Last Night

by Kerry Wilkinson

  It’s not the first time I’ve slept in the spare room – we’ve had more than our share of flouncy arguments – but it’s the first time in about a year. On the last occasion, it was because Dan cleaned the kitchen counter after I’d already done it. It sounds like nothing and, to a large degree, it is. But there was something about the way he did it, the extra small circles he made with the cloth as if I wasn’t capable of doing it properly myself. I shouted, he did his usual thing of remaining calm and speaking to me reeeeeeaaaalllllly sllllllooooooowwwwwwwly – and there’s little that infuriates me more.

  He knows it, of course, which is why he does it. In the end, I slept in the spare room for a night, we barely talked the next day, and then we got back to normal by living around one another.

  The spare room has a double bed that’s permanently made, largely because nobody ever sleeps in here. When Olivia was younger and had her friends over for the night, they’d double and triple up across the two rooms. Before that, Dan’s mother had a night or two here while she was still alive. We had the odd friend after dinner parties back when we were trying to be sophisticated – but it’s been empty almost every night since we moved in.

  I don’t bother going into our room to fetch nightclothes, instead slipping under the covers in my underwear. The mattress is softer than what I usually sleep on; the pillows harder, sheets stiffer. It’s comfortable, though; more so because I’m on my own. I close my eyes and hug the covers tight under my chin. I even say a silent prayer to a god in whom I don’t believe, hoping Tyler’s back sometime soon. At least things might start to get back to normal.

  * * *

  Dan is in the kitchen when I head downstairs in the morning. He’s in his gym kit, eating a bowl of porridge while standing at the counter. He’s reading something on his phone but glances up as I cross the living room. He says the kettle has just boiled but doesn’t mention anything about our sleeping arrangements from the previous night.

  Even without separate rooms, this is our routine for the morning. One of us boils the kettle, making sure there’s enough water for both of us. Other than that, we do our own things. If either of us stops boiling the kettle, it really is the end of days.

  I should ask him about the stun gun… about my keys in the fridge… about why he was still up in the early hours of Tuesday… but I don’t.

  Dan asks if I heard Olivia moving around in the night and I say I didn’t. I remember nothing after my head hit the pillow. He says she was up and about through the night, going to the bathroom and back a couple of times. I say I’ll let her sleep before popping some bread into the toaster.

  I notice Dan watching but his gaze instantly flickers away. He’s been off carbs for a few months now. Bread, pasta, rice and potatoes are evil, so I tend to make meals for myself and Olivia – if she wants anything – while he’ll drink protein shakes and buy rotisserie chickens.

  The toaster pops just as there’s a knock at the door. Dan moves way too quickly for me this time. He mutters a sharp, ‘see you later’, and then he’s gone.

  I watch through the net curtain in the living room window as he and Alice stroll along the path. Dan glances back to the house but I’m pretty sure he can’t see me. Alice is in yoga pants that are so tight, she might as well not be wearing them. I’m not sure if she is a natural blonde or if it’s bleached but she has it in a ponytail today and is bouncing on her heels athletically as she walks. She slaps him playfully on the shoulder as they get to the end of the drive, before both getting into Dan’s car. I continue watching until he’s pulled away and disappeared behind next door’s hedge.

  It’s hard to resist, so I creep up the stairs quietly, avoiding number seven from the bottom because it squeaks. With the greatest of care, I nudge open Olivia’s door, standing in the frame and watching. She’s wrapped herself in the bedclothes but there’s a pillow on the floor, along with what looks like half her wardrobe. A single leg juts out at an angle, showing off a zigzagging tattoo that loops around her lower thigh. I think this is a new one. Her toenails are a shiny black, but the rest of her is cocooned in the covers, her chest rising and falling oh so slowly as she sleeps.

  Olivia has never been one of those teenagers who sleeps all day. We usually see each other in the morning, even if she doesn’t say much. She seems even more vulnerable when I watch her like this.

