by Carys Jones
Yet Laurie was now alone. Her confident, her counsellor, her stylist, her conscious was gone. Finally she located the Hogarth painting. . Standing before it, Laurie removed her mobile phone from her jacket pocket, pressed speed dial and listened to the familiar message.
‘Hi, you’ve reached Lorna Thomas’ phone, lucky you! Please leave me a message after the beeeeeeeeeeep! Haha.’ Tears pricked at Laurie’s eyes as she held the phone to her ear. Secretly, she continued to pay Lorna’s mobile phone bill, just so she could keep hearing her voice and maintain some connection to her.
‘Hey, it’s me. You’ll never guess where I am? London! And me being me, I’m straight to the nearest artsy place, know you’d disapprove. I should be over checking out all the designer shops, right? Well, I’m actually at the Tate Britain; there’s some impressive stuff here. I wish we could go round it together some time. I miss you.’ Laurie hastily hung up and ran until she was out of the gallery and out onto the street because she didn’t want anyone to see the tears which were now spilling down her cheeks.
Her phone suddenly buzzed to life and for one surreal moment she thought that perhaps it was Lorna calling her back. Looking down she saw Arthur’s name flashing on the screen. He was the guy she’d left back home, the guy who didn’t believe in her vendetta.
‘This isn’t a good time,’ Laurie declared in a hostile tone, tears still clinging to her face.
‘I need to talk to you. You’ve been ignoring my calls.’ Arthur sounded desperate but Laurie was in no mood to deal with him.
‘I said it’s not a good time.’ She ended the call and returned her phone to her jacket pocket, ignoring it as it continued to vibrate against her.
When Charles was next alone in his office, he began to implement a plan to investigate Lorna’s death. Ideas had been swirling around in his mind since he had agreed to assist Laurie but nothing had yet been formalised or cemented.
His mind was still struggling with the unusual predicament he was in. The woman he loved was gone, but now her doppelganger was in his life and every time he looked at Laurie, he saw Lorna. The following day, Laurie would step into her deceased sister’s shoes and begin her internship at Downing Street. Even though he knew it was wrong, Charles felt excited at the prospect. In an artificial way, Lorna had returned to him. He knew how foolish his thoughts were, but they refused to subside. Concentrating on the investigation at hand was the only thing which kept him from going insane.
As Deputy Prime Minister, Charles often backed certain public issues, such as a big anti-knife crime campaign where he spoke out about the dangers and agreed with the police to enforce zero tolerance on those found carrying an unlicensed weapon. It was this sort of angle, he decided, which would best benefit uncovering information around Lorna. He just needed to decide who of his staff he could trust to see to the task without digging too deeply.
Charles picked up the phone which lay on his desk and used the speed dial to access his assistant.
‘Faye?’
‘Yes, sir.’ Faye’s tone was brisk; she had clearly been in the midst of another task he had previously assigned to her when he called.
‘Can you give Simon Pruit a call? Ask him to come over to my office if he’s about.’
‘Right away, sir.’
Whatever Simon Pruit was currently engaged in doing, Charles knew that the second Faye made the call he would come dashing over to the office. A request from the Deputy Prime Minister always took precedence over anything else and Charles wondered if he was perhaps abusing this power now. The task he was about to assign to Simon, was, after all, of a personal nature. But then Charles was cunningly hiding his intentions behind a mask of public concern so he had no doubt that Simon would be both enthused and completely onboard with the idea.
As predicted, ten minutes later Simon Pruit was knocking upon Charles’ office door.
‘Come in,’ Charles summoned.
Simon bounded into the archaic office with more energy than a playful puppy. He clasped his hands in excitement and almost bowed a little as he addressed his superior.
‘A pleasure as always to be called over, sir.’ Simon almost faltered on his own words as he remembered how distasteful Charles found sycophants. It was his own nerves which drove him to be too demonstrative at times. ‘What can I do for you? Do you wish to discuss the commerce paper? I can assure you that things are coming along very well with that one.’
