by Rosie Blake
She was glad she couldn’t see his face. There was silence as she reappeared. He was tapping at his phone.
‘I’m serious,’ she said, marching over to him and holding out her hand as if he were a toddler with a forbidden sweet.
‘I can’t. You don’t understand. You’ve never had a job like mine,’ he protested. She opened her mouth to say something and then closed it again.
‘We’re expected to be contactable at all times,’ he stressed. ‘Tom, the other managing director, is suspicious; I think he’s ready to bury me.’
‘But it’s just not healthy,’ Clara said, still holding out her hand. Joe was staring at it as if she were about to attack him.
‘I’ll put it on silent.’
‘Nope.’
‘I’ll leave it in the car.’
‘Joe,’ Clara said, her voice exasperated now.
‘You just don’t get it,’ he said, looking worriedly down at the item in question.
She dropped her hand and took a breath. ‘Actually I do,’ she said, and sighed. ‘I used to be surgically attached to mine. I worked in London, as a trader, for six years.’
Joe had been about to say something, but now his mouth fell open.
‘I was doing sixteen-hour days, all-nighters, didn’t go home to Denmark for months, neglected my friends, my family,’ she added in a quieter voice, staring off into the distance before turning away so Joe couldn’t see her face.
There was silence for a while, and she wondered if he was back on his phone, tapping out another email, but when she peeked he was still just staring at her.
‘Six years?’
She nodded.
‘But why did you… You worked as a… But you’re so…’
It was almost amusing watching him struggle for words, but Clara hated talking about that time in her life. It had been the reason she had changed everything. She still regretted not seeing how absorbed she’d been with it all, to the extent that she hadn’t noticed important things happening to people she loved. Her mum, the visits to the doctor she’d brushed off, Clara not there to realise.
She swallowed. ‘It was a while ago now, it doesn’t matter.’ She wished she hadn’t brought it up. She was just fed up with Joe thinking she didn’t understand, that she couldn’t understand. She knew exactly what it was like to feel the bank owned you, that your mobile and laptop ruled your working life and your home life because there was no line any more: people could call or email at any hour and someone would expect you to answer, to jump to it. And if you didn’t, someone else would and you’d be for the chop.
She moved to the door. If they weren’t going to the beach, she could at least go outside. Then she heard him.
‘Wait.’ He placed his phone on the table and held up his hand. ‘Give me two minutes,’ he said. He went into his bedroom and she could hear him opening cupboards and drawers. ‘You’re not expecting us to swim, are you?’ he called through.
‘It’s December, Joe.’
His head appeared in the doorway. ‘So that’s a no?’ he asked uncertainly.
‘Of course it’s a no, it’s like minus three,’ she pointed out, staring at him as if he was mad.
‘You seem the type to want to do that sort of thing,’ he said, returning to his rummaging.
She wondered what he’d meant by that. Active? Impulsive? Clinically insane?
‘Ready,’ he huffed, emerging with a rucksack, wearing a beanie hat she hadn’t seen on him before. He looked different, and for a second she couldn’t put her finger on why, until she realised it was the first time she’d seen him dress really casually.
‘I like your hat,’ she said, feeling weirdly shy.
He touched it self-consciously. ‘Thanks, haven’t worn it in a while,’ he said, picking up his keys. ‘Well, come on then. The beach it is,’ he said, and walked over to the door, opening it and waiting for her to step through.
‘MAY THE FORCE BE WITH YOU,’ Lady CaCa cried out as Clara glanced back. Joe’s phone was on the table where he’d left it. She gave him a smile as she walked through and down the stairs.
He started asking her questions the moment they pulled out from the kerb. ‘Which bank?’
‘UBS.’
‘They’re big.’
‘Yep.’
‘What was the biggest deal you did?’
‘What is this? A competition? I’m not telling you that. A lot. It was a lot.’
‘Prove it,’ he said, banging one hand on the wheel, a smile on his face.
‘What do you mean?’ Clara laughed, leaning back into the seat.
‘Prove you really did it. Say something a trader would say.’
‘What, like talk about the dealer board and how I spent my days observing the signs making up the price action, including price fluctuations and the liquidity of the order book…’
‘You did work as a trader.’ He snuck a sideways look at her.
‘I told you I did.’
‘I thought it was just a lie to make me go to the beach.’
‘It was to make you take me to the beach, but I’m not that manipulative.’
‘So…’ Joe was clearly about to launch into another raft of questions.
