by Isabel Wolff
Well, I thought. Well, well, well. I looked out of the window—I felt a fool. It hadn’t even crossed my mind that it could be cheery, chirpy, stoical Serena. Her bite was clearly worse than her bark. And now I idly wondered what comforting clichés she would have uttered as she prepared to go to the Daily News. ‘Make hay while the sun shines,’ possibly, or ‘A bird in the hand is worth two in the bush.’‘Strike while the iron is hot’ perhaps, or ‘He who hesitates is lost.’
Attached was her formal letter of resignation, which I put in the internal mail to HR. I stared out of the window at the river for a few minutes: I was in shock, so I felt curiously calm. How naive of her to hope that I wouldn’t suffer any ‘consequences’. She’d effectively destroyed my career. She’d been Mount Vesuvius to my Pompeii and now my professional credibility lay in ruins. I was about to lose my column, and I’d lose my phone-in, and who would employ me as an agony aunt ever again? I thought of the huge drop in my earnings which would surely follow and my heart sank—I’d have to sell Hope Street and buy a flat. It struck me in that instant that I wouldn’t be living with Theo any more; and at this I felt a terrible pang. But then, as I say, you get used to people, don’t you: and I guess I’ve got used to him. I thought of the aroma of baking bread when I’d opened the front door last night; and now I looked up at the sky. For some reason, a ghostly half moon was visible in the expanse of bright blue. Theo would be able to tell me why.
Now I looked at Serena’s desk—it was unusually tidy—she’d plainly been poised for flight. I opened her drawers, which were virtually empty, and now remembered seeing her clearing them out. I also recalled seeing her nervously phoning someone yesterday morning, and leaving the building at lunch. That must have been after she’d seen Ricky’s second e-mail and had finally decided to go to the News. And I remembered how sad she’d looked when she’d wished me goodbye the evening before: she knew we wouldn’t be meeting again. ‘Take care of yourself, Rose,’ she’d said, and she’d smiled this odd, slightly guilty smile. Now I understood why. I pulled out her pen-tray and saw that in it were two sets of keys. A set for her desk obviously: then I tried the other one in my lock—it worked. So, unbeknown to me she’d had a spare key to my drawer. They must have been Edith Smugg’s. Serena must have opened it when I’d gone down to the canteen. I’d thought she’d gone home but she’d clearly hung around, waiting for me to leave my desk.
I reread the Daily News. There was no denial from the Electra camp, and Kiki Cockayne, the backing singer, had said simply, ‘no comment’ fuelling speculation that it was all true. Which it was. Electra had come to me, genuinely seeking my advice and she’d been completely stitched up. I’d have to write and apologise.
‘Rose—the Semaphore are after you for a quote!’ shouted Linda as I walked back towards Ricky’s office. ‘And the Daily Planet and the Sunday Star. And Radio Five want an interview with you as well.’
‘I’m not talking to any of them,’ I replied. ‘They’ll make me look even worse.’ I knocked sharply on Ricky’s door.
‘Serena leaked it,’ I said as he looked up. ‘I’ve had a letter from her.’
‘The bitch! I’ll fire her!’
‘She’s already resigned. You should have given her the pay rise,’ I added. ‘That’s why she did it: her husband had just lost his job. She’d worked here for fifteen years and she needed to feel appreciated, and she didn’t. In fact when she saw your e-mail describing her as a “loser” she knew she wasn’t valued at all. You made her feel completely worthless, Ricky, and so these are the consequences.’
‘Give me that letter,’ he commanded, holding out a fat hand. ‘Give it to me!’ he snapped.
‘Why?’
‘Because I’ll sue her arse off, that’s why. We’ll get her under the confidentiality clause in her contract—we’ll make her give back that eighty grand. We’ll pursue her in a civil case, and we’ll win, and we’ll make her pay all the costs. Rose, what are you doing? Give me that letter—it’s evidence!’
But I’d already turned on the shredder in the corner of his office, and now I ran Serena’s letter through.
‘Why the fuck did you do that?’ Ricky’s mouth was agape as the slivers of paper were extruded.
‘Because that letter was written to me. It’s my personal property, Ricky, I can do what I like with it.’
