One Winter's Night (Kelsey Anderson)

by Kiley Dunbar

  ‘Uhh… What?’

  ‘He’s harmless.’

  She felt an invisible punch at her breastbone and the air forced from her lungs. No words would come out. Her mind churned and the feelings circulated: disbelief, indignation, anger, all rising up, followed by something worse, and far more dangerous; the buried-deep childhood feeling of having been disciplined for bad behaviour, for overreacting, and the accompanying feelings of guilt and shame and humiliation. They settled in the pit of her stomach, heavy and nauseating.

  ‘Miss Imrie, you’ve been a good magistrates’ reporter, but it doesn’t do to be over-sensitive in this business. We’re dealing with the cut and thrust of a busy newsroom here; tempers will fray, words spoken in jest will be taken the wrong way, and, Mirren, if you cannot cope with these realities, you need to ask yourself if you’re really cut out for a career in journalism.’

  Mirren blinked, her neck stiffening as her boss’s voice rose. Was she being disciplined? ‘That’s not entirely fair, Mr An—’

  ‘Mirren. Let me speak plainly. You need to be robust to get along in this business, and you must assume a certain level of professionalism, which right now I’m wondering if you have let slip?’

  Mirren’s mouth worked, gaping and gasping. What was she supposed to say in response to this? Mr Angus wasn’t done yet. He was smiling a little now as though giving fatherly advice.

  ‘I feel it’s my place to warn you that although I don’t know precisely what’s passed between you and Mr Wallace, if you’re allowing your overactive love life to spill over into the workplace, perhaps it is you who needs to modify their behaviour.’ With that, Mr Angus nodded once, set his mouth into a firm, straight line and watched her from behind folded arms, waiting for her to leave.

  That’s when it happened.

  She hadn’t meant to but it all came rushing in a great tsunami of sadness: every single unwanted hand resting on the small of her back and her bottom; every whistle in the street as she walked by in school uniform; every boozy, whispered ‘slut’; every unseen grope on every dancefloor; every pair of eyes running their way over her body as she rode on crowded trains, or ate lunch hunched on a bench in the town’s gardens, or read on the bus; every single person who had ever silenced her, chosen not to believe her, or taken the wrong side. They all came flooding back and She Was Livid.

  Mirren returned her boss’s stare, surveying the dandruffy, grey man in the rumpled suit who prided himself on running his news empire like the tightest ship, whose paper espoused its belief in justice and freedom and peace at every given opportunity. The hypocrite.

  She let him have it, and this time, even though she was shaking from the top of her head to her toes in her boots and her heart was trying to punch its way out of her chest, she wasn’t going to cry. She was going to deliver the resignation speech of the millennium and do it with weapons-grade self-righteousness, the kind that comes when you know you’ve lost and there’s nothing more to lose but there’s still hope of gaining just one ounce of dignity and pride.

  Mandy saw the great intake of breath Mirren took, her eyes widening into astonished circles as she reached for the Human Resources tablet on the table and swiped off the dictation function which would have recorded every word Mirren was about to say. Mandy nodded sharply at her colleague, silently willing her to sock him one for her as well.

  Mirren flattened her palms on the desk and spoke loud and clear.

  ‘With all due respect, Mr Angus – which in this instance is zero respect – you’re wrong, and you know it. But you’d rather not see it because it would be too awkward for you to discipline your golden boy, your golf caddy, your drinking buddy.

  ‘You’re worried what would happen if he took a dressing-down from you and the other managers, aren’t you? What if it hurt his pride, or his career, or his reputation, if you were seen to be taking the word of the daft wee woman who’s causing trouble in the newsroom?

  ‘And you’re worried reprimanding him will set off all the other trouble-makers, and soon we’ll all be complaining about the whole pack of you, and then where would you be?

  ‘I’ll tell you where. You’d be shitting yourselves and running for cover, trying to pass off that arse-grab, or that knee-fondle, or that filthy comment at the Christmas party as locker-room banter, and saying after all lads will be lads, won’t they and can’t you say anything to your female colleagues nowadays without them accusing you of harassment?

