by Mandy Lee
‘Mind if I sit with you for a minute?’
In an attempt to look cool and unruffled, I lean back, glance at Clive and wave towards the empty chair. ‘Why not?’
‘Lucy’s changing her outfit … doing her make-up … all that stuff.’ He circles a finger around his face, as if to indicate where ‘all that stuff’ should go, and takes a seat. ‘How are you doing?’ he asks briskly.
‘Fine.’
‘Seriously?’
‘Seriously. I’m eating fish finger sandwiches and drinking cheap wine. What’s not fine about that?’
He half-smiles, half-frowns, and then the next attack begins.
‘Look …’
I cut it short. ‘Don’t bother. Lucy’s already had a go and Lily Stupid Surname’s tried her best. I’m not changing my mind.’
Clive’s eyebrows seem to wiggle, and then his lips twitch: a sure fire sign of guilt.
‘Fair enough,’ he mutters.
‘And that’s the end of it,’ I mutter back, riled by the fact that the world and its dog seem determined to break down my defences today. It’s nothing less than a bombardment. But is it an organised manoeuvre? And is Dan behind it all? Sensing a flutter between my legs and another in my stomach, I press my thighs firmly together. I wouldn’t put it past him.
‘This is him, isn’t it?’ I demand. ‘He’s sending you in one at a time.’
‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’
‘Dan. This is his plan of attack.’
‘There is no plan of attack.’ He sits back. ‘Nobody’s sent any of us. Whatever Lucy’s said, that’s her business. As for Lily Stupid Surname, well she was at Dan’s earlier. She’s worried about him. She asked me where you lived and I told her. I’m sorry if she put you out. Nobody asked her to come round here. And as for me, I’m just the idiot who’s going out with your flatmate. I can’t stop seeing Lucy just because you and Dan aren’t together. And I’m sorry if it bothers you, but that’s a fact you’re going to have to deal with.’
Clamping his lips together, he widens his eyes, as if to say ‘so there’ … and I feel like a fool. I’ve been put firmly in my place by an accountant. Hardly knowing what to say next, I venture a quick ‘sorry’ and then set about staring at the fridge, the window, the toaster, anything to avoid making eye contact.
‘I’m not going to harangue you about this.’ He stands up and straightens his suit. ‘You’ll make up your own mind.’
Of course I will. In fact, I already have.
‘Now, do you need Lucy’s company tonight, or would you like me to take her off your hands?’
‘Please take her off my hands,’ I reply quickly. ‘And the sooner, the better.’ Because just like Marlene Dietrich, I want to be alone.
Right on cue, Lucy skitters into the kitchen, sporting another trademark flowery dress and a heavily made-up face.
‘Did you bring the bag, Clivey?’
‘Shit.’ He scratches his forehead.
‘What do you mean shit?’
‘I forgot. Sorry. I left it on the counter in his kitchen.’
Plonking her hands on her hips, Lucy scowls at him.
‘Clive, you need to go back and get it for her.’
‘I haven’t got time to go down to Lambeth and then come back up here. The traffic’s appalling. I’ll bring it over tomorrow.’
‘She needs it today.’ She turns to me. ‘Maya, you need it today, don’t you?’
‘I can cope without it.’
‘No, you can’t. What about your pills?’
I wince. Does she really have to mention that in front of Clive?
‘I’ve only got two more to take. Besides, I don’t need them any more.’
‘You might do.’ She gives me a knowing look. ‘Clive, she needs her pills. You don’t want her up the duff, do you?’
Before I can hold it back, a full-blown shout erupts from my mouth. ‘I don’t bloody care about the bloody pill!’ Swigging back another mouthful of wine, I decide that while it was certainly enjoyable, another full-blown shout just isn’t the way ahead. Instead, I take the deepest breath possible and resolve to keep calm.
‘Ah,’ Lucy drawls. ‘That’s why you’re being the bitch from hell.’ She mouths the word ‘period’ at Clive. He blushes slightly in return. ‘So, what about your mobile? You need your mobile.’
‘I can wait for it.’
‘No you can’t.’
‘Oh, just go and get on with your bloody life, Lucy.’
Refilling the wine glass, I look up just in time to see her mouth the word ‘menstruation.’ Clive blushes again.
‘I’m not on my sodding period,’ I snarl. ‘Not yet. So just shut up about it.’
