by Carrie Elks
“Amy.” A voice calls from my left. I swing around in time to see Callum stand to greet me, a pint of bitter in his hand. “We're over here, come and join us.”
We turns out to be Callum and Daniel, with no sign of his entourage. Both men have slightly flushed faces, their hair still damp from showering. But it isn't their cleanliness that draws my eye—and that of every other woman in the bar. It's their natural elegance and indifference to scrutiny. They seem to harness a raw, almost dangerous, confidence.
“Hi.” I pass Callum the folder and he flicks through it casually. While he's checking the contents I turn to Daniel, who's drinking what looks like a pint of orange juice. “Who won?”
Daniel smiles. “It was a draw.”
“Bollocks.” Callum puts the folder on the table and grabs his wallet. “Would you like a drink?”
It takes a moment to realise he's talking to me. Then when I do, I feel a blush steal up my chest and neck. It only deepens when I look up and really see him for the first time. Water droplets cling to his dark red hair, dripping on to his unbuttoned collar. His jaw is shadowed with stubble that stops halfway down his throat, leading to pale, unblemished skin.
“A drink?” he prompts again.
“Yes... no, are you sure?” I babble. “You two probably have lots to talk about.”
“Join us, please. I don't know about Callum, but I could do with a break from business talk.” Daniel leans back, stretching his arm across the back of the chair. I notice a racquetball-shaped bruise on his left bicep and wince. I'm guessing they didn't go easy on each other.
“Okay,” I say, taking a seat in the chair next to Callum. “Can I have a glass of white wine, please?”
“Coming up.” Callum turns and walks to the bar, and from this vantage point I realise he's wearing jeans. I wonder if he keeps a spare set here or if somebody brought them over for him. That fires my imagination; I start to speculate whether he has a girlfriend or wife. There haven't been any female callers to the office, and there are no photographs on his desk, yet somehow I can't picture a man like him being alone. Instead I picture a tall, blonde girlfriend, an ice-queen with Slavic cheekbones and crystal blue eyes. A contrast to his muscles and dark red, messy hair.
“... college?”
I catch the last word of Daniel's question and turn to him in horror. “I'm sorry, I was miles away. What did you say?”
He bites down what looks like a smirk. “I asked you what you liked best, work or college. Callum told me you've just joined him as an intern.”
“I'm not sure yet,” I tell him. “It's been a bit of a baptism of fire if I'm honest. There's definitely something nice about putting all that theory into practice but...” I trail off, shrugging. “I kind of like learning the theory, too, you know?”
We get into a discussion about the college system in the US, and Daniel confesses he never finished his final year. He tells me about the part-time stock market speculation that grew and grew until he couldn't find the time for school work. It's strange, because I'm sitting here talking to the sort of entrepreneur I've been studying, and yet he puts me totally at ease.
“So tell me.” He leans closer. “What do you really think of Callum?”
“I... um...”
“She called me a fox.” Callum hands me the wine glass, and grins broadly at me. “Did I get it right?”
“That wasn't me,” I protest, remembering that stupid instant message I sent to Charlie. “It was somebody else.”
He's still grinning as he sits down, grabbing his beer and taking a long mouthful. “I didn't see you disagreeing.”
“A fox? As in a little ratty animal that...” Daniel prompts.
“Eats shit and empties dustbins.” I finish for him.
“Well, I was going to say trash can, but you're pretty much there.”
We both turn to look at Callum. Two mouthfuls of wine have started to mellow me, lending a glow that suffuses my body. I like the way they're making me feel as though I'm their equal, even though hierarchy and experience tell me I'm anything but. In the morning, I might regret this, but for now I'm having fun.
Callum's staring at me. It isn't the casual glance of an acquaintance, or the quick flicker of a disinterested observer. His scrutiny feels stronger and deeper, as if he's assessing and calculating. “She also called me an elitist arsehole.” His eyes don't waver as he speaks. I find myself watching his lips, the way they move and curve around each syllable.
