by Nicci French
I thought for a moment. ‘I think most things go away, if you ignore them enough.’
9
There are times when I feel scared of going to sleep. It’s too like dying. That evening I didn’t dare sleep, although I knew I was stupid with exhaustion. I picked at a takeaway Charlie had ordered for us and talked incessantly so that he wouldn’t ask me any questions. Every time there was a second of terrifying silence, I rushed to fill it. We watched the television news, and after it a quiz show. I kept shouting out the wrong answers. Eventually Charlie turned it off and said he was tired and was going up to bed.
‘I’ll be up soon,’ I said. ‘Any minute now.’
I made myself a cup of tea, hoping it would calm me, but it tasted odd, like mouldy straw. I turned on the television again and flicked through the channels, waiting for something to grab my attention. I was unable to settle on anything for longer than a few minutes. Faces leered at me from the screen, words pounded in my ears but didn’t make sense. At half past one, I finally crept upstairs, stubbing my toe on the bedroom door and yelping in pain.
Charlie half opened his right eye. ‘Holly?’ he mumbled.
I waited till he was fully asleep again, then turned on my bedside light. I like reading poems when I can’t sleep. Poems and cookbooks. I never cook, but one day I’m going to start, and by then my head will be full of mouthwatering recipes, like this one for smoked haddock and mussel pie.
I realized I was hungry, so I dragged myself back out of bed and padded downstairs to the fridge. We have a huge fridge – far too big for two people – and there’s hardly ever anything in it except coffee and beer and butter and the little drinking yoghurts that Charlie insists on buying and which remind me of artificially sweetened blancmange. Tonight there were some marinated anchovies I couldn’t remember seeing before, so I ate half of one, but it wasn’t right for a midnight feast. Too salty. I thought of waves crashing against limpet-encrusted rocks. Men with grated knuckles hauling nets full of writhing silver.
When I got back into bed I pressed my chilly, tense body against Charlie’s warm, sleeping one and tried to work out how many hours of sleep I’d had in the last week, but the arithmetic seemed enormously difficult. I kept losing count. I put my arms round Charlie – my lovely, warm, solid, kind, trusting husband – and my lips against the nape of his neck.
‘I’m going to be so very good now,’ I said, into the tightness of his skin. ‘I’m going to be quite extraordinarily good. You won’t recognize me. Another woman entirely.’
Dawn came softly. My eyes snapped open. I remembered I hadn’t dug out the information on training days I’d promised Trish, and some time during the night I’d remembered that I’d promised to drop off a blanket to a homeless woman who always sat outside the Underground station on my way into the office. I put my clothes on quickly – my leather trousers, because I was giving a talk to a group of men in suits – and took the stairs two at a time. I put the kettle on, pinged my computer into life.
At seven I woke Charlie with coffee, then poked around in the cupboard for cereal. I hate cereal, with its texture of sweet, mushy cardboard. I prodded the flakes with my spoon then tipped the bowl into the bin. Charlie stared at the paper, never turning the pages. He hadn’t shaved this morning.
‘Did you sleep well?’ I asked.
He muttered something.
‘I didn’t. Insomnia again.’
I squinted at the back of his paper. ‘ “Is afraid of disturbing adders”, six letters. Dreads. Yes! How about that for brilliance? Or what about “Big name that appears nightly”? VIP. No. Star. Star! OK, thirteen letters, “Vigilant chap who never does a day’s work…” ’
Charlie folded the paper and the crossword disappeared.
Meg rang me as soon as I arrived in the office, her voice thick. ‘Holly, is it all right if I take the day off? I feel lousy.’
‘Of course,’ I said. ‘Snuggle up with a hot-water bottle. Can I do anything for you?’
‘It’s probably just a cold coming, plus exhaustion. I can’t keep going like you. I’ll be in tomorrow. The only thing is, I was going to drive to that place near Bedford to have a look at it this afternoon. We can put it off till later. I don’t think it’d matter.’
