The Rival

by Charlotte Duckworth

  It’s clear that David is thinking exactly what I’d expect him to be thinking.

  When it seems an acceptable time to leave – top tip: not too early, not too late – I join the queue for my coat at the cloakroom, with my Secret Santa present (a blow-up boyfriend – hilarious) tucked under my arm. As I stand waiting, my bare legs caught in icy blasts each time the revolving door turns, I hear a familiar laugh behind me. I glance over my shoulder briefly to see them walk past, oblivious to everything but each other. David, with his arm around Helena’s satin waist. Helena with her back to me and her face tilted up towards him. She’s laughing, leaning in close. Too close.

  How disappointing.

  I take my coat and hide behind a column, watching them as they linger in the reception area. David takes out his phone, puts it to his ear for a few minutes, then slips it into his pocket. Helena’s cheeks are red now, inflamed by alcohol, and the eyeliner on one of her eyes is smudged, sending a skinny black tear down the side of her face.

  They wait together in the corner of the reception area, but who knows what for? His arm is still around her waist. She looks down, then back up, her eyes big and puppy doggish. A little laugh, all feigned embarrassment, and then her eyes widen again, before she and David turn to leave the hotel.

  NOW

  Helena

  The sound of Jack’s car crunching through the gravel driveway wakes me. I peer at the bedside clock. It’s 8.07 a.m. Two things about this don’t make sense: 1) that I have slept past six, and 2) that Jack should be coming back from somewhere at such an early hour. Where has he been?

  It takes several minutes for my brain to emerge from its slumber, then I remember that yesterday he was meant to be having dinner with his parents’ friends, the Hamiltons, about the possibility of them investing. He’d never said anything about staying overnight. The dinner must have gone on later than expected, and he missed the last train, decided to stay with a friend. But something about this disagrees with me. He would have let me know if this had been the case.

  The strangest thing of all about this morning, however, is the fact that I don’t feel like crying the second I wake up. Instead, there’s a knot at the pit of my stomach; a knot that I recognize with nostalgia as excitement. And then I remember why: David, the job offer, a potential future beyond this repetitive misery. No doubt Jack and the doctors won’t share my enthusiasm. They’ll worry that I’m not up to it; that it’s too much to take on.

  I decide to stay in bed, to pretend to be asleep, to see what he will do next. I wait, my eyes closed but my ears desperately straining to pick up on any clues. Our bedroom is above the kitchen. I hear him switch on the coffee machine, the aggressive vibrations piercing the silence, followed by a heavy sigh and the clatter of china on the worktop. There is silence next, and then the dull, uncharacteristic thump of his footsteps on the stairs, moving more slowly than usual.

  The door to our bedroom pushes open, fighting with the thick carpet we had laid when we moved in, the sound like a groan. And then there is the smell; something I haven’t smelled for years, something that takes me back to the days before Ash, before the baby, before I had any notion that you could lose control of your own life, if you just weren’t careful enough.

  Jack has been smoking.

  ‘Darling?’ he says, his voice soft, reminding me of the days after I gave birth, when he started stroking my hair as though I were a child. ‘Are you still asleep?’

  I carry on with my pretence, and don’t reply. He pads past me softly and through to our en suite bathroom. The door shuts and the shower pump kicks into life. Minutes later, he’s back in the bedroom and I go through the motions of waking up: a little twitch, rolling over, opening my eyes.

  ‘Morning,’ Jack says, sitting on the edge of the bed. He’s wrapped a towel around his middle, and his bare chest – which I haven’t seen in what feels like years – is hairless. I think of the forest that’s taken root on my legs, and wonder where he finds the vanity to bother with such things.

  ‘Hi,’ I say. I wait for him to explain where he’s been, but he doesn’t say a word. Instead, he just looks at me, as though I’m a total stranger, and he has no idea what I’m doing in his bed.

  ‘Hope I didn’t wake you,’ he says, eventually. ‘That’s the longest sleep you’ve had in a while.’

