Jessie was ready to start making her way home. Forget the lipstick. Reaching for the front door, she was relieved to see her hands had stopped shaking. Stepping inside, she wanted nothing more than to curl up with a book and detach her mind for a few hours, before getting back to emailing out her CV. She wasn’t especially passionate about the potential of resuming her life as an admin assistant but had no idea what else to do. Anything that paid her rent and provided some kind of structured routine would do for now. To cull the silence and odd creaks caused by the wind, Jessie flicked the communal radio on and hummed to herself as the kettle boiled. A mint tea would be the perfect reading companion.
It was the first time she’d had Maver Place all to herself. She tried singing aloud, gradually getting louder, testing the waters. Even though she’d been living here for a week now, things like not immediately knowing which drawer the cutlery was in still made Jessie feel like an outsider. The walls stared as she opened the wrong cupboard searching for teabags. That one must be Sofie’s, all bags of seeds and organic grains she’d never heard of, stacked in messy piles. Some red lentils had spilled out of the packet and there were several jars of home-made kimchi and jams in there too. The Post-it notes, that Jessie had spotted over Marcus’s shoulder the other day, listed all the ingredients and the date they’d been made on. A few were over a year old and still untouched. She sniffed at one and reeled. Definitely off. Still, there was something thrilling about looking through someone else’s cupboard, finding out more about the relative strangers she now lived with. Another tempting thought made itself known. Jessie glanced over her shoulder, even though she already knew the rest of her flatmates were out, then headed to the hallway. Their bedrooms would tell her so much more than any cupboards could.
Sofie’s seemed the safest one to start with. It appeared she was always out, rarely popping back for longer than twenty minutes to shower, change and go to Henry’s, or to the café for work. Ever since the dinner party, Jessie had found herself wondering what Henry’s home might be like. She’d heard from Lauren that his parents’ place was pretty spectacular, with a lake in the back garden, and that he personally had a spacious two-bedroom flat by the seafront. No wonder Sofie preferred to hang out there.
Jessie padded along the corridor, her mug left abandoned on the kitchen counter. She paused at the bottom of the stairs, which Marcus’s room was to the left of. Actually, there’d be no harm in just cracking the door slightly open and looking inside on her way upstairs. Her hand hovered over the doorknob, which had splatters of gloss paint from the door on it. It was typical of the flat – slapdash and done without care. Jessie pushed down on the handle but was met with resistance. Locked. It reminded her that she needed to replace the lock on her own bedroom door too.
Sofie’s room, however, opened right away. The thin bamboo blinds were dropped part way down the window, but plenty of light still entered the room. A tie-dye hanging had been pinned to the ceiling and several others, many of which were silk, hung on the walls, making Jessie feel as though she’d stepped inside a sewing box. It was a playful set-up. The dreamcatcher above the bed had small shells and feathers cascading from it and along the windowsill lay mounds of incense ash, plus one entirely burnt-down stick, which had been jammed into a blob of Blu-Tack. Unlike her own bedroom, with its grey worn-in
plush carpet, Sofie’s bedroom had cheap vinyl panels that looked like wood underfoot. She’d cosied the place up with a shaggy rug too. It’d be easy to look inside and see whether Sofie stored any secrets in her sock drawer.
A hand met Jessie’s right shoulder.
‘You shouldn’t be in here.’
Heavy cigarlike fingers pressed their way into her flesh and her stomach clenched. Jessie couldn’t tell whether Henry’s grip was deliberately hard or if he was just unaware of his own strength. Either way, he was right. She shouldn’t have been in Sofie’s bedroom without permission.
‘Oh God, I’m sorry,’ she managed to whisper, still not turning around to meet his eyes. ‘I’ve lost my phone charger and just wondered if Sofie had a spare.’
Jessie knew her cheeks had lit up crimson; she could feel the heat radiating from them and trickling down her neck as though someone had poured warm water over her head. She willed herself to face him. His expression was largely unreadable. She swallowed and waited.
‘Don’t worry, I won’t tell Sofie you were snooping. Actually, I’m glad I caught you alone,’ said Henry, glancing back into the hallway. ‘There’s something I want to speak to you about.’