‘Look,’ Clara said, cutting him off, ‘I spent most of the six years shouting and swearing at people on the trading floor. Sometimes I miss that madness; that was what drew me into it. And I wanted to prove I could do it. But I really don’t want to talk about it now. That bit of my life is over, I couldn’t stay in it. I wasn’t happy.’
‘OK, but did you —’
She looked at his animated face. ‘Enough now,’ she said in a gentle voice.
Joe caught her expression. ‘Enough,’ he agreed. ‘Can see how you might have been a bit scary on the trading floor,’ he added, biting his lip.
Clara smiled and rested her head back on the smooth leather, focusing on the road ahead, the car pristine, her feet lost in the cavernous footwell, the sound of the tyres barely there as they twisted through narrow lanes to the coast.
Then there it was ahead, a thin strip of silver under brooding grey clouds, and Clara found herself smiling as she turned to Joe. ‘The sea.’
They drove along the seafront, Joe tense at first as he fretted over whether parking was free, if someone would steal the car, whether he would need his hat. As they hit the stony beach, crunched over the pebbles, he seemed to grow quieter, start to look around him, and then they were walking along the shoreline, the waves rolling in, barely a breeze, the water sucked away before returning. A seagull hovering over the water, a ferry moving slowly past in the distance, a line of pink buoys like tiny heads bobbing just off the shore.
‘Mum and I used to come here at weekends,’ he said, eyes ahead. ‘She used to skim stones with me, then we’d have fish and chips huddled on a single towel that smelt of vinegar for days afterwards.’
Clara held her breath. Joe had hardly said anything about his childhood, his mum, and it was so lovely to picture him as a young boy.
‘What about your dad?’ she asked, realising she’d never heard him mention his father.
Joe moved to sit down on the pebbles and Clara sat next to him, wondering if he’d heard her. He raked a hand through the stones. ‘He left. When I was eight.’
‘Oh,’ Clara said. ‘That must have been hard.’
Joe picked up one of the pebbles, turning it between his fingers. ‘It was. We moved around a lot; my mum, well, she hadn’t expected it, couldn’t stay in any one place…’
Clara looked at him as he spoke, starting to understand a little more, his need to give his mother some stability.
‘Do you see him?’
Joe shook his head. ‘Not much any more. Once a year we have lunch. I used to be desperate to see him, to be like him, to show him I’d succeeded. I’d always wanted to work in the City, be important like him.’ He laughed, but the noise was hollow and Clara felt the urge to reach for him.
‘He should be very proud,�
�� she said.
Joe looked at her then, his grey eyes trained on her face. ‘Thank you.’ Then, as if aware the mood had shifted, he got to his feet. ‘Shall we keep walking?’
Clara stood up, followed him.
‘How about you?’ Joe asked. ‘Do you miss your family?’
Clara was glad to be moving, could feel the familiar sting at the back of her eyes. ‘My parents separated when I was small and my dad has his own life, but we’ve always got on, he’s always seen me. I’ve got two stepsisters, twins, they’re fourteen.’ She hoped that was enough information.
‘Your mum?’ he asked.
Clara squinted out across the water that was the same grey as Joe’s eyes, as if she might be rescued by a passing boat or a bolt of lightning. Nothing, of course, just the relentless noise of the waves and her own silence.
‘She was ill,’ she said at last, her voice almost lost to the wind. ‘She was ill and she died, last year.’
Joe stopped abruptly; Clara had moved forward a few paces before she noticed.
‘I’m so sorry,’ he said, his expression aghast.
‘It’s OK,’ she said, wiping at her face. ‘Well, it’s not OK, but thank you.’
‘How did she… do you mind me asking?’
Clara swallowed. ‘She had pancreatic cancer. She had treatment but it wasn’t found until it had spread to other sites, and the end was… quick.’
Joe looked at her. ‘I’m so sorry, Clara.’
She couldn’t hold his gaze for long. ‘She didn’t tell me much about it,’ she admitted, realising that now that she was talking, she couldn’t stop if she tried. ‘She knew I had my life in London and was worried about me.’ She started to cry, unable to keep it all in. All those times she’d snatched brief phone conversations with her mum, boring her with the stresses of her life in the City, her upsets with colleagues, lost business, falling share prices, while her mum was on the other end of the line dying and saying nothing.
‘She loved you,’ Joe said, a hand on her arm.
Clara nodded, pressing her lips together. ‘I loved her.’
‘Of course you did,’ Joe said, pulling her towards him.
She felt his arms around her, her face pressed against his chest. Her body relaxed into him as she got herself back under control. They stood there for a while as her breathing returned to normal, and she noticed that he smelt of woodsmoke and aftershave. Then she was blinking into his chest, not sure when to pull away.
