by Molly Flatt
Miss Moore,
We need to discuss an urgent development. Please call me on 01857 391542 (GCAS EU North Ronaldsay Office) as soon as possible.
Sorcha MacBrian
‘Alex,’ Chloe said. ‘Alex!’
Alex looked up.
‘Don’t be scared of it, Alex. Don’t retreat from your full power just because you’re scared.’
Alex looked back at her screen. Below MacBrian’s email was one from Lenni, sent half an hour ago, also flagged as urgent. Subject line: WE NEED TO TALK. She opened it and found no message, only a link. She could feel Chloe’s eyes on her, disapproving. She didn’t care. She clicked on the link.
‘The will to win, the desire to succeed, the urge to reach your full potential: these are the keys that will unlock the door to personal excellence,’ Chloe said gently. ‘That’s Confucius, Alex. Confucius.’
The YouTube clip took a few seconds to load, and then there was the ad to skip.
‘Or,’ Chloe said, ‘possibly Bruce Lee. Alex? Alex, what are you looking at? What’s wrong?’
And there it was: her breakfast TV meltdown. Every ugly, messy, indiscreet second of it. Alex wondered if their Internet was fast enough to stream video, in North Ronaldsay. She grabbed her bag and, without another word to Chloe, stumbled out of the cafe.
There was a man camped against the front of Rotherhithe Tube station, shouting ‘CUNT!’ every time someone emerged. Alex, in a daze of exhaustion, spent the ten-minute totter to Harry’s flat trying to imagine the homeless man’s Storylines. Were they chaotic, juddering medleys, or sleek white dynamos? Was his madness an aberration he fought against, or was it simply his version of sense? Had he, six months ago, been happily employed and housed, until his slowly dimming Story, languishing un-Read, finally drove him insane?
She suspected that she knew exactly what Harry’s Storylines would look like: steady and smooth. She doubted that his Story had ever surfaced to be Read. Harry’s flat contained the same few pieces of IKEA furniture that he had bought when he first moved in. Neatly arranged inside them was a well-cared-for capsule collection of possessions that was only added to in times of pressing need or deep sentiment, such as the set of cashmere jumpers he’d bought after the moth infestation of 2011, or the metronome his grandmother had left him in the tearful winter of 2013. His library consisted of three novels (The Da Vinci Code, The Runaway Jury and Misery), a dozen sporting autobiographies and an illustrated collection of poetry that he had received as a school prize. Alex had never seen him open it. She had also never seen him wearing an apron, which he was doing, without irony, when he opened the door.
He was, as always, so much more handsome than she remembered; so sharp-edged and brightly coloured he might have materialized from a high-definition screen. She saw him take in, in turn, her dress, her heels, her scrubbed face and swollen eyes. She still hadn’t had a chance to go home and change. She’d spent the whole afternoon in the office at a crisis-limitation roundtable. Even so, she and Lenni had had an argument in front of the whole team when she’d insisted that she had to go.
For a moment she thought Harry wasn’t going to kiss her, but then he leaned in and brushed his lips against her cheek, in a fug of garlic and Polo Sport. ‘Come and sit down,’ he said. ‘Jamie’s Fifteen-Minute Thai Curry has so far taken me an hour.’
She sat on the corner sofa while Harry busied himself behind the counter of the galley kitchen, his face obscured by the low-hanging extractor hood. Staring out at the Alice-in-Wonderland cityscape of Gherkin and Eye and Shard, Alex belatedly tried to compose an internal Venn diagram. Things she needed to say; things she was allowed to say; things Harry would understand. Instead, her thoughts kept flitting back to MacBrian and the scene that must currently be unfolding on North Ronaldsay, and in the other tech-enabled Library outposts around the world. Surely nothing in that tearful babble could have constituted a security breach? Surely they could see that going on TV hadn’t been her choice, that she was under intense pressure, that she was doing her best? Surely they couldn’t think that a single one of those 1,003,567 lunch-break time-wasters who had watched the YouTube clip so far would consider her anything other than a joke? She knew that she should call MacBrian and defend herself. She should reassure the Iskeullians that she was, as promised, doing everything she could to engage with that damn Storyline. But the thought of that brisk Celtic accent invading the south London air, of letting them back into her world barely thirty-six hours after she had escaped from theirs, was too much to bear. The next time she spoke to them, she wanted it to be on her terms. She wanted to be armed with something positive, with proof that she was going to make things right. She needed more time.