  I close the door and then, when back downstairs, check the Find Tyler Facebook page. The photo from last night is still there – but, even on the laptop with its bigger screen, it’s hard to make anything clearly. It could be Tyler but it could be pretty much anyone. There are no new comments or posts, so I close the site and then check Natasha’s page. She had a home-made fruit salad for breakfast, which is #winning.

  Old habits. Hers and mine.

  That done, I get ready for work.

  * * *

  Natasha went out with her boyfriend for dinner last night. I know this because she’s telling Claire in intricate detail about seemingly every moment of it. He dressed up in a suit; she popped to Tanfastic after work. He got his back waxed last weekend; she’s thinking about hair extensions. He ordered a mixed grill – a sure sign of a classy place; she had the mushroom burger. He was drinking John Smith’s; she had a ‘cheeky’ few glasses of rosé. He got up to wee three times; she lost an earring somewhere. Only a cheap one, though.

  Pulling off my own ears seems something of an overreaction and I’m not sure this would count as mitigating circumstances were I to burn the entire building down in an effort to make her stop. It doesn’t sound as if Claire’s that interested. There’s the odd ‘yeah’ and ‘right’ but, other than that, it’s a one-way barrage of vacuous vapidity.

  Still, I’m the one who spends my time poring over her online updates, so what does that make me?

  It’s a merciful respite when Graham walks into the main office. He heads straight for me, crouching and whispering so that only I can hear. ‘I need a word.’

  He stands straighter, raising an eyebrow and then heading back towards his own office. Everyone has gone silent, watching as I stand and follow. It’s rare that Graham leaves his office during the day, rarer still he comes and talks to me directly. Something’s definitely not right.

  When I get to his office, he’s already behind his desk.

  ‘Close the door,’ he says grimly.

  I do and then take the seat on the opposite side of his desk.

  ‘You met a potential client named Declan on Tuesday,’ he says.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Tell me about it.’

  ‘Has he put in an order?’

  Graham glances away towards his monitor and then rests both hands on the desk, fingers splayed. He breathes in heavily through his nose.

  ‘Not exactly,’ he says. ‘There’s been a complaint.’

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  I laugh because it’s got to be a joke. ‘A complaint? What would anyone have to complain about?’

  Graham doesn’t join in and it’s then that I realise he’s serious.

  ‘I don’t understand,’ I say.

  ‘What happened when you met Mr Irons on Tuesday?’

  ‘Declan? Not much. We… er…’

  I strain to remember but it was an unremarkable twenty minutes in among a ludicrously eventful four days. The journey took a lot longer than the meeting.

  ‘We met at this industrial estate,’ I say. ‘You gave me the address. It was this little office on a rank of three or four. There wasn’t much inside and the other offices were empty. We were the only two people there.’

  Graham scribbles something on a Post-it note that I can’t see.

  ‘And…?’

  ‘And what? There’s nothing to tell. He told me about his business, I told him about our services, that was more or less it. He sounded interested and I thought he’d be in contact to haggle prices or put in an order. We swapped business cards and I left.’

  ‘That’s it…?’

  I hold my
hands out. ‘I don’t know what you want me to say.’

  Graham takes another breath, his hulking chest rising high and falling.

  ‘Mr Irons tells a slightly different tale.’

  ‘What has he said?’

  He nods at his monitor, even though I can’t see what’s on it. ‘He claims you propositioned him.’

  The room spins, first one way and then another. Graham zooms out of view and then back into it.

  ‘Are you all right?’ he asks.

  ‘I, um…’

  ‘Do you want some water?’

  He doesn’t wait for an answer, clambering around his desk and disappearing into the hallway. He’s back moments later, pressing a plastic cup into my hand. The liquid is icy through the plastic, stinging the tips of my fingers. I force myself to drink anyway but it’s like swallowing a razor. It’s so cold that I gag on the final few drops, spluttering and patting myself on the chest until it clears.

