The Friendship Pact

by Alison James

Lucy pulls her mobile phone from her bag, although she is not at all sure what she is going to do with it.

  ‘Ooh, look at her with her own phone,’ one of the men says mockingly. ‘Proper little princess.’

  Her original tormentor tosses his lager bottle in the direction of a bin. It misses and shatters into pieces, but he ignores this and grabs Lucy round her waist. The feel of his hot, sticky hands on her skin makes her queasy and fills her with terror. Tears spring to her eyes.

  ‘Get off,’ she says in a low voice. ‘Please!’

  ‘OI!’ A voice shouts from somewhere to her left. ‘GET YOUR FILTHY FUCKING HANDS OFF HER!’

  The voice is vaguely familiar and so is the person it belongs to, despite the heavily kohled eyes and sandy hair knotted into cornrows. It’s Adele Watts.

  The men swivel their heads and look at Adele with disdain, but she lunges forward and slaps the one pawing Lucy hard with the flat of her hand, before grabbing the belt loop of his jeans and dragging him away. Inebriated and unsteady, he loses his footing and crashes to the ground. One of his friends reaches for her, but she digs long, neon-painted talons into the flesh of his cheek.

  ‘Little bitch!’

  ‘Well, if you don’t like it, piss off out of here!’ Adele snarls. ‘My uncle’s one of the bouncers; want to talk to him about it, do you?’

  Grumbling, the men shamble away.

  ‘All right, Luce?’ says Adele with her customary nonchalance. ‘Long time no see.’

  When you smoked a cigarette outside my house and left the butt on the driveway, Lucy thinks. ‘Thanks,’ she mutters to Adele, not quite able to make eye contact. ‘I’m supposed to be going to the gig, but my friend isn’t here yet.’

  ‘Well, they’d better hurry up; it’s about to start. I just came down on the off-chance there’d be a spare ticket. I’d fucking kill to see Hot Box.’ She realises what she has said and flushes slightly.

  ‘I’m sure she’ll be here any second,’ Lucy says, looking around desperately.

  ‘This one of your mates from your posh new school?’ Adele asks.

  ‘Yes. Holly. Holly Paterson.’ She’s not quite sure why she’s giving the full name, except that it lends credence to her waiting there on her own.

  The crowd is thinning now; touts have sold their last remaining tickets and nearly everyone has headed into the venue. It’s seven fifty.

  ‘I’ll wait with you if you like,’ Adele says, pushing her fists into the pockets of her denim jacket. She’s wearing a tiny fake-leather miniskirt and Timberland boots.

  ‘There’s no need, really: I’m sure she’s on her way.’ Of course, Lucy isn’t sure of this at all. In fact, she’s now convinced that, for whatever reason, Holly isn’t coming.

  ‘Tell you what, why don’t you go in, and I’ll wait here with her ticket. What does she look like?’

  ‘Um, she’s about an inch shorter than me, dark hair cut in a bob. With a fringe. Wearing white jeans.’

  Still unsure of the merits of this plan, Lucy heads inside on her own and finds her way to her seat. The house lights are down, and there is an expectant tension in the air. Pink and purple strobes flicker across the darkness of the stage, making the audience gasp. Then the first few bars of ‘Bandage My Heart’, Hot Box’s biggest hit, are sounded out on a bass guitar, and there are a few muted screams. People in front of Lucy stand up, and she is forced to stand too, so that she can still see the stage.

  As the lead guitar strikes up, the audience response becomes deafening, and Lucy is only vaguely aware of someone saying something in her ear. She turns to see Adele.

  ‘I don’t think your friend’s coming,’ she mouths above the din. ‘Sorry.’

  Lucy shrugs, but there’s no time to reflect on Holly’s absence or debate whether Adele should have waited longer, because a spotlight flashes on, revealing Travis Heyter in all his glory. His shirt is open to the navel, revealing tanned abdominal muscles, his shoulder-length hair sun-bleached like a surfer’s.

  ‘My God,’ Adele groans, ‘will you bloody look at him!’

  ‘I know,’ Lucy breathes. ‘He’s a total god.’

  When he starts to sing, the rapture in the audience reaches fever pitch, and Lucy is so electrified with excitement, she feels faint and has to clutch at Adele. The two of them link arms and jump up and down, squealing in unison as ‘Bandage My Heart’ reaches its crescendo, then segues into dance number ‘Teflon Girl’. Adele stumbles into the aisle and drags Lucy after her.