‘So how are you?’ Harry said. His tone was determinedly light, his chopping brisk, his gaze riveted to the board.
Alex groaned. ‘You saw it, then?’
The knife paused. ‘Someone at work sent me an email.’
‘Great. If I’ve reached the inboxes of IMARR, I’ve officially gone viral.’
‘Chip-shop paper. It’ll blow over in a couple of days.’
Alex gripped a Union Jack cushion to her chest. Numbly she parroted Lenni’s words. ‘Not online. This could dominate our search rankings for months. I assume you’ve seen the memes? Lockie thinks the first few came from the production agency on the ninth floor. Lenni’s furious, of course.’
‘Well, I suppose you have to give to them, really. The graphics. That Roy Orbison song. Where do you even get footage of a crying sloth?’
‘Have you got any whisky?’
‘Oh. No. I keep forgetting you drink now. I’ve got some red in the rack, will that do?’ Harry poured a glass and brought it over to her, perching on the arm of the sofa.
‘Alex,’ he began.
‘Harry, I’m so sorry. Last time we met, you were right, I had no idea how—’
‘Shhhh.’ Harry put his finger on her lips.
She was so startled, she almost bit it.
‘This time,’ he said, ‘I’m going to talk.’
‘But I need to apologize,’ she said against his finger, then batted it away. She gulped some wine, felt her hangover momentarily revolt, then welcome it in enthusiastically. Oh, for oblivion. For forgetting. Yes, please. ‘And I need to ask you some questions. About me. They’re going to seem strange, but it’s for the—’
‘Alex,’ Harry removed his stripy apron and took both her hands. ‘Listen. While you were away, something changed.’
Alex swallowed, pulling her hands away. ‘It’s okay, Harry. I understand. I’ve become a terrible person.’ She felt, once again, the weight of Finn MacEgan as he pressed against her in the archive room, every inch of his stringy flesh hot with grief and hate. ‘To be honest, it’s probably for the best. You shouldn’t tie yourself to someone like—’
‘ALEX!’ He grabbed her hands again. ‘Will you please shut up and listen?’
She hesitated, then nodded. She owed him this, at the very least. ‘Sorry.’ She took another slug of wine. ‘Go ahead.’
Harry cleared his throat. ‘That lunch,’ he began stiffly, ‘last time we met. You were right. I was scared. I have to admit that when you told me you were going off on your retreat or research project, or whatever it was, I was cynical. I thought it was a cheap attempt to prove that we still shared the same values. I expected you to spend the whole time sending me photographs of sunsets.’ He paused. ‘But I need to apologize, Alex, because you did take proper time out, didn’t you – not just from me, but from Eudomonia? When I hadn’t heard from you by Sunday morning I called Lenni. It was only then that I realized then how hard taking a step back must have been for you. I could tell he was furious that you had gone, that you hadn’t called him either, and it made me question whether I had underestimated you. I couldn’t stop thinking of you, trapped in the middle of nowhere with all those Neanderthal men, and all because I’d asked you to go.’
On Sunday morning she’d been standing inside an unimag
inably ancient tower, Reading the deepest secrets of a sixty-five-year-old Kosovan. She reached for the wine. ‘And then you saw that bloody clip, and all those horrible memes, and realized that I was a total fuck-up after all. I get it, Harry. You don’t have to—’
‘No!’ Harry slid off the arm of the sofa and onto the cushion beside her, angling his knees so they touched hers. ‘You don’t get it, do you? When I saw that stupid clip, I saw you. The Alex that I know and love. A bit confused, admittedly. A bit overwrought. But so authentic. So human.’
Human? Human, again? ‘You know what, Harry? Being human is seriously overrated.’
Harry took her wine glass, put it on the coffee table and gathered her hands back into his. ‘Don’t get defensive. You know what I mean. Your true spirit shone through in that interview. Was this Alex Moore a strong woman? Yes. An independent woman? Absolutely. A successful woman. A Superwoman, in many ways. But she was also vulnerable, she was sensitive, she made mistakes, she wasn’t a . . . a feminist cyborg. And when that presenter asked you about me, I realized that I haven’t supported you at all. I’ve stepped back when I should have pushed forward, and forced you to accept help. No wonder you felt you had to create this invincible persona to cope.’
