His voice gives it away. He’s terrified. For the first time, I allow myself to seriously consider what happened to Emily that night.
‘If you’re in love with someone else, why would you want to be with me?’
He pauses. He measures his words. He breaks my heart all over again.
‘Because love isn’t everything,’ he says.
ROY
Friday, 11th December
‘Didn’t work?’
I jump at my father’s voice behind me. ‘She’s just upset.’
‘She’s smart.’
‘Well, it’s none of your business. And I’d appreciate some privacy.’
He smirks. ‘Sure, son. Just don’t get used to it. I hear they like everything out in the open in prison.’ He walks back into the living room and I follow. I’ve had enough of his snide comments.
‘What is your problem?’ I demand.
‘You mean aside from the fact that I’ve had to drop everything and come to London because my son has been impulsive again?’
‘What the hell is that supposed to mean?’
‘Don’t use that language with me,’ he says and I look down. ‘And you know exactly what I mean.’
‘I was a child!’
‘Which is why I protected you. But you are not a child anymore and this is not India.’
MIA
Monday, 14th December
I avoid making eye contact with anyone on the train. A few people stare at me then move away. I can’t blame them. I keep my head bent low and stand to one side.
I know I don’t look great.
I know they can tell that my life is falling apart.
I just don’t know what to do about it.
I feel a hand cup my bottom as the train pulls to a stop and I am swept towards the door. I spin around, more out of instinct than actual desire to yell at the man trying to grab me. But before I can say anything, I feel that hand again, this time on my thigh. I look down. A little girl looks up at me and smiles, all rainbows and unicorns. ‘Excuse me, lady,’ she says. My eyes fill with fresh tears as I step aside to let her skip past, her mother hustling to keep up with her.
A blast of icy air hits me as soon as I step out of the station. I pull my scarf tighter and start walking towards the office. I don’t want to go in but I can’t sit around at home anymore. I feel calm, the weed slowing me down and giving me the veneer of confidence.
I stop to pick up breakfast on my way and as an afterthought pick up a coffee for Mike. He’ll be fuming after my no-show on Friday.
The office is quiet when I walk in just after nine, everyone already at their desks, heads bent low over laptops. It feels odd until I remember it’s Christmas bonus time.
I nip into Mike’s office to give him his coffee but he isn’t there. I sidestep the boxes and files that litter the floor and leave the cup on his desk with a Post-it before walking over to my own office.
I have barely taken off my coat when Yvonne rings to let me know Harvey wants to see me. He probably wants to go over the planned bonuses for my team, I figure. I gulp my double espresso down and slip a couple of mints in my mouth. I take my work phone with me, scrolling through a week’s worth of emails as I wait for the lift: office Christmas party menu, holiday greetings, QC reports, cat videos, sample pictures, costings. Nothing urgent. By the time I step into Harvey’s office, I’m alert, the coffee having done its job, and I’ve caught up with everything. It’s only after I sit down that I notice Mike in the corner.
So that’s what this is about.
I put on a weak smile, and launch into my speech.
‘Harvey, I’m sorry I’ve been in and out of the office last week. I’m sure you don’t want me to go into the details, but I’ve been having some gynecological problems that left me rather worn—’
‘Mia, something disturbing has come to light about the Eastside order,’ Harvey begins, talking over me.
I pause and wait for him to continue. I wonder how much he knows.
‘It seems the factory forged the test results. The shipment is in breach of REACH regulations and I believe there are some concerns about child labour.’
I look at Mike. He carries on staring out of the window.
‘That’s impossible. Are you sure?’
He holds up a hand and I shut up.
‘The fabric hasn’t cleared the SVHCs test, so I was quite shocked to see we had issued the MDAs last week. Mike’s managed to liaise with the port authorities and had the shipment held in Turkey until we can get to the bottom of the situation. Were you aware of this?’
‘Of course not, I had no idea.’
‘Did you check the test reports?’
‘I did.’
Mike scoffs from his position by the window. Harvey silences him with a look.
‘Mia, I wish I didn’t have to ask you this . . . but we’ve had an anonymous report that you were made aware of the situation and you authorized the shipment regardless. Is this true?’
‘Who said that?’
‘That’s irrelevant. Is it true?’
‘I heard there was an issue with the reports but I presumed it was something minor, a low score on the wash test or the dimensional stability. I wasn’t aware it had anything to do with REACH or working conditions.
‘Harvey, we’ve overlooked issues like this in the past. Hardly any of our orders achieve a hundred per cent compliance,’ I continue when Harvey doesn’t react.
‘This isn’t a simple compliance issue, Mia. This goes beyond your level of authority. You should have brought this to me or Mike.’
‘I’m sorry, Harvey. Like I said, I wasn’t aware of the details. I made a call. Eastside has a very stringent cancellation policy and I didn’t—’
‘I don’t think you understand the seriousness of this. Bringing in products that breach REACH regulations is illegal. Add to that the child labour situation . . .’ He shakes his head and leans back. There’s a disappointment in his face that I’ve never seen before.
