I lie back on the sofa, with the soft leather creaking beneath me, as I try to make myself comfortable, feeling something hard dig into my back. I find her mobile phone lodged beneath the cushion. She still hasn't bothered to lock it, or think of a password to use, so it takes me mere seconds to discover she has a meeting at work tomorrow morning, and an employee assistance programme training session set to begin at 1:00pm. I delete the reminders from the calendar, and place the phone back down onto the coffee table, beside my now-cold cup of coffee. I don't have the heart to tell her that her drinks taste foul, or she drowns them in milk. What would be the point? She doesn't listen, anyway.
Erica won't be needing to attend any meetings or planned training this week, not if she chooses to stay at home, and hand in her notice. Even if she doesn't choose to do so soon, I'll persuade her. I hope she doesn't speak to Rose before making that decision.
Then again, Erica hasn't spoken to Rose since she moved in with me. It's good, really, because I don't want her coming to the house. But, I'd have thought her best friend would have wanted to know Erica was happy, or even where she lived. But, she doesn't, and Erica is too preoccupied with me to think about it, at the moment.
Rose isn't a very good friend to Erica. Maybe she needs a little gentle coaxing to fuck off away from us.
ERICA
Joel handed me a wedding magazine this morning with a smile and a breakfast tray, laid with croissants (though he makes an obvious show of disliking them), a glass of spring water, and a small bunch of heather he found in the garden. I don't think he goes out there much, or if at all, and he certainly knows nothing about gardening. But, as he tells me, if he has the money to pay for things, then it's perfectly acceptable for him to have others take care of the daily upkeep. He's a snob, but I don't say anything. I don't want to bring him down. He's a little possessive over his opinions. He doesn't seem all that bothered about the money we're going to lose when I stop my job, either.
He's working on another big case at the moment. The vice president of a large retail company has been money-laundering. He says it's 'big bucks,' and he might take a few weeks off around Christmas before the case goes to court.
He's already chosen a suit to wear for the big day, and keeps suggesting I start looking at wedding dresses, but I don't want to ask Rose to accompany me yet. Not so soon after Patrick's death. It doesn't seem right I'm celebrating whilst she's still grieving. I'd rather wait a few months, but Joel insists I should call her. He even went so far as to say perhaps Rose isn't taking the death of her brother all that well, considering she hasn't called. But, I know Rose. She'll contact me when she's ready.
Joel says we should get married as soon as possible. I've never known a man to want to rush so quickly toward the aisle, but he says he hasn't had a close family connection in years. I suppose he craves a family, even though he doesn't seem to express an interest in starting one of his own.
The smallest bedroom at the end of the hall would make a lovely nursery, one day. Our bedroom is at the front of the house. On either side of the centre staircase are his study and a library, which I'm trying to persuade him to convert into an office, so I'll have somewhere to study. But, he's adamant there's nowhere else to keep his books. The shelves are covered in law texts mostly, some crime fiction, and a few self-help titles he's tried to cover up with piles of paperwork. I had a peek at them, while he was out. He must have sensed my nosiness, because as soon as he walked through the front door, he shot straight upstairs and into the library, shifting through the book shelves, looking for something.
I drop the spoon from my yoghurt, and wipe away the evidence with the sleeve of my jumper. It's much too cold to be wandering around the shops now, so I've decided to leave the shopping until tomorrow, when I can take the bus, and enjoy the entire morning mooching around the centre.
I've handed in my notice at work. There doesn't seem to be any time in the day for me to get anything worthwhile done. I was far more productive when I had something, other than myself, to think about. Now, I just sit here all day, flicking through wedding magazines and university prospectuses. It bores me half to death, but I don't want to say anything to Joel, in case I upset him.
Joel really is an over-sensitive thing. The other day, he made a huge bowl of Mediterranean vegetables and rice. I told him I didn't want to eat the rice, but would eat the rest, and he just stormed off into the kitchen, returning with a plate of vegetables. I tried to eat it—really, I did. It tasted nice, but it wasn't a meal; it was a mess. And I told him so.
Joel flipped out. He said I was ungrateful, and I should 'learn to hold my mouth.' Well, that was it. I ran out of the room, slammed the door to the bathroom behind me, and began to shout at the top of my lungs until the screams faded to a throaty whisper. I didn't want to upset myself, and thought crying would only put me in a depressive mood.
Pleased with myself, I left the bathroom to find him stood at the bottom of the stairs, staring up at me wide-eyed. He reminded me of a night owl, with his wings ruffled, but he was actually quite calm. He walked away, and no more was said. I think he's learnt his lesson now.
He stands beside me, as I take the tray from his outstretched hand, and thank him for bringing me breakfast in bed. It isn't every day a man treats his future wife so kindly.
He tells me I'm special, and kisses me tenderly on the lips, as I make my way upstairs to tidy away the clothes I left lying on the plush cream carpet.
Not only is he good looking and charming, but he's loaded, too. He even had the house built, for Christ's sake. Wait until my dad comes and visits, not that I've told him any more than I've moved in with someone who I've known for a long time (a lie), and who I love (not a lie). Once my dad sees how well I'm doing for myself, he'll be very pleased. We'll be the talk of the golf club—his favourite pastime since Mum died.