  ‘Or maybe you’re thinking back to how long it’s actually been going on for, and how soon you’ll all be preparing statements about how you don’t remember it happening, and even if it did happen it was years ago when you were all so much younger, before you knew any better. Hmm? Is that what you’re thinking, Mr Angus?

  ‘Or maybe you’re hoping it’ll be enough to say, well, if they didn’t complain at the time, why bring it up now? What kind of grudges have these mad bitches got against us? Can’t we go to work and ogle girls and belittle them and undermine them and refuse to promote them without them kicking off and dredging up things we’d rather forget? Things we don’t want our wives and our daughters to hear about? Aye! I know you’re worried about all of that.

  ‘And that’s why you want to sweep me under the carpet and pretend it didn’t happen, and I have to be a good wee girl and keep my mouth shut so you can all carry on like before.

  ‘Well, I tell you what, Mr Angus, I am done being quiet. And you needn’t worry about me any longer, because I’ve had enough of this rotten place. You can shove your boys’ club up your tweedy, hypocritical arses. Put a kilt on that, Mr Angus.’

  If she’d had a mic she would have dropped it.

  The breath she needed to get her standing straight and heading for the door was immense. As her lungs filled she felt herself expanding to great proportions, her shoulders and back straightening in a way she hadn’t stood up tall and proud for years, not since she first encountered Jamesey and the rest of them; since she’d learned to make herself as small as possible, to compact herself into the least offensive, most sweetly packaged shape she could fit into; since before she’d practised both lowering her voice in meetings so she couldn’t be called shrill and raising her voice at events so she wouldn’t be ignored.

  She felt her spine clicking into place, one vertebra after another and she towered over Mr Angus who seemed to be cowering at his ridiculously oversized desk. Flicking her hair back, she walked out the room, down the corridor and into the lift, where she finally exhaled and cried her heart out, shaking and screaming her way down in the lift to street level.

  When the doors opened to the chilly October air and she slipped her sunglasses on, nobody who saw her would be able to tell what had just happened in the offices of the Edinburgh Broadsheet or suspect that she was utterly drained and listless; they just saw a pale, elegant woman with a thin, fixed smile walking tall and stately into the afternoon crowds on Princes Street.

  Chapter Thirteen

  ‘If we do meet again, we’ll smile indeed’

  (Julius Caesar)

  As Kelsey walked into town the next Saturday morning the sky was blue and cloudless and the leaves blew around her boots as she strolled, travel mug of hot tea in hand, enjoying the smell of burning coal and logs from the chimneys in the old town.

  It was a day for boots, jeans and a jumper. Kelsey was grateful that her mum had kindly packed up and sent down some of her winter clothes. The approach of autumn had made Kelsey suddenly realise she hadn’t packed any warm clothes when she had moved down to Stratford back in June, not expecting to stay beyond the summer. Luckily Mari had sent her favourite tan leather jacket and scarf and she was glad of them today. She was warm and cosy and looking forward to seeing her friends, if she could locate their new business premises.

  There it was, just as Myrtle had said; a narrow wooden door Kelsey had never noticed before secreted away in the shadow of the Willow Studio Theatre with its imposing glass façade.

  The littl
e door was propped open with a sign above it in the shape of a rainbow which read ‘Theatrical Costume Hire and Fancy Dress’. Curled leaves blew in sweeping circles at the entrance and some rustled inside and onto the bare floorboards beyond the threshold.

  Kelsey smiled to hear Myrtle’s loud Texan twang from within instructing Valeria to man the doors, but before she passed inside she cast an eye along the street towards the main theatre, grand and glamorous in the low sunlight.

  There by its steps was the spot where she had stood only a few weeks ago surrounded by her very last tour group of the summer. They had applauded at the end of her – by then well practised – spiel and she had bowed, sad and proud all at once. Today on that very spot stood a woman with her phone pressed to her ear. She was kicking and scuffing her black biker boots against the pavement, drawing Kelsey’s eye all the more. There was something so familiar about her. She could have sworn it was… it couldn’t be? ‘Mirren?’

  The woman’s head snapped round. ‘Oh my God, Kelsey! I was just trying to phone you.’

  They made a beeline for each other, Mirren already holding her arms out for the hug that was coming. As she walked, Kelsey felt at her pockets before realising her phone was switched off. ‘What are you doing in Stratford?’ she asked as Mirren crushed her and planted a kiss on her cheek.