  I want to sit up and tell him everything: that I lied about seeing Kate, that David is putting me forward for a job, that I’m going to be OK, that he doesn’t need to worry about me any more. But I don’t know how he’ll react. I need to plan this properly, so instead I nod and murmur and pretend to pull the covers back over my head.

  ‘We have your follow-up appointment today,’ he says, gently pulling the duvet back down. ‘They’re going to talk to you about the next step. I don’t want you to feel pressured but . . .’

  ‘It’s OK,’ I say, sitting up. My nightdress is damp under the arms and I realize I’ve been sweating. All night, or just since hearing him come home? ‘I just want to get it over with.’

  ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘Well, nothing else is helping, is it?’ I say. Even though David’s offer has lifted my spirits more than anything else I can think of, I’m too scared to back out now. They might take me away again. ‘So I might as well try.’

  ‘You’re very . . . brave,’ he says, his eyes serious. He kisses me on the forehead.

  ‘What are you doing today?’ I ask.

  ‘I—’ He stops short, fiddling with the towel at his waist, wrapping it around himself more tightly. ‘I have some things to do later . . . I’ve got a bunch of photographers to get in touch with about shooting the stuff for the website. Your appointment is at 11 a.m., right? I can have lunch with you, then go off.’

  Go off where?

  ‘How was your meeting with the investors last night?’ Emboldened, I lay my hand on the fabric over his legs, remembering a time when I would move my hand higher and higher, and we’d fall into bed together and both be late for work. The idea of doing that to him now is somehow inconceivable. I can picture the shock on his face if I did such a thing, and am half tempted. ‘I didn’t hear you come in.’

  ‘I . . . it was late. It didn’t exactly go to plan. Waste of time, to be honest. Nothing for you to worry about. I didn’t want to wake you, so I slept across the hall.’

  Liar, liar, liar a voice inside my head thunders, but I stay perfectly still, the corners of my lips frozen in an uptight smile, my hand on his leg, despite the thundering in my chest. After all, this morning he’s not the only one who’s lying. After so many months of having my every waking thought, action and feeling laid bare, to be picked over by others, it is strangely satisfying to have my own secret.

  ‘I prefer it when you’re there when I wake up,’ I say, using guilt as my weapon instead. ‘I don’t like waking alone. I always worry you’ve been in an accident.’

  He looks genuinely remorseful then, but instead of breaking down and confessing all, he pushes my hand away and stands up.

  ‘I know. But sometimes it just can’t be helped.’

  He walks towards the dressing room, pausing briefly before disappearing into it.

  ‘You’d better get dressed darling,’ he says, as though he’s talking to a five-year-old. ‘We don’t want to be late.’

  *

  We are never late. We are, in fact, half an hour early, and sit side by side on white leather sofas in a vast waiting area. The floor is white marble, the coffee table glass and vast. The walls are white, with choice pieces of ceramics sitting proud on downlit plinths. Above our heads a huge glass skylight floods the room with light, despite the clouds above. There’s a coffee machine in one corner, with a choice of different-coloured capsules lined up like jewels on a dark wooden tray. There’s bottled water: still and sparkling. A row of neatly stacked glasses. A bucket full of ice. No plastic cups in wobbly towers by a water cooler here. The magazines on the coffee table are cased in plastic folders, and there’s a
selection to suit all tastes.

  This is what you pay for when you go private. Not the expertise, but the trimmings, the stuff that shouldn’t matter at all. But Jack had insisted on finding the best out there, no matter what the cost. He had sold his sports car to pay for my treatment. Disloyally, I wondered if it was just a badge of honour to stick on his cap.

  The waiting area reminds me of the one at KAMU; that first time I saw David. The way he said my name, the whiteness of his smile, the smell of his aftershave.

  I glance sideways at Jack, who is frowning at something on his iPhone screen. An email, something about the shop he’s interested in renting, the agent requesting a callback with details on the lease. Since he started his business he always has somewhere more important to be, somewhere that’s not with me. It was the same with his old job, of course, but I never used to resent it, because I always had somewhere else to be, too. But now I am irritated, and I find myself making a clicking sound at the back of my throat. He puts his phone away and reaches for my hand, squeezing it.

