by Emma Curtis
‘I’m working, sweetheart. I thought we were a team.’
‘Yup. With you as the captain calling the shots. Sorry. I’m not playing.’
‘Georgie doesn’t mean to be rude. She’s confused.’
‘Uh-uh. There are some things your grandmother is not in the slightest bit confused about, and top of the list is me. I didn’t tell you, because I didn’t want to upset you, but last time I came down, she spat at me.’
Rebecca flinches. How awful.
‘Spat,’ David says. ‘Jesus. That’s not on. I’ll have a word with her.’
‘It’ll go in one ear and out the other. What pisses me off is that when I inconvenience myself and the children and dash all the way over here without you, she accuses me of keeping you from her, as though you’re ten years old and it’s a custody battle.’
‘Maybe there’s something in that. Maybe you being here reminds her of when they had to fight my father’s parents for me.’
‘You are joking, aren’t you?’
‘Of course I am, Lissy darling. Help me out here. They aren’t going to be around for ever. Come twice a week, that way we can support the carers and make them feel appreciated. Then maybe they won’t keep walking out.’
‘No. Sorry,’ Felicity responds. ‘Your grandmother might be losing her marbles, but she’s physically healthy. She could go on for years. I spend my life thinking about you and the kids, and them. I want to think about myself for a change.’
‘I do understand, but it’s putting me under a shedload of pressure. I’m asking for your help here.’
‘What do you want, David? A wife or a PA?’
‘A wife who supports me, of course.’
‘Hm. Well, I’d like a husband who fucks me. Of course. But we don’t always get what we want.’
Rebecca lifts her hand to her mouth to hide her smile, her eyes widening. Good on her. She waits, then when Felicity calls to the boys, she judges it safe to descend.
David looks up, his brow knitting. They lock eyes and she gives a little shrug. He deserved that, and he knows it. She is perfectly willing to back Felicity up. He is a frustrating man. Other people’s problems don’t matter to him. He lives in the bubble that is David Gunner’s charmed life and refuses to acknowledge the impact that that has on his family, crashing blithely through other people’s concerns, other people’s distress, as if by not stopping, he renders his behaviour harmless.
He touches her hand as she passes him, the tips of their fingers glancing, sending an electric current through her skin.
28
Laura
‘I NEED TO tell you something.’
It’s Jamie and he’s holding the CVs with my Post-it notes, covered in scrawls, still attached. I’m zipping up my coat, ready to cycle home. It’s only five, but I have no reason to stay late any more.
What had started out as a search for Guy’s replacement has become a search for mine. There are two candidates who have potential, in my view, but nothing will happen. HR are merely going through the motions because, legally, they have to advertise the role beyond the company. Jamie has got the job already and he knows it. It doesn’t make me feel particularly charitable towards him.
I frown. ‘What?’
He takes a deep breath and puts the pages down, resting his hand on them. ‘Rebecca and David have asked me to carry on working with Eddie on the GZ account.’ He pauses. ‘And then to become his partner.’
‘Congratulations.’
‘I’m sorry.’ Jamie scratches his head. ‘It’s been difficult without Guy. I’ve felt like I’m floating around. It’s hard to explain.’
‘You don’t have to. I understand.’ I pull myself together. He isn’t taking any pleasure in this. He’s found himself in a difficult position through no fault of his own. ‘I already assumed you would be filling my shoes. They would have been mad not to offer it to you.’
He looks at me for a moment. ‘Thanks. That’s kind of you but I don’t deserve it. Guy was my friend and now he’s gone, and I’m moving on without him, doing the stuff he would love to be doing, having a career, having fun. I can’t lie: when they suggested I take over from you, see how Eddie and I got along, I said yes immediately. I didn’t need to think about it. But I swear to God, I wish you hadn’t resigned.’
‘Who told you I resigned?’ The speed news travels round this place is brutal.
‘Sorry, wasn’t I meant to know? Eddie said something. He’s really cut up about it.’
