A Crack in the Glass (Telling Tales Book 1)

by Charles Owen

  The next day there was no sign of her. Nor the following day. The plan on the brochure tormented him. A hundred times he told himself that it meant nothing, that Suki had no interest in him, that what she had done was no more than the whim of an idle moment. But he longed to believe that she had spun this long thread, placed one end of it in his hands.

  Then, on the third day, shortly before two o'clock, he saw her car draw up outside. The chauffeur ran around to open her door and she stepped out. She was wearing a blue blazer with golden buttons down the front. The matching skirt was cut daringly high. An expensive bag in dark-blue leather swung from her shoulder. She was hatless and the light breeze toyed with her hair. It was like the sun coming out from behind a cloud.

  ‘All the others are out,’ he told her exultantly, waving at the empty desks.

  ‘And the ogre in the cave?’ she rolled her eyes in the direction of the rear office.

  He laughed with her. ‘Mr Sprague's at lunch. Every day he leaves at exactly a quarter to one and goes to the Rat and Carrot down the road for his steak and kidney pudding and a pint of bitter. The routine never varies. He has been doing that for over twenty years.’

  ‘Oh dear!’ She settled her long fair hair on her shoulders and surveyed his gloomy prison. ‘It must be so difficult for someone so young and vital and ...’ she pressed her lips together as if unsure how to continue, ‘and attractive ... to be shut up in this place.’

  He turned away quickly. Never in his life had anyone said such a thing to him. He wanted to go somewhere quiet, where he could be alone and repeat those words to himself, over and over again.

  It was as if she had read his mind. ‘I mustn't keep you,’ she said. ‘I have got such a lot of shopping to do.’

  He fingered the brochure. ‘Would you like to see–’

  ‘No, not just yet.’ She opened the clasp of her shoulder bag. ‘Please let me have details on some of the other properties you are handling.’ Her eyes went to the filing cabinet. ‘I don't think one should rush at these things. Don't you agree, Mr Standfast?’

  ‘Oh, I do so very much agree.’ Their eyes met for a split second and then, like an actor late on cue, he hurried over to the cabinet. His fingers were trembling and he scrabbled around in the files, hardly able to see for the perspiration in his eyes. He had to force himself not to turn his head to watch her for fear of severing this tenuous link that bound them.

  Suki tucked away the brochures, gave his hand a little squeeze and left. He watched her chauffeur give a final polish to the already gleaming bodywork before the car pulled away from the kerb and disappeared up the road.

  Some movement caught his eye. Mr Sprague was on his way back. It was like a cloud passing over the sun. Even that small exertion seemed too much, for when he arrived he was out of breath. ‘Any calls for me?’ he panted.

  ‘No, Mr Sprague, nothing,’ he replied distractedly. He wanted to look at the plan on the brochure. Had Suki extended her footsteps down the passage? It was torture not knowing. If only the man would go back to his room.

  The manager took a not over-clean handkerchief from his pocket and wiped his forehead. ‘I hope that Renouf woman of yours isn't a time-waster,’ he grumbled.

  ‘Oh, I'm sure she is not,’ Stanford exclaimed. ‘You have only to look at her clothes and her car. She is obviously very well off.’

  Mr Sprague sniffed. A small flake of pastry was sticking to the corner of his mouth. Julian watched it, fascinated to see whether it would fall off when he started to speak. ‘When you have been in this game as long as I have, you won't be sure of anything.’ He eased his trouser band over his belly and stumped off to the lavatory.

  It took Julian a few nerve-wracking moments to find the brochure, which had been hidden under his blotting pad. His mouth was dry and there was a band around his chest which hurt him when he breathed. He took a lightning glance at it like a camera on a split-second exposure and pushed it away from him. He stood up, passing a hand over his forehead. It was cold and damp with perspiration. He wondered if he was going to faint.

  Liz ran through the door, retrieved a sandwich out of a drawer, took two bites and jingled a set of keys at him, ‘Got to fly!’ she said, through a mouthful of cream cheese. ‘That old witch Lady Dibden wants to go round Dove Place. For the third time!’

  ‘How long will you be?’ His voice came out as a hoarse croak.

