The Rival

by Charlotte Duckworth

  ‘Won’t be back till 3rd January, lazy bugger,’ she says, but I know she’s fond of him – he’s a charmer, everyone loves him – and she says it with affection. She tells me she’s off herself, in a bit. Another antenatal appointment, apparently. ‘Might as well sleep at the hospital, these days!’

  Freckles seems to have abandoned the Dukan for today, and is tucking into a bacon roll, thoughtfully provided by the head of sales. His team seem to be faring the worst of all, and one of them has already gone home, claiming food poisoning after throwing up again this morning in the office loos.

  No one is doing any work. I am finishing off my end-of-year review, detailing my ideas for engaging more with boutique brands. There are so many opportunities we’re missing when it comes to trendy beauty start-ups and niche cruelty-free brands. It’s not something I was asked to do, but I’m pleased with it – it’s taken me weeks, and I had intended to send it to David and Helena this afternoon, but it’s beginning to look like there’ll be no point.

  It’s 10.07 a.m. by the time she finally arrives. She’s wearing jeans, as she often does on a Friday, biker boots and a black silk blouse, a bright red geometric necklace adding a flash of colour. I try not to stare as I watch her making her way to her desk, coffee in hand, her coat slung over one arm, her handbag over the other. To the right of her, two of the developers are actually playing ping-pong on that ridiculous table that takes up half the office, and she laughs as the ball flies past her. There’s no outward sign that something out of the ordinary has taken place.

  ‘Morning, Helena!’ Freckles squeaks as she passes our bank of desks.

  ‘Morning!’ she replies, equally sunny. ‘Oh God, bacon rolls. Don’t tell me I missed them. Dammit.’

  ‘We were wondering where you’d got to.’ I can’t help myself.

  Freckles stares at me with admiration.

  ‘I know! Typical of me to book a dentist appointment the day after our Christmas party, right?’ Helena replies, rolling her eyes. ‘I was not impressed with myself at 7 a.m. when I remembered.’

  Freckles grins. ‘Oh, you poor thing!’

  ‘I didn’t see you leave last night,’ I say, unable to stop myself. ‘Did you get home all right?’

  Helena shoots me a look then; one I can’t interpret. Does she know that I saw her, or does she just think I should mind my own business?

  ‘I just mean . . .’ I continue, ‘I was a bit worried. Daft. Sorry. My, er, mum always used to fuss over me getting home safely, guess I just . . .’

  Helena gives a short, sharp laugh. ‘Bless you, Ashley,’ she says. ‘But I think you’ll find I’m old enough and ugly enough to take care of myself.’

  Freckles gives a snort. She thinks I don’t hear it but I do, and I have to stop myself from kicking her under the desk.

  ‘That put you in your place,’ she says, as soon as Helena is settled at her desk and out of earshot.

  My foot shoots forward on instinct.

  ‘Ow!’ Freckles says, her eyes wide with outrage.

  ‘Oh – so, so sorry,’ I reply. ‘My foot slipped.’

  *

  At 12 p.m. Helena sends an email round to the entire company.

  From: HelenaB@kamu.com

  Subject: It’s beginning to look a lot like . . .

  Hi team

  Thanks for all your hard work this year! I can’t believe how much we’ve achieved – and we’re only five months in. Next year is going to be magnificent. But for now . . . it’s time to go home and spend some time with your loved ones. So bugger off, the lot of you, and I’ll see you (some of you, at least) after Christmas, and the rest in the New Year.

  Loads of love

  H xxx

  A Mexican wave of excitement ripples around the office as everyone reads it. I do not join in.

  The kisses, for one thing, still annoy me. But I’ve grown used to this new, familiar way of behaving – Helena ends most of her emails with kisses, even the ones to the developers. I know we’re new media and most people working here (myself included) are godawful Millennials, but seriously, how can she expect people to respect her when she talks to them like a bunch of needy children? Even though it’s not something I’ve ever experienced, I feel nostalgic for the old days of business, when women wore suits and men wore ties, and people shook hands instead of air-kissing, and everyone took their work seriously.

  The other thing that gets on my wick is that I don’t want to go home yet. I am contracted to work until 5.30 p.m. I haven’t finished proofing my proposal, and now – even if I do manage to finish it within the next five minutes – Helena won’t have any time to read it before the break. I’ve offered to work in between Christmas and New Year, which won me huge brownie points from the rest of my team. But I know there will only be what Helena referred to as a ‘skeleton staff’ in at that time, and she herself has somehow managed to wangle most of the time off to spend it clay-pigeon shooting with her husband and his family in the Cotswolds. I don’t know what they’re doing exactly, but it’s bound to be something like that.

  I look over at her. She’s standing by her desk, chatting to one of the developers. There’s nothing there, no hint, to suggest what she did last night. Maybe they just had a kiss, left in separate taxis, and she’s justified it to herself as a bit of harmless fun at the Christmas party, nothing to be proud of, of course, but something that makes her a bit more human. Maybe she went home last night and tearfully confessed all to Mr Conventional, and he laughed and hugged her and pretended to want to go and punch seven bells out of David, and then they both laughed again and he thanked her for her honesty and told her not to drink so much next time. Maybe they had vigorous sex up against a wall in their hallway afterwards – his way of stamping his scent back on her – and this morning he feels like even more of a man than he did yesterday.

  Maybe she really did have the dentist this morning, after all.

  By the time I turn back to my computer, half the office has disappeared, and the other half are shrugging on their coats and heading for the lifts. Cheery calls of ‘Have a good one, mate!’ and ‘See you next year!’ punctuate the air. Freckles has vanished.