He means I’ve let him down. It’s true, but I can’t work in this building any more. Being here makes me feel as though I’m stuck in a small room with a spider. And the spider is watching me, stripping me and knowing me. David. It makes me feel sick.
‘He’ll get over it.’
I’m still standing in front of his desk, and he’s sitting, with his chair pushed back and his arms folded across his chest.
‘OK,’ I add, when he doesn’t speak. ‘Well, I guess you won’t be needing those.’ I point at the CVs.
‘Sorry. I wasted your time.’ He sits up and shuffles them together and pushes them into a drawer. ‘That is, if you won’t change your mind.’
‘I won’t.’
‘Will you come out for a drink with me?’
‘I don’t think … Look, I’m sorry, Jamie, but I can’t.’
The offer sounded half-hearted; part of his apology, a no-hard-feelings kind of invitation. On the other hand, it could just as easily have been fear of rejection. I look at him, try to recognize what I found so attractive when I was drunk, but all I see is a collection of features that spark no response. I need to get to know someone before I can recognize the intangible in them, the quirks and the fleeting gestures and expressions, and even then …
I went out with a bloke a couple of years ago. I knew him because his hair was incredibly curly, so much so that it bounced off his head. I could see him at a distance, pick him out in a crowd. That made me feel happy and safe. Then he came back from a weekend away and he had cut his hair, a buzz-cut that took it down to his skull. I didn’t recognize him amongst the group of friends at the bar where we had agreed to meet, even though we had been inseparable for six months. We split up. Perhaps before Christmas I would have made the effort with Jamie, but I can’t now. I can’t undo what has been done or take away the self-disgust and the hurt. I don’t know who I can trust any more.
‘See you tomorrow then,’ he says.
‘Yeah. See you.’
29
Laura
Police are still appealing for witnesses to the hit-and-run that took the life of a twenty-seven-year-old man at the end of last year. Guy Holt was cycling back to his home in Chalk Farm after attending a party in Hackney when he was knocked down and left for dead by an unknown driver. If you were in the Hawley Road area between one and two a.m. on the morning of the twenty-third of December, and think you saw or heard anything, Thames Valley Police would like to hear from you. Guy worked for advertising agency Gunner Munro. His devastated parents described him as a cheerful, generous young man with everything to live for.
Poor Guy, and his poor family. The police have talked to everyone at work and cleared us all. I hope they find the bastard who did it. Some idiot drunk, driving home from their own Christmas party, no doubt. What a waste.
I switch off the television and rub my face, tired after a long day of trying to look as though I don’t mind sitting between Graham and the wall. I get up and pace to the window. The night is crisp; windscreens already frosting over. In the sky, the brighter stars battle through London’s light pollution to twinkle at me. I’ll be twenty-nine this Saturday. That’s in two days’ time. I have nothing arranged and my heart sinks at the thought of my mother’s birthday card flopping on to the scruffy welcome mat, along with the glossy flyers for pizzas and estate agents.
Downstairs, Phoebe’s little boy has been crying for a while. He always does at this time of the evening. When he finally quietens down, I imagin
e him and Phoebe snuggled up on a nursing chair with a blanket enveloping them both, Phoebe turning the pages of a picture book or quietly singing to him as his eyes grow heavy. The Hills won’t be here for ever. They’ll want their own front door, a little house to grow their family in. But I hope they stay a while longer because I like knowing they’re there.
I switch the television back on but there’s nothing to tempt me. The big productions are daunting. I can’t watch Game of Thrones because I haven’t the slightest idea who anyone is, except of course the dwarf, my favourite character. In fact, anything with dirty faces, leather outfits and swords and shields is impossible. I prefer limited casts, using actors who have different hairstyles and ethnicity. Dramas involving police in uniform are out.
I get a message from Phoebe. Glass of wine, neighbour? On my own till 8 ☹
I start to type, Sorry, I’ve got loads of work to catch up on. Then I delete one letter at a time and start again. See you in a minute.
