by Emma Curtis
10
Rebecca
CONSIGNED TO THE back seat of felicity Gunner’s car while David talks to Paige Adler in New York, by turns charming, voluble and cajoling, Rebecca sits with one hand clasped over the other. The interior smells of dog and old fruit – there is a desiccated apple core rolling around the footwell – and Daisy’s car seat could do with being hoovered out. Every so often Felicity flicks a glance at her in the rear-view mirror, smiling conspiratorially as if they are both in on the fond joke: that David is a snake-charmer, shamelessly flattering producers and clients into offering their business, better rates, an introduction to someone important.
‘We’re good.’ David wraps things up. ‘Let’s talk about it some more when you come over. You’re going to love Eddie and Laura. This is going to be a fantastic working partnership. My guys are the best … Fuck,’ he says, barely waiting for the connection to break. ‘That woman is a pain in the arse.’
‘Prickly?’
‘A porcupine. Are we nearly there?’
He taps his fingertips on his thighs. It’s a sign of stress when he becomes hyper like that. She wonders, with a flash of jealousy, whether he and Felicity will have sex tonight. He’s told her that they don’t do it, but she doesn’t believe him; it’s a lie they both buy into. Small children make it harder to find time and easier to make excuses, but they must do it occasionally, or Felicity would have left him, surely.
She looks out at the bustling thirties suburb. She has never been to this part of London and isn’t even convinced it counts as London.
‘Ten minutes,’ Felicity says.
David grunts. He is tired; they all are. It’s been a difficult first week back. They haven’t spoken much, partly out of respect for the occasion, partly because David and Rebecca, like doctors, are never off duty, always focused on the job. She feels sorry for Felicity, who after all didn’t know Guy and is basically acting as their chauffeur.
She slips her phone into her bag and leans forward. ‘So how was your Christmas?’
They have pulled up at traffic lights, and Felicity turns to her with a grimace. ‘Mixed. Sad, of course, but we made an effort for the children. It was going well, until we had to drop everything and shoot over to Buckinghamshire.’
‘Oh dear. What happened?’
‘Georgie managed to offend the latest carer, so they were on their own. Honestly, Rebecca, I was so shocked. Tony was covered in bruises. He says he fell, but it’s more like Georgie’s been taking out her frustration on him.’
‘Don’t go on,’ David says impatiently. ‘She can’t help it.’
In the mirror, Rebecca sees Felicity frown, hurt. She knows all this, because David has told her. Dementia has made David’s grandfather sweet and docile, but it’s made Georgie filthy-tempered and borderline violent. He is devoted to the grandparents who brought him up after the death of his parents, but he isn’t coping brilliantly with their decline.
There’s something about David, something different. He seems entirely unconcerned that his wife and mistress are in the same car at the same time. It’s happened before, of course; Felicity and Rebecca are old friends. She’s accompanied them to the theatre, she’s been to openings at art galleries, exhibitions by artists whose work Felicity collects, she’s even been on holiday with them, so what’s different?
She hadn’t expected a frisson; they are too used to this to let anything like that happen, and they are at a funeral, after all; but she had anticipated a glance from him at least, something that acknowledged the unusualness of the situation. It makes her feel insecure.
They crawl up Ruislip high street, spot the church and the car park beyond it.
‘Are we late, do you think?’ Felicity asks.
‘No, look, there’s Agnes.’ David lowers the window as their PA hurries over and ducks down.
‘Oh good,’ she says. ‘You’re here. I didn’t fancy going in on my own. This is so awful. Poor Guy. And what his parents must be going through.’ She presses her hand to her bosom.
Felicity finds a space. They wait while David bangs off a quick email, reluctant to get out of the warm car. As they walk across the road, Rebecca studies Felicity. She is wearing a belted suede coat over her dress, an extravagantly long woolly scarf, a bobble hat and brown leather boots. Rebecca gave her the hat and scarf several years ago and is pleased she’s still wearing them. Felicity reaches for David’s hand, but he lifts it, sweeping his fingers through his hair.