‘I should go,’ Jessie said, turning to leave but finding Henry was blocking the doorway and her chance to escape to the safety of her own room.
‘That skirt looks great on you,’ he started, looking her square in the eyes. ‘Is that your thing then, short skirts? Only you had one on at dinner the other night too.’
‘It’s … I had an interview today,’ she stuttered.
Why wasn’t he moving out the way?
‘I noticed you checking me out the other night, Jessie,’ he continued, a smirk spreading across his lips.
‘Anyone home?’
They both heard the footsteps growing louder as someone mounted each step. The figure stood still when they reached the landing. It was Lauren, whose eyes narrowed at the sight of Jessie and Henry standing together in Sofie’s bedroom.
‘Everything okay?’ she asked, tilting her head to one side.
‘All fine. I’m just grabbing some bits for Sofie and was asking for Jessie’s advice on what dress to bring her,’ Henry replied, without missing a beat. ‘She asked me to choose a “nice going-out dress” and you know I’m crap at that sort of thing.’
‘Didn’t want her to end up in a rugby shirt,’ Jessie added quietly.
Henry grabbed a duffle bag from under Sofie’s bed and started to fill it wordlessly. Lauren nodded hesitantly.
‘No, we definitely wouldn’t want that.’
Jessie breathed a barely audible sigh of relief and headed back downstairs, attempting to brush off the imprint of Henry’s hand on her shoulder as she went. She flicked the switch of the kettle again and, as it juddered to a boil, Lauren ambled into the room. She’d changed into an oversized striped jumper, her bobbed hair pulled into a low, scruffy ponytail.
‘Can I tell you something?’ Lauren asked, pulling a mug off the drying rack.
‘Of course,’ Jessie replied, her curiosity piqued.
‘I think they’re such an odd match, him and Sofie,’ Lauren whispered conspiratorially, her eyes cast upwards. ‘I just can’t work it out. Honestly, I think he’s a bit of a private school buffoon.’
Jessie filled both their mugs with teabags and hot water, then leant back against the counter.
‘Mmm, they do seem an unlikely pairing I guess?’
‘Yeah, I mean, she smokes tofu and he smokes actual vintage cigars. Go figure?’
They laughed and took sips of tea, both temporarily lost in thought – Jessie over Henry’s comments about her skirt. Maybe she hadn’t imagined him flirting with her the other night after all. But if she now lived with his girlfriend, how could she ever avoid bumping into him again in future? The front door slammed shut.
CHAPTER SIX
‘We’ll see you on Monday at nine o’clock, then. Have a lovely weekend.’
As Jessie had predicted, she hadn’t had to wait long for Pamela to call and offer her the job. No longer would she need to rely on her savings and the goodwill of her parents when the first lot of rent for Maver Place was due. She couldn’t believe how quickly the time had flown, realising that she’d already lived there for a couple of weeks. All her boxes were unpacked now and she’d done her first load of washing, borrowing Lauren’s clothes horse to dry everything out on. Although the flat hardly had her dream décor and that run-in with Henry had left her slightly disorientated, Jessie was starting to get into a routine and feel at home at Maver Place. As Lauren worked sporadic hours, dependent on what shoots were happening at the studio, on the days that she was also free they’d slipped into the comfortable habit of making one another avocado bagels for breakfast, then watching trashy reality shows together or going for a walk.
After texting her parents the good news about the new job, Jessie also texted Priya, who replied suggesting celebratory drinks later that evening. It would be the first time Jessie had sampled the Brighton nightlife since she’d moved back and she was keen to visit some of their old haunts to see how much – or how little – they’d changed. Each new experience she crafted was, hopefully, helping to nudge Matthew further out of the forefront of her mind. The new plan was to focus only on positive thoughts and new memories so that there would be no room left for any of the old ones that kept her awake at night, before the double dose of pills kicked in. Well, that and the constant scuffling sounds that travelled up through the floor from Marcus’s bedroom, which she’d noticed got louder the later he arrived home. Earlier that morning she had counted five empty lager cans in the wicker basket they used as a recycling bin. One had leaked, leaving a sticky brown puddle in its wake. She’d really have to figure out a way of saying something soon.
