by Louise Kean
‘Only lady palm and her five lovely daughters,’ he says, and I raise my eyes to heaven while he chuckles to himself. Lucky, innocent, naive, immature Phil. Still living with his grandfather, completely untouched by the responsibility and guilt of a relationship that lasts more than a night. I still wouldn’t want to be him though. Nothing can be that bad that I’d wish my life away to a world that revolves solely around the FA Cup, the Premiership, and Sunday League football. I once accused Phil of being insensitive, after he showed a complete lack of interest in the death of Angela’s cat. He got quite angry, and informed me he had cried ‘when Fulham went down.’ Enough said.
My mobile rings again, and I note the number before turning the phone off completely – it is Dale, for the third time this morning. I will phone him later, I have to see to Phil, I tell myself guiltily.
We spend the next hour going through stuff I think he should know. The scriptwriter will need to cut his hair at some point, because José will fire him otherwise with me out of the way. We still don’t have a lead, the model we used in the teaser will need to be in the production somewhere, but don’t let José convince her to go nude, because we won’t get it past the authorities. The sales team needs more brochures, music needs clearing, contracts need drawing up, and somebody needs to monitor the budget, because José won’t. Phil seems petrified at first, as I reel off the things I do, but relaxes into boredom after the first twenty minutes; it is too much for him to take in all at once. I make him listen nonetheless, hoping some of it will sink in. He really doesn’t have any ambition at all. On my departure he will either have a very rude awakening, but throw himself into it and get himself a promotion, or else he’ll just get a bar job and have the time of his life. Yes, I am back to going away again. Charlie has my faith, if not my complete trust.
My office phone rings and I pick up, as Phil spies an opportunity to make a dash for the door and hovers by the handle waiting for the nod from me to say he can go. After a couple of seconds I shake my head and point back at the seat in front of me. He sighs heavily and slumps into it, arms crossed, practically horizontal, staring off into space.
I hang up, and decide I have to tell Phil, if nobody else.
‘Look, Phil, one last thing.’ His mood noticeably brightens at the word ‘last’.
‘I have to tell you something, but it is completely confidential, and if I hear that anybody else knows I’ll know it came from you, okay?’
‘Yes, yes, yes,’ he says quickly, and tries to hurry me up with his hand, anxious to know what it is. I raise my eyebrows annoyed, and he sits back and waits for me to tell him.
‘I have to go out now.’
He sighs heavily.
‘I have to go to the police station,’ I say to get back his attention.
‘Why, mate, what have you done?’ he asks, concerned.
‘It’s not me, it’s my boyfriend – you remember Charlie, you’ve met him a couple of times.’ I watch his face drop slightly. I know that he thinks Charlie’s a wanker. He had done everything short of saying it to my face, some kind of misplaced concern on his part for me, the little brother I never had.
‘Look, he hasn’t actually done anything, they are just questioning him, but now they want to question me, so I’ll be gone for a couple of hours, okay? Are you going to be all right – can you cope if I pop out?’
Phil’s persona changes instantly, and his gentlemanly side takes over.
‘Absolutely, you go.’ I smile and say thanks.
‘But take your mobile with you, just in case,’ he says quickly, before shutting my office door behind him. I don’t have a chance to say anything back. I resolve to phone up Nim and Jules, both of whom Phil fancies, and bribe them to go with him to his next football ‘do’, as a thank-you.
As I head down in the lift I think about where I am going for the first time. I have never had to speak to the police, officially, before last week, and now I can’t seem to get away from them. What do they want to ask me anyway? It crosses my mind that Charlie might have given my name as an alibi for the night of the attack. I feel my face flush just at the prospect – I can’t lie to a policeman, it would be like lying to a priest – it’s not allowed, but then it’s never stopped me before. Maybe they just want to ask me a few questions about Charlie generally, where we went in Devon etc … It is only this non-threatening thought that gets me to the station. I chain smoke the whole way.