  ‘Is this allowed?’ Lucy mouths, but Adele ignores her protest and soon others have joined them, dancing until they’re pouring sweat. Lucy has never known a feeling like it, the dopamine hit that courses through her body in a chemical expression of joy, making her more wired, more alive, than she’s ever felt. She grins at Adele and Adele grins back, and their dancing gets so wild that they start to laugh and don’t stop for the next forty minutes. Holly, who Lucy will later discover had to go to hospital with a dental abscess, is completely forgotten.

  ‘That was completely brilliant,’ Adele sighs, as they’re carried outside by the surging crowd, arms linked.

  ‘Best night of my life,’ sighs Lucy.

  ‘You know…’ Adele pauses on the pavement, suddenly serious, ‘… what happened?’

  She means Joanne’s death. Lucy nods.

  ‘You didn’t tell anyone?’

  ‘Of course not. I promised, didn’t I?’

  Adele seems satisfied with this. She pops a piece of chewing gum into her mouth before giving a casual wave and turning away. ‘Laters then. Thanks for the ticket.’

  Lucy thinks about that night, and how much fun it was for a long time. It seems Adele has been thinking about it too, because a few nights later, as the Gibsons are sitting down for supper, the front doorbell rings. Felicity Gibson goes to answer it and has a brief exchange with someone; someone female.

  ‘Anything important?’ Jeffrey enquires mildly as Felicity returns to the table and slides her linen napkin back onto her lap.

  ‘It was the Watts girl,’ Felicity says tersely. ‘Let’s just say I wasn’t going to encourage her.’

  ‘Mum!’ Lucy puts down her fork. ‘You should have told me. I would have liked to speak to her at least.’

  ‘No, darling,’ Felicity shakes her head firmly, ‘that would not have been a good idea. Trust me: this is for the best.’

  Twenty-Eight

  In the two weeks that follow, Lucy is deeply grateful that she has a job.

  It allows her to fill her days and slump at home exhausted in the evenings, leaving little time to dwell on the rapid demise of her relationship with Noah. After he left her house, she texted him to apologise for Denny’s harassment, which was the only thing she could think of to do. After twenty-four hours, she received a two-word reply: Take care x – the digital equivalent of a door slamming in her face.

  She soon falls into a pattern of extending her working day little by little, until she’s arriving in the office soon after eight and rarely leaving much before seven. With no partner or children to go home to, this represents displacement activity rather than dedication. Even so, she makes it her business to learn about every client and every project on Pink Square’s books, quickly becoming indispensable. Lucy has become the co-worker that others can turn to when they’re stuck or under particular pressure.

  One morning in August Megan appears at her desk. It’s still only 8.45, but Lucy is already onto her second coffee of the day.

  ‘Oh, Lucy, you’re here, thank God.’

  Lucy gives her the bright, professional smile she has been cultivating, while continuing to update a budget spreadsheet. ‘Morning. How can I help?’

  ‘Ari was supposed to go and visit a potential new client, but his little boy fell out of a tree and fractured his collarbone yesterday and he can’t come in…’ She tilts her head to one side, pleading. ‘If I give you a copy of his background brief, do you think you could go and talk to them? It’s just a question
of getting a feel for what they want in an agency, and the sort of work they need, and then we can get the creative team working on a formal pitch.’ Megan shrugs her shoulders and gives a helpless smile. ‘I’d go myself obviously, but I’ve got a funding meeting with St Michael’s Hospice and it can’t really be moved.’

  ‘Sure,’ Lucy says. ‘No problem at all.’

  And so she finds herself catching a train down to Beckenham to talk to the staff of the Starflower Trust – a homeless charity. It feels good to have a challenge to rise to, and she establishes a good rapport with Nick Dalgliesh, the charity’s director. Even the process of writing up her notes for the creative team is enjoyable, and she stays in the office until 9 p.m. For once she falls into bed without wondering whether she should text Noah again or checking three times that the front door is locked securely.

  A few days later, Megan seeks her out again.

  ‘Lucy, we’ve got the Starflower Trust coming in to hear our pitch this afternoon, and since you made the initial contact with them, we thought you should sit in on the meeting. About three o’clock?’