He drew back, both hands on her upper arms. ‘Do you want to carry on? There’s a place selling doughnuts just over there.’ He looked at her then, a slow, sad smile filling his face, clearly trying to make her feel better.
‘A doughnut would be good,’ she said, with a last wipe of her eyes.
They didn’t talk about much else for the rest of the day, ambling along the seafront, past a merry-go-round and back to the car, Joe opening the door and letting her slide inside.
When they arrived back outside the shop, he turned off the engine and they sat for a moment in silence.
‘Well,’ said Joe at last, tapping a finger on the steering wheel. ‘Thanks for getting me out in the fresh air.’
‘I’m glad we went,’ Clara said, catching his eye and seeing something new there. ‘Thank you.’ She felt the words were weighted with so much more.
Joe nodded before finally releasing his seat belt and getting out of the car.
They moved through the corridor and up the stairs without speaking. Was she imagining the momentary pause as they stood in the doorway of the flat?
‘MY NAME IS MAXIMUS DECIMUS MERIDIUS, COMMANDER OF THE ARMIES OF THE NORTH!’ Lady CaCa made them both jump. And then, as if she’d broken the spell, they moved inside, Joe picked up his phone, and whatever it was had passed.
An hour later, he was at the same spot at the table, the phone to his ear, the laptop screen glowing, and it was as if those few hours on the beach had happened to two different people, in a completely different world. Only the look he gave her as she said goodnight, his mouth half open as he lingered by his bedroom door, made her think anything had changed.
It’s Lady CaCa’s birthday today – do be sure to tell Clara to give her some extra treats. I think she hates having her birthday so close to Christmas. Perhaps I shall move it to June like the Queen. I think she’d like that.
I’m so pleased it’s all going well and you’re getting so many customers through the door. It takes you an age to reply to me so I know you must be run off your feet. Or struggling. Do you have a lot of vowels? It’s very hard if you don’t, although I always get too many Us, and what can you really do with a U?
We’re experiencing a mini heatwave here – apparently the warm air is coming from the Sahara. It’s just not feeling festive, there’s too much sunshine around. How can you possibly think about gearing up for Christmas when you’re sunbathing under a clear blue sky? Still, one mustn’t fuss when one is spending the day in just a swimsuit and sarong. The manager has just popped by to ask me whether I am renting next month. He’s a funny man, about three foot tall and with the most enormous beard. If they ever remake those Hobbit films, he’d be entirely perfect. Now do send me some photos of the woods and fields behind the village, you know I love it in winter when everything is frozen white.
Chapter 29
Joe had planned to leave on Sunday night to be in the office first thing on Monday. The merger was being finalised, contracts signed; it was a huge day for him, for the team. But he hadn’t been able to leave Clara that evening, wanted to stay in the flat, keep an eye on her. He’d crept downstairs when it was still dark on Monday morning, the whole of Suffolk sleeping, dawn leaking over the horizon as he raced down the motorway to London.
Now the deal was done. They’d signed the contracts. His bosses had waited in the outer office, ready to shake hands with the clients as they left the building. Joe had watched them talking as they milled outside the lift, Andy slapping one of them on the back, Karen looking like she’d won the lottery. Which she had. He should have been euphoric: they’d just made billions of pounds for the company. They’d been working on the merger for months. Normally he’d be taking the whole team out for a celebratory dinner and drinks, on to a nightclub for champagne.
When he returned to the office, they were already downing shots, sliding a bottle his way, cheering and joshing each other. He found himself grabbing his coat, heading to the car park beneath the building, barely waiting to hear what they were saying. Within minutes he was in the car, heading out of the City, forgetting things the further he moved away, focusing on what was ahead.
He got back to find the flat empty, everything neat and tidy: the large dining table wiped down, a vase of fresh flowers in the centre, blankets folded and slung on the back of the sofa and armchair. It made him feel calmer just to look round the ordered space, Roddy the only blight on the scene, a large orange furball shedding on a rug in front of the woodburner, which was warming the room.
A babble of voices below him grew louder as he opened the flat door and peered down the stairs. Through the frosted glass of the side door he could make out the shapes of people moving past. The shop was obviously chocker, and he moved back inside to throw on some different clothes and go to help, bubbling with curiosity about the new window display. After they’d got back from the beach, Clara had spent the rest of Sunday in the shop, refusing him entry, announcing that he would have to wait to see it like everyone else. He stared at himself in the mirror. Window displays? What next? And yet he was smiling goofily.