Alex untangled their fingers. ‘You have no idea who I am. You don’t know what I’m capable of.’
‘No, that’s the point. I finally do. I don’t want you to give up Eudo any more, Alex. I want to help. I mean, Lenni’s obviously good at what he does and you’ve obviously assembled a clever team, but none of them understands how you work. What you need.’ Harry jumped to his feet. ‘I wasn’t going to do this until after we’d eaten, but hell, I don’t care.’
He laughed, a little wildly, jumped to his feet and gave a bow.
‘Ms Moore, I would humbly like to nominate a candidate for the position of Eudomonia’s COO.’
‘You – what?’
‘You know, when it comes to data, shipping isn’t all that different from self-development. I’m an excellent analyst and an experienced project manager.’ Harry spread his arms. ‘Think of it, Alex. A family business. It’s everything you said you wanted at lunch last week, and more.’
‘Harry.’ Alex ushered him off his knees and back onto the sofa. ‘This is . . . I didn’t . . .’
‘I know! I swore Mae to secrecy—’
‘You told Mae all this?’
He grinned. ‘I’m not a total idiot. I sounded her out first, and I called your mum as well. Of course, neither of them could really grasp how much sense it would make, in terms of the business. But the moment I walked into that dreary bloody office on Monday, my head buzzing with reasons why you could still be stuck in that Bear Grylls backwater, I knew it felt right. For the first time in my life I was truly ready to throw caution to the wind. I handed in my notice yesterday.’
‘I—’
‘Wait. Don’t say anything yet. There’s one more surprise.’ Harry rushed back to the kitchen and retrieved an A4 plastic folder from between the pages of his cookery book, then laid it ceremonially on Alex’s lap. ‘Now the next few weekends were all booked up, but you said sooner rather than later, so . . .’
She lifted the flap, pulled out a sheaf of leaflets and printouts and looked at the top page:
ITINERARY
Wednesday 5 August 2015
Dorothy Alexandra Moore
07.00: Alex Moore (AM) wake-up call (Flat 12, 37 Dunnett Street)
07.30: Mae Tsang (MT) and Liz Moore (LM) arive at Dunnett Street from Premier Inn Old Street (tel: 0871 527 9312)
07.45: Protein-rich, low-GI breakfast (to be arranged by MT & LM)
08.15: AM hair and make-up with Shelley Hubert of The Modern Bride (tel: 07786 546532)
On it went, all the way to 12.00: AM arrives at Shoreditch Town Hall for wedding service. When Alex looked back up, Harry’s face was radiant.
16
Trying to maintain a casual air, Alex accelerated through Waterloo Station concourse. When she reached the south end, she marched through the open doors of the Whistle-Stop, took a sharp left and halted with her back to a display of two-for-one Amstel six-packs.
Seconds later, a small, pale, dark-haired girl wearing lace-up calf-length boots appeared in the doorway. She took one step inside and then stopped, scanning the aisles.
‘I knew it,’ Alex hissed, stepping away from the lager, making the girl start. ‘I bloody knew it. Well, you can tell Captain bloody MacHoras that his people might be a dab hand at online censorship, but they make rubbish real-world spies. And you can tell Director bloody MacBrian that I AM DOING MY BEST. I AM GOING AS FAST AS I CAN.’
‘Holy shit!’ the girl said. ‘You really are a nutter, aren’t you?’
Alex found herself staring into the small reflective eye of a vampire. ‘Crap,’ she said. She swiped at it, but the girl stepped back, her special-edition Twilight iPhone case still trained on Alex’s face. ‘You can’t do that!’ Alex hissed. ‘This is a . . . a contravention of my human rights!’
‘Whatever.’ The young Goth lowered her phone and thumbed at the screen. ‘Already uploaded, babe. Thanks for the hits.’ She flashed Alex the victory sign, revealing a pentagram inked on her wrist, then slouched back towards two other black-clad teens, who were sniggering beside the ticket machines.
Feeling the tears start to prickle, Alex swiped furiously at her eyes and growled, ‘Get a grip’, surprising a guy in a Rasta hat who was heading for the Amstel.
MacBrian’s latest email, which had arrived late the night before, had contained just one line:
Alex. 01857 391542. Call me now.