  ‘Not too much longer, darling,’ he says. ‘Don’t worry.’

  ‘I’m not worried,’ I say. ‘I just want to get it over with. It’s just a referral, anyway. Could do it on the phone.’

  ‘Hmm.’

  ‘Do you have a cigarette?’

  He looks at me, surprised.

  ‘What?’

  ‘I could smell it on you earlier. Don’t pretend. Can I have one?’

  There’s a split second before he chooses his response. Blink and you’d miss it, but I didn’t and I don’t.

  ‘Busted,’ he says, beaming at me. ‘Your bloodhound nose again.’ The insensitivity of his comment is lost on him. He doesn’t remember that it was only after I became pregnant that I started to smell things more intensely, not before. He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a small packet of Marlboro Lights, handing them to me. ‘Not menthol, I’m afraid.’

  It used to be a running joke between us. When we first met, we both smoked, but Jack’s habit was considerably worse than mine. I’d started at boarding school, because, let’s face it, what else was there to do as a seventeen-year-old girl locked up with a load of other girls? It was the only act of rebellion that we could both afford and do every day. But I’d never taken to it properly, not really. It was always an affectation for me – and when Jack found out I smoked menthol cigarettes, he had laughed and told me I was ridiculously adorable.

  ‘I’ll cope,’ I say, flicking open the lid and pulling one out. ‘Lighter?’

  He presses a flash of silver into my open palm, and I gasp.

  ‘Wow,’ I say, stroking the engraving running across it. ‘I forgot all about this.’

  ‘The best present you ever bought me,’ he replies, winking.

  ‘I won’t be long.’

  Outside, I watch people coming and going as I inhale the cigarette slowly. There are characters from all walks of life: young, old, male, female, fat, slim . . . Depression is an indiscriminate hunter, picking off its victims like a sniper shooting into a crowd. There’s only one thing that unites the sufferers in this particular clinic, and that is that they all have money, or health insurance. Whoever said money can’t buy you happiness must have hung out here a lot.

  I stub the cigarette out on the ground, half finished, and walk back into the waiting area, towards the sofa we were sitting on. But Jack’s not there. In his place is only the imprint of his body, leaving a shallow impression on the white leather. I turn round and scan the room. The receptionists are both on the phone. Other than that, there’s no one here but an older couple sitting in one corner.

  Jack has vanished.

  Instinctively, I pull my phone out of my coat pocket and switch it on. It’s frustratingly slow to come to life, and then I am bombarded by the usual notifications of missed calls, which I dismiss in an irritated panic. There are several from my mother, and then a text message from her that keeps popping up, over and over, even as I try to close it. Just three words, pinging in my face repeatedly.

  Don’t do it.

  Eventually, I manage to delete the message and scroll down to find Jack’s number. But there’s a tug at my shoulder and I turn, and he is there.

  ‘That was quick,’ he says. ‘Sorry. I just went to stretch my legs.’

  He’s holding his phone again. When your own behaviour can no longer be considered normal, it’s difficult to work out whether or not other people are behaving strangely.

  ‘My mum . . .’ I hiss. ‘She texted me . . . How did she know . . .?’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Jack says, pushing his phone back into the pocket of his jeans. ‘I spoke to her yesterday. She’s just worried about you, that’s all. Don’t worry. It’s all going to be OK. It’s for the best. We’ve talked about this. It’s going to be OK.’

  ‘Helena Brenton?’ a voice echoes across the white cave.

  ‘It’s going to be OK,’ Jack says, again, squeezing my hand as we walk towards the voice. ‘I’m here. You can do this.’

  THEN

  Ash

  Today is my last day in the office before a mandatory Christmas break, and I might be the only person in London who’s excited about going to work. After the party, I made my way back to the flat, but found I couldn’t switch off. So instead, I got up, pulled on my leggings and started to run. My brain was racing with my legs, the possibilities whirling in my mind. It was 3 a.m. by the time I got back and finally fell into bed, into a fitful sleep.