“You called me mouthy and opinionated,” I say, softly. It feels as if the whole room is burning, heat soaking into my skin. “Does that make us even?”
“When did I say that?”
“In your office the other day, when you were talking with your friend.”
His eyes dip lower, to my mouth then my neck. “I thought you weren't listening.”
He doesn't sound angry or even exasperated. Only interested.
“There's a lot you don't know about me.”
“I'm beginning to see that.”
Smiling, he takes another sip of beer, then he reaches across the sticky bar table for the folder I brought. Sorting through the documents, he discusses them with Daniel, while I sit back and watch the two of them talk. My skin is still rosy with a warmth that doesn't disappear even when I press my cool wineglass to my flushed cheeks. Instead it radiates inside me, whispering little truths I don't want to hear.
It's embarrassing and clichéd, not to mention downright forbidden, but there's something about Callum that I can't ignore. As he leans across the table, chatting with Daniel Grant about a million dollar project that's inches away from his grasp, I wonder if I might find my boss more than a wee bit attractive.
* * *
When I let myself into the house an hour later, I can hear raised voices coming from the kitchen. Dropping my bag onto the floor, I pull off my black suede flats, the soles of my feet throbbing in protest. Then I hear mum shouting, and I panic, memories of the strange man flashing in my brain.
Without thinking, I run down the hallway, my chest tight, my throat dry. By the time I fling open the kitchen door I'm breathless, though more from fear than exertion.
“Mum?” I say.
She's leaning against the oven, arms across her chest. Her lips are turned down, creases scratching out from the corner. She doesn't look scared, though. Dissatisfied, maybe. Angry, even.
I see my brother, leaning with his hands on the table. His tendons are taut beneath his skin, tattoos etched across his flesh. There's a tic in his cheek that dances as he stares at Mum.
“What's going on?” I ask. That's when my sister, Andie, steps out of the doorway between the kitchen and living area. Her eyes are red, mascara stains smudged beneath them.
Andie doesn't cry. She never has. Even when we were keeping vigil around my six-month-old nephew's hospital bed, she didn't shed a tear. That's why her dishevelment is unnerving.
“Mum.” Alex's voice sounds like a warning. I slide my eyes to hers, but she's looking anywhere but at me. “Mum,” he prompts again. “Do it.”
“Shut up.” She bites back. Her voice is tinged with acid. It burns through the air, eating into us all. I'm assailed by memories of days long past, of a teenage Alex staggering through the door, high as a kite with his first tattoo. She laid into him that night, a screaming match so bitter it cut into my ten-year-old soul. Just like then, I feel the need to retreat.
“Do what?” I say. Without thinking, I take a step backward. The movement unbalances me, enough to make my head spin. I reach out and grab the counter, feeling a sticky residue gluing my palm to the surface.
“Amy? Are you okay?” Andie always was part-sister, part-mother. She steps forward, reaching her arms around my waist.
“Wine.” I give her a wan smile. “I had two glasses of wine. They've gone straight to my head.”
Alex joins us, his shirtsleeves rolled up, his hair mussed from running his hand through it too many times. I frown, trying to work out w
hat the heck it is that's going on. Again I'm taken back fifteen years, to that little girl who can't understand why everybody's shouting.
It used to be awful hearing them all screaming. I would lie in my bed, cuddling my Cuggie, screwing my eyes up as if it would block out the angry words. At times like those the house would pulse with fury.
Then I'd wake in the morning to a silence that was laced with hangovers and regrets. Apologies muttered across a breakfast of black coffee and ibuprofen, while I shovelled spoonfuls of frosted flakes into my mouth, trying to decide if everybody was still angry.
But that was years ago. As time passed, first Andie moved out, then Alex followed. Every visit home would reveal a new piece of skin covered with colour, but eventually Mum got used to it. The house changed, became quieter, more sedate, and those ugly rows were a thing of history.
Until now.
“Why are you arguing?” I ask. The three of them are silent. Andie releases me, shooting a glance at Mum.