  Kelsey squeezed back, eyeing the black suitcase her friend had trundled behind her. Something was definitely up. Mirren wasn’t even wearing lipstick, and her usually beautifully thick, sleek black hair hung in limp curtains with flyaway ends. No product? Whatever’s wrong, it must be serious. ‘What’s going on? Are you all right?’

  Mirren let go. ‘I’ll tell you, but I’ve only got the energy for the short version.’

  ‘Oh no, what?’

  ‘I quit the newspaper…’

  Kelsey mouthed a silent ‘Oh’.

  ‘… and I needed a break from Mum’s place, and I thought to myself, what better time to visit you in Stratford, so I hopped on a train at Waverley Station at some ungodly hour and – ta-dah! – here I am.’

  ‘Aww, Mirr, come here.’ Kelsey pulled her back into a hug. ‘I’m so happy to see you, just shocked that’s all. But your job? I—’

  ‘Let’s not get into it right now. I know what you’re thinking, but it’s done now, and I’m here to stay for a wee while, if that’s OK with you?’

  Kelsey was thinking of all the years Mirren had given to that place, all the success she’d had and all the hassle she’d faced with Jamesey. She’d be willing to bet he’d had something to do with this impromptu resignation and sudden Warwickshire escape, but the look on Mirren’s face, so weary and so unlike her, told Kelsey that now wasn’t the time to press for details.

  ‘Well, I hope you’re planning on staying at mine, we can top and tail.’

  Mirren looked relieved and ready for a change of topic. ‘Thanks Kelse, I knew you wouldn’t mind. So what are you doing out and about? I called at the studio but it was locked up, and I was going to make my way to your flat but… here you are.’

  ‘I was just about to go in there,’ Kelsey indicated the door and started walking Mirren towards it. ‘Remember Valeria and Myrtle?’

  ‘Your guide friends? I never met them, but they sounded nice when you talked about them…’

  Suddenly, a musically accented voice rang out from the little doorway. ‘Kelsey! You made it. Come in, come in.’ It didn’t take long for Valeria to bustle the two women inside the long, narrow, windowless store room with the slight whiff of damp and thrift store about it.

  While Kelsey made the introductions, Myrtle joined the little party and Valeria, petite and pretty with her long hair swishing, dished out Spanish kisses on both cheeks. Long ago, Valeria had swapped her little tourist trap hometown in the foothills of the Pyrenees where France meets Spain for Stratford-upon-Avon. What was supposed to be a gap year’s tour guiding had turned into a permanent stay when she was swept off her feet by Myrtle and the prospect of a shared life in her little cottage.

  ‘You’re the first ones here,’ Myrtle smiled, handing them both a glass of something sparkling. ‘And there’s cupcakes too, check them out.’

  Valeria lifted the lid on the bakery box, showing off the thickly frosted cakes with their edible toppers in the shape of comedy and tragedy masks. Mirren and Kelsey didn’t need to be asked twice and they unpeeled wrappers and took messy bites while surveying the low room stuffed with theatrical treasures.

  ‘Wow, I love this place, you two,’ admired Kelsey through a mouthful, taking in the wonderful cache of Elizabethan-style dresses, bodkins, jerkins, codpieces, bum rolls and hose hanging along the walls. Two shelves of antique-style shoes in various colours of velvet and shot silk drew her eye like jewels, and from the ceiling hung swords, fans, string purses, and bodices thick with embroidery and pearls. Kelsey couldn’t help but gape, hand covering her mouth.

  ‘Wow,’ Mirren echoed, already rummaging through piles of garments set out like a jumble sale on a long bench. ‘This is very me,’ she said, holding an armour breast plate attached to a chain mail shirt against her body, grinning.

  ‘And I could see myself in this at the retail park on a weekend,’ said Kelsey, now under the wide brim and drooping feather of an Edwardian lady’s hat.

  ‘All our stock is available to rent but this table is for sale pieces. That hat could be yours for only eighteen pounds, Kelsey.’