I position myself in front of the mirror, with polish in one hand, cloth in the other. Joel walks over to the wardrobe, fingering the fabric of each dress, coat, skirt, and jumper he had bought for me. He said I could have an entirely new wardrobe of clothes. He said the ones I brought with me looked old and cheap. 'Lifeless,' he said. Some of them were new, but I didn't dare pass up the offer of new clothes.
I inspect his careful scrutiny of my new style—feminine, colourful—so not me. He lifts one of the items up in front of the light. It's a light pink dress made of soft, exquisitely woven cotton, like nothing I would ever buy or dare to wear, in case I snag it on something. But, he doesn't care. He replaces the hanger in the wardrobe, and leaves the dress on the bed beside me, while he decides which pair of un-heeled shoes will match. It's much too cold to wear a dress. It's almost bonfire night. I don't tell him this, of course. I don't want him thinking I'm a gold-digger, who doesn't appreciate his thoughtful choices.
I smile when he drops the shoes to the floor beside my feet, and leaves a matching set of white gold diamond earrings, a bracelet, and necklace on the duvet.
I try not to worry, but can't help thinking Joel didn't go to the expense of reworking my attire because of my drab wardrobe, but because he wants to dress me up, like a china doll.
JOEL
She doesn't appreciate anything I do for her; I can see that now. She's got a good thing here, and she's using her gender as a weapon. She's holding the fort, so to speak. However, she only thinks she has the power. I hold the reins. She relinquished her control the moment she fell for me. She just doesn't know it yet.
I leave the house, heading into work. I park in the multi-storey behind Colston Hall, and grab a bite to eat in the Co-Op on the corner.
When I step inside the office, it's cool and crisp. The air conditioning is left on permanently, and Sophie sits at her desk, beside Hannah, who smiles as I pass her, taking the lift up to the second floor.
I close the door of my office, and take a seat at the desk. I pull my laptop from the black briefcase Erica bought me, and snap it open, hoping to take a quick look at the house to ens
ure everything is well at home.
Erica sits on the sofa, her feet curled up behind her, sipping tea from a cup. She glances around the room, and I vaguely sense her curiosity, when her eyes catch movement outside.
Chris Hollins appears at the door, asking for me. I knew it wouldn't take him long to drop by. He's been a regular visitor since Jessica died, but not the kind of visitor you want stopping by every two weeks. He doesn't look as agitated, as he normally does. In fact, he smiles, takes Erica's hand, and introduces himself.
For less than a minute, small-talk passes between them, but then, I see her shake her head and step back, holding her face in her hands. She knows Jessica is dead. The meddling bastard has told her.
I try to keep my cool, but I grab the phone straight away. It rings twice, before I see her spin around to answer it. Chris moves back.
'Erica, just thought I'd call to ask if you wanted me to bring anything home for dinner tonight?'
'No, I'll eat whatever you choose.'
'Is everything all right? You sound panicked.'
I can see her dart a look at Chris. Her eyes trace the length of his body, before she answers me. 'I'm fine. There's someone here, Chris Hollins. He said Jessica died.'
'That's right.'
At least she isn't lying to me. Pretending she is alone would be worse, than if she hadn't told me who was stood beside her.
'She killed herself.'
'Why didn't you tell me?'
'I didn't think it was necessary.'
'Why did she do it?'
'I wish I knew.'
'But, she must have had a reason. Nobody commits suicide for no reason.'
'Erica, I don't wish to discuss this now. I've just got into my office.'
'I'm sorry. I shouldn't have asked.'
'No, it's good that you've asked. It means you care. But, it was two years ago, and I've moved on. I have you now. That's what's important, right?'
'Okay. Do you want to speak to Chris? He's still here.'
'Tell him I'll call him soon for a catch-up.'
We exchange love yous and goodbyes, before I place the receiver down slowly, watching her turn around and explain to Chris how busy I am. She closes the door, and walks upstairs to take a shower. I wish I had installed a camera in there now.
I sit back in my chair, imagining the water running down the smooth curves of her skin, her wet hair falling down in front of her face, and her eyes opening wide in surprise, as I open the shower door and step inside. I picture her hands on the tiles, as I slam myself inside her from behind. Her face twisting in pain, and pleasure, as I take her hard.
There is a knock on the door, and I feel my erection immediately disappear. The mood falls flat, as Sophie walks into my office carrying a stack of papers.
'Your client is here.'
'He's early.'
'Shall I send him up in ten minutes?'
'That would be a good idea, as his appointment isn't until then.'
She offers me an unsure smile, and opens the door, but, before she leaves, I call her back.
'Could you bring me up a coffee and some fruit?'
She isn't fazed by my odd request of a healthy snack and a strong caffeine hit.
'Sure.'
She leaves the office, and I sit up straight, compiling my papers. I haven't had the time to leaf through the police report yet, and the trial begins in three weeks. But, I'm not supporting the prosecution. I'm on the defence team. And all I have to do is explain to the jury how Clive Hargreaves paid for holidays, cars, and held parties at the expense of his unknowing employer, because he was suffering from some kind of illness. Although we haven't yet decided what that is to be. He does not deserve to have the book thrown at him for being forced to live off a small salary, while his boss holidayed in the Bahamas.