“It's that man...” she begins, then stops almost as quickly. Rolling her bottom lip between her teeth, she looks over at Alex. Though Andie is the oldest, everybody always defers to Alex. Whether that’s because he's the only boy, or by dint of his larger than life personality, I'm not sure. Alex treats the entire world as his stage, and sometimes forgets there are other actors trying to grab their own piece of the limelight.
“He's a nasty piece of work,” Alex adds. “I don't want him near you.”
“I told you he wasn't a problem. He won't talk to her again.”
“You told us a lot of things,” my brother bites back. “But most of them were a pack of lies.”
I look at Mum. “Who is he? If you don't owe him money, and he's not after our stuff, why's he hanging around here?”
Mum looks down, her voice uncharacteristically quiet. “He's nobody. He won't hurt you, he won't come around here again. Those two are just being overprotective as usual.”
“I'd still feel better if you stayed with us for a while,” Alex says. “Lara doesn't mind and I can keep an eye on you.”
I sigh. “I'm twenty three, Alex. I can look after myself. Anyway, there's not enough room to swing a cat in your flat. Where exactly will I sleep, in the bath?”
“Come and stay with me,” Andie suggests. “You can sleep on my sofa bed.” She has a one-bedroom flat near Brick Lane. It feels squashed when two people are in there.
“So I can sleep in Alex's bath or in your lounge?” I clarify. “No thanks, I think I'll stay in my nice cosy bedroom. Mum says he won't be around anymore and that's good enough for me.”
I sound braver than I feel. I haven't forgotten the air of menace emanating from that man, or the way I was shaking when I walked through the door after our first encounter. But I've come across intimidating men like him before and survived, I just need to be extra cautious.
“Now if it's alright with you lot, I'm off to bed. Some of us have work in the morning.” I hug Alex first, then Andie, and plant a kiss on my mum's cheek.
When I get up to my room, I'm dog-tired. Exhaustion makes my bones ache and my skin throb. I take my clothes off, letting them fall into a messy pile on the floor, then pull on my pyjamas, deciding I'll shower in the morning.
The three of them have always treated me like the baby of the family, and for a while I was happy to be exactly that. It made up for the times when Alex and Andie would leave to visit their dad, while I was left at home on my own. I've always envied them that; although their father was an alcoholic and his visits were intermittent at best, at least they had him. My own dad died before I was born, a casualty of the first Gulf War, and I can't remember him at all.
I think that's why Alex is so overprotective. He hates to see me hurt or worried, or going through anything a normal sister would. Every time I'm knocked over by life he tries to cushion my fall, and if he had his way he'd cover me with bubble wrap.
What once was sweet is becoming increasingly stifling, and tonight is yet more evidence of that. I'm still fretting about things when the fog of sleep overwhelms me, muddying my thoughts and weighing on my body like a blanket. My breathing slows, my eyes flickering beneath paper-thin lids, and finally I disappear into a restless slumber.
9
Callum is out of the office for most of Friday, and I busy myself with emptying my inbox, then finishing off his expenses. I print out the form and carry it into his office for him to sign when he returns, placing it on the top of his in tray.
His desk is as messy as always, strewn with printed emails and scribbled pages he's ripped out of notepads. Lines of codes and lists of things to do mingle in with reminders to pick up a present for his mum's birthday and to call his accountant about his tax return. I'm not the tidiest person in the world, but this cluttered chaos is enough to make my head spin. I’m tempted to scoop all the pieces of paper into his bin and reveal the polished cherry wood beneath it all.
As I go to leave, I walk into the top drawer he's left half-open. The wood scrapes my nylon-covered leg, and I reach down to rub it.
A glint of silver catches my eye, and I pull open the drawer to see a photograph frame lying in there. It's face-down, the metallic edges curving against the black leather back, and without thinking, I pick it up.
The glass covering the black and white photograph is dusty, and I run my finger across it until the tip is coated in white residue. It isn't the dirt that catches my eye, but the glamorous couple smiling behind the glass, their faces shining with a happiness that makes my breath stick in my throat.
