by Emma Curtis
Instead of turning left towards Old Street, I walk round the block to the alleyway at the back of the buildings and stand in the shadow of the terrace, concealed by the industrial wastepaper bins, and wait. To distract myself I think through my storyboard, frame by frame, working out how many shots it’ll need, what sort of backgrounds. Everything I draw has to reflect Eddie’s words and move the message on.
Once the lights go out upstairs, I climb the metal steps and quietly let myself in. I’ve planned every detail, so that I won’t have to stop and think. A few of the monitors are still live, giving off a ghostly glow. A phone rings, the sound echoing through the empty room before it stops.
I tuck one of the notes under Finn’s keyboard so that only a tiny corner shows, then I go into Agnes’s office and sit down at her desk. I type the name of her cat into the password box. Ignatius. Incorrect. I try it again, this time substituting ‘1’s for the ‘i’s. It works, and I say a silent thank you to the God of Obvious Passwords then open the shared diary and click on December. On the twenty-second it says staff party. On the twenty-third it says David Somerset. But on the twenty-first Agnes has written: Felicity Somerset, so there was no wife waiting for him to come home that night. He had as much opportunity as Finn did. I close my eyes and breathe out.
Remembering to click back into January in case it doesn’t do it automatically, I close the diary, move to David’s office and place the envelope on his desk. I shift it this way and that, first propping it against his phone, then laying it flat on top of his closed laptop. Finally, I prop it up again. It feels more sinister that way. As I turn, the strip lights flicker into life, the fluorescent strips marching across the room. Startled, I don’t move for a second, and then I hear voices. David calling down to Chris.
‘Give me two minutes!’
19
Laura
I SPIN ROUND, my hand to my throat, looking for somewhere to hide. I have no reason to be in David’s office, no excuse up my sleeve. The room is oblong, with a window, a desk, and a sofa and two chairs arranged around a coffee table. There is no helpful cupboard to slip into, no adjoining door into Rebecca’s office. My palms are sweating as I duck down behind the sofa.
The door opens and closes behind him. He lifts the lid of his laptop and it illuminates the room. His fingers tap the keys. He swears to himself. The room goes still and my nerves tingle. I can feel him looking at the envelope, feel his curiosity. The radiator I’m pressed against is going off but is still warm enough to make me sweat under my coat, and the dust on the fabric of the chair tickles my nose. I hang on to every nerve, every fibre, willing my body to control itself. In the silence the seal rips, he pulls the paper out and unfolds it. I imagine his initial bewilderment as he reads my words.
‘What the fuck?’
There’s a noise that sounds like a stifled groan and a thump that could be the side of his fist hitting the wall. I wince and screw up my face.
‘Christ.’
He walks to the door, opens it and looks out. Then he goes to the window and parts the blinds.
Time stands still. His shoes shuffle and his chair castors rotate against the hard floor as he sits down. A drawer opens and slams, and then, finally, he snaps his laptop shut and gets up. His phone beeps. He swears again, tapping out a reply as he crosses the room to the window. He leans against it. If he looked to the side he would see something, a section of shoulder, the heel of my boot, a part of me at least, crouched and trembling like a petrified dog.
And then he’s gone. As soon as the lights go out, I crawl from my hiding place and watch him through the blind. His car lights flash and he gets in and reverses with a shriek of tyres. My breathing is ragged, my fingernails have dug so hard into my palms that they have left small indentations like elongated dashes: like Morse code. He’s gone, but there is still a light on in the stairwell and I hear lumbering steps. I dash across the room to the terrace and let myself out then crouch in the shadows under the fire escape until I’m certain Chris is back behind his desk. Finally, I go home.
20
Rebecca
DAVID LIES ON his front on her bed in the darkness, his face turned towards her. He is naked, and his arms are stretched across the pillows as he drowses. Rebecca is on her side, her elbow crooked under her head, lazily observing him. After a while he opens his eyes and smiles.
