Consent

by Leo Benedictus

  Monica nods timidly.

  Good. Well I wanted to say, don’t worry about it. I have no idea what’s going on, but Will is trying to find out. In the meantime I suggest we just ignore it. That’s what I’m doing anyway. Unless you have any ideas?

  Monica shakes her head and asks,

  Are you OK?

  I’m fine. Honestly. Thank you.

  Frances has tried to be friends with Monica, and continues trying, but whenever they have time together she finds herself babbling, ranging widely across topics, desperate to talk about anything besides the fact that Monica is Belgian, then always arriving back at it. It’s got so bad that Monica only has to mention the day’s news or a film she’s seen to make Frances panic about bringing in Magritte or chips or Heart of Darkness or the European parliament. Monica must think she is obsessed with Belgium. Or think she believes that Belgians are. Or think she finds Monica such tepid company that the unremarkable fact of her nationality has become a substitute for her unremarkable character as a whole. This last is of course the most worrying because it’s accurate.

  I think it has to be one of the QTel execs, Tim is saying. You never know what’s happened behind the scenes before we get called in. Someone was probably dead against hiring us. Now they’ve been proved wrong and they resent it. I expect they’ve picked on Frances because she’s a woman.

  They could have picked on Monica, Frances says.

  Monica looks hurt instead of laughing.

  Anyway, Frances continues. Let Will look into it. I need to talk to him, in fact.

  I just saw him, Monica says. He was in the lift, but he kept going up.

  This means up to the boardroom, probably. Frances checks, and there is a meeting scheduled. Hours pass. Will does not appear. Frances tries to make her mind stick to other matters. Just before twelve he is by her shoulder.

  Hi Fran.

  He looks serious.

  Oh hi Will. I’m glad you’re here. Do you have a minute?

  Of course. I was about to ask the same of you.

  Tim is wandering their way.

  All right Will, he says grinning. Fran’s looking for you.

  Hi Tim. Yes, I’ve found her, thanks.

  This is how Tim jokes.

  My office? Or shall we go get a sandwich?

  Office probably.

  They walk in silence. Waiting inside with a piece of paper and a glum look is Jenny, the HR manager, Jenny who’s really nice and who Frances has drinks with sometimes.

  Can I go first? Frances says when the door is closed.

  I think it’s best if I do.

  OK.

  So I’ve had a long chat with the board about you this morning. They’ve taken a decision, which I opposed, to suspend you on full pay, pending an investigation.

  Frances stares.

  We need to do it for appearances. That’s their view anyway. They value you, and want to bring you back as soon as possible, but they’re worried, if the email’s even vaguely true, about being seen not to act. I’m not supposed to tell you that officially, but screw it. I’m really sorry, Fran. I know you won’t be happy.

  She can’t think of anything to say.

  Jenny looks sad.

  Will continues,

  Look, some chaps up there are a bit sentimental about the business, basically. They get twitchy about small stuff, like everything’s the beginning of the end. They started out by poaching clients from other firms, remember. Now they’re terrified of someone doing it to them. The way they see it, if there’s even a remote chance you’re guilty, then keeping you in the building is a risk.

  Will, this is crazy! Am I really suspended?

  Yes.

  So you can get anybody suspended with one anonymous email?

  I know. Believe me, I told them that. Most of them don’t have an opinion on whether the email is true, but the fraud stuff on its own is enough for a suspension while we figure it out.

  Frances looks at Jenny.

  It has to be full pay, Jenny says. But when allegations have been put to the company which might result in criminal proceedings …

  With zero evidence?

  That’s what the investigation will establish.

  I explained what an asset you were, Will says. But that’s not the point. Now they’ve spent a day worrying, they want it all properly looked into. And to be sure you’re not influencing things they want you out of the way.

  Unbelievable. This is unbelievable, Will. Are you sure it’s not illegal too? Jenny? I’m going to check my contract. Be sure to tell them that.

