‘Wait, what?’
‘We will cover everything, and your salary will continue to be paid, but we think you need some time away from the office right now.’
‘But I have almost completed the project!’ She doesn’t want to be away when the shit hits the fan. She wants to be here, in the office, when Julian is led away in handcuffs.
‘This isn’t a debate.’ Julian clenches his teeth, his voice firm. ‘We will book you into a sanctuary to take some rest. You are exhausted and unfit to work right now.’
It makes no sense. In the past week, she has solved several complex problems, which has had even the most misogynistic of techies hovering around her desk to see how she did it.
As much as she wants to sustain the fantasy of what she wanted Atypical to be, her bosses have shattered it for her. They are as rigid-minded as any corporate executives, a pair of gray suits trussed up in T-shirts and bright sneakers.
‘I don’t agree with this,’ she explodes.
‘Take care,’ says Ruth saccharinely.
She storms to the balcony and tries to allow the fresh air to calm her. This degree of anger can’t be good for the baby. A strange wind has picked up, and it tousles her hair. A rustle behind her, it’s Mel.
‘You OK?’
‘They’re kicking me out. Shit, I can’t fucking believe it. I’ve given so much to this company already and now they have decided that I’m a bit fragile, they want to ship me off to some retreat center to relax.’
‘I’m so sorry. Do you think that someone chickened out and told him what we’re up to?’
‘Yes, it began when I spoke to HR about Julian. They’re probably hoping that a few months in the countryside will keep me quiet.’
Mel lowers her voice. ‘This is exactly what they did with Nicole. One minute she was the company star, the next she was sent off when she started getting out of line.’
Everything starts to fall into place. Nicole was abused, belittled, her fragile mental health ignored. When her feelings became inconvenient, she was sent away.
And then she was murdered.
‘Maybe Nicole became such an inconvenience that Julian decided to take care of her, once and for all. Maybe Jay finished the job off for him,’ she whispers to Mel.
‘Now that I think about it, the whole situation did seem strange at the time. They sent her to a retreat center in Napa Valley. The rich go there to recalibrate among the orchards. It’s lush, beautiful and the perfect place to go if you are struggling with mental illness . . .’
Melanie pauses for a moment and looks around her, leaning in closer. ‘I suppose it’s harder to believe sexual allegations against a CEO when the accuser is holed up in a treatment facility.’
Freya remembers those early days when she tried to get to know Nicole. She tried to assert her power over Freya, but her edges were frayed, threads of sanity were breaking free, refusing to be contained. She was a woman on the edge.
‘It does something to you,’ says Melanie, ‘when someone continually tells you that you’re lying. You start to hate the world you’re trying to live in, you start to rage against it. Sometimes, I wonder what Nicole knew that we didn’t.’
There is some activity inside. Freya can see Ruth and Julian stirring in his office, looking their way, pushing back their chairs. There isn’t much time.
‘It was more than the harassment claims and her relationship with Jay that did it in the end,’ says Mel. ‘A few weeks before she died, she told me she had stumbled on to something shocking that was being done at the Atypical offices, something that would ruin its reputation for good. I think that in order to save the company, they needed to paint her as a woman driven mad by jealousy, by love. Unfortunately, towards the end, she started living up to their expectations.’
Ruth and Julian pace side by side to the balcony. Julian’s eyes lock onto Freya’s with a contempt she didn’t realize was possible.
*
On her way out of the office, she is stopped by Virginie.
‘Where are you off to in such a hurry?’
‘Julian and Ruth want me to take some time off. They don’t think I’m performing at my best.’
She steps back, aghast. ‘That is complete rubbish! You’re the best we have!’
Freya hugs her friend tightly. ‘Thank you for standing by me from the very beginning. During the months of Nicole bullying me, and the shock of Jay, I don’t know what I would have done without you. All those hot chocolates and chats in the kitchen meant so much to me. You were the only person in this company that I could trust.’