  ‘Not long.’ She looked at him curiously. ‘Go and get some lunch. You look like death warmed up.’ She peeped into the back office. ‘Where's Sprague?’

  ‘In the loo. He was trying to hide the Evening Standard under his jacket.’

  ‘Then he will be in there for ages.’ She wrinkled her nose. The door closed behind her.

  He sat down again, loosened his tie, undid the top button of his shirt and closed his eyes. Suki was moving too fast for him. Things were getting out of control. Her latest prints had left him standing by the entrance to the reception room, while hers had walked up the passage and gone into the kitchen. But they hadn't stayed there. They emerged and continued until they reached the dining room. At that point the shape of the prints changed. The length of stride shortened, the heel and instep disappeared leaving only the ball of the foot and the toe. It was as if she was moving on tiptoe. The prints came to a standstill at the door to the master bedroom.

  His heart was jumping like a March hare. Had Suki fallen for him? Sent him a coded message that she wanted to have an affair with him? Nothing else made sense. Was Admirals Court to be a place of assignation? He wrapped his arms about him, hugging himself. If Amanda and Kate could see him now, wouldn't they kick themselves? They had their chances at the Christmas party and what did they do? Pulled faces when he asked them to dance, made absurd excuses about being tired or having to go home early. And then he had found them downstairs smooching in the disco with Hugo and Ian. He had been cast down for weeks.

  He went to Liz's desk and pulled open the top drawer. There at the back he found the small hand mirror that she used to repair her make-up. He puffed at the glass and gave it a rub with his sleeve. Young, vital and attractive. Those were Suki's very words. His reflection stared back at him gloomily as if reproaching him for having given it so little fun in all the years that they had been together. He wondered what it would feel like to have Suki's long, elegant fingers running through his hair, gliding over the soft waves, playing with the roguish lock which fell over an ear, caressing it into place.

  He grinned into the mirror. He wished he owned a smile like an American film star, a smile as wide as a slice of watermelon. His mouth was too small. Mean. Niggardly. He pushed his fingers between his lips and tugged at the corners but it hurt too much to continue. Film stars probably wore a metal plate at night which stretched their mouths like those savages whose photographs he had seen in geographical magazines with their grotesquely protruding lips.

  As for his chin, he couldn't boast a cleft like Michael Douglas or Cary Grant but he possessed a small dimple. Perhaps, in time, it would develop into a feature that would knock the girls sideways. And his eyes. How could the hateful Amanda say that they were muddy, the taunt that she had flung at him when he had reproached her for some deceit. They were warm and lustrous like fresh-fallen chestnuts. Heartened by the inspection, he pushed the mirror back in the drawer.

  Had Suki had many lovers? It pained him to think of other men holding her in their arms, men instructed in mysteries quite unknown to him. How little he knew about these things. He trembled to think that his skills had never evolved beyond awkward fumblings behind the sofa at teenage parties, groping at some graceless form sprawled among the empty wine bottles. How gauche, how clumsy she would find him. And what else had he to offer her? It was not as if he could take her shopping, buy her clothes, or dine out at expensive restaurants. She would tire of his company within a week, a day, an hour. The mortification of it!

  He took a deep breath, forcing himself to calm down. What had he to lose? The chanc
e would never come again. A golden oriole had alighted on his window sill. Rebuff it, close his shutters and it would fly away, never to be seen again. The rest of his days would be spent dreaming of what might have been.

  He walked back to his desk, his head down, eyes tight shut. He would leave it to the fates, let them decide. If he could put his hand on his pen among the jumble of papers before he got to a count of ten, he would accept her challenge, match her step for step, lead where it may. He started counting ... one ... two ... three... By the time he reached eight, his fingers closed around it.

  Carefully, trying to keep his hand steady, he extended his footprints from their safe anchorage outside the reception room, took them down the passage ... paused for a moment by the door to the kitchen ... on past the dining room ... on the tip of his toes to the door of the bedroom ... then ... inside! The die was cast! He stood up, threw his coat over a chair and flapped his arms in an effort to cool himself. His shirt was sticking to him, perspiration was running down his sides. His whole body was trembling as if in a fever.