‘By acting on behalf of the company, you’ve jeopardized the entire business. We could get sued, not to mention the PR nightmare that will ensue if this comes out. Eastside has already threatened to take us off the approved supplier list and if that happens, other retailers will follow their lead,’ he goes on.
‘I can ring Jo and try to do some damage control. We can tell her we found—’
‘That won’t be necessary. Mike’s meeting with their head of sourcing later today.’
It doesn’t add up. The head of sourcing hates Mike, that’s why I took over the account in the first place.
‘You’ve been a valuable member of staff here, Mia, but this is not something the board can overlook. It would be best if you resign, perhaps take some time to recover from your illness, and then when you’re ready, I’d be happy to give you a letter of reference.’
I look at him, astonished.
Before I can say anything else, Yvonne appears out of nowhere and ushers me into a conference room. She tells me that the business is willing to offer me three months’ severance pay, a nod to my contribution over the years, and then promptly produces a document for me to sign. I skim through it. Confidentiality agreement.
I sign the papers wordlessly. It is fitting when everything else in my life is falling apart that my career should too.
She informs me that I am to turn in my laptop, key card and phone. After that, I’m free to go.
Downstairs, I notice Chris sitting at his old desk. He gets up and follows me to my office but I shut the door before he can come in. It is humiliating enough as it is, I don’t need an audience.
It’s only as I’m packing up my things that the jigsaw starts to piece itself together. The boxes in Mike’s office. The confidentiality agreement. The generous severance package. I inhale sharply. Mike played me, securing the seat on the board and getting rid of me in one move. And Chris helped him do it.
Chris. After everything I’ve done for him. All for wha
t, a promotion?
I consider going back to see Harvey, explaining to him what was really going on. But it feels pointless.
No one even looks up when I walk out of my office.
I glance into Mike’s office on my way out. He’s smiling to himself, sipping the coffee I bought him not thirty minutes ago.
ROY
Monday, 14th December
I look up every time the door opens. You should have been here over an hour ago. I try ringing but your phone goes straight to voicemail. There’s a light dusting of snow outside. Perhaps there were delays on the train; wouldn’t be the first time. I consider getting another coffee but I’m not sure I can handle it. I’m wound up enough already. I check my watch; it’s half eleven. Alistair won’t arrive till midday so we should still have a few minutes to ourselves before the meeting.
I wouldn’t go so far as to call this our usual spot – we didn’t have one – but I’ve found myself clinging to anything familiar this week, so when Alistair said he would be in Islington this morning, I had suggested we meet here. I’d planned on getting us the same table, the one in the corner, tucked behind the column, but in the three weeks since we were last here, they’ve moved it and put a Christmas tree there instead.
I remember how you scanned the room, before moving your fingers in the most discreet of waves as you walked in that day. You took your time crossing the room, your hips swaying as you threaded your way through the narrow spaces between the chairs. I wasn’t able to look away, the natural grace in your movements utterly enchanting. You slipped into the chair across from me and gave me a watery smile.
‘This is a nice spot,’ you said, placing your bag on the floor while your eyes darted across the room.
It was mid-afternoon on a Tuesday and other than an old couple on the far right, and us, the cafe was empty. I caught your gaze. ‘Hey, I checked. It’s fine. Shall I get you a coffee?’
‘In a bit,’ you said, relaxing into the chair after another, final sweep of the room. ‘How are you?’
By this point, we had been meeting nearly every day for two weeks. We had not yet kissed but there was an intimacy that had developed between us quite naturally. Even so, when I reached for your hand under the table, the feeling that rushed through me was intense, beginning where our fingers met and sending shock waves through my entire body.
It was the week after I had broken up with Emily. My parents had just left; Mia was spending most of her time at work. I was feeling hopeful. I was feeling like, perhaps, we might have a shot at this for real. I told you that and you nodded.
‘It doesn’t feel like a coincidence, does it?’ you asked.
‘What?’
‘Everything. Us. It feels as if the universe is joining the dots, bringing us together like this.’
I nodded. You let go of my hand and drew your chair in closer. My knees found yours. ‘It’s so strange. I’ve never felt more myself than I have over the past few weeks. And I feel like everything I’ve ever wanted, all that I’d given up on, it’s within arm’s reach once again.’
You smiled and leaned forward. At some point your hand found my leg and your thumb started circling my knee. Lightly at first, the pressure increasing gradually, climbing up my leg until I couldn’t bear it anymore. I had the urge to kiss you but I didn’t, I couldn’t, not even in an empty cafe where the only other customers were an old and probably half-blind couple.
Just thinking about it now leaves me tingling, the memory strumming all the desire and frustration that’s been festering within me for days. There is a gauze-like fragility to it, and I worry that even thinking about it too much will rip the memory to shreds.
Though I saw you little more than a week ago, it feels like an eternity. The things we spoke about that night, the decisions we made, they’ve been dictating my every move since and I wonder if it’s been the same for you as well; if, like me, you keep finding your thoughts circling back to that last morning we spent together, our thoughts, and our bodies wrapped around each other.