He arrived later than she anticipated, leaving her twiddling her thumbs for an hour. In order to have a convincing alibi for Felicity, he had gone for a drink with Paul, but he stayed longer than he meant to. Paul’s fault, he said, but the truth is, he doesn’t want to have that talk. And, so far, they haven’t, and she’s not going to. Why waste their precious hour? She said her piece the other night and has since cooled off, and now she’s showing him that there’s no pressure, that everything’s fine. She was just having a moment. Probably PMT. David believes it, and the question of their relationship has, yet again, been brushed under the carpet.
‘Time?’
She glances at her bedside clock, although she doesn’t need to. She has been watching it for the last half hour, the minutes turning over too fast, while she silently urges his sperm on. If she could have managed it without the worry that David might wake up and want to know what she was doing, she would have stood on her head. ‘Just gone ten.’
He groans and rolls on to his back, scratches his balls through the sheet and then pulls her hand to his lips and kisses it. Rebecca takes his hands, placing them on her breasts. He caresses her nipples and she sighs.
‘Gotta go.’ He extracts himself, disappearing into the bathroom.
She listens to him shower while she slips into her cashmere pyjamas. Her relationship with what she’s doing goes through its ups and downs and guilt is never far beneath the surface. When she gets pregnant, nothing will ever be the same for any of them.
She takes the glasses into the kitchen and potters around, wiping the surfaces, disposing of the remains of their Deliveroo supper and filling the dishwasher.
David is shouting. She stops what she’s doing and listens. He shouts to himself in the shower when he’s under stress. Felicity laughs about it, but then she doesn’t work with him. He shouts things like ‘Bastard!’ and ‘You little shit!’ When he is tense, so is she, particularly if it has anything to do with the business.
He comes out of the bathroom, smelling clean. He keeps the same soap and shampoo here as he does at home, the same toothpaste and antiperspirant, but Rebecca sometimes wonders if Felicity doesn’t suspect. She knows she would.
‘Do you think I’m a good person?’ he says suddenly. His eyes are cast down, his long lashes curling away from his cheek.
‘In what way?’
‘Thanks for the overwhelming vote of confidence.’
‘Don’t be childish. What do you mean by good? Being nice to the elderly? You get points for that. But being unfaithful to your wife loses you a few. I don’t think you are particularly nice. I think you’re self-serving and attention-seeking. But I also think you are extremely sexy, I love being with you, you’re great in bed and you make me laugh.’
‘But do you think other people like me, or just want to please me? What do they say about me behind my back?’
‘Bloody hell, you’re a needy bastard sometimes. I don’t know what they say, but I do know that you’re respected, and your staff are loyal. What more do you want?’
She wants to embrace him, but he drops his keys, takes hold of her wrists and holds her at a safe distance. She pouts, but she backs off. He looks as though he’s about to say something, his expression mellowing, but then he changes his mind and lifts his hand in farewell.
Rebecca puts on some music. Vaughan Williams. Perfect. She rolls back the soft white rug from the sitting-room floor. The candles are already lit, but she relocates them to the side of the room, out of the way, and then she dances, letting her body flow, stretching and arching, pirouetting so that her hair fans out. She uses her hips and her breasts, her hands and
fingers. Every bit of her.
She doesn’t close the curtains. She likes the idea that the people over the gardens can see her. Maybe there are some for whom this is a regular source of entertainment. Maybe they get their friends round to watch the mad woman dancing out her despair. Maybe there’s a guy who masturbates. Let him.
21
Laura
THE FOLLOWING MORNING, I get in early. I am numb with fear, wishing I hadn’t done it, not quite believing that I was brave enough, thinking that perhaps it was stupidity, not courage. If David hadn’t already read his message, I might well have removed them both. I am tempted to put my coat back on and never darken the Gunner Munro doorstep again, but I can’t leave like this, throwing everything in the air and not caring where it lands. My exit needs to be managed in a way that will help me, not put the kibosh on my career. I won’t allow him to do that to me.