  2

  That night he tossed and turned and it was the early hours of the morning before eventually he slept. When he awoke, it was after nine. He hurled back his bedclothes and tore into the bathroom, jammed a toothbrush between his teeth and shaved around it. He had forgotten to set his alarm clock. If his father had shouted for him, he hadn't heard. Despite missing his breakfast and a great scramble to get to the underground station, he was almost an hour late at the office.

  Mr Sprague came out of his room holding a mug of coffee. He looked at his watch and raised his heavy black eyebrows in mock astonishment.

  ‘I'm sorry I'm late, Mr Sprague.’

  ‘Work is all about discipline, Stanford. Self-discipline. I cannot chase you all the time. Time-keeping has got to become second nature.’

  ‘Yes, Mr Sprague.’

  Mr Sprague removed his glasses and polished the lens with the end of his tie. His eyes glittered like shiny black buttons. He seemed almost amiable. ‘Now about Admirals Court–’

  ‘Has she called? I mean, has Miss Renouf…’

  ‘Ah, I thought that would ring the bell! Yes, she came in first thing this morning. You were probably still in bed.’ Sprague opened his mouth wide to take the sting out of his gibe, showing all the fillings in his teeth. ‘She wants to view the apartment at three o'clock tomorrow afternoon. You are to meet her there. Take the small Volvo.’

  ‘Did she ask for another brochure?’ He tried to keep his voice casual.

  ‘She asked for your copy. She said that you had made some notes for her inside.’ Mr Sprague nodded importantly. ‘I like that, Stanford. People appreciate a little extra attention. Mark my words, young man, it always pays.’ He turned to go back to his office. ‘But this is just the beginning. There's a long way to go before you put this deal to bed. What matters is how you handle yourself tomorrow.’

  For once Julian could not disagree.

  ***

  He would never know how he got through the rest of the day. The pigeon strutted its stuff on the railing, up and down, up and down. Mr Sprague's feet padded on the invisible organ pedals, up and down, up and down. But he had no eyes for them. His journal stayed unopened in the drawer. His mind was far away, high up on the ninth floor in that portentous bedroom with its air of anticipation; the empty arena waiting for the gladiators to enter.

  Eventually half-past five came and he left the office for the underground station. His nerves were all over the place and he had to visit a public convenience. The condition of his underclothes dismayed him. The elastic waistband was disintegrating, shedding horrible rubber crumbs. Closer examination of the garment revealed perforations unplanned by the manufacturer. He emerged once more and ran down the street, arriving at the menswear shop as it was about to close its doors. Breathlessly he explained what he wanted.

  ‘Boxer shorts? Certainly, Sir.’ The assistant produced a tape measure.

  ‘It's alright,’ Julian assured him hurriedly, ‘I know my measurements.’ Visits to school outfitters had given him a horror of the intimacies of the changing cubicle, the intrusive pins and proddings.

  ‘Very good, Sir.’ The assistant pulled open a drawer. ‘Which style would you prefer – Oxford or Cambridge?’

  Stanford stared at him, feeling his cheeks growing hot. He cursed himself for this reckless initiative. What did the man mean? His father had joked about the unique relationship between a man and his tailor, the coded language employed to convey habits of dress too personal to be transmitted openly.

  ‘Oxford or Cambridge, Sir?’ the assistant repeated patiently. ‘Dark blue or light blue?’

  ‘Oh, I see,’ Stanford blurted out, feeling very foolish. He chose the light blue.

  ‘How many pairs, Sir?’ A hint of disdain in the bland expression, in the neck like a stick of celery sprouting from the stiff collar.

  ‘Just the one ... to start with.’

  ‘Very well, Sir. Let us know how you get on with it.’

  Was the man being insolent? Stanford shot a venomous sidelong glance at him but he had turned away and was busy folding the garment into a carrier bag.

  ***

  When he got back home he asked his mother to press his suit. She felt his forehead. ‘You are rather flushed, dear. Are you sure you are not running a temperature? How about a little white briony in a glass of milk last thing?’