  ‘Of course,’ Lucy says briskly, ‘I’d be happy to.’

  Nick Dalgliesh greets her warmly when she arrives in the meeting room a few hours later, clutching a copy of her notes and some hastily scribbled ideas in case she’s asked for contributions to the potential marketing campaign. He introduces her to his creative director Andrea Morris and a junior account executive called Karl, who looks about nineteen. Pink Square’s creative team make their presentation and Lucy chips in a few thoughts in the subsequent discussion, although she’s self-conscious about doing so and feels her cheeks colouring slightly when the attention of the entire room is focused on her.

  ‘Lucy’s our in-house expert when it comes to factors influencing homelessness,’ Ari quips. ‘She’s got a master’s degree from UCL to prove it.’

  Pippa, the receptionist taps lightly on the glass door. ‘Lucy, there’s someone here to see you.’

  She frowns. ‘I’m not expecting anyone… can you tell them I’m in a meeting?’

  Pippa lowers her voice slightly. ‘I’ve tried, but he’s refusing to go.’

  Once again all the eyes in the room are on Lucy, only this time their gaze is curious rather than admiring. The colour in her cheeks intensifies to a deep flush.

  ‘Whoever it is will just have to—’ And then she sees the looming figure behind Pippa, bulky and ominous. Denny. He’s wearing a baseball cap with the logo ‘WARNING: OFFENSIVE’ on the brim, and a sleeveless T-shirt that exposes his overworked muscles. He eases Pippa out of the way as if she was a tiny child and reaches for the half-open door. A wolf in wolf’s clothing.

  Lucy pushes her chair back so fast that the legs make a squeal on the polished floor.

  ‘You’ll have to excuse me,’ she says quickly, hurrying out of the room and closing the door firmly behind her. ‘It’s okay, Pippa, I’ll deal with this.’

  She walks briskly back towards reception, hoping that Denny will follow her. He does so, but only after her colleagues have had the chance to take a good look at him and he’s treated them all to one of his signature leers.

  ‘What the fuck are you doing here?’ she hisses, keeping her voice as low as she can manage.

  Denny waves around the open-plan office space, where heads are peering surreptitiously from behind computer monitors. ‘This is your place of work, a place of business. And you and I have business to discuss, don’t we, darling? Like the new hairdo, by the way. Very sexy.’

  Behind him, Pippa – now back behind the desk – is trying to catch her eye. ‘Shall I call security?’ she mouths, picking up the phone handset and waggling it. The commercial block that houses Pink Square is home to various businesses and their lease agreements include the services of an on-site security guard. Most of the time, he loiters in the lobby, checking security passes and directing pedestrian traffic.

  Lucy gives Pippa the most discreet of nods but not discreet enough to go unnoticed.

  ‘Getting me chucked out, are you? That’s not very nice.’ Denny lowers himself into an armchair and blocks most of the reception area with his huge legs.

  ‘I’m sorry, but you can’t be here.’ Lucy folds her arms across her chest to make herself seem in charge, but her heart is beating wildly, and she’s overwhelmed with relief when the lift doors slide open and Lewis, the security guard, steps out. While not as sinewy as Denny, he’s at least 6’5” and works part-time as a nightclub bouncer.

  ‘All right, all right, mate!’ Denny throws up his hands in mock surrender. ‘I’m going.’

  He pauses at the lift and looks back at Lucy. ‘I’ll see you later.’

  When the meeting’s over, the Pink Square staff treat their guests to drinks at a bar round the corner on Leonard Street. Ari orders several bottles of chilled cava, and once glasses are filled and bowls of olives and cheese straws handed round, the atmosphere becomes relaxed and convivial.

  ‘It went well,’ Megan whispers to Lucy, giving her a discreet thumbs up. ‘I think they like us and they were definitely impressed with the presentation. So thanks for your input.’

  ‘No problem at all,’ Lucy smiles. ‘I was glad to help. And I rather enjoyed being thrown in at the deep end.’

  Megan refills Lucy’s glass, and then her own. ‘There’s not much wiggle room on your salary, but Ari and I were discussing the possibility of revising your role slightly. If this goes the way we want it to.’ She holds up her crossed fingers again, glancing across the table. ‘Nick certainly appreciates you,’ she adds with a smirk.