‘I still can’t believe this has happened,’ he says. ‘Poor sod.’
‘Dreadful,’ Agnes says, hurrying along beside them.
The church has a pretty lychgate and a path leading up to the porch. There are snowdrops in the grass. They remind Rebecca of her grandmother and make her feel sad and think about renewal and that makes her think about babies. Once inside she scans the heads. Laura looks at her blankly, then smiles. Jamie has come, although he doesn’t look well. She’s pleased that he’s made it, but sincerely hopes he’s sensible enough to avoid physical contact with anyone.
There’s only room for three more on their pew, so Agnes slides into a space behind them. David reaches over Felicity and Rebecca to shake a couple of hands, his mouth pulled down at the corners.
Rebecca likes churches, likes their smell of wax polish and flowers. Because it’s winter the displays are dominated by sludgy, mossy greens and calming shades of white; colours she is particularly fond of. She feels a sense of peace descend as the vicar begins his eulogy, the sound of muffled weeping, of noses blown and the occasional explosion of a suppressed cough, bringing tears to her eyes. Beside her, Felicity leans her blonde head against David’s shoulder. Rebecca glances down at their linked hands and then away, quickly, back to the vicar.
As they file out to a choir singing a version of Mozart’s Lacrimosa that moves Rebecca more than she could ever express, she checks who is with them from Gunner Munro. She counts thirteen, the colleagues who were closest to Guy. Everyone apart from his immediate family looks so young. How bleak it is.
She spots Laura and Eddie amongst a group who have moved out of the way, on to the grass. Laura is as white as a sheet, looking stunned and not altogether present. Lack of animation makes her appear like a character in a painting, someone in the deep background, her features not properly realized. Come to think of it, she’s been a bit off all week. Jamie looks miserable. She and David have talked about him, trying to figure out the best way forward.
She catches up with Felicity, understanding that her friend is feeling surplus. ‘How’s David coping?’
Felicity shrugs. ‘You know what he’s like. He’s been up and down. He spent Christmas either in tears or behaving like some sort of manic puppy.’
They both glance at him. He is standing with Guy’s ashen-faced mother, holding her hands clasped between his own. Under the warm glow of his attention the colour is slowly returning to her face. Felicity gives a wan smile.
‘It’s a horrible, shocking thing to have happened,’ Rebecca says. ‘Guy is going to be tough to replace. But we’ll deal with it. Gunner Munro is healthy. We’re a family.’
‘I wish I worked,’ Felicity says suddenly. ‘I wish I was part of that side of David’s life and could help him more.’
‘You help him by being his wife, by giving him a happy and stable home. Men like David need that normality and you do a fantastic job and, from what he tells me, you’re an enormous help with Georgie and Tony.’
‘Jesus, Rebecca. Do you have to be so bloody patronizing?’
She apologizes. ‘All I mean is, he needs you.’
Felicity pauses, assessing her for sincerity. ‘I don’t have any choice.’ She rests her hand against the bark of a tree, then takes it away and brushes the damp from her fingertips. ‘He just assumes that I’ll look after them, drop everything to drive forty miles every time there’s an emergency. It disrupts Daisy’s routine. And frankly, they’re not my grandparents.’ She pauses. ‘Sorry. That sounds m
ean, doesn’t it? At any rate, it’s lovely to see you; we don’t see enough of each other. We should make a date.’
‘Darling, of course,’ Rebecca says smoothly. ‘Let me get back on track at work and I’ll give you a call.’
Felicity rummages through the junk in her bag for her phone. ‘No. Let’s do it now, or another three months will go by. We’ll do something on my birthday. Just the two of us, like the old days.’
‘Won’t David want to take you out for supper?’
‘We can do something during the day, a spa break. David will pay. You can give yourself one day off, can’t you?’
Rebecca grimaces. ‘I’m not sure. Let me see how things go.’
She tells herself it’s work, that without her, the place will fall apart, but really, it’s the idea of a day spent in Felicity’s company, wondering if there’s something more behind her friend’s request than a birthday treat; a day spent reading between the lines of everything Felicity says and watching her own words carefully. It doesn’t appeal.