  I’m sure they expect you to.

  Was the vote close?

  Will gives her his sad eyes.

  No. Look, let’s go get a sandwich and just talk about this. I know that …

  I don’t want a fucking sandwich, Will! I can’t believe that you’re suspending me for doing absolutely nothing. Because of one email with no evidence. One anonymous email means more to the board than all my time here?

  Of course not. It’s just …

  Actually, she says. Actually Will, I can’t say this surprises me. It was clever of you to send me home yesterday. I’m sure you got all the time you needed.

  What?

  You understand.

  I don’t understand, Fran. I was the one saying we should back you. I know you’re pissed off but don’t lash out at me. I tried everything. Seriously, in your own interests, I’m sorry but calm down.

  Thanks. So tell me, were you at QTel yesterday afternoon?

  A hand goes through his hair.

  What?

  When this email was sent, were you there? At QTel?

  I didn’t send the email, Fran. I had nothing to do with any of this, and I don’t want you suspended. I even think you know that, really.

  Of course but, you know, since we’re investigating this, were you there or weren’t you?

  Along with about three hundred other people, yes I was. You know I was upstairs.

  And if they check back through their network records, will they see that you were logged in when the email was sent?

  I don’t know what they’ll see. I probably was logged in for most of the time. People usually are in offices. Listen, Fran. I understand you’re disappointed, and I’m ready to absorb a bit of emotion here but …

  She just laughs.

  Listen to me, Fran. Listen for a second. I’m going to ignore all of this because I know you and I know you’ve had some horrible news, but if you start spreading crazy theories. This thing, it may not be a big deal now but that kind of behaviour will make it grow, and maybe then we’ll pass a point we can’t get back from. And say you’re right, OK? Just say you’re right and I sent this email, then unless I did something clever with the computer – which you know I can’t – then I suppose they’ll discover it in the records as you say. Then I’ll lose my job, won’t I? But if you’re wrong, which I think you must accept is a possibility, then you’ll be glad that you kept calm.

  As will you.

  Yes. We’ll all be very glad, Fran. You probably don’t want my opinion, but actually I think this won’t amount to much. The board just want to know what went on with you at QTel. They’ll talk to a few people and ask if what the email says is true. They’ll find that it isn’t, then they’ll bring you back, probably give you a present to say sorry, and never forget how well you handled it. Nor will they forget the way I’ve sung your praises this morning.

  Why do Tim and Monica know, Will? Yesterday you said, specifically, that this wouldn’t leak out into the office, and what’s the first thing Tim says to me this morning?

  Sorry, yes, that’s a fuck-up. I meant to say. One of the other directors started asking Tim lots of questions yesterday. He basically let the cat out of the bag and I had to explain to both Tim and Monica what was going on so they wouldn’t spread it around. I stressed that they must keep quiet, for your sake, so I’m sure they will.

  Groups are massing for lunch. A young man stretc
hes in front of the glass.

  I’m not leaving.

  Listen, Fran.

  He goes for an arm around the shoulder. She flinches away.

  Listen, Fran. You have to leave. It’s ridiculous. I agree it’s ridiculous, but you know that there’s a protocol in these situations.

  You have to leave the building.

  The sandwich protocol. Of course.

  You have to leave, Jenny says.

  Will grabs the door handle.

  I have no choice, he says.

  I’m not moving. I want to talk to the board myself.

  They’ve voted, Fran. I have no choice. Unless you want me to ring downstairs and ask security to escort you out? Would you prefer that? I can do that if you like. And I can print out some bullshit suspension letter for you to take home.

  Jenny toys with the paper.

  The letter is statutory, Will, she says.

  Frances thinks of the security guard coming to get her. She feels sad for him.

  Honestly, Frances. On Friday, maybe before Friday, we’ll have this whole thing behind us. Will you wait? I’ll buy you a very large and very apologetic drink.

  No you won’t.