  ‘A princely sum,’ Mirren mugged, now wrapped dramatically in a deep purple velvet and faux ermine cloak, waggling her eyebrows for effect. Myrtle laughed loudly while Valeria added a rope of fake pearls to Mirren’s get-up.

  ‘You know, Kelsey, you ought to bring Jonathan and his director to meet us when they fly in this Christmas,’ Myrtle said in hushed tones even though the store was empty but for them. ‘Maybe we can talk them into hiring their stage costumes for the Stratford run of Love’s Labour’s Lost from us?’

  ‘Ah, I think they already have their costumes. In fact, I’m sure of it, but I’ll definitely point them in your direction anyway.’

  ‘If I still had an income I’d definitely be getting this,’ Mirren butted in from further along the rummage table where she was now resplendent in a gold crown. ‘What time do you open officially?’ she added, and everyone looked at her.

  ‘We are open,’ said Valeria, ominously. ‘We opened half an hour ago.’

  ‘I knew we should have invited the mayor to cut a ribbon or something,’ Myrtle said. ‘Created more of a buzz.’

  ‘I’m sure it’ll pick up, it’s still early,’ Kelsey soothed.

  ‘The guy from the newspaper isn’t here either,’ said Valeria. ‘He promised he’d be here for ten. It’s your friend from the Examiner, Kelsey.’

  ‘Not Mr Ferdinand? That doesn’t surprise me. He doesn’t pay and now he doesn’t even turn up. He’s ignored my emails chasing my money and there’s been no new commissions. He really is the most useless…’

  ‘Morning!’

  Everyone turned to face the door where the voice had come from.

  Against the glare from the street stood a man, silhouetted in the frame, tall and smart in black trousers and a black high-necked sweater. As he stepped into the artificial light of the shop Kelsey felt a spark of recognition, but she couldn’t place him.

  ‘Adrian Armadale, from the Examiner. Sorry I’m late. I uh, wasn’t aware I had a job this morning, not until I got a call half an hour ago from the boss. I was on my way to a day out with my brother and his family and I… well, I’m here now. So, what’s the story?’ He drew out a notebook and pen.

  Myrtle welcomed him in and whisked him into a corner at the back of the room. Valeria followed, wielding the cupcakes.

  ‘Aren’t you going to say anything?’ Kelsey asked, turning to Mirren.

  ‘About what?’

  ‘About him.’

  ‘Who? The reporter? Why would I?’

  ‘Well, because he’s gorgeous and you never let a hot guy pass w
ithin a two-mile radius without rating him or…’

  ‘Shush, he’ll hear you.’ Mirren’s stern hissing was rendered comical by the fact that she was wearing a droopy moustache and curly red wig.

  ‘What do you look like? But, seriously, you saw him, right?’

  ‘I thought you only had eyes for Jonathan?’

  ‘Obviously, but… Mirren, are you feeling all right? He’s a clear ten and I thought you’d be wrestling him to the ground for his phone number by now.’

  ‘That’s not very nice.’

  ‘Did I lie though?’

  ‘Maybe I’ve changed. Maybe I couldn’t give a toss about blokes anymore, no matter how good-looking they are.’

  Kelsey blinked. ‘Is this one of those out of character things you’re supposed to say when you’re being held hostage to let your mates know something’s up? Are the kidnappers watching us now? Blink once for yes.’

  ‘People can change, Kelsey.’ Mirren cast her eyes towards the reporter who was beset by the shop owners loudly repeating the details of their new venture so he didn’t miss anything. ‘Adrian, or whatever his name is, could be a millionaire K-pop idol, heroically working for Médecins Sans Frontières on the weekend, with a Beverly Hills mansion full of puppy dogs and chocolate bars and I’d still not give him a second look.’

  ‘Umm, okaay.’ Kelsey pulled a face.

  ‘Come on, seems like they’re busy, let’s go for a walk and nip back later?’ Mirren suggested.

  ‘I’ve met him before,’ Kelsey said as they stepped out into the cool breeze.

  ‘Who?’

  ‘That guy. He was at the Examiner offices when I was going to meet Mr Ferdinand. He was the first person to warn me I might not get paid and he works for the guy. I really should have listened.’

  ‘I’m in town now, I could help you try to get your cash.’

  Kelsey’s eyes widened. ‘Really?’