‘Sit down, Simon,’ Charles instructed.
Charles liked Simon but the man could talk to the point of distraction. He could make anything a topic, be it the weather, the colour of his shirt or the carpeting in the elevator he was currently travelling in. Charles had learnt to be silent and let the man muse and waffle away, sending his empty words out into the ether. But today Charles wanted to deal swiftly with the matter at hand and so had no time for idle chat. More than anything, he was aware that if he dwelled on the subject matter for too long his true feelings might manifest themselves, which was the last thing he desired.
Simon sat down and leant forward eagerly, awaiting further instruction. His ears were almost twitching in anticipation.
‘I’m looking to start a public appeal into suicide rates in young people.’ Charles felt oddly detached from his words as he said them.
‘Right, teen suicide, always an issue.’
‘Not teen, young people. We’ve looked into teenage suicides before; I think this should focus more on young people, in their early twenties.’
‘Demographic twenty to twenty five?’ Simon had whipped out his notepad and begun furiously scribbling notes.
‘Yes, that’s right.’
‘Geographical radius?’
‘Erm …’ Charles took time to pause, wanting to appear as though the idea was currently forming within his mind. ‘Let’s start with the South, collate results and go from there.’
‘Right, got it.’
‘Perhaps start with contacting various police departments and getting hold of their records. Then once we have all the results we can start to try and identify trends.’
‘Yes, yes of course.’ Simon nodded eagerly. ‘When do you need this to be completed by?’
‘Let’s see …’ Charles again conducted the charade of thought. ‘How about this time next week?’
‘Next week!’ Simon gulped in shock.
‘Ideally, yes. I know it is a very big task, but in light of the upcoming elections I thought it would be a great campaign for us all to get behind and if anyone can do it, it’s you, Simon.’
‘Well,’ Simon beamed at the praise and mentally recorded the words. He would store up kind words, gathering them eagerly like a squirrel gathers nuts, and then in his emotional winter he would revisit these exchanges and the kind words would bring him warmth.
‘I really will do my best with it, sir.’
‘Thank you, I knew you would.’
Simon remained in his chair, appearing reluctant to leave even though Charles felt that their conversation had drawn to a close.
‘Something the matter?’ Charles felt forced to ask as the man continued to sit and look awkward, as though there were something he wanted to say but protocol wouldn’t allow him.
‘I was just thinking,’ Simon began, grateful for the invitation to voice his thoughts. ‘I’m not sure if you are aware, but a young lady from here, she was an intern I believe, took her own life around six months ago.’
Charles felt himself freeze at the mention of Lorna. Did Simon know of the affair; was that why he had chosen to mention her? Charles tried to keep his composure and remain indifferent on the topic. He felt, in not acknowledging his despair at her death, that he was failing Lorna somehow, being untrue to her memory, but he had no choice.
‘Yes, Simon, I was aware. It was actually what spurred the whole idea.’ It was a stock answer generated from a larger truth.
‘Terrible business,’ Simon shook his head. ‘I like the angle though – we address problems which
even appear on our own doorstep, showing we are not free from the trials and tribulations of the population.’
‘Indeed.’
‘It really is a great idea sir. It will be my priority for the next week and I’ll deliver my results to you promptly.’
‘As always, thank you so much for your hard work.’ Charles smiled as Simon eagerly gathered up another praise nut.
Simon left excited by his task, leaving Charles to feel satisfied that he had put the wheels in motion for the investigation without arousing any suspicion. He wondered if he should call Laurie to update her, but then she would be in the office the following day. But to talk to her at work would be inappropriate, especially beneath Faye’s judging gaze.
Charles removed his mobile phone from his pocket and went to dial Laurie but stopped himself. Deep down, he knew that he didn’t really want to update her; he just wanted to hear her voice.
‘Until next time,’ he muttered sadly to himself, returning his phone to his pocket.