  This morning I woke earlier than normal, and instead of hanging about, I’ve decided to head straight into the office. It’ll be good to be prepared, to take my seat and wait for the show to unfold. As always, I phone Gran on the way to the station and try to advise her as best I can on today’s critical issue: where to buy a top for the Zumba class she’s starting next week. She agrees to try H&M again – ‘Upstairs, Gran, the sportswear is upstairs’ – but I make a note on my to-do list to order her something cheerful from Pineapple and have it delivered as a surprise.

  Sportswear crisis averted – ‘I don’t want to look like an old twit, Ashy, Grandad’s already told me I won’t keep up with all that loud music’ – I climb on to a far emptier train than usual and try to work out how I can use the information about Helena to my advantage. Surely, surely, it’ll all blow up and eventually one of them will have to leave? And I know which one will be most likely, paving the way for me to move up the ranks . . .

  There’s no one in the office as I exit the lift, and I’m not surprised. The detritus from yesterday’s pre-party drinks – plastic cups, empty bottles, bowls of crisps and some shrivelled olives – is still scattered around.

  In the kitchen, I fill the kettle and switch it on, reaching for the mug I always use, the one with a thin rim and the logo of one of the more expensive brands. I’m still caffeine-free, but I’ve grown used to it now – the mid-morning headaches have subsided and I actually look forward to my cup of peppermint tea.

  Back at my desk, I open my laptop and flick through my emails. I don’t have any, of course; no one at KAMU is doing any work today. It’s 8.30 a.m. – usually, Helena is in by now, but there’s no sign of her. Her desk sits across from me, empty and immaculate. After twenty minutes spent reading the latest headlines on The Drum, the lift pings to life and I look up, expecting to see her, or David, marching through. But it’s neither of them. Instead, it’s one of the developers, the one with the clean-smelling T-shirts. Joel, I think he’s called.

  He smiles at me, but he doesn’t have much of a choice – I’m staring right at him.

  ‘Morning!’ he says.

  ‘Hi.’

  He walks towards my desk. We’ve never really spoken before, and I don’t remember seeing him at the party last night.

  ‘No hangover, then?’ he says.

  ‘I only had a couple of glasses,’ I reply. ‘Usually I’m a teetotal bore.’

  ‘Same,’ he says. ‘I feel like I should high five you or something.’
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  I laugh.

  ‘Best not.’

  ‘Was it good, then?’ he asks.

  ‘The party? It was . . . a bit dull but it livened up near the end. I didn’t see you there?’

  He looks embarrassed, all of a sudden.

  ‘No, I couldn’t go . . . I had to take care of my mum. She’s not very well.’

  ‘Sorry to hear that,’ I reply.

  He pauses, lingering a little too long, his thumb hanging off the corner of my desk.

  ‘Er, so . . . want a coffee? Ashley, isn’t it?’

  ‘Thanks, but I’m good,’ I reply, signalling to my mug.

  ‘Ah yes, the peppermint tea girl,’ he says. ‘You know, my granny drinks that. Enjoy!’

  He ambles off to his corner of the office and I am struck by how silent the room is. It’s usually a buzz of activity: phones ringing, constant chatter, machines whirring. But eventually, they begin arriving – in dribs and drabs, as Gran would say – like defeated soldiers marching back from war. I sit at my desk and listen to them all, in competition for the worst hangover, for the latest night, for the most dramatic story.

  ‘I fell asleep with both shoes on.’

  ‘I ordered an Uber and then got distracted and carried on dancing – that’s the end of my five-star rating!’

  ‘I vomited on the night bus home.’

  And the worst one of all, to these princesses of the beauty world, accompanied by much squealing from the audience: ‘I slept in my make-up!’

  By 9.35 a.m., there’s still no sign of her. No one seems to know what I know, so I keep my mouth shut and, instead, just listen to their one-upmanship. No one seems to be missing Helena, or care why she’s not in yet, and I scribble circles on a Post-it note in frustration.

  When Lizzy arrives, I feign an excuse about believing I had a meeting with David, and she tells me that he’s not in today. That’s it for him now, he’s gone off to spend Christmas with his wife’s parents in their chalet in Switzerland.