I did frantic calculations in my head. I was talking to a group of management consultants later in the morning, but that wouldn’t clash. I could move back my meeting with the computer people. ‘I can do it.’
‘Are you sure? I don’t want to pile things on you. You’ve been working so hard.’
‘No, honestly. It’ll all be fine. No problem. Leave it to me.’
There was a time a couple of years ago when I was single and, although I wasn’t exactly an old maid – I was twenty-four – friends used to invite me round because they had found someone they thought I’d like. These events weren’t generally very successful. I’m not good at following plans. You can’t go looking for the important things in life. They happen on the edges of your vision when you think you’re doing something else. So when I was told that X was exactly my type, I would be mildly insulted by the idea that somebody could ever really understand what my type was. I would spend a whole evening talking with great intensity to a married woman sitting on the other side of the dinner-table, ignoring the probably very nice young man who had been carefully placed next to me. Worse still, there were occasions where friends tried to be more subtle about it and I didn’t cotton on, or at least not until weeks later. I was like a fish that hadn’t bitten the bait because I hadn’t known there was any to bite. I would be lifting a coffee cup to my mouth and would stop and say to myself: ‘So that’s what the evening was for.’
Sometimes it would all happen in reverse. I was once having supper with a friend I knew vaguely and three or four other people I didn’t know at all. It was one of those evenings when everything seemed in tune with everything else, the colours a little brighter, the focus sharper. There was a gorgeous man sitting next to me. He was so perfect in every way that he was almost like a character in a porn movie. He had some over-the-top job like organizing round-the-world yachting races and he was tanned and tall and I even remember his name: Glenn. I decided that I was going to make him fall in love with me that very evening and I was dazzling. I seemed to be thinking twice as quickly as everybody else. I was always a step ahead of them. I had the sensation of what it must be like to be an actor on a great night in the theatre when you know, you just know – because of the quality of the silence as much as the laughter or the applause – that you have a complete grip on the audience. When I left, I felt it was the best evening I had spent in my entire life. I was happy and I knew I was happy, which made me even happier.
On the way home I realized I didn’t have Glenn’s phone number and he didn’t have mine, but it didn’t matter. He wouldn’t have to wander through London with a glass slipper to find me. He’d get my number from my friend, and in future years we’d look back on that evening and laugh about the way we’d met, the way people meet in the movies. In any case it had been such an extraordinary evening that we’d probably all get together soon, although I was aware that you should always beware of trying to recapture a brilliant experience. I dropped Annie a cheerful postcard saying what fun it had been, with a flirtatious reference to Glenn. And then nothing. I didn’t hear back from her. Or him. About a year later I bumped into her at a party. I mentioned the dinner and she just mumbled something. I asked about Glenn and she turned vague, said she wasn’t sure. She was blatantly unfriendly, looking over my shoulder at the room, getting away from me with a brusque excuse.
I went over the evening again and again in my mind and tried to see it from other perspectives. Had I been kidding myself? Had I just been loud and brash when I thought I was being charming? I tried to remember other people’s responses but I couldn’t. That might have been the problem. Maybe I hadn’t let anyone else get a word in.
I wasn’t sure if it was me or if everybody experienced this
disconnection between their own feelings and those of the people around them. I thought I was making Glenn fall hopelessly in love with me and he had disappeared in a cloud of dust. And then there was the wretched Rees. A casual, meaningless, repulsive one-night stand and he felt we were bound together. I didn’t know if he loved me or hated me, or which of the two was worse. All these discrepancies. If only the world matched the insides of our brains; if only the insides of our brains matched the insides of other people’s brains.
Nothing fitted together. You’re wearing headphones and you think you’re talking normally and people are flinching because you’re shouting. It was all like that. I knew that things had got out of control, in my life and inside my head. There was a storm in my head and what I needed to do was batten down the hatches and ride it out, like Glenn with his round-the-world yachts. At the now-legendary dinner, I’d asked him what was the biggest storm he’d ever been in but, now that I thought about it, I couldn’t remember his answer. I probably hadn’t given him a chance to utter one.