Virginie’s body trembles within Freya’s arms. She pushes away. ‘Shit! I can’t bear to keep this in any longer. Freya, please believe me when I say I love you as a friend and don’t want to lose you.’
Freya’s jaw clenches. Not another liar. She can’t bear it. Her voice sounds like someone else’s – cold. ‘What did you do, Virginie?’
‘I didn’t do anything, it’s about what Jay did! I wanted to tell you early on, I really did, but you seemed so happy and in love with him. I thought that maybe things between you and him were different.’
It was hard enough imagining Jay’s hands all over her worst enemy, but her trusted friend, too? ‘You slept together. Just say it.’
Virginie shakes her head emphatically. The sound of her earrings jangling rings in the silence. ‘No, but Jay did hit on me. It was a few days after I joined Atypical. He found me in the kitchen and asked me out for a hot chocolate.’
A terrible instinct resounds in Freya’s mind. Hot chocolate. How did Jay know?
‘Go on . . .’
‘I wasn’t interested. I prefer the quiet, geeky type. He was just too . . . excitable for my liking. But he persisted. He knew details about my life, ones that I didn’t remember sharing, like where I grew up in France. Then one day he made a comment about a Godard film that just happens to be my favorite. I wrote it off as a coincidence but now, after everything that has happened, I’m not so sure.’
‘You think Jay researched you online before you joined the company?’
‘Yes, but more than that. His and Julian’s behavior is making me feel uneasy. Something is going on in this company. There is more than meets the eye.’
Freya nods. She squeezes her friend’s hand, a quiet assurance that everything is fine between them. Something sinister is definitely going on behind the scenes at Atypical, and she intends to find out exactly what it is. Tonight.
Chapter 97
Isla
Two months after the murder
It’s a different sort of adrenaline, this. It is not the urgent, distracting excitement of chasing a news story but more direct, uncomfortable. Isla can’t pretend it is fun or thrilling. The truth is, she’s just plain nervous.
She follows a winding cobbled path, which leads to a small cottage that has almost been swallowed by ivy. A tiny woman with thick, curly hair and glasses smiles from the doorway.
‘You must be Isla! I’m Sadie!’
Isla warms to the room immediately. There are so many fascinating books on the bookshelf, and bright scatter cushions decorate the couches. There is no conspicuous tissue box resting on the table, like in most psychologists’ offices.
Sadie’s voice has a heavy Israeli accent and charming abrasiveness to it, as if it has grown ragged from too many late dinner parties, soaked in laughter.
‘What can I help you with today?’
‘It’s a long story.’
She laughs. ‘It just about always is.’
‘I was attacked last week in a smash and grab. This, and a story I have been working on have brought up an incident that happened to me a long time ago. It must be over ten years now. For some reason, I can’t seem to move past it.’
‘That is a long time to wait to talk about something,’ Sadie says thoughtfully.
It hurts to say it out loud. ‘Sometimes I wasn’t sure what happened to me was a big enough deal for me to officially s
ee someone? This smash-and-grab incident is a recognized crime so a visit to you seems more appropriate, if you know what I mean?’
‘You can’t take the guilt anymore. And the flashbacks.’
She’s hit the nail on the head. The memory has not faded, but increased in weight and size. It feels like she is about to burst. Then there are the nightmares, the constant feeling of guilt, the pumping adrenaline and the will to keep running.
‘The case I was assigned. The woman who was hurt has brought up some of my own memories.’
‘How come?’
‘She was hurt by someone who knew her. She trusted someone and they betrayed that trust. I think that’s what started this.’
The silence folds around them. ‘You’re a writer. You are used to telling stories, both to others and to yourself. You say you’re not sure if you experienced a real crime? Tell me what happened to you, free from your own judgment of whether it is valid or not.’
There is a lump in Isla’s throat. Dammit, she promised she wouldn’t cry the moment she got into therapy.
‘How?’
‘Focus on telling me how you felt, not what actually happened.’
Isla closes her eyes, and the words begin to spill out of her.