The hour was now late. Soon Elaine would call enquiring why Charles was not yet home. He was debating feigning some reason to remain in the city, some urgent work which required his attention. It would be easy enough to deliver the lie and then book himself into a luxury hotel. The trouble was that all of London’s finest hotels were now places where memories of Lorna lurked. Charles recalled how she would swoon over the decadence, throwing herself on to the king-sized bed in childish glee. He could not be alone in a hotel room. Elaine had her faults, but she was company.
‘Faye, call Henry and tell him to bring the Bentley around to the front of the building,’ Charles instructed his assistant.
‘And then go home, it’s late.’ He realised he was being abrupt to order her to leave, but she worked such long hours he worried that beyond her job she had no life. Or perhaps, like him, she was merely using her job as a distraction from her life.
When Charles emerged from the office Faye had already dutifully left, but not before preparing the desk beside her for the new intern who would be joining her. Charles studied the vacant chair and lifeless computer. He so wanted to help Laurie, perhaps learning more about Lorna’s death would help ease both their pain. But what if she was wrong, and her twin sister had killed herself? Laurie was already so fragile; he didn’t want to further inflict pain on her.
‘Doesn’t it just look wonderful?’ Elaine Lloyd enthused as she widened her arms to complete the grand gesture of unveiling the newly-decorated dining room. Charles peered round her to see the room, which appeared to him unchanged from how it always had been.
‘I suppose,’ he answered in bemusement, wondering what exactly his wife had spent copious amounts of money changing.
‘You suppose?’ Elaine exclaimed incredulously. ‘I don’t supposeyou could muster up a little more enthusiasm dear?’
‘It is wonderful, stupendous, simply amazing,’ Charles retorted sarcastically. He knew it was a childish response and would only antagonise his other half further, but he was tired and his threshold for the banality of domestic life had all but gone.
‘Sometimes Charles Percival Lloyd I just don’t know what becomes of you!’ As she grew enraged, Elaine’s cheeks reddened to match the shade which she had previously stained her lips.
Charles grimaced at his full title. He resented his middle name, which had been his grandfather’s. At school it had made him a mockery amongst the other boys and he knew that Elaine only used it when she wanted to belittle him. He chose to ignore her attempt to provoke him and turned to leave the room when she grabbed at him, the false nails on her hand digging in to his coat like talons.
‘You have disingenuous smiles aplenty for your constituents,’ she hissed, ‘but here, in your own home, you cannot even muster a kind response for your own wife.’ Elaine’s eyes almost bulged out of her head as she spoke, to the point where they were in proportion with her large bouffant hairstyle. The anger and venom in her voice reminded Charles of the terrible temper his wife had and he lowered his head in defeat. He was no match for the demon which lay beneath her perfectly made-up exterior, as he had learnt from past marital altercations.
‘Darling, forgive me, I’m just tired. The dining room looks amazing, you’ve done a wonderful job and I’m extremely grateful for your efforts.’ His words sounded convincingly sincere even though he didn’t mean a single one of them.
‘Thank you.’ Elaine instantly thawed, the beast within her disappearing almost as quickly as it had appeared.
‘I went for the darker beige in the end and I think that it really works with the lighting in this room,’ Elaine explained excitedly.
Charles often thought of his wife as a caged tiger within their home; prowling the interior, looking for something, anything to attack and purge her pent-up fury. But if she were out in the world, she would potentially inflict harm on others, like the time at a family party where she drank and then accused Charles’ sister-in-law of ‘wearing an outfit that would make a whore blush’. From a distance, Elaine looked beautiful and exotic thanks to her expensive taste in designer clothes, but up close she could be ruthless and dangerous. Charles learnt long ago not to provoke his volatile wife.
‘I was thinking we should have a dinner party.’ Elaine was still rambling on about the room which bore no visible changes.