‘But don’t you want to see her finished?’
‘No. After all, what happened is my fault. I let the letter fall into her hands and I also failed to delete your e-mails fast enough—she’d clearly spotted them on my screen. So I’m the one who should carry the can, not her. My contract is up on March the tenth, I believe, which gives you about two weeks to find someone else.’
As I returned to my desk I thought, bitterly, of Andrew. If he hadn’t sacked Rob, then Serena would almost certainly not have done what she did. She did it because she was desperate—she’d simply seen pound signs—and now she was eighty grand better off. No more leaking roofs. No more threadbare coats. And no more helping me. Shit. The next two weeks were going to be dreadful on my own.
‘Would you like a temp?’ Linda asked.
‘No, I couldn’t be sure that they’d be discreet. That might sound a bit rich coming from me,’ I added bitterly, ‘but they’d take too long to train and vet. It’ll be easier just to get on with it myself.’
‘Okay,’ she sighed. ‘Well, let me know.’
By lunchtime I knew exactly how difficult it is flogging through thirty problems a day without assistance. Beverley phoned me at two to offer her support but I didn’t want to talk. ‘But there’s something I want to tell you,’ she added.
‘I’m sorry, Bev, but I really can’t chat. I’ve got a huge backlog in my in-tray, the phone’s going the whole time, plus I’m devastated about losing my job.’
As I replaced the receiver I thought of all the people who knew me, and who would read the lies about me in the Daily News. Ed would, and so would Mary-Claire Grey and that baggage Citronella Pratt. She’d be really cock-a-hoop about it; she’d always wanted this job. At five Bev phoned again—she said she’d had a great day—but that there was something she wanted to discuss.
‘Can’t it wait?’ I said as I dug my Adolescence, Mental Health and Jealousy leaflets out of my filing drawer. ‘I’m still frantic. How urgent is it?’
‘Well, it’s not that urgent. Yet. But it will get urgent, so tell me when we can talk.’
‘Okay, I will—but not now.’
As I put the phone down I saw my colleagues leaving for the day, and now the shock began to sink in. I realised how much I was going to miss them, and doing the job I’d loved. I’d miss the noise and chatter of the newsroom, and even the daily argy-bargy with the subs. I looked out of the window at the gathering dusk and thought about Serena’s letter again. Suddenly something suddenly struck me as strange: I’d been too traumatised to think of it before. Serena had told me that she’d had a ‘tip-off’ about Electra’s letter. A tip-off? But from who? And why?
Chapter 14
Dear Ms Costelloe, I was utterly flabbergasted by your recent letter, with its outrageous suggestion that I had telephoned you ‘at home’. May I state categorically that I have never done so and in any case do not possess your home number. No wonder you are experiencing such grave problems in your professional life if you are capable of such a blatant misconception as this. May I suggest personal counselling? Yours truly, Colin Twisk. P.S. Kindly do not leak this letter to the Daily News.
‘Wanker!’ I snapped as I threw it in the bin. And he was a liar to boot. I knew it was him. Who else could it be? He’d been obsessed with me for six months. I closed my eyes, breathed deeply, then let it go—at least I’d got him off my back.
I stared dismally at my over-flowing in-tray: without Serena it now takes an age. There are the new letters to be logged and the ones I’ve dealt with to be filed, and I have to keep the stash of leaflets stocked up. The phones are constantly ringing, and the fax i
s whirring plus there’s a huge pile of shredding to be done. All that without addressing a single problem. If it weren’t for my friends I’d go mad.
‘I just want to check that you’re coping,’ Bea said solicitously first thing this morning.
‘I’m okay,’ I lied. ‘How’s the shop?’ I asked changing the subject.
‘Well, I think we’re on track. Beverley’s coming in again this morning, thank God. I told her I had an important lunch—it’s with Henry actually—so she agreed to an extra day. Have you seen the papers by the way?’
‘Of course I’ve seen them,’ I groaned.