Rebecca was the one who introduced Felicity to David, having met him when they were both working for the agency goliath, S&C. They left to start their own agency, taking with them, to their tiny Soho workspace, one of their former employer’s largest customers. It was ugly, but both she and David had thick skins and ruthless ambition. Back then, Rebecca had encouraged Felicity to go out with him even though his record with girlfriends was terrible. Why had she done that? She was seeing someone else at the time, but he hadn’t been important. Stupidly she hadn’t recognized her own feelings until it was too late.
Beside her, Felicity shivers. ‘I can do without going to the wake.’
‘We’ll just show our faces,’ Rebecca says. ‘Then we can go home.’
She tucks her arm through Felicity’s and leads her back to David, handing her over like she’s returning someone’s child. She looks into his eyes and something moves in their depths. A darkness she only ever sees when they’re by themselves. She’s relieved. It’s what she’s been waiting for; the glimpse beneath the façade he shows the world; the reminder that the truth of him is for her alone.
11
Laura
A MAN STOPS to talk to me. His hands are in his trouser pockets, his feet set apart. He has a thick scarf wrapped around his neck. He wants to look casual, but his body language is all wrong. He’s shy. That’s my assessment anyway.
‘Laura,’ he says. ‘How are you?’
‘Not great. What about you?’
He pulls a hanky out of his pocket, blows his reddened nose and apologizes.
I don’t know his face; his black suit looks like it might belong to his father or a taller brother. Is this someone I should know well? Or someone who works on a different floor? The fact that he’s here, at the funeral, means that he must have been good friends with Guy. It could be Jamie, but I never assume anything.
‘I spent most of Christmas in bed with flu.’
I breathe. OK. That’s one problem out of the way. On the other hand, I’m not ready for this. ‘So I heard. Poor you.’ Perhaps he won’t mention the Christmas party.
There are people milling around and his voice drops to a whisper. ‘Where did you disappear to? I went to get my scarf and when I came out of the club you had gone.’
I feel the flush creep up my neck. How weird to think I spent the evening with this man, that we kissed in dark corners, that we connected. If he had come home with me, how would we react to each other now? Probably with the same, toe-curling embarrassment.
‘Sorry. I was so drunk I could barely stand, and the cab was there and I kind of fell in.’
‘It was my fault for leaving you stranded. I didn’t have your number, otherwise I’d have sent you a text. I was worried about you.’
‘Sorry.’ I grimace. I’m apologizing too much. ‘I was out of it.’
He laughs. ‘No, I understand. I was only hurt for a moment. I was too far gone to worry about it.’ He hesitates. ‘I don’t suppose you fancy a meal? Or coffee or lunch? We could talk to each other without seeing double.’
I don’t say anything, and the silence expands into a bubble that won’t pop. I can’t say what I want to say, that I don’t recognize him now and will not recognize him next time he speaks to me. That I’m bruised and angry and no good to anyone. That there is only one thing I need, and that’s to know the truth.
‘I’m sorry,’ he says. ‘I just thought …’
‘There are things … I can’t …’ I start again. ‘I’m in a situation. I can’t get involved with anyone at the moment. I’m flattered that you asked me though.’
Then a woman appears, and my brain kicks in, clocking her grey hair and short stature, the shawl draped around her coat. It’s Agnes. Like a sheepdog herding its flock, she propels us towards the door.
‘I wish it could be different,’ I say to Jamie as I unwind my scarf and take off my coat.
He shrugs. ‘Don’t worry about it.’ Then he walks away from me.
I wish I could do the same, but there are so many people here, so many old school friends, uni friends and colleagues of Guy’s, so many aunts and uncles and cousins, that it’s impossible. The room is buzzing with conversation. I stand against the wall, nursing a glass of wine, a sandwich on a paper plate balanced precariously on the arm of the sofa beside me. I’m not certain which of the women is Guy’s mother and which of the men his father. I want to find them and offer my condolences, but even Jamie has melted into the crowd. I feel rude and inadequate. When someone catches my eye, I smile regretfully. But it’s not real. Everything about me feels false. I must seem cold.