She remembers the night, it was uncharacteristically hot. Getting ready in her bedroom, pulling on a short tartan skirt, fishnet tights, Doc Martens and a band T-shirt. Messed-up hair – just the right amount of undone to make it look like she didn’t care. She’d bought some chewing gum and cigarettes at a service station, and that delicious feeling that she needed it, she was going to kiss someone that night. Not just anyone, but the guy on stage, shirtless, thrashing the drums.
Full moon, something in the air, like something big was going to happen. She drank the intensity of it away with one tequila shot after another. Her body flowed to the music, the crowd pushed her against the stage, bruising her ribs.
She waited in the crowd for him, when he descended sweaty and resplendent. Her boyfriend, her man, hers. Hyped up on the beat, he smashed his mouth into hers in a kiss. He drew blood but she liked that he felt so passionate, that everyone saw who she was kissing.
Going home, she swayed in his arms, realizing only then how drunk she was, how out of control. She wanted to grab a pizza slice and cuddle up at home, but he took her back with the band. A bunch of guys and one girl, all doing shots. She wanted him, she only wanted him.
White powder, arranged in a line. The air smelled bitter then, like chlorine. The conversation soured with aggression. It started as a joke, as the guitarist moved in to kiss her, and then the singer. She expected him to say something, to say no before her lips could form the word herself. But he stood back, and then he joined them.
Nobody heard her say no. Nobody ran after her when she was spat out on the street, barefoot and broken. She stumbled on shattered glass, cutting the soles of her feet. The way she cried that night was singular – animal-like – stripped down and raw. Anguish ripped its way through her body. Nobody could comfort her, especially not those who should have helped.
Later, they said she asked for it, when the bruises on her wrists had safely faded. Groupies do crazy shit. They denied forcing anything. The drummer was her boyfriend, after all.
Isla has never slept the same since that night. The guilt keeps her awake, the perennial question of whether she was complicit in her own pain. The prospect of facing them in court made her sick, so she dropped the case and tried to forget. She only realized the full scale of the crime when Simon came along. And even when she took the case to court in the end, resolution didn’t come in the form she’d hoped. All she felt was hollow.
When Isla is done, she feels both soiled and cleansed. Reliving the memory hurt, but not as much as keeping it festering inside.
Sadie hands her a cup of tea and offers a tin of biscuits. ‘Here, have some sugar, it will take the edge off.’
Isla smiles. Her kind of therapist.
‘Can you see how something so big could hold you back,’ Sadie asks, ‘and do you see how your obsession with this case is simply a way of trying to get justice for yourself?’
‘Yes, I see that. There’s another story I have ended up writing as part of this investigation, which reveals a serial sexual offender. It should be on newsstands tomorrow morning.’
‘So everything is coming together then. You have used your pain to help others. Look after yourself, Isla, and come see me again. You also deserve justice and to move forward in your own life.’
Isla leaves the sanctuary of the room. The air feels clearer and her heart isn’t pounding as hard as before. She has no job, she is a person of interest in a an unsolved murder case, she has an inflammatory story that will make her more enemies, and a day that stretches ahead of her, empty. Yet somehow, it feels like her life is only just beginning.
Chapter 98
Freya
Two months after the murder
The office she was so proud of has been packed up. It is clean, blank, waiting for the next star to decorate its bare walls. When Freya left earlier that day, she ‘forgot’ to drop off her access card with Mathilda at HR. Now, she uses it to enter the offices one last time.
She won’t be here tomorrow when the police walk in to see Julian. She won’t be present when their stock crashes and the investors, inevitably, pull out one by one, and go searching for a cleaner company to attach their names to.
The space, emptied of people and activity, only adds to her melancholy. This place was once so filled with potential, she could feel it. She knows Nicole felt it too. They all wanted to be a part of the fantasy. She thought she had found her dream career, and her true love. Soon, all the dreams and memories will be replaced by another business, a new group of people heady with anticipation that they might change the world.