She hadn’t. The last thing she needed was another lecture on how she was drowning the Iskeullians, not to mention screwing up the mental health of the entire human race. Or, indeed, denying the world the possibility of an unending supply of clean energy, with a side order of empathy and creativity to go. She had been serious when she’d told the Goth that she was going as fast as she could. Ten minutes ago, when she’d phoned Lenni to tell him she was about to get on a train to Fring, he had greeted the news with ominous silence.
‘Alex,’ he had eventually said, his Nordic accent suddenly thick, ‘I’m starting to think I have made a mistake. When I came on board with this company, I thought I knew what kind of person you were.’
So she’d told him, improvising, about Harry’s surprise wedding plans, insisting that she had to arrange some last-minute details. She had, of course, been careful to omit Harry’s other, Eudo-related surprise. Even so, the moment she had heard Lenni’s stiff congratulations, she realized that she’d pulled the female card. The family card. The queen of hearts. The one card she’d been determined, ever since becoming a Founder-CEO, to excise from her pack.
But then what the fuck did it matter any more? Her self-respect, the sisterhood, even Eudo? If she didn’t find some way to cross herself off the Library’s most-wanted list and halt the rot eroding her system, all she’d be CEO of was a mental ward, followed swiftly by a body bag. And at least Harry still loved her. Although, in retrospect, Harry not loving her any more had been one of the few sane developments to occur in the past six months. Now even that anchor had been cut loose.
On board the train, the wi-fi remained maliciously healthy. It enabled her to find, watch and minutely track the progress of her latest YouTube triumph. Comments from concerned Eudomos were pouring in as @EudoGemma tried to pass off Alex’s wild-eyed Waterloo outburst as self-satire. Forty minutes of obsessive refreshing later, Alex stepped through the sliding doors of Fring Station, to find her parents’ old Astra idling by the kerb.
‘Darling! The very-soon-to-be Mrs Fyfield!’ Her mother leaned across for a kiss while Alex climbed into the car. ‘But look at you. You look terrible. What on earth did they do to you in Shetland?’
It was no good. Alex swung round blindly and clung to her mother’s cardigan, weeping into the soft, thumping dark. After an initial exclamation, her mother lapsed into soothing murmu
rs and held on tight, stroking her back. Eventually, exhausted, the sobs tailed off into sniffles and hiccups, and Alex reluctantly allowed her mother to lever her upright.
‘Come on, my darling, now come on,’ her mother tutted, fishing a crumpled tissue from her pocket and dabbing at Alex’s face. ‘I knew something was wrong the moment I saw you in London, but nothing in the world is worth getting this upset about. There’s nothing we can’t sort out somehow.’
Studying the lines of Elizabeth Mary Moore’s face, Alex wondered how many times over the years her mother had lied to her like this. How many tiny deceits had she performed, as she instinctively tried to protect her daughter from a world that was far stranger and more terrible than the Grimms’ Fairy Tales they used to read together every night?
‘Now tell me,’ her mother said, decisively pocketing the tissue, ‘is this about that silly breakfast television interview?’
‘You’ve seen that?’
‘Caroline Wrigley showed me on her iPad in Waitrose.’
‘Great – so now everyone in Fring knows that I’m crazy, too.’
‘Don’t be silly. You’re not crazy, darling. You’re tired and you’re overworked.’
‘But I am crazy, Mum. I’m a total freak. You have no idea—’
No, she didn’t. And she wouldn’t. And she couldn’t. It was Alex’s turn to protect her mother from the bogeymen now.
‘Darling.’ Her mother was watching her closely. ‘Is it Harry?’
Alex rubbed vigorously at her face, tried to wrestle herself back under control. ‘Harry?’
‘Oh, well, we’re delighted that you’ve decided to crack on with the wedding, of course. Only – only after our conversation in London, I had rather started to assume you were about to call the whole thing off.’
‘No. I – we’re fine.’ Alex thought miserably of how excited Harry had been last night. How he had countered the questions she had tried to ask about her bad Storyline with a maddening pep talk, clearly believing that she had been deeply scarred by his bluntness the week before. ‘Honestly, Mum,’ she said bleakly, ‘everything’s fine. You’re right. I’m tired, that’s all, and this last trip was the last straw.’ She had a stab at her by now well-practised fake smile. ‘All I need is some of your food and a good sleep. Really. Please. Can we just go home?’