  She heaves open the door with an exasperated sigh to smother the effort.

  *

  On the street she feels the start of tears. She needs somewhere to let them go. People pour past her like floodwaters around a car.

  She starts walking, just to be walking, gets up to the pace of the crowd, exceeds it. Her legs go stiffly fast. Her toes stab the world. A small side street opens on her left. There’s a cafe a way down. The Rose Cafe. Inside three labourers are queueing. There’s a crevassed proprietress and a fat man quietly internalising a roll. She enters and waits in line. When her turn comes she buys tea and finds a window seat with her back to everything. They’ve taken the laptop, but she has the ComPex pension fund statement in her bag. She props it against the ketchup bottle as a screen. Something about this brings the weeping on, and straight away she knows that they are yesterday’s tears. She does her best to regulate them, head on hand, elbow on the table. She might be lost in the columns of data or asleep, were it not for the shaking of her shoulders. In truth she’s doing well not to bawl. She wants the world to ring with sorrow. Her work, her joy, her only joy, her grief. How naive she’d been to dream of other outcomes. She’s no hotshot. Who has she been kidding? She is a woman in a cafe, crying.

  A man enters. He will have seen, but she doesn’t care. A well-dressed man in a blue pullover and grey coat, an unlikely patron here, he stands behind her ordering coffee and a doughnut. She takes a napkin from the dispenser and tries to swab away the mess around her eyes. The window is nearly a mirror. The man sits at the table next to her. She knows he’s going to lean across the aisle.

  Are you OK? I say.

  I’m settling into this, I feel, but it has been difficult. I’m always looking back at what I’ve written and not liking things that I formerly liked, then wondering whether I was right before, or whether I’m right now, and how I can tell, and what constitutes being right anyway, is it reporting only provable facts, or is it being more fully truthful? Often I write about how I felt, or how I feel, then I feel differently. It’s confusing but I’ve accepted now that it won’t change. I even welcome it. Confusion seems the right spirit for the task. I was confused at the time.

  *

  I’d expect people to disapprove, perhaps you disapprove, but I’ve never really thought this project was immoral. I work with the presumption that the women I study would be upset if they found out, but if they don’t find out, well, where’s the harm? The law requires a negative reaction in the victim to be proven. Thus it does not protect Frances from being stalked, it protects her ignorance of it, just as it protects other states of ignorance, like childhood or religious faith. My moral duty, if I have one, is to get away with what I’m doing.

  This wasn’t how I felt behind Stephanie’s door, however. Those hours, I’ll never forget them. I wanted to feel guilty, and believed I did. I wanted my predicament to be a just punishment for my actions, and thereby hope that the magic of remorse would free me. That’s why I was issuing all those sterile vows to change my ways. Besides, I knew I was ready to change. The project had become predictable. My love for it was growing pale.

  So I survived that afternoon, but I survived altered. Almost in tears, I returned the key to its place beneath the bin and slipped home through the thinning light. That evening I rested. Like an arthropod following ecdysis, or moulting, this was the soft-skinned period when an animal with a hard exoskeleton may grow. I knew that I was getting governed by events, and I fretted a little. I stared at my table. I went to bed, got up, went back to staring. Two pieces of Stephanie’s modelling putty, still squashable, sat there, still bearing the impressions of a key.

  *

  It was dark when I got up. I made myself eat porridge. A taxi dropped me at the station and to my surprise she was already there, stamping off the cold at the platform’s end. She read nothing on the journey. She seemed tense. Eyes on the window, glancing, eyes on nothing. Her foot jiggled. She checked her phone again. When we arrived I let her walk away. You mustn’t dog them just because you don’t know what to do.