‘I’m not leaving you alone while … you know …’
‘While what? I’m on my period?’
‘No. While … while he’s around.’
Referring to Ian Boyd just once in twenty-four hours is more than enough. And now she’s gone and done it again.
‘He’s gone.’
‘I wouldn’t be so sure of that.’ She narrows her eyes. At least I think she does. She’s been at it again with the ‘smoky-eyed’ look and it’s nigh on impossible to make out what’s going on. ‘I’m not leaving you unless I can contact you.’
‘I’m perfectly capable of looking after myself.’
‘Lucy,’ Clive interjects, tapping his watch. ‘We need to get to the Tate.’
‘The Tate?’
‘The Tate,’ he confirms. ‘I’m taking you to a party. It’s a big deal. Lots of movers and shakers in the art world. It’s your chance to do a bit of networking, but we need to be there for seven. A friend’s meeting us at the door. He’s got the tickets.’
‘Oh, Clivey.’ She clasps her hands to her chest. ‘Have you done this for me?’
‘Of course.’
While Clive touches Lucy’s cheek, and she gives him a sickly sweet smile, I wrestle with the compulsion to tell the pair of them to pack it in and show more respect for a woman who’s recently been dumped on by Cupid. In the end, I simply slump across the table.
‘Just bring it over later,’ I groan.
‘No,’ Lucy insists. ‘You need your mobile. If that Scottish psychopath’s back on the scene, I want to stay in touch.’
‘He’s not back on the scene.’ I think back to Friday night, to Ian Boyd’s unexpected reappearance in my life and his fight with Dan, and I shudder. After that little set-to, there’s no way he’s ever going to come near me again. ‘Just go the bloody party, Lucy, and pick up my handbag on the way home.’
‘No,’ she states emphatically.
‘We’ve got a front door. I can lock it, you know.’
She shakes her head.
‘So give me your phone,’ I press on. ‘I can call Clive if I need rescuing.’
‘No. You can’t work my ruddy phone. And besides, I might need it.’
‘Oh, for fuck’s sake,’ Clive growls, suddenly irritated. ‘I wangle tickets for the most prestigious art event of the year, and you’re pissing about? Lucy, come on.’
‘I’m not going.’
‘Okay, maybe Maya can come with us?’
Now this is getting out of hand. I’d like to launch myself at Lucy and man-handle her out of the front door. Instead, I stare at the cold fish finger sandwiches and moan: ‘Don’t be ridiculous.’
‘I’m not being ridiculous,’ Clive insists. ‘I’m pretty sure we can get you in, and we can swing by Dan’s on the way.’
My heart skips a whole gaggle of beats and I sit up straight, holding out a hand. ‘No. That’s not happening.’ Strangely, I’m just not in a party mood, even if it the most prestigious art event of the year. And besides, somewhere at the back of my over-tired and fuddled head, I’ve got more than just a sneaking suspicion that this is all part of some evil plot. ‘I’m not going anywhere near Dan.’
Because if I do, that’ll be the end of me.
‘You don’t have to,’ Cli
ve explains. ‘When I left, he was just off to the house for a couple of days. I’ve got a spare key. I can nip in and fetch the handbag. It won’t take me five minutes.’
‘I don’t know.’ Taking in a few deep gulps of air, I will my pulse to behave.
‘It’s the only way.’ Lucy folds her arms and taps her foot. ‘Otherwise, I’m staying here.’
‘No, don’t do that,’ I snap, dreading a night of Lucy’s fussing. I’m being ground into submission, and I know it. The trouble is I just haven’t got the energy to deal with it. I’m through with thinking and arguing and fighting my corner. My brain’s on the verge of throwing in the towel.
I switch my attention to Clive. ‘He’s definitely gone down to Surrey?’
‘Yes.’
So maybe I should just get on with it, go with them, collect my handbag and beat the hastiest retreat ever. I’m reaching out for the wine, determined to finish it off when it’s snatched away from me.
‘You’re coming with us,’ Lucy snarls into my face. ‘And that’s that.’
I’m grabbed by the arm, yanked upwards and dragged out of the kitchen into Lucy’s bedroom. Clearly, I’m getting no choice in the matter, but it’s hardly a problem. I’ve already made my decision. I’m going nowhere near The Tate. After Clive’s rescued my bag from the apartment of doom, I’ll simply get a taxi home. Letting Lucy kit me out in a flowery dress, I beat off an attack with the make-up bag and pull a brush through my hair. At the last minute, remembering the necklace, I manage to escape Lucy’s clutches for just long enough to rescue the tiny black box from my room. I’m ready to go through the motions, and nothing more.