I sit in reception on a hard, plastic chair waiting for the officers to call me through, and read the various pamphlets pinned to the noticeboard. They are all don’t drink and drive, or have a smoke alarm, put locks on your window, don’t inject heroin … all sensible stuff, and I comply with them all. So far, I am faultless. I feel a slight sense of relief. I wonder where Charlie is, somewhere in the building, in an office, or even a cell, being asked whos and whats and whens about a night he just wants to forget.
Eventually an Officer Brown comes and introduces himself, and asks me to follow him. He doesn’t look any older than Phil, and his clothes seem a little silly on him, a kid in a grown-up’s uniform, but I follow him nonetheless. I am not about to tell him he looks stupid. He leads me into a room at the back of the station full of desks and paper and filing cabinets, and asks me to sit down in front of one of the desks. A couple of other policemen mill about at the door, chatting. I expected it to be more organized than this, tidier. I also expected to be locked in a room with a two-way mirror with the suggestion of somebody lurking behind it, watching my every move. But instead I just sit where I am told, among the piles, and watch him as he shuffles through some paper to find a notepad. He stares at the pad for a while, and I cough uncomfortably as the silence drags on. He looks up at me, and I realize that he is actually trying to get a word out, but struggling. I narrow my eyes slightly, and nod my head at him to go on, but it doesn’t appear to make much of a difference. He is having real trouble. Stutters are the strangest things, so hard to understand, and yet so hard not to laugh at the awkwardness of it all. There is a song, by the Bare Naked Ladies, I think, where it talks about being the kind of person who laughs at funerals, and this is exactly the same thing. The compelling need not to laugh at all, the tragedy of the thing, sometimes seems like the biggest incentive to collapse into hysterics. I make a real effort not to, however, and also fight the urge to tell him to ‘just sing it’. Finally when the word arrives, I am shocked to hear the noise come out of his mouth.
‘C … C … C … CCCCan I ask you a few questions?’ he asks.
I want to say ‘you may, but whether you can or not remains to be seen.’ But I just say, ‘Sure.’
He asks me about Charlie, how long we’ve been together, but he seems to focus on the fact that he has just resigned. I explain that I have done the same thing, that we have decided to go travelling. He seems happy enough with this answer, and then asks if Charlie has spoken to me about a woman being attacked outside of his apartment on the evening of Wednesday last week. I say yes, and try and remember what Charlie had told me about the night itself. I start with Charlie going out on to his balcony and looking down with a beer, and finish with him phoning the police. I leave out the part about him having sex with her, or the dress-wearing incident the next day – after all, he didn’t ask me about those bits. Again, he seems quite happy with the answers. I have forgotten all about the stutter by now, as he seems to have completely forgotten himself. But as he stands up, it starts again.
‘T T T T T TTTT …’ is all he is saying, and I stick out my hand to shake his to break the silence. He shakes my hand but carries on with the ‘T T T T TTTT’ in rhythm to our hand shaking, and after a while my arm actually begins to ache. Again, as if my growing tired and or bored is the trigger that he needs, he blurts out,
‘TTh Th Thank you for meeting with me, it was good of you to spare the time. Your boyfriend will be out front by now, so you are both free to go together.’
Out front Charlie is indeed waiting, by the noti
ceboard, reading a pamphlet on littering and the fact that it is just rude, and I dig him in the back with my finger.
‘You ready to go then?’ I ask, with a smile.
‘I can’t believe they called you down here,’ he says with sincere concern.
‘Are you okay? Did they ask you horrible questions about me?’ He wants to know everything, I can tell, and I want to tell him everything.
‘No, not really. You told them you’ve resigned, and he only seemed interested in knowing if I had done the same thing. I think they were just corroborating your story. It was fine, I promise,’ I tell him, and rub his back.
‘Okay.’ He looks away, and then back at me.
‘You really are great, Nicola, you know that, don’t you?’ he says, and I am taken aback by the affection in his eyes. It makes me feel like a fraud.
‘Yeah, I’m bloody marvellous,’ I say, and try and conceal the sarcasm, directed right at myself.