That’s one of the things about life. The times you really want it to go well, it’s a disaster. When you don’t care, everybody loves you. And so, when I gave this talk to a collection of businesspeople – at a time when I had too much else on my mind – it went fine. I didn’t look at my notes. I just climbed up on the platform, opened my mouth and did my party piece. The man who had introduced me wouldn’t let me go. He talked about what I’d said, asked me about strategy and whether I could visit their office and see them at work. It sounded like a result. I raced back to the office, had a quick meeting with Trish while Lola organized the hire car for me, drank a double espresso, then jumped into the car, which smelt of leather and pine and cleanness. It was slow getting out of London, as always. I was starting to live like a commuter, but without the country house. I shifted between crawling queues, revved up at traffic-lights, looking anxiously at the clock on the dashboard. It seemed urgent that I should get there on time, though I knew it didn’t matter that much.
I sped off from a light with a screech of tyres. The car I left behind blared its horn furiously and I looked up as it drew level with me at the next lights. A man was shouting soundlessly through the window and then, as if I couldn’t imagine what he was saying, he jabbed his middle finger in the air. There was a woman next to him who was also shouting something. I looked at her face, twisted, a gargoyle. I put my index finger against my forehead and mouthed, ‘CRAZY,’ out of the window. Their faces contorted even more furiously. The lights changed and I drove off, out into the clearing road ahead.
The next thing I knew, the red Escort had shot past and braked in front of me, forcing me to stop. The man got out of the car and strutted over like a big fat cockerel. I opened my door and got out too.
‘Yes?’ I said.
‘Cunt,’ he said. ‘What the fuck are you playing at?’
He stepped towards me. I looked down at my left hand, which was coming up towards me. My nails were getting a bit too long, I thought. I must remember to cut them this evening. My fingers curled round themselves. I saw my wedding ring, my knuckles. I saw his shouting mouth. That’s where I punched him, smack on his lips, with all the weight of my shoulder behind the blow, shoving his words back down his throat.
He folded up neatly, his knees collapsing on to the ground. He looked as if he was praying or abasing himself.
‘Nightwatchman,’ I said. ‘That’s the answer to that crossword clue. Yes!’
I stood back a few feet. There was a racket going on behind me. The woman got out of the car and wobbled hysterically towards him and he lifted his head, his face wiped clean of any expression, his mouth open in mute astonishment, blood on his teeth. I edged back towards my car and watched him unconcertina himself and stand up. Quite calmly, I got into the car and drove away. I wasn’t even late.
Charlie and I went to see a film with Sam and Luke, Meg’s cousin. I invited Meg, who said she was feeling better and maybe she’d join us but cancelled at the last minute and wouldn’t tell me why. After the film, we all went out for an Indian meal together, though I only pretended to eat, pushing the red, oily chunks of meat round the plate, making little heaps of rice. I assumed I was losing weight. I had stood on the scales that morning, but the figures were in kilos. I’d made an attempt to convert it to something I understood by multiplying it by two and a bit, then trying to divide it by fourteen in my head but the figure I got was something meaningless like three stone or twenty-seven stone, so I must have made a mistake somewhere. Or maybe I was disappearing, becoming invisible at last, or even filling the entire world so that soon there would be no room for anyone else.
At one point Charlie leaned across the messy plates and took my hand. I flinched, and saw for the first time, with a mild, dispassionate interest, that there was a dark bruise across my knuckles. I was puzzled, then remembered the man I’d hit. Only when I noticed the bruise did it start hurting.
‘You should see the other guy,’ I said, and they all laughed and I laughed too, louder than the rest of them.
We got back at half past ten. Sam and Luke came in for coffee, and then the doorbell rang. Naomi stood on the doorstep, clutching something. ‘A parcel came for you a couple of hours ago,’ she said. ‘Courier service. I had to sign for it, and then it was too wide to fit through your box. I thought it might be important.’
‘Thanks.’ I took it from her.
‘Are you OK? You don’t look yourself, Holly.’
‘I’m just a bit washed up. Done in, I mean. Why don’t you come in for a bit?’