***
Outside, it’s a miserable evening. Summer seems to have washed its hands of London. Instead of pure blue skies, a mess of filthy grey clouds lurk above our heads and a constant drizzle fills the air.
‘Don’t worry.’ Lucy guides me towards Clive’s BMW. ‘No storms. Just pissy showers.’
I’m vaguely aware of a door being opened, of sliding onto the back seat of the car. It’s only when the door slams shut that I start to panic. What the hell am I doing, letting this pair drag me half way across London on a quest for handbag? And why the hell am I going anywhere near Dan’s apartment? This is a gigantic mistake. In fact, it’s the mother of all mistakes. I don’t know whether it’s the sleep deprivation, or the lack of food, or the two glasses of cheap plonk I’ve downed: but I don’t seem to be able to make any decisions today. By the time I finally make one, to get back out of the car, Lucy and Clive are fully installed in the front and the engine’s sparked into life. Hearing the whir of the central locking mechanism, I fiddle with the handle.
‘You’ve locked me in,’ I gasp.
Lucy looks back at me. ‘Are you thinking of getting out?’
‘Yes.’
‘It’s not going to happen. Drive Clive!’
Perhaps I should scream, or lie across the back seat and kick at the door. Or maybe both. Yes, I really should make a scene, but I’m exhausted and seeing as Lucy’s determined to reunite me with my mobile, I’m pretty sure none of it would make a blind bit of difference. Besides, the car’s already moving. As we pull out onto the High Street, I scowl at the back of Lucy’s head, deciding that there’s just no way out of this. The further we push into Central London, the slower we move, snagged up in one traffic jam after another, halted by just about every set of lights along the way. And the further we crawl, the more colour I seem to register: the flash of a cyclist’s yellow jacket, the red, amber and green of the traffic lights, a rainbow flashing to life in an oil slick.
I close my eyes against the onslaught, opening them again as we finally reach Whitehall. Before long, we’re picking up speed, moving past the Houses of Parliament, swinging out onto Lambeth Bridge and crossing the broad, choppy waters of the Thames. By this point, my stomach has begun to churn, just like the river below. I have a distinctly strange feeling about all of this. Taking a right at the south end of the bridge, Clive swerves by the roundabout and turns in to the left. I’m at Lambeth House again. And suddenly, I’m hearing Dan’s words in my head. ‘Make a mental note. You’ll be coming here a lot.’
Well not any more, Mr Foster. This is my very last visit.
When we come to a halt, I stay exactly where I am, listening to the rain as it patters against the roof of the car, waiting for Clive to make a move. But he doesn’t budge. Instead, he simply grunts, takes his mobile out of his jacket pocket, opens up a text and stares at it.
‘Oh shit.’ He waves the phone at Lucy. ‘It’s my mum. I just need to call her. Something’s going on with my brother.’ Entering a number, he opens the car door and steps out into the damp air. ‘Mum, what’s up?’ The door slams shut behind him.
I’m about to tap Lucy on the shoulder and ask her to give Clive the necklace when she unfastens her seatbelt and gets out, leaving me alone in the car. Feeling like an idiot, I turn the little black box in my hands. Someone’s got to take it up to the penthouse and dump it there, and it’s certainly not going to be me. Unfastening my own seatbelt, I open the door and stand on the forecourt. While Clive wanders off towards the road, listening to the call, and Lucy folds her arms impatiently, I just can’t help myself. Tipping my head back, I look up at the top floor, taking in the penthouse windows and the wall that surrounds his rooftop patio: the place where he watches the sun come up every day in the summer.
‘Right,’ Clive sighs, pulling a key fob out of his pocket, the mobile still clamped to his ear. ‘You’re going to have to do this, Lucy.’
‘Me?’ she squeaks.
‘Yes, you. It’s the top floor. You can’t miss it.’
‘Clive.’
‘Just do it, Luce.’ He holds out the fob. ‘It’s the gold one. I need to ring my brother and I need to do it now. He’s about to do something very stupid.’
‘But …’
‘Seriously, Lucy. This is urgent.’
