Rebound

by Aga Lesiewicz

  The neighbours’ door slams shut. With all the comings and goings at my house lately, my neighbours probably hate me by now.

  ‘Just go, Alden.’ I infuse my tone with motherly calmness. ‘Go home and sleep it off. Everything will look different tomorrow, you’ll see.’

  I move away from him and go up my front steps. I can hear Wispa barking madly behind the closed door. Alden leans against my car and looks as if he’s going to fall over. I don’t care if he does, I just want to get away from him and close the door behind me. I open my front door and block the exit, so Wispa doesn’t rush out into the street. Two seconds later I’m in, double-locking the door from the inside. Wispa keeps barking and jumping up, nudging me with her nose. I go straight to the kitchen, pour myself a double whisky and drink it in a couple of gulps, neat. As its heat goes down my throat and settles in my stomach I rush to the front room and peer through the closed blinds. It looks like Alden has gone, but the window on the driver’s side is wet, smudges of frothy liquid running down the door and onto the pavement. I only hope it’s Alden’s lager and not something else.

  I let the blind drop down into place and go back to the kitchen. DCI Jones has clearly taken our conversation seriously and is interviewing all the men I told her about. I instantly feel a wave of guilt. Let’s face it, my statement was more of a smokescreen to cover up my encounters with the Dior Man. I don’t seriously think any of the men could be a rapist and a killer. But then again, what do I know about rapists and killers? Why has Alden reacted so violently to being questioned by the police? And how did he manage to connect it with me? Has DCI Jones mentioned my name while talking to him? That would be rather unprofessional of her, I think, drawing again on my knowledge of police procedure gained from watching too much CSI. Most importantly of all, why does Alden think I’m a bitch? Was it him who sprayed the word on my car and slashed my tyres? And who has warned him about me? Tom? I’m really tempted to call DCI Jones, to tell her about Alden’s behaviour and the missing keys. But my will to keep the Dior Man secret is stopping me from contacting her. I open the fridge door, but Bell’s bottle of Pinot Gris is gone. I finished it the other night. I pick up the phone and dial Michael’s number instead.

  ‘Darling, how are you?’ He sounds pleased to hear me.

  I tell him about my day at work and Candice’s phone call.

  ‘Yes,’ he says, ‘I gave her your number. I wanted to offer her board and lodgings at mine, but she said she was getting a room through some website.’

  ‘Yes, in Leyton of all places. I persuaded her to stay with me. I’m picking her up at the airport tomorrow lunchtime.’

  ‘She sounds like a really nice woman. It’s so tragic that Bell’s never going to . . .’ His voice breaks.

  ‘. . . be happy with her,’ I finish his sentence and feel the tears welling up in my eyes. We both fall silent, then Michael clears his throat.

  ‘I wanted to speak to you about her funeral arrangements. She wanted to be cremated and her ashes scattered from the cliff at Beachy Head.’

  ‘Beachy Head?’ I’m surprised, but then remember what Bell had told me. ‘I suppose it makes sense. She lived in Brighton as a student and used to go to the South Downs a lot. She told me it was the happiest time of her life. How do you know it was her wish?’

  ‘I’m her will executor.’

  ‘Bell’s left a will?’ I’m taken aback. Why hadn’t she told me about it?

  ‘We spoke about it when Phil died and I suggested then she should make one. On account of her having no immediate family and being gay. I recommended my solicitor to her.’

  ‘Why didn’t she tell me about it?’

  ‘She said she didn’t want to worry you. Some people are funny about wills and talking about death.’

  ‘I suppose she was right. The whole idea of preparing for your own death freaks me out.’

  ‘I don’t think one is ever really prepared for it.’ Michael clears his throat again. ‘I thought we might all drive to the cliffs with her ashes on Saturday. You, Candice, myself. Candice needs to fly back home on Sunday.’

  ‘Of course, it’s absolutely fine. I’ll drive.’

  ‘She also wanted Helen to be there.’

  ‘Big H? Her mad ex? The one who cheated on her and always had three girlfriends on the go?’

  ‘The same one.’

  ‘Well, it’s her will . . .’ I must say Bell doesn’t cease to surprise me, even after her death.

  ‘I know you’ve never been very fond of her, so I’ll contact her.’