It’s getting late. She doesn’t like being out too long. For the baby’s sake. Freya pulls her jacket close, instinctively protective. There are too many threats out there after dark.
She types her password into her computer, holding her breath in the hope that IT hasn’t removed her account off the system yet. A few seconds pass, then the familiar home screen appears before her. Yes! She’s in! If Nicole was able to stumble on inconvenient company information, then she should be able to as well. All staff has the same privileges when it came to accessing data.
Data. That was the only other project both women were working on. In addition to their East African project, Freya had helped Nicole design an algorithm to sort through random data. However, neither knew what the algorithm was being applied to.
She opens the file, not sure what she is looking for. Then she sees it, an innocuous folder called ‘Project Pilot’. Inside are three PDF documents. Freya’s pulse shoots up as she opens the first.
It’s a complex trend map of random words. Travel. Music. Sewing. Rare fabric. Vintage pattern-making. Hacking. Science fiction. Ted Chiang. Cortado. Indian food. Her eyes water, as she zooms in and looks closer. She recognizes these words, and the subjects feel familiar to her.
Then, with a jolt, she understands why. She is looking at the summary of her own Internet search history over the past six months. The algorithm that she designed has coolly sorted the information into trends and themes. Seeing such a clear footprint of her life online is the worst exposure of all. She looks over her shoulder, saves the document onto a flash drive, then opens another one. Hot chocolate, Godard, Bordeaux. Virginie. Heart pumping, hands sweating, she opens the third PDF. An algorithm can sort through information and find trends, but it can never recreate this feeling. Of the jigsaw falling into place. Of pure dread.
Her suspicions are confirmed. The words Chanel, Scandi minimalism, and home gardening. When she reads the words ‘Poison perfume, Dior’ she knows it is a map for Nicole.
The familiar ‘ping’ of the elevator.
The heavy doors sliding open.
The office, suddenly flooded in bright fluorescent light.
&nb
sp; Shit.
Footsteps. Heavy, thudding steps that reveal the person behind them.
You walk like the Incredible Hulk, you know that?
A flashback to a happier time, when she knew the inside of his bed, his mind, his mouth. Or thought she knew.
The steps quicken, she sees his silhouette moving towards her door. There isn’t much time. She types a message, sends it to Isla and Detective Cohen. Isla, because she knows the truth about Jay, and Detective Cohen because he can protect her.
‘At the office. Jay here. Am afraid. Please help.’
The 4G signal isn’t good, which she always found ironic given the nature of Atypical’s business, so she is not sure if the message sends. She slides the phone into her handbag just as Jay walks into her office.
‘Hello, Freya – bit of a surprise to see you here, although nothing should surprise me anymore,’ he says, coolly.
‘I’m surprised you’re here too,’ she says. Her heart is hammering but she tries to keep her tone level. The longer she can stall him, the more likely that Simon will arrive in time.
‘Call it a hunch,’ he smirks.
Suddenly, he is behind her, staring at the screen, his hands resting on her shoulders. ‘Well, it looks like it was more like an infringement of my privacy, than a hunch,’ Freya says.
‘Clever, isn’t it?’ Jay smiles.
‘You were tracking what Nicole and I did online, and Virginie too . . .’ It seems so obvious now. The targeted gifts when she joined the company, the way Julian always seemed to know her interests before she told him.
‘Atypical was. I wasn’t that interested in you three. You’re all far too much work.’
Freya sits very still. Jay’s hands move from her shoulders and tighten around her neck, not quite strangling her but the potential is there, pulsing in his fingers. She feels for something close to her, her pepper spray, her keys, but she can’t reach down to her bag without alerting, and infuriating Jay. She needs to act slowly, carefully. God, she hopes that message sent.
‘Virginie told me what you did. Nicole is gone, but the rest of us know now, and we’re not going to let you get away with it,’ Freya says. Jay must know that the women have started to assemble, and become a force of their own.
The Pact Page 30