‘Yeah, sure.’ Charles was no longer listening to the words which fell from her mouth and splattered onto the hardwood flooring. His mind had once again ventured to Lorna. He thought of her sweet smile which was usually accompanied by her angelic laughter. He missed her so much that his bones ached with the desire to hold her once more. In his pocket his phone felt heavy with its connection to Laurie. She was so close to being Lorna that Charles could not help but feel tantalised by her. He wondered what Laurie was doing at that very moment, where she was and who she was with. Was she taking in some more art, or perhaps she had found her way to the Foundling Hospital? Perhaps he should call and enquire about how her day had been. After all, she was a stranger in London and would probably welcome the contact.
‘Charles!’ Elaine exclaimed, anger returning to her voice.
‘Yes dear?’ he asked innocently, his mind snapping back to reality.
‘You can’t even pretendto listen to me!’
‘I was, I am … I’m just so very tired.’
‘Then go and rest. We can discuss the dining room more tomorrow.’
‘Indeed.’ Charles kissed his wife gently on her forehead wondering just how much more discussion the dining room’s change of shade warranted.
Elaine stood in what she felt was a triumph in interior design. She should have been beaming with pride, but her husband’s indifference had soured her mood. When they spoke, she felt as though he were looking through her, not caring for what she said. There had been a time when he held onto her every word for dear life, not wanting to miss a single sentence which she breathed life in to. But for many years Elaine had felt him drawing away from her, growing increasingly attached to his job and his career. She understood the price a woman had to pay for supporting a great man; her mother had taught her that her own needs, wants and desires would come second to his.
What disturbed Elaine Lloyd most was that she sensed that she was now losing her husband. Not only did he fail to listen, but he appeared unmoved by her angry outbursts. She could not risk losing Charles. Being his wife defined her. Elaine wanted to cry but could not. Her latest botox therapy had welded her face to the point where it was almost impossible to convey emotion. Elaine looked at her hands, beautifully manicured, and felt her hair, styled to perfection, and wondered what more she could do to make her husband notice her? She let her hand fall to her stomach which felt concave and useless, for she knew that the thing which would bind Charles to her forever, she could never possess. Even the house and all her social engagements struggled to fill the gap left by her own infertility. If Charles left, the emptiness would be unbearable.
The following morning, El
aine awoke earlier than usual in an attempt to surprise her husband with breakfast before he left for work. Normally, she would remain in the comfort of her bed and call out her goodbyes, or sometimes she would be so lost to sleep that she wouldn’t even stir when he left for the day. But Elaine felt that she needed to endear herself further to Charles. He was becoming distant and it was up to her to rectify that. Elaine prided herself on her ability to flawlessly play the dutiful housewife, but clearly her role had been below par for her husband to be so despondent.
Before the sun had even had chance to creep over the horizon, Elaine was up, dressed, with lips and cheeks coloured rouge, and in her kitchen preparing an omelette.
The smell of the cooking breakfast danced up the stairs and laced the air around a dozing Charles. He stirred and inhaled, confused by the unusual fragrance. As alluring as the scent was, his hunger refused to be roused, instead replaced by a constant feeling of sickness. Lorna had once again haunted his dreams that night, leaving him with nothing but his own guilt for company. Food was the last thing he wanted.
Elaine heard the steady footsteps of her husband descending the staircase and so she braced herself for his entrance, quickly adjusting her hair after a rogue strand had fallen loose.
‘Good morning dear,’ she exclaimed as he opened the door, a broad smile plastered across her face. Charles squinted at her, a little taken aback by her Stepford wifes routine.
‘Morning,’ he answered coolly, still in the process of affixing his cufflinks.
‘Here, let me help with those,’ Elaine hurried over.
‘No, its fine.’ Charles withdrew his wrists from her grasp, hugging his hands into himself protectively. He did not wish to be touched. His cheek still felt the sensation of Lorna’s ghostly last kiss; he could not bear further physical contact from anyone.
‘Okay,’ Elaine tried to appear unmoved by his unusual hostility. ‘Well, you just sit down and I’ll bring your breakfast over. I’ve cooked your favourite – ham omelette.’