  ‘You okay?’ Graham asks.

  He’s back in his swivel chair on the other side of the desk.

  ‘Rose?’

  It’s the sound of my name that brings me back. Nothing like this has ever happened before. I didn’t pass out… but it was as if I’d frozen.

  ‘I’m all right,’ I reply gingerly.

  ‘Can we continue?’

  ‘Yes. I, um… I don’t know what he means by propositioned.’

  ‘He says you offered him a lower price in return for what he calls “some mutual fun”.’

  Graham reads the last three words from his screen.

  ‘That’s nonsense,’ I reply, although my attempt to remain calm is failing. I’m a mix of confusion and fury.

  ‘I’m going to have to read some things you might not want to hear…’ Graham looks up to me over invisible glasses. He’s nervous.

  ‘Fine.’

  ‘He says you told him you could, “teach him a thing or two” and that you could “make a regular thing of it”.’

  Graham leafs through the papers on his desk and passes me a page.

  By the time I’ve finished, I’m shaking.

  Graham,

  * * *

  I have thought long and hard over whether or not I should send this email over the past few days. After agonising with my conscience, I have decided that it would be a disservice to you if I did nothing.

  Further to our correspondence from late last week, I was delighted when we arranged a time for your salesperson to explain how our companies could work together. Unfortunately, what transpired on Tuesday afternoon is not anything to do with the way I do business.

  Upon our initial meeting and introducing herself, your salesperson, Rose Denton, touched my bicep, remarking that it was ‘the best bulge I’ve seen all day’. Despite the inappropriateness of the comment, I continued with the meeting, hoping we would at least talk business.

  In fairness, we did discuss the ways in which your services could help my company grow, however the professional nature was not to last.

  After mentioning a price, Ms Denton again touched my bicep, remarked that she could ‘teach me a thing or two’. She added that if we ‘make a regular thing of it’, she would be able to offer a better price. When I replied that I had a girlfriend, she responded by saying that it was ‘only a bit of mutual fun’.

  Needless to say, I did not take her up on the offer. I have no idea if this is a one-off occurrence, or something that happens regularly but, as one employer and director to another, I thought you would want to know.

  Despite this, I have not ruled out working with you in future. However, as I’m sure you’ll understand, I would much rather do business directly with you. Please call if you wish. I have not mentioned prices here because I was unclear whether Ms Denton was quoting officially, or speaking out of turn. If the lower end of what she quoted is correct, I believe we could still do business.

  Declan signs off with his name and phone number but that’s it. I read the email twice but it’s so different from my own memory – from what actually happened – that it’s like he’s writing about a different person. I stare at my name – Rose Denton, Ms Denton – and it’s me. But it’s another me. No. It’s not me.

  ‘I didn’t do this,’ I say.

  Graham takes the page and scans it himself.

  ‘I was a professional,’ I add. ‘If anything, he was the strange one. We shook hands at the end and he held on for a little too long.’

  ‘You never said anything.’

  And this is the problem. Of course I never said anything because, to a degree, this sort of behaviour is normal. Small instances like this – a touch on the arm or thigh, a hand on the nape of a person’s back – happen all the time. And to whom would I report it? Graham propositioned me himself while we were away at that conference and we were both married.

  ‘It didn’t feel like much at the time,’ I say, hating myself for it. Perhaps if I mentioned this sort of thing every time it happened, it would stop happening. ‘This isn’t true,’ I add. ‘Almost none of it. We talked business, we swapped business cards, he said he’d be in contact and that was it.’

  ‘So nothing untoward occurred?’

  ‘No!’

  ‘I have to ask.’

  He says that as if he really does. As if he’s giving a political grilling, not talking to someone who’s worked for him for more than a decade.

  ‘No,’ I repeat, more firmly this time. The confusion is becoming full-on anger.

  Graham presses back into his chair, the damning page of lies in his hand. He scans it once more and purses his lips.