Jessie had arranged to meet Priya at The Mash Tun, a two-storey pub they’d both liked and frequented on a regular basis during university. It had enough cosy corners for a private conversation and was near to a few decent chip shops, meaning come kickout time junk food wouldn’t be far away. Buttoning up one of her trademark printed tea dresses, Jessie stared hard at her reflection in the mirror. This person was employed and lived in a happening city with new friends. She was getting closer to becoming somebody she recognised again, the person she’d forgotten that she even used to be. The person she was before Matthew. Not the small, scared-looking version of herself that she’d grown accustomed to, that he had prodded her into, then crushed. She smoothed some anti-frizz serum through the ends of her hair, applied a final slick of eyeliner and slipped her arms through a light trench coat. The weather outside didn’t look too cold, but it would soon be dark and dropping a few degrees.
On her way out, she passed the kitchen and stuck her head round the archway, finding Lauren sitting in her usual spot at the table, sketchbook laid out before her, drawing charcoal in hand.
‘I had some good news earlier,’ smiled Jessie, peering in further.
‘Go on, I’m all ears!’
‘I am once again officially employed. You’re looking at the newest member of the Tulip Court admin team.’
As soon as the words left her mouth, Jessie knew how dull they must sound to Lauren, whose own job meant she spent the day surrounded by big-name photographers and models, strutting around in big-name designer outfits. But Lauren’s reaction rivalled that of being told she’d just won the EuroMillions – her face broke into a huge grin as she smashed her hands together giving a frenzied round of applause.
‘Yes, Jessie! Amazing news, told you that blazer was a lucky charm.’
They both laughed.
‘Are you off out to celebrate then?’
‘Yeah, I’m going for drinks with my best friend Priya.’
She hesitated before continuing.
‘You’re welcome to join us. It won’t be a big night, we’re not going to any cool clubs or anything. You know, nowhere that you’d be interested in.’
She could hav
e sworn that Lauren’s smile slightly dropped around the edges, before curling up again.
‘That’s a lovely offer, thank you. But I’m hoping to have a catch-up with Marcus tonight, about him helping to clean up a bit more, so I’ll have to pass. How about we raise a few glasses tomorrow evening instead?’ Lauren suggested. ‘We can do a nice dinner and watch a romcom or something.’
As curious as Jessie was about Marcus and his odd behaviour, she didn’t feel able to grill Lauren about it just yet – what with still being the new girl around the flat and wary of saying the wrong thing. Coming across as bitchy towards another flatmate wasn’t something she wanted to risk.
‘I’d love that. Catch you later then.’
Lauren raised a hand goodbye and turned back to her sketchpad.
‘Maybe drop me a line on your way home to see if I’m still up?’
At the end of the street, Jessie saw Marcus step off the number 46 bus. She called out a hello and he nodded but continued walking determinedly in the direction of the flat.
As she neared the pub, Jessie’s phone buzzed with a new email alert. Hopefully it would be Pamela sending over her contract, so she could see how many days of holiday she had. Jessie clicked onto her inbox and felt her stomach plummet. The new message wasn’t from Pamela. Instead, it was sent by ‘Truth Teller’. Truth Teller? What did that mean? She looked at the subject line and jerked her head away from the screen: You make me sick it read. Scrolling further down, Jessie saw it wasn’t the only email. There were others. Lots of others, a flurry of over ten messages, all sent within the last few minutes and bearing similar subject lines. Thought you could get away with it? I can’t believe your lack of respect. People must pay for their mistakes.
Her throat tightened. It could only be one person. Couldn’t it? She had blocked his number, the same day that she’d finally managed to escape, so this was clearly the next best thing. Jessie shuddered. The messages were a loud and clear signal that Matthew was still thinking about her. That he was angry. That maybe his threats, of what would happen to her, if she were to ever leave, weren’t idle.
The Wrong Move Page 4