I start work, but I can’t sit still, and every time I hear someone come in, I tense. How will David and Finn behave this morning? Shame makes people defensive and angry; it doesn’t necessarily lead them to put things right. Nowadays people are constantly shamed on social media; for infidelity, for putting on weight, for not recycling, for being different. So much of it goes on that it feels as though its currency has been devalued. So, will he care? Does he even believe he’s done anything to be ashamed of? Oh God, I hope so. I hope he fears for his job.
Am I over-thinking this? If I had talked to Isabel about it at Christmas, what would her advice have been? To go straight to the police? Well, it’s too late for that now.
I’m making coffee, feeling unpleasantly on edge, starting every time the door opens, when Bettina arrives.
‘Do you want anything?’ I ask, rummaging through the variety of capsules.
‘Tea, thanks.’
Something’s wrong. Even I, in my current state, can see that. She barely acknowledges me until I set her drink down on the desk, then she presses the edge of her sleeve to her eyes. Behind me the door to the stairwell opens and someone shouts a good morning. He takes off his coat and boots up his computer. We both ignore him.
‘Do you want to come into my office? Eddie isn’t in yet.’ Frankly, I’m glad of the distraction.
Bettina nods, and follows me. She goes to the window and peers out. Like she’s waiting for someone to arrive.
‘What’s happened?’ I ask.
She shrugs and blows her nose again. ‘I’ve been so stupid, and now I think I might have to leave.’
‘Oh, Bettina. Are you still worried about getting the time mixed up? They’ve already forgotten about it. You apologized and put it right; no one’s going to hold it against you.’
She hangs her head and fiddles with the neckline of her dress. ‘It’s not about that.’
‘What is it about then?’
‘I slept with Finn after the Christmas party.’ Her hair has fallen forward, and she peers at me through her curls. ‘And now he doesn’t want to know and it’s really awkward. He won’t even look at me, let alone talk to me.’
I stop breathing; my head is roaring. I put my hand on the back of my chair to support myself, but it rolls away, and I almost go with it. Bettina is too wrapped up in herself to notice.
‘Before Christmas, Rebecca was hinting that I might get a permanent job. I really want it, but now David thinks I’m useless and Finn won’t even look at me.’
At this she bursts into tears, but all I can do is twitch. If I stand at a certain angle, I can see the door to the stairs opening and closing. I have to get that note back and I have to do it quickly, but I don’t want to look heartless, leaving a tearful woman alone in my office.
‘You won’t tell anyone, will you?’
The gaze she throws at me is beseeching and I shake my head.
‘Of course not.’
‘Could you do me a huge favour? Could you get my bag? It’s got my make-up in it. I can repair the damage in here …’ She hesitates. ‘If you don’t mind.’
I breathe out. ‘I don’t mind.’
The main room has filled up, and although there’s no one sitting at Finn’s desk, his jacket is hanging over the back of his chair and there’s a takeaway coffee touching the edge of the note. I glance round nervously. He could be the man chatting to Agnes outside David’s office. I just don’t know.
I walk up to his desk and linger. Graham drags his eyes off his screen to look at me. I have no idea what to do but I don’t have long; maybe only a few seconds.
‘Can I borrow that pen?’ I say, leaning across the desk and knocking my hand against Finn’s coffee. The effect is more dramatic than I had expected. It gets everywhere.
‘Jesus!’ Graham jerks his chair backwards.
‘Oh God, I’m so sorry. I don’t know how that happened.’
‘Well, look what you’re bloody doing next time.’
He starts dabbing at the coffee with a screen wipe. I pick up the cup and take the note while he’s distracted.
‘I’ll find something to mop it up,’ I say, making my escape.
I grab a J-cloth from the cleaners’ cupboard but by the time I’ve got back, Agnes, ever efficient and unflappable, has the situation and a roll of kitchen towel in hand. There’s a man in a stripy shirt standing behind the chair and, at a guess, it’s Finn. I back away, and he frowns. I mouth an apology and hurry back to Bettina, grabbing her bag on the way.
She looks up with wounded eyes as I hand her the bag.
‘I don’t want to leave,’ she says.