‘You’d think they’d have more pressing things to write about, wouldn’t you?’ she said with a contemptuous snort. For the Electra story had rumbled on. The broadsheets, who regard agony aunts as unqualified busybodies doing more harm than good, said Electra had only herself to blame for her monumental lack of judgement in confiding in someone like me, while the tabloids continued to pick over the bones of the star’s crisis-hit marriage. There were several photos of Electra’s kids, and of the rather raunchy-looking backing singer, Kiki Cockayne. There was also a photo of Kiki Cockayne’s boyfriend looking distinctly grim. On and on went the coverage, ad nauseam and ad infinitum—I wanted to throw. And if I’d had to work long hours before all this, now, without help, it was dire. I’d get home at ten, and flop in front of my tiny old portable TV—a poor stand-in for the stolen one—semi-catatonic with fatigue.
‘What are you watching?’ Theo asked last night as he sat down beside me on the sofa.
‘I’m not watching anything,’ I said. ‘I’m too exhausted. I’m just letting the images flicker across my retina.’
Theo took off his shoes, and put his bare feet on the footstool, alongside mine. I looked at them, they were elegant, strong and sinewy, with nice, non-knobbly, straight toes.
‘Nice ankles,’ he said suddenly.
‘Thanks.’ I gave him a sideways look. ‘I hope they make up for the fact that my hair’s “mad”.’
‘I didn’t offend you did I?’
‘Yes, you did actually.’ He blushed. ‘But I’m used to your Northern forthrightness now.’
‘Sorry. I think I was a bit scared of you.’
‘Oh, I see. And are you still?’
He looked at me. ‘No,’ he said. ‘I’m not.’ I flicked the channel over to Newsnight. ‘I like watching telly in black and white,’ Theo added after a moment. ‘It reminds me of being a student.’
‘I’ll have to get used to it again,’ I said dismally. ‘I won’t be able to afford a new TV after what’s happened this week.’ I suddenly imagined myself becoming like Serena, with holes in my roof and a threadbare coat and an expression of neurotic stoicism on my face.
‘Don’t fret,’ Theo said, soothingly, ‘I’m sure you’ll find something else.’ He laid his hand on mine for a moment, then withdrew it.
‘Yes,’ I sighed, ‘I probably will. But it won’t be as interesting or nearly as well paid. I’m overstretched as it is so I’ll probably have to sell this place and get a flat.’
‘Really?’ A look of regret crossed his face.
‘Yes. I won’t be able to afford it.’
‘Well, we’ll cross that bridge when we come to it,’ he said. I smiled at his friendly, brotherly, use of the first person plural.
‘Yes,’ I smiled. ‘We will.’
Now, as I stared at the screen, exhausted, my brain began to buzz and my eyes started to close and I could feel my chin begin to drop towards my chest.
‘Hey.’ I felt a gentle jab in the ribs. ‘Hey. You.’
‘What?’
‘The phone’s ringing.’
‘Oh.’ I padded into the hall and wearily reached for the receiver. ‘Hello,’ I said. ‘Hello?’ I was suddenly jerked back into consciousness. For once again I could hear loud, deliberate, heavy breathing—it was stertorous, male, and slow. I’d been working for twelve hours. I was all in. I’d had it. Stuff what the people at the phone company say.
‘Fuck OFF!’ I shouted, then I slammed down the handset. I pressed 1471—number withheld.
‘Who were you swearing at?’ asked Theo casually as I stomped back into the living room, radioactive with indignation.
‘My nuisance caller. Colin Twisk.’
‘Colin Twisk?’
‘Yes. Colin Twisk,’ I repeated as Jeremy Paxman curled his lip at some cabinet minister. ‘I wrote to him recently letting him know that I knew he’d been ringing me at home and he wrote back denying it. He claimed not even to have my number, but he clearly does because he’s at it again.’
‘But I know Colin Twisk,’ said Theo. My gaze swept from Paxman’s equine profile to Theo’s boyish one.
‘You what?’
‘I know Colin Twisk.’ I felt my eyes widen and my mouth go slack. ‘He works at Compu-Force. He’s a systems analyst—he’s a bit of an oddball, but I’d say he’s quite harmless. You think he’s been making these calls?’
‘I do.’
‘But why?’
‘Because I once wrote him an encouraging letter about his lack of a girlfriend and it seemed to, I don’t know, set him off! He kept on writing back to me, telling me how marvellous and special I was and sending me this weird Confettimail stuff on Valentine’s Day.’