Before Phoebe switches the television off I catch a repeat of the feature about Guy. She’s like Bettina, in that she has an over-developed interest in other people’s lives and, discovering I worked with Guy, she’s taken an interest.
‘How well did you know him?’ she asks as she pours me a glass of white wine. She empties a packet of salt-and-vinegar crisps into a bowl and puts it on the table.
‘Reasonably. He’d only been with us a short time, but he was lovely. Everyone liked him.’
‘Only takes one piss artist to put his foot down on the accelerator … You can bet it was a young bloke. I read something online.’ She lowers her voice to an unnecessary whisper. ‘They’re saying the driver shifted him to the side of the road before driving on. If he had called an ambulance straight away, he would have had a chance.’
To my horror, my eyes well over. I dash away my tears with the back of my hand.
Phoebe jumps up and runs out of the room, coming back with a box of tissues. I give her a watery smile as I blow my nose and dab at my eyes.
‘Sorry. I didn’t mean to start blubbing all over you. It’s been a rubbish day.’ I take a deep breath, crumple the hanky and push it under my sleeve. ‘I miss my hair.’
She pulls on her bottom lip with her teeth as she looks at me. ‘It’s already grown out a little.’
I laugh, touching it automatically. ‘You know what’s weird? When I go to bed, I can’t bear the feeling of cold air on my ears, so I’ve been wearing a woolly hat pulled down over them. It’s a good thing I don’t have a boyfriend.’ The tears and snot start threatening again. I drink some wine and eat a handful of crisps.
‘I don’t know what to say. I wish I could make it better.’
I don’t want her to feel guilty for being happy. ‘Don’t be silly. You’ve made it better by inviting me over. I don’t want you to think I’m sitting up there like Miss Havisham, destined to be alone all my life. It’s just that things have happened that have tripped me up and I haven’t coped as well as I should have.’
‘Do you want to talk about it?’
‘I can’t. I’m sorry.’
‘Someone hurt you,’ she says.
‘In a way. But it’s over now.’ I smile to reassure her. ‘I might go home this weekend. It’s my birthday on Saturday and I don’t want to spend it gazing at my navel.’
‘Come to us,’ she says eagerly. ‘We’re having a few friends round for supper. Very casual.’
‘Oh no. Don’t worry. I don’t want to impose.’
‘You wouldn’t be imposing. I promise we won’t talk about babies all night. Joe works in advertising as well, so you’ll have something in common. Say yes. Go on.’
‘On one condition.’
She raises her eyebrows.
‘You let me babysit Noah once in a while, so the two of you can get out.’
Phoebe grins and raises her hand in a high-five. ‘Done.’
We hear a key in the lock and Phoebe and I both scrape our chairs back and jump up. I take my wine glass to the sink and tip out the dregs. Elliot comes in, wind-blown and smiling. He greets me and kisses his wife. I leave, because that’s the unspoken rule. This is their precious time together.
As I close the door behind me, I wait in the chilly hallway long enough to overhear him say, ‘Thank God she left. I thought I was going to have to make conversation with her.’
I don’t wait for Phoebe’s response. She’s going to have to tell him that, far from distancing herself from her proven-to-be-unhinged neighbour, she’s asked her over for supper on Saturday evening.
30
Laura
DAVID GUNNER IS standing in the doorway of his office watching us, his gaze sweeping the media floor. I’m watching him too, whenever I can. And I don’t care if he knows it.
Bettina and I have had a busy morning identifying venues that can pencil us in for three possible dates, then we get going on caterers and ticking off boring details like the Temporary Alcohol Licence. Graham is out, so Bettina is sitting at his desk.
I need to get hold of a good set designer, someone who’ll do me a deal because they want to get on. A lighting designer as well. Once I’ve pinned down a date where everything aligns, I start on Bettina’s list of potential invitees. I’m keen to get representatives from the trendiest bars in the country along. Not just the London pubs and clubs, but from some of the major cities: Manchester, Liverpool and Birmingham. These are the men and women who are going to make this campaign fly. Their recommendations to customers will count for more than any poster.