I sit on the corner of my desk and make her look at me. ‘Bettina, listen. You’ve done nothing wrong. He’s an arsehole, but that does not mean you leave. It means the opposite. Don’t let a man dictate what you do. You are brilliant, and beautiful, and you have a career ahead of you. So, hold your head up high, ignore Finn Broadbent, and dig your heels in.’
Only after she’s gone do I allow myself to accept what has seemed so improbable. If it wasn’t Finn, it was David. My boss. The man I’ve looked up to for three years. He’s the man who makes things happen, the genie who creates the magic. He has charisma and he’s generous. I’ve seen him in the evening, talking to the cleaners, a hand patting an arm, a sympathetic smile as they tell him about their problems. He knows all their names and family circumstances. He is the last person I would have thought … but you never know with people, do you? David has the confidence to take a risk and the arrogance to think he’d be safe; maybe even to convince himself he’d done nothing wrong.
He knows who sent that note. He knows it’s me. What will he do? Maybe he’ll call my bluff and do nothing at all.
Someone comes into the office and I jump. Eddie says, ‘Hi, mate,’ which isn’t much use to me. And then he gets up and walks out, mumbling something about needing to talk to Finn. I watch him go in horror, wondering what he’s doing, who he’s leaving me with.
‘Just touching base,’ he says unhelpfully.
I look at his mouth. He’s smiling. I search for other clues. His hair is brown. He’s holding a sheaf of papers in his hand.
‘What do you need?’
This is my reliable fallback question. If it goes beyond this, it becomes farcical and my only tactic is a sudden, bursting need to use the loo, or see Rebecca. To leave the room at any rate.
Encouraged, he steps forward. ‘I’ve been going through CVs and it’s doing my head in. I’m sure they’re great, but no one can replace Guy. How will I know if they share my sense of humour, or if I can be in the same space as them for more than five minutes? What if I get it wrong?’
It’s Jamie. I take a reading of my response to him. I am happy that he is in the room with me. I feel warmth towards him. I remember being in his arms, pressed against the bar, kissing. I ask myself if I would do that again. I don’t know. Certainly not now.
‘Would you like me to look through them?’
‘Would you? That would be fantastic. But only if you have time.’
I don’t, but I’m grateful that
the awkwardness is officially over. I suspect that leaving the room was Eddie’s idea of tact. I hold out my hand and he passes over the CVs and hovers.
I smile. ‘I’ll come and find you when I’ve read them.’
He blushes. ‘Oh. OK. Well, thanks.’
I feel a depressing sense of lethargy this afternoon. I know that it’s my own fault; I haven’t exercised since the incident. Normally I run on the Heath at the weekend, and, during the week, because it doesn’t feel safe after dark, I go to the sports centre and do a class. There’s a Spanish woman there who I’ve been slowly getting to know. She has a fringe and wears her hair in a thick plait that falls to her coccyx. It isn’t a friendship, as such, but it is a connection. Now the thought of connecting with anyone makes me want to hide under the covers. My routine has been broken.
David did this to me.
I’m trying to concentrate but the lines of my drawings keep blurring until, out of frustration, I push them away and lean back in my chair, yawning. My bones and muscles feel heavy and achy; perhaps I’ve caught Jamie’s bug.
Behind me the door opens, and three men crowd into our little room. One of them is Eddie, one is Finn, because I recognize his stripy shirt. Having misjudged him so badly, I am nervous around him, terrified that he knows what’s going on in my head. Even though it doesn’t matter, because he didn’t find out, I still feel embarrassed. I’ve pictured myself in bed with him, after all. I tried to find things that tied him neatly to that person. I studied his hair and ears, his neck and hands. I stared at him whenever I thought he wouldn’t notice. He must have been aware of my scrutiny at times. It makes me feel hot and clammy just wondering what he thinks of me.
The other, I’m not sure. I glance up at them, then pull my sketchpad back and hunch over it. They are kidding about and I’m not in the mood.
Eddie sits down. Finn leans against the windowsill and folds his arms. The third guy inspects our shelves. I think it’s Graham. All that manly banter grates on my nerves, and I wish they would go. Their presence, the smell of them and their sheer physicality, is making me claustrophobic.