  After three bottles have been emptied, the conversation becomes louder and more animated. Nick Dalgliesh waves over a waiter to order some more. ‘Our round this time,’ he grins. ‘We’ve got to show we can keep up with you creative folk… Oh. Can I help you?’

  Lucy follows Nick’s gaze. Instead of a member of the wait staff appearing at his elbow, Denny stands there, feet splayed, hands thrust into the pockets of his tracksuit bottoms.

  ‘Room for a small one?’ he says, with a mocking grin. ‘Don’t mind if I do.’ Ignoring the nonplussed expressions of the group, he settles himself down on a spare chair, opposite Lucy, who is too shocked to react. ‘Sorry, better introduce myself since Lucy here’s not going to. I’m a good friend of hers. Denny Renard. Nice to meet you folks.’

  There are puzzled glances, several pairs of eyes moving from Denny’s ‘WARNING: OFFENSIVE’ hat to Lucy’s blonde, Home Counties wholesomeness.

  Another bottle appears on the table in an ice bucket and, without asking, Denny grabs it by the neck, spraying drips of water everywhere as he pours himself a brimming glass. ‘Cheers!’

  Both Pink Square and Starflower Trust employees look on in strained silence. Her face burning, Lucy tries to speak, but she’s trapped in the role of observer, as though this is happening to someone else.

  ‘Nice to see little Lucy here fitting in so well, I must say.’ Denny slurps his cava noisily, then wipes his mouth with his hand. ‘You wouldn’t think to look at her that she was fingered by the pigs for murdering her old man.’

  Lucy’s limbs abruptly turn numb. She attempts to shrug her shoulders and make light of this statement but ends up looking as though she’s having a seizure. All eyes are on her now and her cheeks blaze scarlet. ‘That’s ridiculous. I think you should leave.’

  Nick’s colleague Andrea reaches for her handbag. ‘Nick, I think maybe it’s time we all—’

  ‘It’s true you know. Her husband was loaded, you see, and then he went and died in suspicious circumstances just after Lucy here decided she was leaving him. High levels of sleeping pills in his blood. Pills she admitted to taking from his supply.’

  Megan and Ari exchange appalled glances.

  Ari reaches over and touches Denny on the shoulder. ‘Mate, I think you should go.’

  But Denny swats him away, still warming to his theme. ‘She’s got a whole other identity too; did you know that?
Passport, driving licence – all forged. In the name of one Joanne…’ he stresses the word heavily, ‘Chandler.’

  Ellen makes a small, gasping sound.

  The colour drains from Lucy’s face, and saliva pools in her throat, making her feel as though she’s drowning. ‘No,’ she shakes her head. ‘Absolutely not. This is rubbish.’

  ‘You’re surely not going to deny it, Lucy? Because that would mean telling all these nice people lies, wouldn’t it?’

  Ari has stood up and is looking around for a member of the bar’s staff.

  ‘It’s okay,’ Lucy says, getting to her feet too, gripping the arm of her chair because her legs are shaking. ‘You guys stay here. I’m going.’

  Clearing her throat, she shoulders her bag and hurries towards the front door. She avoids eye contact with Denny but can’t help but see his feral grin as she passes him.

  Once out on the pavement, she looks back through the window and sees the bar manager and one of the waiters manhandling him away from her colleagues. But it’s too late; she knows that. The damage has been done.

  Twenty-Nine

  It’s no surprise when, as soon as Lucy arrives at work the following morning, Megan calls her into her office for ‘a little chat’. In fact, it’s something of a relief. She’d rather deal with yesterday’s events head-on than be the subject of office Chinese whispers.

  ‘I’m not sure exactly what was going on yesterday,’ Megan begins, indicating that Lucy should sit in the chair opposite her desk. She looks embarrassed, fiddling with the chunky green beads round her neck. ‘Obviously everyone’s entitled to a private life, but when it spills over into a work event, especially one where clients are present, it’s a little… unfortunate.’

  Does she think Denny is a spurned lover? Lucy wonders with horror.

  ‘I need to explain,’ she says quickly. ‘He – Denny – he isn’t a friend. Barely even an acquaintance. He’s… I suppose you could say he’s a stalker.’

  Megan’s face registers alarm. ‘Have you contacted the police about this?’