  ‘No, Mother, I'm fine.’ He escaped from her and ran down to his bedroom. There he laid out a clean shirt for the morning, a departure from his usual practice of turning the cuffs inside out and making it last another day. Then he hared upstairs to his father's room to ask if he could borrow a silk tie.

  His father greeted him with gruff geniality, ‘Got an important meeting tomorrow, old chap?’

  ‘Yes, Father.’

  ‘That's the stuff.’ He left his son rooting around in the wardrobe and went down to the sitting room. As he poured himself a glass of dry sherry, he said to his wife, ‘Julian seems to be going great guns with the new job. I have a feeling the boy is going to shape up after all.’

  ***

  The next morning, Julian rose early and shaved with meticulous care. He dried his face and poured a little pool of aftershave into the hollow of his hand, patting it on liberally and making his cheeks tingle. After dressing, he gave himself breakfast and was waiting outside when Mr Sprague arrived to open the office.

  ‘All fired up, Stanford? This is a big day for you.’

  ‘I hope so, Mr Sprague.’

  ‘I'm sure you'll do us proud.’ His good humour appeared to have survived the night in his small terraced house in Acton, or North Ealing, as he told his clients. But then he sniffed. ‘What's that stuff you are wearing? It smells like a sheep dip.’

  Julian put a finger to his cheek. ‘Only some aftershave.’

  The manager pushed the key into the lock. ‘You don't want to overdo things, Stanford.’

  Julian’s mood that morning was like the April day, sunshine and cloud. Sometimes the hands of his watch moved so slowly he was sure they must be pulling weights behind them and then suddenly they would pick up speed and race round like an electric hare at a greyhound meeting and throw him into a panic.

  At midday he went across the road to the sandwich bar. There was a queue but he was so distracted that when he came to the head he hadn't decided what to order and had to go to the back again. He bought an egg roll with salad and perched on a bar stool by the window. After a single bite he put it down. Supposing it gave him an upset stomach. Egg could hardly be trusted these days and mayonnaise was no better. Leaving it on the plate, he ran his tongue around his teeth. He should have bought a toothbrush. Suki might want to kiss him. He scrubbed at his teeth with his fingers and washed out his mouth with a swig of Coca-Cola.

  When Mr Sprague returned from lunch he stopped at his desk to wish him luck. ‘Don't lose the keys,’ he warned, ‘we have only got the two sets.’

&nbs
p; ‘I won't,’ Julian promised.

  ‘You did on your first day,’ Liz murmured as Mr Sprague slid his newspaper from under his coat and disappeared to perform his ablutions.

  ‘I didn't lose them,’ Julian protested. ‘I took the wrong ones.’

  ‘And had to come all the way back here while the poor man hung about on the doorstep like a vagrant.’ She threw a set of car keys to him. ‘I ran the Volvo through the car wash so it's looking good. Try to bring it back in one piece.’

  He drove slowly, following the river for a mile and a half. Outside Admirals Court there was a Rolls Royce and a Ferrari parked in front of the pillared entrance. He changed into low gear to negotiate the tight bends on the descent to the underground garage. He hadn't driven the car before and it would do nothing for his precarious reputation to return it with a crumpled wing.

  Emerging from the lift at the ground floor, he was met with a salute from the porter behind the desk. ‘Mr Stanford, isn't it? From Fulford Fallow? Just sign the register please, Sir. We know you of course, but we have got to stick by the rules.’

  Julian signed the book. ‘Have you seen–’

  ‘The young lady, Sir? She arrived a little early and I took the liberty of showing her the solarium.’

  ‘Are the new murals finished?’

  ‘Yes, Sir. They had their final coat of varnish yesterday.’

  ‘I will take a quick look.’

  The porter leaned forward and rested his arms on the counter. He lowered his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. ‘You will probably see Mr Skordias and his wife by the pool. They swim every afternoon and then have tea. Mrs Skordias is a very beautiful woman.’ He rolled his eyes to the ceiling and described a voluptuous arabesque with his hands. ‘And the dresses! The jewellery! You should see her when she goes out in the evening.’ A thought occurred to him for his eyes narrowed and his voice sank to a whisper. ‘If they should ever want to sell the penthouse, I will tell you first and...’ his fingers tapped on his breast pocket.