  ‘Not fond of her is the understatement of the year. Remember, I was always the one picking up the pieces when Bell’s girlfriends turned out to be psychos. And Big H is in a category of her own in that department.’

  ‘I know, but you’ll have to put up with her just once more.’

  ‘Do you think it’s safe to put her and Candice together?’

  ‘Apparently she’s a reformed character these days.’

  ‘It’s a recipe for disaster, if you ask me.’

  The sound of my doorbell makes me jump. Wispa rushes to the hallway, barking.

  ‘Someone’s at the door, Michael, I have to go.’

  ‘Do you want me to stay on the line?’

  ‘No, sweetie, thank you, I’ll be fine. Talk to you later.’

  I dash to the door, then stop, seeing a big dark silhouette behind the stained glass.

  ‘Who is it?’

  ‘Anna, it’s DS Kapoor.’

  I unlock the door, holding Wispa by her collar. DS Kapoor is in his uniform and looks official.

  ‘We had a report of a disturbance at this address . . .’

  Patrick, my nosy neighbour, of course.

  ‘I just wanted to check if you’re OK.’

  ‘I’m fine, thank you.’ I quickly calculate the risk of telling him about Alden and decide it’s minimal. ‘But why don’t you come in and I’ll explain.’

  He takes off his cap as he walks in. He pats Wispa’s head as she jumps around him, wagging her tail.

  ‘Shall I put the kettle on?’ I ask as I direct him to the kitchen.

  ‘That would be lovely, thank you.’

  We sit down at the kitchen table, waiting for the kettle to boil.

  ‘It was Alden, one of the guys I mentioned to DCI Jones. I believe you talked to him earlier today. For some reason he’s taken umbrage at me . . .’

  ‘Has he threatened you?’ DS Kapoor takes out his police notebook and a pen.

  ‘No.’ I busy myself making tea, my back to him. ‘He did call me an evil bitch, though.’

  I put a mug of tea in front of DS Kapoor and point to milk and sugar. He looks up at me from his notebook and I notice for the first time he’s quite good-looking, especially with the five o’clock shadow on his chin.

  ‘Do you know why?’

  ‘No.’ I take a sip of my tea. ‘I thought you’d tell me.’

  DS Kapoor raises his eyebrows, then nods slowly. ‘He was a bit agitated when we spoke to him today.’

  ‘Agitated enough to kick my car and call me a bitch?’

  ‘Your name wasn’t mentioned. Do you want to lodge a complaint?’

  ‘Nah.’ I shrug my shoulders. ‘I’m in enough trouble as it is . . .’

  ‘Trouble? Why do you say that?’ He looks at me inquisitively and I can hear echoes of DCI Jones in his voice. Like a dog with a bone, I think to myself, and shrug again.

  ‘It’s a figure of speech, Navin. May I call you Navin?’ He nods and I continue. ‘I have never had so much contact with the police in my entire life. And as much as I like you and respect your boss, it’s not something I want to develop into a long-term relationship.’

  DS Kapoor suddenly looks flustered. I can see tiny droplets of sweat forming on his forehead. What have I said? He gets up, folds his notebook and carries his mug to the sink.

  ‘Thank you for the tea, Anna. I’m glad you’re OK. If you change your mind about filing a complaint, just give me a
call at the station. I have to get going.’

  ‘Of course.’ I follow him to the hallway, taken aback by this sudden change in behaviour. I thank him for stopping by and close the door behind him. That was weird. Maybe I shouldn’t have said I liked him. Perhaps he fancies me? He has been rather nice to me and he did look after Wispa, which in my book makes him a good person. Whatever it was, I have no time and energy to try to get to the bottom of it, I decide. A quick walk with Wispa, a long soak in the bath and bed, that’s what I need.

  Wispa already knows we’re going out and waits for me in the hallway, wagging her tail. I rummage in the cupboard under the stairs for poo bags, grab her leash, the house keys, and open the front door. As I walk down into the street a police car stops in front of my house. The passenger door opens and I expect to see DS Kapoor again. What now? But the policeman looks quite different, tall and blond-haired, in a white short-sleeved shirt and a black vest. His colleague gets out from the other side, a wiry Indian guy, but not DS Kapoor.