Charlie announces that he wants to head into work, put on a brave face, spread the word that he’s done nothing wrong, and that everything is fine. We kiss at the tube, and make arrangements to meet that night. I have a work thing I have to go to, some clients taking us out to a restaurant in town, which I had completely forgotten about, and which I desperately don’t want to go to, but have to really, seeing as it’s kind of for me, and if not Phil will just feel uncomfortable all night.
I say I’ll be over to his late, and he should eat without me, and I jump on the tube. I check my watch as I get off at Leicester Square, and realize the battery must have died hours ago. I switch on my mobile knowing there will be messages. There are three, all from Dale. The first is concerned, the second is agitated, the third is kind of angry, and why not? I have stopped him going to Scotland, and now I won’t even take his calls. I check the time – it is three o’clock. I shiver slightly, and check the sky. I can see clouds creeping in from the west.
Back at work Phil has told everybody about my imminent departure, and they are all very anxious to hear about where I plan to go on my travels, and good for me, how they wish they were going etc … ‘Just go then,’ I say, ‘just jack it all in and go.’ But they make their relevant excuses: debt, kids, career … I sit there thinking how great Charlie and I are, and how brave. We are seizing the day, we are throwing caution to the wind.
I head into the kitchen to get away from the feigned sincerity of some of the younger bitchier secretaries, who are just using me as an excuse to hang around Phil’s desk. I think it’s his shyness that they mistake for aloofness that attracts them. And he is a very good-looking young man. If only they knew that they petrified him, they’d have him tied to the desk in no time.
As I fill my mug with instant hot water, I hear somebody come in behind me, and turn to see José blocking the doorway.
‘Hi, José,’ I say wearily; another confrontation.
‘Just to let you know, I am checking the security cameras. I zink you ’ave been stealing from zese offices, and I intend to call ze police.’
He exhausts me, but, at the same time, I can’t stop myself laughing. ‘What is it you think I have stolen, José?’
‘Stationery,’ he says in a cool voice. The top three buttons of his shirt are undone, and chest hair is sprouting out all over the place. But there is no sign of sweat on him.
‘What kind of stationery?’ I know this is complete rubbish, but he is playing every card in his pack. It’s almost admirable, in an idiotic way.
‘General stationery. Angela tells me zere is ’ardly a stapler left in ze building, and I ’ave noticed your bag bulging in ze evening.’ He smiles at me; he knows this is ludicrous.
‘What exactly do you think I have been doing with all these staplers?’
‘Car boot sales.’
‘You think I’ve been selling staplers at car boot sales? If I was going to steal something, wouldn’t I steal something a bit more profitable, like phones? Or laptops?’
‘Ahhh, so you admit it!’ José leans back against the door frame and smiles again.
‘José, for God’s sake, get out of my way,’ I say as I push past him, and manage to spill a couple of drops of my coffee on his beige loafers.
‘Beetch!’ I hear him swear as I walk back to my office.
‘Jesus Christ,’ I mutter, and close the door to my office, divert all my calls to answerphone, and begin the unenviable task of clearing my inbox.
At around six, I raise my head, and check my mobile – another missed call. I close the door and redial the number. After one ring, time enough for me to pat my hair down but not to compose myself, Dale answers.
‘Nicola?’ He sounds relieved.
‘Dale, hi, I’m so sorry.’ I mean it as well. I feel terrible. But not terrible enough to have phoned before.
‘What’s going on, has he been charged?’ he asks, still concerned. His accent is becoming familiar again, his voice not alien, but soothing.
‘Oh, no, well, they let him out yesterday.’ I feel guilty as I say it.
‘Oh right,’ and Dale jumps to all the logical conclusions, I can hear it in his voice. The disappointment is glaring.
‘Yeah, so he’s okay. I don’t really know what’s happening, they just seem to be questioning him. And I’ve been down there today. It doesn’t even look like much will come of it. I don’t know for sure, of course …’ My voice trails off as I realize for the first time that I don’t know what will come of it. I should know that at least, what exactly is going on. I feel suddenly anxious, in the dark.