While I’m contemplating leaving and trying to work out how I’m going to get from this pretty suburban house back to Ruislip station, a woman bears down on me. She’s blonde and slim, and she’s smiling. She’s obviously a relative, scooping up fragile-looking guests.
‘I’m Laura,’ I say. ‘I worked with Guy.’
‘We’ve met before.’ Her tone is clipped. ‘More than once. I’m Felicity Gunner. David’s wife?’
I blush, shaking my head at my stupidity. She had been wearing a woolly hat with a faux fur bobble in the church. ‘Of course you are. I’m so sorry. I should have worn my glasses.’
‘We’re going to make a move. Rebecca said you might like a lift? You live near us, don’t you? I’ve seen you running on the Heath. There’s room for one more body, if you don’t mind being squashed in the middle.’
It’s kind of her, but I turn the offer down. It would feel weird, driving off with my two bosses and leaving the others to make their way back on the Piccadilly line. Instead I tag along with my colleagues, managing somehow not to sit next to Jamie Buchanan, but not to look like I’m avoiding him either. That’s quite a feat when all the men are in black suits and overcoats. An echo of the immediate aftermath of the party makes me wince. I chat to Bettina and Agnes for most of the way. The journey takes for ever.
Back in my flat I sit down at the table in the window of my sitting-room-cum-kitchen and force my brain to think about GZ, but I can’t help wondering if one of the men who came today was him. David, Jamie, Eddie, Graham, Finn and Mike were all there. I log into Facebook and track them, but Bettina hasn’t tagged every face on every picture. None of them are a perfect fit, not when I stop to think. Both Eddie and Mike have beards. David, well I’m sure I’d have recognized him because of his energy, but I can’t rule him out. Jamie is well and truly out of the picture. Graham and Finn are young, brown-haired and similar in build, but that proves nothing.
In the cold light of day, I realize that there are things about all of them that could have signalled their identity; the way Graham rounds his shoulders and pokes his head forward, like a turtle; Finn with his public-school confidence and bred-in-the-bone assumption that people are always delighted to see him; David because of his Tiggerishness. That night, I wasn’t looking and anyway, pressed up against each other in the cab, it would have been even harder to run
my usual checklist: the hair and the ears, the presence or lack of a ring. The truth is, I was way too drunk by then to even think of it.
He is not important. I will get over this and move on.
Once I’ve found him, that is.
I flip open my sketchbook and start to draw. As soon as I focus, as soon as my pencil touches the paper and whisks that first line across it, I feel better. I have the ability to shut out the things I don’t like. It began as a way of shutting others out when I was too scared of slipping up to engage, but it’s second nature now. I sketch and think, rubbing out and starting again, googling images and chewing my bottom lip.
When I go to bed, my brain refuses to quieten. It goes off like a firework display; words and phrases, images and memories, zapping on synapses that seem supercharged. It’s as though I’ve drunk two cans of Red Bull. I don’t fall asleep until the small hours and I wake before my alarm, clawing at my fingers.
12
Laura
I PRESS SHARE on the file containing the drawings I’ve uploaded and lob a piece of screwed-up paper at Eddie.
‘Look at the folder,’ I say.
‘I’m already there.’
I open my emails and scroll through them, but I’m not really looking; I feel itchy with impatience. Rebecca and David are in a meeting upstairs with the senior account manager, and I need to use the opportunity to get into their shared diary. Eventually I swivel my chair and get up.
Eddie looks up from his screen. ‘Tea, if you’re making it.’
I roll my eyes, pick up a bunch of papers and leave the room, close the door behind me and wander casually past the desks, past Finn and Graham, past Bettina. I can see Agnes through the window in David’s door. There is no one in Rebecca’s office. I decide to brazen it out and go in. I put the papers on her desk, then nip round the other side and click her mouse. The screen lights up with a picture of a woman and three teenagers, carefully posed; outdoorsy, hair windblown, huge toothy smiles. Password. Abort.