I’m doing my best to appear enthusiastic. I’ve loved working with Eddie, I’ve relished the pace at which everything moves and enjoyed those moments when I’ve presented my drawings and seen faces light up, because I’ve understood what’s in their minds and transferred it to paper. But that’s all gone. Even so, for my own sake and for Rebecca’s, I’m determined to leave on a positive note.
‘God,’ Bettina tuts. ‘This desk is sticky.’
‘Umm,’ I respond, distracted. David is still there, leaning on his door frame, talking to one of the blokes now. I try not to scratch but the urge festers, like a little imp in my mind. I discreetly rub the backs of my hands against the rough nap of my black jeans. It feels like David is under my skin. Maybe that’s the point. He’s reminding me of his physicality, gloating, exalting. Thinking he’s unassailable.
Bettina picks at the elbow of her sleeve, wrinkling her nose. ‘I don’t know what he’s been doing.’
‘If you’re that bothered about it, go and get a cloth.’
‘I’m not cleaning up his mess.’
‘I thought he was a friend of yours. Didn’t he get you the job?’
She clicks on the Internet and types something in then scrolls down and picks a website. ‘Yeah, he did. But I’m friends with his stepsister, not him. I’ve known her since nursery and our mums are mates. I don’t like Graham. Oh, this place looks great.’
I lean over. ‘The Studio. Yeah, looks interesting. Do you want to take a look? We could go later if you like. Give them a ring.’
‘Bettina!’
Rebecca is standing in the doorway to her office, scanning the room.
Bettina pushes the chair back with her feet and spins round. ‘Here we go. What do you think she wants?’
I’m on the phone when, minutes later, she reaches for her bag. I put my hand over the speaker and mouth, ‘Where are you going?’
‘Rebecca left a USB stick at home. There’s a taxi waiting downstairs. I won’t be long, I’m only going to run in and out.’
When she’s gone, David wanders over and stands behind me. He puts his hand on my shoulder and leans forward, peering at the screen. I tense from the top of my head to the tips of my toes. I can smell the coffee on his breath. He taps the screen.
‘This guy.’
‘Adam Powell? What about him.’ Adam used to work for Gunner Munro, until he left a year ago, and started his own agency. It was no worse than David and Rebecca
had done.
‘I can’t stand the little shit but pull out all the stops to make sure he comes.’
In my head, a tight voice is saying, Take. Your. Hand. Off. Me.
At lunch, despite the cold, I go out on to the terrace. I’m not hungry and haven’t bought myself a sandwich or made a packed lunch, but I’ve taken some chocolate from the enormous old-fashioned jar that David keeps filled. He’s always done that, and I used to think it was sweet, him trying to endear himself to his workers.
Bettina joins me, and we sit on the bench, huddled in our coats.
‘You’ll never guess what I found out this morning.’
I’m in no mood for office gossip, but Bettina doesn’t need encouragement. She’s like a squirrel, finding her nuts and burying them everywhere. Little treasures for her to guzzle later.
‘You won’t believe it.’
‘No, I probably won’t.’
‘David and Rebecca are having an affair.’
My chocolate goes down the wrong way. Bettina pats me firmly on the back and I flap my hand, signalling her to stop.
‘What are you talking about? They can’t be.’
I would have known. There is no way they could have hidden something like that.
‘No, they are. I swear.’
I shuffle round on the wooden bench and stare at her. ‘Are you sure it’s not Chinese whispers?’
I shuffle to shake her. Her face falls. She doesn’t like my expression. I’m taking what she sees as a bit of fun far too seriously.
‘It’s true.’ Her voice is sulky.
I smile to try and get her back. She starts to stand up, but I hang on to her jacket. ‘How do you know?’
She sighs and sits down again, glancing at the door to check no one’s coming. Her voice drops to a conspiratorial whisper. ‘When I went to her flat this morning, I found something.’
‘I thought you were just running in and out.’