  I rang her office switchboard and asked to be put through to the building manager. I’d started a new sandwich delivery service, I explained. Did they already employ one or did they have a canteen? Sandwiches and a range of salads and sushi boxes, yes, was the answer. No canteen. This improved the odds of seeing her at lunchtime. I like lunchtimes. You get to watch them make decisions. I did some shopping and drank a coffee then settled at a bus stop to wait. When she appeared in the atrium she was with a tall man. Her lips were a line. It didn’t look like they were going to lunch. She passed through the door alone, not looking at him, just one bag on the shoulder now. After a few strides she stopped. The crowds were so thick that I thought I’d lost her for a minute. After seeming to consider where to go she headed east at speed, then stopped again at the entrance to a grubby side street, more of an alley really. Just shaded office windows, the entrance to a car park and a dishevelled cafe. Not her kind of place at all, I would have said, yet this was where she headed. I let time pass. As I approached I saw her crying by the window.

  *

  Beautiful women are easier to follow, as a rule, because they expect to be watched. Men’s eyes are sunlight on their skin. Being more confident, however, they are also more likely to challenge you if they feel that you’ve become assiduous. I was terribly embarrassed by my fortieth subject, Jessica C, or Jess. A brittle character, I think she rather enjoyed directing other women’s attention towards how burdened she was with men’s. Why are you following me everywhere? she said loudly as we queued for entry to the swimming pool. I looked curiously around to see who she might mean, so she repeated the question. The cashier and the mother with her children stopped what they were doing. Me? I said in the end, I’m not. But I’m no actor. In any case she was past soothing. I’d been in a couple of these scrapes before, so I understood that I had to leave. I was calm about it, outwardly, not like the first time. That involved a younger woman from a Lebanese family, Larissa A, my seventh subject. I was pretending to look at watches in a jeweller’s window when she strode out and shouted simply, Leave me alone! On that occasion I protested my innocence for a long time. I couldn’t let go, calling her paranoid and all that, and only walked away when a security guard was called.

  Why does women’s beauty so obsess them? Clearly their fertility fades faster than men’s, meaning that a woman’s sexual desirability is linked to how youthful she appears, and is thus scarcer and more valued. Yet arousing men’s desire is hardly difficult, not for a woman of breeding age. Nor do they need to compete strenuously with one another for the lusts of the best men, since each man can have sex with hundreds of women and, knowing he need not be impeded by pregnancy or children, he might as well. Really you’d think a woman shouldn
’t focus her efforts on making men desire her, but on convincing one of them that she would make a good wife, thereby doubling the resources available to her children. To this end, beauty might actually be a hindrance, because when a man sees a beautiful young woman he knows that she will have more opportunities to be unfaithful to him if they marry. She may not take those opportunities, or she may. This is the man’s challenge: to have as much sex as he can, naturally, but also to find one woman who will be faithful to him, for fear of unknowingly devoting his efforts to the care of another man’s children. When he appraises a woman he must wonder whether sexual eagerness or a taste for subterfuge or risk-taking look like fixtures of her character.

  I’ve come to presume that this is why women are so often obsessed with beauty, because it conveys clues to personality. If a woman conspicuously tries to make herself desirable then a man can guess that being desired matters more to her than average. This might or might not mean that she is in general very eager for sex, but it is unlikely to mean she is very reluctant. After all, why would any woman risk being thought lustful unless she was, given the harm that it will do her hopes of attracting a husband? This explains why female self-presentation has followed the path of ever greater naturalness since the food supply became secure. Looser hair, less structured clothes, less clothing in general: the desired effect is no longer a rich display of beauty but a display of how little work the beauty took, and women take great pains in order to achieve it. All that private striving for young-looking skin, firm-seeming breasts, temporarily shining hair and so on. No wonder they get paranoid.

  *

  I remember feeling frightened as I entered the Rose Cafe. I remember ordering the coffee and regretting it, my mouth already dry, my heart like a bad tyre at ninety. I didn’t know what I was doing. I only knew that she was crying and I wanted to be with her, like the day before. I’d have no memory of what we said if I had not recorded it with a device in my pocket. The voice itself. Her sad and grateful voice.

  I’m fine, it says.