‘Are you sure?’
‘The more the merrier,’ I said, and she followed me into the living room and took her place between Sam and Charlie, looking as plump and pretty as a cat.
‘Open your parcel, then,’ said Luke.
I tried to pull open the padded envelope, which turned out to be full of the horrible grey fluff that gets everywhere, and in the process I jabbed myself on a staple, cutting my finger. ‘I hate these bloody things. They ought to be banned, along with clingfilm.’
‘Here. Let me,’ said Charlie. He took the envelope and pulled it open, then thrust his hand inside. ‘What’s wrong with clingfilm?’
‘It’s–’ I began, then stopped dead.
‘What’s this?’ said Charlie.
I looked at the flimsy black object dangling from his fingers. Suddenly I felt feverish. I could feel the dots of sweat on my forehead.
‘Some dumb publicity stunt,’ I said, in a high, merry voice, and grabbed at them. ‘Who thought this was a smart idea? Imagine lots of middle-aged men in suits sitting round a shiny table and one of them saying, “We should send sexy underwear out to all our clients.”’
Naomi turned the envelope upside down. ‘Publicity for what, Holly?’
‘That’s the stunt,’ I said desperately. I put the knickers against my hot cheek and realized they hadn’t been washed. They smelt of me. My face burned with shame. ‘It’s meant to get you wondering.’
‘Well, it certainly does that,’ said Luke, and snickered.
‘Then later,’ I prattled on, ‘something else will arrive and you’ll understand what it’s all about. They do it all the time. The latest thing. Drives me mad. Anyway, I wish they wouldn’t send me stuff at home like this. Look, they’re quite the wrong size. I’d never wear these, would I? I’ll just chuck them in the bin, shall I?’
Charlie didn’t say anything. He looked at the knickers clutched in my sweating hand, and he looked at me.
10
I ordered a spicy tomato juice at the bar. Twenty past five and it was already getting dark outside. Soon it wouldn’t be autumn any more but proper winter, pinched grey days and long black nights. In certain moods I love the dark. It’s like velvet around me, not scary but protective.
‘I thought I’d find you here!’
I turned and saw a face I recognized, but out of context I couldn’t place it. White smooth face, dark hair pulled back. Attr
active face, though now it was filled with hostility and the red mouth was open and words were streaming out.
‘Holly Krauss. Swilling your drink as if you didn’t have a care in the world.’
‘Deborah,’ I said, startled. ‘What are you–’
‘You didn’t think you’d not see me again, did you? I told you I wouldn’t go that easily.’
‘What do you want?’
‘What do I want? What do I want? I want my job. I want to keep my flat. I want my self-respect back. I want an apology. I want you to grovel. Or, failing that, I want to take you to the cleaners. And I will, you’ll see.’
I managed a shrug that I thought might look as if I wasn’t bothered. ‘If you’ve anything to say, you need to talk to our lawyer.’
‘Yeah, yeah, we’re dealing with Mr Graham. But I wanted to deal with you too. In person. You can’t just wreck someone’s life and expect to hand it all over to a solicitor.’
I looked at her, the creamy face and thick brows and red lips. ‘Look, Deborah, I don’t want to discuss this here–’
‘You don’t want to discuss it,’ said Deborah. ‘Don’t want to? Poor Holly.’
She took a step forward, and I backed away so I was wedged against the bar.
‘I think you need help,’ I said. ‘Medical help.’
Her whole face seemed to shiver with rage. It was like seeing a mask crack open, and I couldn’t take my eyes off her.
‘How dare you suggest there’s anything wrong with me?’ she hissed. ‘How dare you? First you fire me, then you say I’m sick. The only thing I’m sick of is you.’
And she raised her hand and took a wild swipe at me, knocking the glass from my hand. Tomato juice flew in an arc, splattering both of us. I looked at her, with a red stain down her white shirt and her face trickling with thick juice. ‘Oops! You look like a Jackson Pollock painting,’ I said cheerfully.
‘Holly, are you all right? Can I be of any help?’