It's a wedding photo. Callum stands there in a black jacket and tie, his legs covered in a blue and black tartan kilt. Beside him is a willowy blonde, her silvery hair caught in a chignon that spills out curls, her head resting on his shoulder. They are model-beautiful, her slim figure a contrast to his broad frame, and I find myself staring at them for long minutes, wondering why he hasn't mentioned her. Frowning, I try to picture his left hand—the one that sports a thick, silver band in the photo—and try to remember if I've seen the same ring in real life.
Is he still married? Divorced? He's usually here when I arrive first thing in the morning and is still punching at his keyboard when I leave at night; he doesn't give the impression of a man racing home to spend time with his beautiful wife. For some reason I find that thought unnerving.
If I'm truly being honest with myself, looking at this blonde bombshell on his arm makes me sick with envy.
I'm not sure what that says about me.
When I hear the door click, I hastily replace the photograph, sliding the drawer shut with my dusty fingers. Then I walk out to find Charlie standing next to my desk wearing his wool pea coat, a satchel slung across his shoulder.
“Hey! I wasn't sure you were still here.” His smile is wide, and my racing heart starts to calm. “How was your day?”
I wipe my fingertips on my hips. “Surprisingly good. I think I'm getting used to this working thing.” In truth, this place has started to feel like my haven. Though there's a learning curve and my first days with Callum were hard work, there's something about this office that's becoming my happy place. “How was yours?”
“I didn't break anything so I'm counting it as a win.” He curls his fingers around the back of my chair. “A few of us are going out for a quick drink, would you like to join us?”
I glance back at Callum's empty office. From its disarray I assume he's planning to pop back at some point this evening, and there's a part of me that wants to hang around when he does. Since our drink at the Trafalgar Club, he's definitely softened his approach towards me, and I've definitely started to warm to him.
Okay, maybe more than warm. Not quite a burn, though. Not yet.
“I'm meeting a couple of friends later, but I've got an hour or two,” I say, glancing at my watch. Ellie and I arranged to meet at eight in Covent Garden, and she texted me this morning to say a reluctant Sophie would be joining us. I haven't spoken to Sophie since our argument about
Luke, and the thought of some liquid courage beforehand is quite appealing.
Charlie waits for me as I log off and lock up my drawers. I loop a soft pink scarf around my neck and pull on my jacket, grabbing the handbag stashed under the desk.
“Where are we going?” I ask Charlie as we walk down the corridor. Half the offices are empty, abandoned early by occupants impatient for the weekend, and it makes the hour feel later than it is.
“Just around the corner to China's,” Charlie says. We both reach out to press the lift call button, and I beat him by half a second. “It will be full of partners and consultants, but Caro chose it.” He shrugs.
The lift arrives, doors sliding open with a slight creak. Then Callum walks out, his pace slowing as he sees me. A smile breaks out on his serious face, and I find myself returning it.
“You leaving?” he asks. I refrain from pointing out the obvious, and nod in agreement.
“Yes, we're off to the pub.”
“Well, enjoy your weekend.” Callum presses on the lift button to keep the doors open, and I see Charlie waiting just inside. “Thanks for your hard work this week.”
I feel a strange twinge in the pit of my stomach. It's like somebody plucking a guitar string deep inside of me; it echoes and vibrates. “Thank you for putting up with me.”
He puts his palm on my lower back, where my spine starts to curve. Even through two layers of fabric I feel my skin warm. The gentle pressure makes me step forward, into the waiting lift, and I turn to face the doors as he steps backward. When they close, the steel sheets obscure his face, but the memory of his stare remains on my retinas.
* * *
The bar is heaving. People stand hip to hip, their sharp business suits wilting in the face of the steamy atmosphere. Our group of five has been here for three hours. Caro's boss has been paid a big bonus and has generously put her black Amex card behind the bar, and we’re making the most of it. Though I'm not Caro's biggest fan—and she certainly isn't mine—it's amazing how the lure of free champagne can pour oil on troubled waters.