  ‘Miss Wright?’

  ‘Yes?’ I stop and put the leash on Wispa.

  The blond-haired policeman squeezes himself between the parked cars and approaches me.

  ‘We’ve had a report of a domestic disturbance at your house.’

  His voice reminds me of Gary Sinise, minus the American accent.

  ‘Another one?’

  ‘Excuse me? You are Miss Wright, right?’

  I’m not sure if he’s trying to crack a joke I heard a million times when I was at school, but I dislike him instantly.

  ‘Yes, I am Ms Wright and it was my neighbour who called you.’ I feel a wave of anger bubbling inside me. Patrick will pay for this. ‘I was arguing with a friend outside my front door. He must’ve misconstrued it as a disturbance.’

  ‘So you don’t require assistance?’

  ‘No, thank you, as you can see, I’m perfectly fine.’

  ‘We’d appreciate it if you could let your neighbour know to call the non-emergency number 101 in the future.’

  ‘Why don’t you tell him yourself, as you’re here.’

  I march up my neighbour’s front steps and ring his bell.

  ‘His name is Evans. Mr Patrick Evans. Goodnight.’

  I pull on Wispa’s leash and walk away indignantly. As I cross the street I can hear Patrick unlocking his door and the nasal drone of the blond policeman enquiring about a report of a disturbance.

  What a waste of police time, I think, as I walk down Swain’s Lane. And to have them call at your house twice in half an hour, just when you don’t need them at all. But then a different thought makes me stop and Wispa looks at me impatiently. Why did they come twice? The visit from the Gary Sinise lookalike and his sidekick seemed genuine, but what was DS Kapoor doing at my house? No, I’m getting too suspicious, I decide as I start walking again. Kapoor was obviously on duty, knew about the call made by Mr Evans, probably recognized my address and decided to check if I was OK. Sinise and Co. on the other hand were sent to my house by a dispatcher. There, mystery solved. There is a distinct chill in the air and the musty smell of wet earth and rotting leaves heralds the beginning of autumn. I haven’t even noticed the summer colours starting to lose their vibrancy and the mornings becoming wrapped in fog.

  Twelve Days Later

  It turns out Candice arrives on the 11.15 a.m. United flight from Chicago, having caught a local flight from Spokane to Denver, and then connecting onto the London flight in Chicago. She is going to be exhausted. It’ll take her at least an hour to go through passport control and customs, so I should get to the airport by noon. Which doesn’t leave me a lot of time at work in the morning. Luckily, the office isn’t far from the M4, but still, I’ll have to leave by 11.30 at the latest. I kick myself for offering to pick her up. I should’ve booked a cab for her and asked them to take her straight to Michael’s. But it’s too late to change the plan and I feel I owe Bell this at least – taking care of her girlfriend while she’s in London.

  The office is unusually quiet, with most of the producers out on shoots or in edit suites. My work mailbox isn’t quiet at all on the other hand. Since last night over a hundred new emails have arrived, most of them carrying red flags of urgency. I check my diary and it doesn’t look good. I’ll miss a big departmental meeting in the afternoon. Claire tells me Julian wants to have a one-to-one with me tomorrow morning, another date I won’t be able to keep. But surely my friend’s funeral warrants one more day of compassionate leave. She also reminds me that today is the last day to submit our company’s entries to this year’s Promax UK. It’s that time of the year again! I can almost measure the length of my professional life by the number of Promax conferences I’ve attended over the years. From a bright-eyed and hungry-for-awards young promo-maker to begin with, to the jaded and cynical know-it-all I am now. A TV promotion, or a promo, is a weird beast. Its aim is to drive ratings but often it’s far superior creatively to the programme it’s supposed to promote. What do Promax judges take into account then? Accuracy, effectiveness or creativity? A promo that does exactly what it says on the tin usually has the creative value of a pint of wood stain. A promo that’s truly unique and brilliant often wouldn’t be able to sell water to a thirsty man in a desert. Luckily, my task this morning is not hindered by such dilemmas. Our creative department hasn’t produced any masterpieces this year, so I go for a selection of humorous spots that fit safely into categories like Best Use of Humour or Something for Nothing. Better than nothing, I think, as I pass on my selection to Claire who is going to take care of the paperwork. Then I write a short and apologetic email to Julian, excusing myself from our tête-à-tête tomorrow, and head out of the door.