‘Really?’
‘Yes, these tiny bits of paper with a text message printed on them—“Can’t Stop Thinking About You”. There were hundreds of them; they got everywhere. It was extremely annoying.’
‘How strange.’
‘And then he started suggesting that we meet up and—oh!’ Of course! ‘That’s how he got this number!’ I exclaimed. ‘Because of you. He knows you live with me because you’ve obviously talked about me to your colleagues, and you’ve given my number to your personnel people, in case of emergency, and Colin’s read it on an internal list.’
Theo shook his head. ‘Sorry, Rose. Wrong on both counts. For starters I’ve never mentioned you to anyone at work.’
‘Haven’t you?’
‘No.’
‘What, never?’ I felt oddly disappointed.
‘I don’t talk about my private life. I sit quietly at my desk, pretending to do my spreadsheets whilst actually thinking about the Big Bang. Nor have I ever given out your home number, I only use my mobile.’
‘Oh. I see.’
‘I really don’t think it is him,’ said Theo judiciously. ‘In fact, now I come to think of it, he’s got this new girlfriend, Penelope Boink. She came in last week, and he was proudly introducing her to us all: apparently they met on some assertiveness course. It seems she’s had lifelong confidence problems on account of her silly name. No, I very much doubt it’s Colin,’ he said confidently. ‘He’s much too happy.’
‘Oh. Well, then who is it?’
‘I haven’t a clue. But why don’t you just bar the calls and be done with it?’
‘Because in order to do that you have to know what the number is first—don’t you?’
‘I’m not sure—you should ring up the phone people and check. Doesn’t this person ever speak to you?’
‘Never. It’s just this heavy breathing. It’s sick.’
‘Then change your number.’
‘No I won’t, because then they’d have won. I’ve had to change it three times in the last year as it is, what with all my marital upheavals, so I’m not going to do it again.’ As the News-night credits rolled I pushed myself up off the sofa and stifled a yawn. ‘Anyway, I’m shattered.’
‘Me too. Let’s turn in.’ Theo switched out the lights, checked the back door, and put the chain on the front one, and now we found ourselves going upstairs, together, to bed. It was funny hearing our combined tread on the creaking steps. But I was too exhausted to feel self-conscious at this sudden intimacy—in fact it felt rather friendly and nice. I had a sudden image of us actually lying in bed, together—in a platonic way of course—happily reading our books. A Stephen Hawking for him and a Ruth
Rendell for me. I like crime fiction. The more red herrings the better. I can usually work out what’s really going on, because, as I say, I can read between the lines.
‘Night then, Rose,’ said Theo politely as I paused by my bedroom door.
‘Good night. Oh, by the way, how did Bev get on today?’ I asked him. ‘I was too frantic to return her call.’
‘Well, I spoke to her this morning and she seemed a bit low. She said she’d much rather be helping you.’
‘Really?’ I said, as I turned my door handle.
‘Yes.’
‘I wish she had been helping me,’ I said wearily. ‘I could have done with someone like her. In fact I…oh! What a brilliant idea!’ Then, in an access of sudden happiness and relief, I did this peculiar thing. I stepped forward and kissed him on the cheek. I couldn’t help it. ‘You’re a genius, Theo! Good night.’
‘I’d love to help,’ said Bev the next morning, ‘but what would the bosses say?’
‘I’ve just cleared it with Linda and I couldn’t give a damn what Ricky thinks. I’m so snowed under, but I feel that as long as people are writing to me, personally, then I have a duty to write back. And I’m getting a lot more letters because of the Electra business, so I have to answer all those ones as well.’
‘Right then,’ I heard Beverley say. ‘I’m on my way. I’m the Hope Street temp,’ she added with a laugh.
‘And how was Bea yesterday?’ I asked.
‘Oh…fine,’ Bev said noncommittally though I detected a slight edge to her voice. Bea must have been insensitive to her, in some way, without realising it. I didn’t probe.
‘How did she seem when she came back from her lunch with Henry?’
‘Well…pretty happy, I’d say.’
‘Really? And how did Henry look when he came to pick her up?’
‘He looked…pretty happy too. He was smiling a lot, put it that way.’