Taking the keys, Lucy turns to me, her face splattered with panic. ‘I’m not going up there on my own.’
I glance across at Clive. He’s already back on his mobile, head down, staring at a puddle.
‘I’m not going up there with you.’
‘But it’s breaking and entering.’
‘Technically, it’s just entering.’ I look back up at the apartment. No way am I going up there. No way. No how.
‘Lucy!’ Clive calls out. ‘Now. It’s quarter to seven. And Maya, you’ll have to go with her. The concierge knows about you. He won’t let Lucy in on her own.’ His attention flips back to his phone. ‘Brian, what the hell’s going on?’ And with that, he walks off again, listening intently to his mobile.
‘Brian,’ Lucy gasps, watching him go. ‘Brian and Clive? What on Earth was their mother thinking?’
‘Who cares? Just go and fetch my bloody handbag.’
‘You heard what he said. The concierge won’t let me in without you.’
‘Then I’ll come into the lobby, but that’s it.’
Grabbing Lucy by the arm, I drag her through the main door.
‘No,’ Lucy snaps, stumbling to a halt. ‘We’ve gone to all this bloody trouble to get your bloody handbag back, the least you can do is just come up in the bloody lift with me.’
‘No,’ I snap back.
‘Then I’m not bloody going up.’
‘Jesus Christ.’
‘Good evening, Miss Scotton.’
A stranger’s voice cuts across our argument. In unison, we turn to face the concierge. I’ve only ever seen him once before, and I’m wondering how the hell he knows my name.
‘See.’ Lucy jabs me with a finger. ‘He knows who you are. We’ve come to collect her bloody handbag,’ she announces. ‘You won’t let me go up on my own, will you?’
‘To Mr Foster’s apartment?’ He shakes his head. ‘Miss Scotton, of course, has full access.’
Obviously, he hasn’t been informed by Mr Foster that the former piece of skirt is out of the pi
cture.
‘I’ve over-ridden the code,’ he goes on. ‘The lift will take you straight up.’
‘There.’ Lucy prods me again. She gives the concierge a smile. ‘And is Mr Foster in?’
The concierge shakes his Brylcreemed head. ‘He left a couple of hours ago.’
‘There.’ Her eyes flicker with determination. ‘So, what’s the bloody problem? Come on.’
I’m tugged across the lobby and watch helplessly as Lucy punches the call button for the lift. The door opens immediately and I step inside. It doesn’t take long for us to reach the top floor, but all the way Lucy huffs and puffs like a steam engine. When the door slides open again, revealing the white marble of the entrance hall, I feel the hackles rise on the back of my neck. Stepping out into the hall, I’m half-expecting the lift to close behind me, to be trapped. But it stays open.
‘I’ll wait out here,’ I tell Lucy.
‘Fair enough.’
She fiddles with the key, slips it into the lock and disappears inside the flat. And I wait, listening to the jittering of my breath.
‘Maya, you’ve got to see this.’ Her voice is distant now. Muted.
‘What?’ I call back.
She reappears in the doorway, her face bright with excitement.
‘He’s hung your painting. It looks amazing.’
I shake my head and swallow hard. The picture of Limmingham. I didn’t get a chance to get a last look on Friday night. Ian Boyd’s arrival saw to that.
‘There’s nobody here,’ she grins.
And what harm could it do, my brain niggles. Go on. Take a quick peek, say goodbye and draw a line under everything. And while you’re at it, drop off the necklace. That’s called closure.
‘Come on.’ Grabbing me by the arm, Lucy hauls me into the apartment and my stomach lurches. On full alert, I edge my way through the kitchen. It’s eerily silent but Lucy was right: there’s no one here. He really has gone to Surrey. Either that or he’s lurking at the Tate, waiting to take a chance that I’m not about to give. Inching further, I notice the handbag, perched on the counter top, the very place where Dan first kissed me and lured me into his world. I touch the bag, place the little black box on the counter, open it up and take out the necklace. Watching the tiny sweet pea flicker in the light, I think of the jar of sweet pea flowers, of sitting in the kitchen garden with Dan by my side, and my ridiculous vision of a happy ever after. Tears prick at the corners of my eyes and I blink them back. No crying, I tell myself. Not now. Not here. You’ve made a decision and now you’re going to stick to it. After all, it’s the only way to keep your sanity. Holding the necklace in my hand, I say a quiet goodbye and lay it gently on the worktop.