I realize that neither of us has said anything for a while, and I know I should ask about him.
‘So what are your plans now, then?’ I try to sound curious, and not guilty.
‘I phoned the airline today, I didn’t know what would be happening …’ Dale sounds guilty too.
‘And?’
‘Well, I’ve missed Dublin now as well, but I can get a flight back to the States whenever I want.’ He is waiting for me to tell him what to do.
‘So are you going to book it for the weekend?’ I ask, telling him what I think, without actually saying it.
‘Yeah, I could do.’ The sadness is almost seeping down the phone now, and I shiver, as I start to hear the patter of rain outside against the window. It’s only light now.
‘Well, then you have another day to look around town, tomorrow, and you can fly back on Friday night. You must be missing the kids like crazy.’ I pretend to sound like I mean all of this, and ignore the fact that I have stopped him going where he was going.
‘Yes, I could do that,’ he says, and then quickly, before I have a chance to say anything, ‘Can I see you, before I go?’
‘Oh Dale, I have to work tomorrow. What with resigning and everything, they are watching me like a hawk.’
‘What about tonight then, just for a drink, just to say goodbye?’
‘Well, I have this work do that I have to go to, and …’ Charlie doesn’t even know he is here: I have deliberately kept it from him, not because of the circumstances, but because I really don’t want him to know. Charlie would probably have liked to say hello, but I’ve kept him to myself. Another secret. Just rack ’em up.
‘I suppose I could meet you before going to the restaurant, it is on my way. Just for a quick drink – I have to be there for eight, so if I leave now, I can make it – okay?’ I make it sound like I was going to come all along, that I hadn’t even considered not seeing him.
‘Sure, I’m here. I might pop out later, catch a play or something.’
‘Great, well, I’ll be with you in about half an hour then.’
‘Great, I’ll see you then.’
We hang up on each other at the same time.
Outside the rain starts to hammer down, and even though Dale’s hotel is not more than ten minutes’ walk away, I try desperately to catch a cab – I don’t have an umbrella. But it’s always the same in London, as soon as a cloud pops into the sky, hailing a cab is the hardest thing in th
e world. I gradually start to make my way down the street, stopping to look both ways and see if I can glimpse a rare orange light, but they all shoot past me with their smug inhabitants dry inside. My paper, held pathetically above my head, is soaked through and starting to stick to my hair, and my vest top is soaked. I make a run for it.
I get to the hotel more wet than dry, having given up the hope of looking like anything but a drowned rat about a minute after I’d started running. It is actually quite refreshing just to say: ‘Fuck it I’m going to get wet, so come on rain, do your worst.’ It’s strangely liberating.
I shake the rain off, half laughing, in the foyer while the receptionists and busboys look over at me in shock and disdain. Fuck ’em. My phone starts ringing and I fish it out of my bag, trying desperately not to drip all over the rest of the contents.
‘Hello,’ I almost shout as I get to it just in time. I am elated, still half laughing at how I must look, how I feel.
‘Nix, it’s me,’ Charlie says breathlessly down the phone.
‘Char, where are you?’ I wipe my dripping hair away from my forehead, and pat the rain off the side of my face.
‘I’m at work, just about to leave now – where are you?’
‘Oh, I’m at the restaurant, just about to be seated.’ I am lying, again.
‘Well, have a drink for me, and get home fast – they’re not taking it any further – I’m not being charged. I fucking told you!’ Charlie almost screams it down the phone, sounding like a man who’s just won the lottery.
‘You’re kidding, that’s bloody great! That’s great.’ If I am honest, I can’t quite believe it.
‘What happened?’ I need to know the details
‘The girl said she didn’t know who it was, but it wasn’t me. She’d just mentioned my name when she’d first woken up because I was the last person she’d seen. She just said we’d had a coffee and a chat and then she’d left. But she’s fully conscious now and she’s told them she can’t really remember what happened.’