  ‘He’s doing this for a lower price,’ I say. ‘It’s in the final line. If you call him, he’ll quote something below what I said and claim that was the special rate. He told me it was a small business and his office was empty. I bet he can’t really afford it.’

  Graham finally puts the page down.

  ‘It would be a new client for you…’

  I stare at him and it takes me a second to get the words out: ‘Are you joking?’

  ‘Do I look like I am?’

  He definitely doesn’t. His eyebrows are arched down, meeting in the middle. He’s not an attractive frowner.

  I know what he’s going to say a moment before says it. He glances away from me towards the door and then spins a quarter-turn in his chair so that he can admire the photos of himself on the wall. I follow his gaze, focusing on a sign that reads: ‘ATTACK EACH DAY’. This is, presumably, the type of meaningless bilge he learns on his weekend retreats. If attacking each day means spending hours at a time alone in an office, then he’s nailed it.

  ‘I’m going to have to stop you seeing clients,’ he says. There’s a brief pause and then he adds: ‘Temporarily.’

  ‘How temporarily?’

  ‘I actually have called Mr Irons. He mentioned contacting the ombudsman with the complaint…’

  ‘Did he ask about a discount?’

  Graham doesn’t answer, which is as good as a big, fat ‘yes’. Of course he did.

  ‘Did he actually contact the ombudsman, or just mention it?’

  Graham shakes his head. ‘I can’t risk it. I’m sure it’ll all go away in a week or so.’

  ‘You mean after you’ve agreed to his price. You know that’s blackmail.’

  He doesn’t react. ‘You can continue to work from your desk, use the phones, and so on.’

  ‘What’s the point? If I set up any leads, someone else will end up getting the sale.’

  He throws both hands up, palms to the ceiling. ‘It is what it is. Leave it with me. I hope it’ll all be sorted soon enough.’

  I stand a little too abruptly, knocking the chair over. I should storm out, slam a few doors, tell him what I really think of him.

  But I don’t.

  With Dan and me separating, I need this job more than ever. I’ll have bills to pay, food to buy. Olivia doesn’t make much to contribute and I don’t want her money anyway. Dan might pay his part of the m
ortgage but we’ve not got that far yet. I don’t know what’s going to happen – and being unemployed would only make things worse.

  I only realise I’m clenching my fists when I feel the nail on my index finger pierces the skin of my palm.

  I don’t call Graham an arsehole and I don’t slam the door. I do pick up the chair and put it back into place. I’m about to stomp out when Graham stops me by saying my name.

  ‘What?’ I reply.

  ‘Don’t even think about contacting Mr Irons,’ he says firmly.

  ‘I wasn’t—’

  ‘I mean it. If you so much as text him, I’ll have to fire you. I can’t risk him complaining to the ombudsman.’

  I try to think of a smart comeback but don’t have one. I say nothing, spinning and walking out before returning to my desk. My palm isn’t bleeding but there’s a small pink slice in the base of my thumb from where I pinched it.

  Natasha has mercifully stopped wittering on about her night out but I dig out a pair of earphones, plug them into my phone and find something to drown out any future noise anyway.

  The rest of the day ticks along with typical humiliation. Claire asks me at one point if everything’s okay – but she’s the only person who talks to me. Graham doesn’t leave his office. All of that is fine by me as I sit and stew. I wonder if the others are talking about me. Laughing about me. It’s the way things go in offices. One person knows and then everyone does. Natasha’s going to love this when she finds out. Innocent or not, I’ll never live this down for as long as I work here.

  When I’m sure no one is watching, I register for a couple of jobs websites, though it isn’t encouraging. Part of the problem of living where we do is that there isn’t a lot of industry here. Most of the work is city-based, so there aren’t many jobs to begin with. For the ones that do exist, the company bosses all know one another. It’s a golf-playing private club and to work for one, I’d need a decent reference from another.