  There is hardly any traffic on the M4 and I reach the short-term car park at Terminal 3 at five past twelve. The information board in the arrivals hall says that the flight from Chicago has landed and the bags are on their way to the baggage hall. I position myself at the barrier to crowd-watch. The sliding doors disgorge passengers in various states of disarray, from fresh and energetic European hoppers to blurry-eyed and crumpled intercontinental travellers. A clutch of disorientated Japanese tourists is followed by a gaggle of overexcited American pensioners, then the doors remain closed for a while. They open again to reveal a colourful couple: a large woman in a bright, flowing dress and a small man dressed in black, pushing a luggage trolley filled with a stack of suitcases. They make such a captivating picture that I almost miss the woman who appears right behind them, carrying just a small cabin bag. She is quite petite, slim but muscular, with straight highlighted hair pulled back in a ponytail and blue eyes that look striking in her tanned face. I instantly know it’s Candice. She recognizes me at the same moment and walks towards me, smiling.

  ‘Anna?’

  ‘Candice!’

  We hug as if we’ve known each other for years.

  ‘Thank you so much for meeting me.’

  ‘It’s a pleasure, Candice, really.’

  I stop to pay the parking fee at the machine, then lead Candice to the car.

  ‘Good flight, or should I say flights?’

  ‘I feel my carbon footprint has grown dramatically within the last twenty-four hours,’ she laughs. ‘But it hasn’t been that bad. I managed to sleep on the flight from Chicago.’

  Unlike most Americans I know, she’s softly spoken and has a gentle manner about her. I like her instantly. As we drive towards London I ask her if this is her first trip to the UK.

  ‘Actually, I lived in Canterbury for a couple of years.’

  ‘Canterbury?’ I repeat, wondering if I heard her right.

  ‘I did an MA course in Social Anthropology at Kent.’

  ‘Wow, so you’re no stranger to this part of the world.’

  ‘No, this visit would feel quite nostalgic, if only the circumstances were different . . .’

  We both fall silent for a while. Then Candice clears her throat.

  ‘What was she like?’

  Even th
ough I’m driving, I can’t help looking at her. She stares back at me, her blue eyes serious and pleading, as if she’s asking me to divulge a secret.

  ‘What was she like,’ I repeat, my gaze returning to the road in front of us. ‘She was a good person, honest, trustworthy . . . singular. You know, with most people you get the feeling that there is another person hiding behind the facade you see. With Bell you never got that: she was exactly who you saw, no hidden agendas, no Mr Hyde to her Dr Jekyll. She was kind, open, warm. And very funny. We’d had so many good laughs over the years.’

  ‘She talked a lot about you. You were her best friend.’

  ‘I hope I was . . . I tried to be . . .’ A tearful feeling wells up inside me. ‘But I failed, I let her down badly—’ I stop, searching for words, wondering why I’m sharing my most intimate thoughts with a woman I met ten minutes ago. She waits for me to go on and I feel I have to. I realize I’ve been carrying a terrible burden of guilt around with me and I have to share it with someone. ‘She died because of me, Candice.’

  Tears suddenly flood my eyes; I can barely see where we’re going. I step on the brake and turn off abruptly onto a side road leading to Heston Services. The car park is almost empty and I stop right in front of Costa Coffee. I switch off the engine and take a deep breath.

  ‘I’m so sorry, Candice. I don’t know what has come over me. This must be so weird for you . . . ending up in a foreign country at a motorway service station with a stranger having a nervous breakdown . . .’ I try to make light of what’s just happened.

  Candice puts her hand on my shoulder.

  ‘Let’s have some coffee,’ she says.

  I lock the car and we walk over to the coffee shop. Candice makes me sit down in an armchair in a quiet corner of the shop and goes to order the drinks. A few minutes later she puts a big steaming mug in front of me and sits in the armchair opposite. As I pick up the mug, the smell of hot chocolate hits me. Candice smiles.

  ‘I thought we needed this more than coffee.’

  I take a sip and decide she’s right. The taste of chocolate is both indulgent and soothing.