The jury will be told he laundered over two-hundred-thousand pounds. My job is to contradict the evidence in any way I can, in order for my client to escape the consequences of his crime relatively unscathed, regardless of his lack of innocence.
Sophie re-appears with a coffee and a plate of assorted fruit, jarring me from contemplative thought.
'I've changed my mind. I'd like a sandwich and a packet of crisps.'
'No problem,' she says, displaying a slightly forced smile.
'Sophie?'
She looks at me. 'Yes?'
'You're looking very well.'
There is a pause, before she replies, 'Thank you.'
'I mean it. You're a very attractive woman.'
She doesn't appear to know what to say, so she approaches the door. I leave the desk, and come to stand behind her.
I can smell the perfume on her skin, and the shampoo in her hair. I can feel the tension in her shoulders, as she begins to shake in anticipation, or pleasure; I'm not sure. I breathe out slowly, and she tilts her head, feeling the warmth of my breath on the back of her neck.
'I was just going to get the door for you,' I say, pulling her hand away from the handle, and stepping back to allow her to exit.
She swallows hard, and leaves the room, without so much as a second glance. The moment she is gone, I return to my compilation, trying to execute as much dignity as possible, whilst my mind wanders from the image of Erica's body in the shower, to Sophie's body bent forward over my desk, with her skirt lifted up over her waist, and my hands pressed down on hers.
***
When I leave the office, daylight has been replaced by fuggy grey smog. The air is still and humid, but the sky is dark. The weather is much like my mood.
I'm not sure why my emotions have done a U-turn this afternoon. I don't think it has anything to do with the dark thoughts I try desperately to keep at bay, but whatever it is, eats away at me, making me feel tired, hungry, and on edge. My heart races, and my skin prickles; I feel like an animal, searching for its prey.
I arrive home before 6:00pm. I haven't bothered to check up on Erica since this morning. Her daily routine seems so dull I couldn't be bothered to watch her eating, glancing at the television, or flicking through mindless magazines and brochures for the second day in a row.
I enter the house, but am surprised to find, even though the lights are on in the hall and the living room, the rest of the house is cloaked in darkness.
'Erica?'
She doesn't reply. I slink off into the kitchen to find the cupboards almost bare, only then remembering I'd promised to bring back food. She must have left to buy something to eat.
Just as I'm sinking down onto the sofa to call her, the house phone rings. I make my way into the hall, only quickening my step when I see Erica's name on the caller display.
'Erica, where are you?'
'I'm in Waitrose. I fancied something to eat.'
'Oh.'
'I wasn't sure what time you'd be coming home, and I thought I might make us something special to eat tonight.'
'Didn't you think to call me?'
'I didn't think you'd mind.'
'I would have liked to know where you were, that's all.'
'I won't be long.'
'It's late. I was worried.'
'I'll be back soon.'
'Sure.'
I put the phone down, before I say anything more.
I snatch my keys back up from the small unit behind the front door, slamming it behind me, as I run to the car, not really sure where I'm driving, until I find myself inside a dimly lit pub.
I order a large whisky, and sit back on the hardwood chair, surveying the bar, until my eyes fall on a slim, dark-haired woman, who looks vaguely familiar. She spins on her stool, catching my eye, and coming to stand two feet in front of me. I notice the ice blue glimmer of her eyes, reminded of the woman who made me who I am.
'Do you mind if I sit here?' she says, motioning to the empty seat to my left.
'Not at all.'
She wastes no time in making herself comfortable. 'Marcia.' She extends a hand to shake mine.
'Do you mind if I call you, ‘beaut
iful’?'
She smiles.
I don't intend to give her my name.
She appears desperate for company, and I don't hide the fact I'm willing to spend time with her, so long as she doesn't think I'm going to buy her a drink.
ERICA
Joel arrives home late. I have the feeling he's annoyed with me for not calling him earlier. I excuse his possessive streak as adoration. He enters the room with a visible fluidity, which can only be described as mild drunkenness.
'Your food's in the fridge. I can re-heat it for you, if you like.'
'I'll eat later,' he says dismissively.
'You look troubled. What's the matter?'
'I'm wasted. I think I'll head straight upstairs, and take a shower.'
'That's probably a good idea.'
He glances toward me, but I can't read his expression.
I watch his retreating form, as he ascends the stairs, deciding now probably isn't a good time to tell him I was being followed around the supermarket. Not that I think I'm being stalked, or anything, because I recognised the man instantly. It was Chris Hollins.
What I can't figure out is why. Is he a reporter? He certainly looks as though he knows, or at least thinks he knows, something about Joel. Perhaps he's gathering information on, or investigating, Joel's latest case. Maybe he wants to know something about one of his clients. But, then, why is he following me?
When Joel returns downstairs, having taken a shower to wash away the scent of alcohol from his skin, he heads straight into the kitchen to heat the vegetable lasagne I made earlier, and takes a seat at the glass, oblong dining table, with his back straight against the cast iron chair.
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