The door opens and a rush of cold air sweeps through. I consider ringing you again but decide against it. I know how difficult things have been for you these past few weeks. You would be here if you could. I wonder if Dave’s still at home; perhaps that’s why you’re late. I remember how relieved I was when you told me he was at work when the police came.
I notice a newspaper on the table next to mine and lean over to pick it up. The police arrested two twenty-three-year-old men for questioning last night. Their names haven’t been released but when have details like that stopped the papers? The front page is devoted entirely to Emily: pictures of her drinking, dancing, smoking; each picture is just a little more lascivious than the last, with more cleavage and a different guy, all splayed out under the headline, ‘Who were the men in Emily’s life?’
I wonder if it is down to Alistair. I fold the paper and put it back, just in time to see Alistair walk in. He’s early and you’re late.
‘Is Ms Brown on her way yet?’ he says when the necessary pleasantries have been exchanged.
‘Yes, she should be here any minute.’
‘Excellent.’ He makes a show of checking his watch. ‘It’s not ideal that she’s spoken with the police already but I’d still like to prepare her, and you, for any future interviews. Not the best alibi, but having your stories nailed should help.’
‘Sure, sounds good.’
‘Have you managed to speak with your wife yet?’
‘Yes, but it didn’t go too well. I have written to her again but . . .’ I trail off.
‘Perhaps it’s time to take a different route. I can send someone in.’
‘She may not respond well to a stranger.’
‘I don’t know that we have much of an option, Roy. Tell you what, we’ll give it another day or two, see if she comes around. If not, I’ll reach out to her. The attention seems to have shifted from you right now, but I want you back in your house within the week,’ he says.
We sit there chatting about Christmas presents and ski trips, Alistair checking his watch every five minutes, until the coffee and cake orders on neighbouring tables graduate to pastas and salads. I try to ring you a couple of times but it goes to voicemail every time. I give up eventually.
‘I don’t know where she is. Celia and I spoke this morning and she told me she was coming. It must be something unavoidable or she’d be here by now.’
‘Don’t worry, these things happen. Not ideal, but hey, what can you do? Let’s set up another date and we can try this again. And let’s meet at my office next time,’ he says, smiling as he gets up and shrugs on his coat.
I order another coffee and I watch from the window as Alistair leaves, catching a last glimpse of his salt and pepper hair, before he disappears seamlessly into the crowd.
I make my coffee last another hour. I look up every time the door opens. But I already know you won’t be coming.
MIA
Tuesday, 15th December
When we first got together, Roy and I would spend hours coming up with hypothetical scenarios: should one of us die, of a rare cure-yet-to-be-discovered chronic illness, which one of us would suffer more, the one who died or the one left behind? If one of us were forced to commit a crime, how far would the innocent partner go to protect the guilty one? In a natural disaster, should we have to choose between saving a parent’s life and saving our partner, whom would we pick? The scenarios were endless, each more heinous than the other, designed to establish one simple truth: we weren’t merely in love; we were love.
I run through my last conversation with Roy. I almost convince myself that that is what this is, just another scenario that Roy is playing out with the sole purpose of testing my love for him, and for a moment I am relieved. I am waiting for Roy to pop in and yell, ‘Gotcha!’ I can taste his wet kiss on my lips. I can sense the warm crush of his arms closing around me. I can feel the tickle of his words in my ear as he whispers and insists that no, he won, he
loves me more. I feel a smile begin to form and then the new truth hits me, triumphant in its cruelty.
My heart plummets.
I kicked him out.
I gave up on us.
If this is a test, I have no doubt failed.
Sleep comes to me easily. A deep, marijuana-induced slumber that plunges me into blank space. No dreams, no thoughts, no panic. My phone is ringing. I feel for it in my bed but it goes to voicemail by the time I find it. I click on the notification and press the phone to my ear.
Addi’s voice pushes through. Her voice wobbles, rattling me.
After Daddy, Mum was either working or ill and, over time, the relatives and friends that had once crowded our lives in India started to fade away. They were always perfectly lovely, but from a distance, the tragedy of a broken family as infectious as a bad bout of chicken pox. Most days, Addi and I were left to ourselves and, over the years, her stability became my foundation. We’d come home from school, Addi would put together some sandwiches for lunch, and then she would help me plait my hair so I could go for my dance class or go and play with my friends, depending on the timetable pinned above my desk. When I got back, there would usually be a glass of cold coffee or mango shake waiting for me to gulp down. She would then prepare a snack, a bowl of Maggi or some bhel, and we’d both snuggle up on the sofa, watching reruns of Bewitched until Mum got home. We had picked our roles easily. Addi, a full seven years older, got to play the parent. I had to be the little girl for her to look after. I wonder how long I told myself this; how long I hid behind my cowardice masked as role play.
I watch as the thought turns on itself and I find myself wondering how long Addi used role play to hide the truth about my mother.
I thought Addi had been the one pulling me into the light, when in reality she was simply shielding the darkness. I play the voicemail again.
‘Mia, it’s me. Listen, I know things have been hard for you so I didn’t want to say anything but this is getting too much now. Mum’s really upset. You need to return her calls. She . . . she needs you, Mia. We both do. Call me back, please.’
Your Truth or Mine? Page 17