  I continue with my work.

  By 12.30 p.m., it’s just Helena, Joel and me left. Joel seems to be working, like me, and I find myself warming to him even more. Helena, meanwhile, is flicking idly across our competitors’ websites – I can see her screen reflected in the window behind her. She’ll justify it as research, but I know she’s just killing time. She doesn’t want to leave before us, thinks it’ll expose her magnanimous gesture for the self-interested move it really is.

  A few minutes later, her phone rings and she grabs it as though it’s a child about to run into the road.

  ‘Hi,’ she says, but her voice is so soft I have to strain to hear her. ‘Hang on . . . hang on a second, David.’

  She stands and strides towards the meeting room, pulling the huge door shut behind her. Inside the glass cage, she rests her bottom on the table, absent-mindedly rubbing the armrest of one of the chairs with her free hand. Her body language is defensive, worried – but, of course, I can’t hear anything she’s saying. After several minutes, she pulls the phone away from her head and just stares into space, before pinching her nose and returning to her desk. As she passes me, I can see that her eyes are watery, and she gives a not-so-subtle sniff. What has David said to her?

  ‘Drink?’

  I look up. Joel has appeared at my desk.

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘Well, it’s Christmas, right. And I’m done with my work, and you . . . well, you look like you’ve lost interest in yours. So. Do you fancy a drink?’

  Nothing is more expensive than a missed opportunity.

  I smile, and close down my PowerPoint presentation. I can always finish it tonight.

  ‘Why not?’ I reply, offering him my biggest and best smile.

  As we leave, Helena looks up.

  ‘Bye, guys,’ she says, but her voi
ce is that of a child’s: small, faraway, confused. ‘Have a good one . . . enjoy.’

  ‘You too!’ I reply, and as the lift doors close, I can just about make out Helena resting her head on her hands, as though she’s about to weep.

  NOW

  Helena

  Five days to go until my treatment. I have been marking them off on my calendar. Last night, I felt overcome with hysteria at the ridiculousness of life, my situation, everything, and nearly grabbed my marker and scrawled ‘Calendar of Doom’ across the top of it, but then I saw all those little As, all the red ones, and I realized it’s not funny, it’s not funny at all.

  Jack has been doing his research. Each evening as we sit in front of the fire he pulls out his iPad and I can see over his shoulder he’s looking into the side effects, into the possible outcomes. Memory loss – I think that’s the one that scares him the most. It doesn’t scare me. It would be a relief not to be able to remember the experience. And as for loss of appetite, headaches, nausea, fear, anxiety and confusion . . . I have them all, already.

  It’s 10 a.m., and Jack disappeared into his workshop at 7. I’ve been in bed since he left, not sleeping, but not completely awake, either – trapped in a strange kind of insomnia, as though groggy from an operation. I have nothing particularly to get up for, and it’s so cold outside. But then the doorbell rings and I know it’s the postman – I heard him walking up the lane, whistling. The windows in our bedroom are the original ones, thin panes of glass that barely separate us from the sounds of tyres skidding across tarmac, followed by those incessant shrieks that follow me into my dreams.

  I consider ignoring him but he presses our doorbell again, more insistently this time. It’s the anniversary of the first day we met. Perhaps Jack has ordered me something; he’ll be upset to miss its delivery.

  I pull on my dressing gown and tread downstairs, pressing the intercom to open our gates and catching sight of my reflection in the large hallway mirror. A few years ago, I’d have been humiliated to let anyone see me like this, but I don’t care any more. And it’s good preparation: after what I’m about to go through, I won’t have any dignity left.

  ‘Morning!’ the postman says, as I open the huge arched door. He thrusts a small bundle into my hands. ‘Just a signature here, please.’ He’s so cheery, so awake, so content with his lot in life, I can’t help but smile at him.

  I scribble something on his little device and take a parcel from him, along with the mail. It’s addressed to Jack, as suspected.

  ‘Thank you,’ I say.

  As he turns to leave, he pauses and looks back.

  ‘You all right, love?’ he says. His eyes, watery with age, are the brightest blue I’ve ever seen. ‘None of my business, but I’ve got a daughter about your age . . .’ He gives an anxious smile, and I want to run towards him and throw my arms round him and ask him to be my dad, too.

  Instead, I smile again and shrug my shoulders, cradling the post in my arms.

  ‘I’ve not been well,’ I reply. ‘But I’m on the mend, thank you. I’m . . . I’m getting some new treatment next week, in fact.’

  He’s embarrassed now. He didn’t want all these details.

  ‘Ah right. So long as someone’s looking after you,’ he says, softly, as he walks away.

  ‘Yes, my husband, he’s just in his workshop, actually . . . but . . . thank you,’ I call after him. ‘Thank you for asking.’

  He nods and I stay at the doorway until he’s disappeared down the drive and through our gates. I wish I could invite him in, ask him to tell me all about his daughter, what she does, where she lives – is she married, does she have a career she loves?

  In the kitchen, I make tea and toast and perch on a bar stool, looking through the post. Three letters: two of which are addressed to us both, so will be about the mortgage or the house insurance or something equally mundane, but one addressed just to me. I know it’s from the Council even before I’ve torn the seal.

  Dear Mrs Brenton

  We write regarding your letter to this office of 2 October 2016. We are sorry to hear you still have concerns about road safety in your area.

  As you are aware, the Council undertook a risk assessment of Forest Lane last year and took measures, including new signage and removal of the original stone wall on your neighbouring property’s land, which was replaced with wire fencing to improve visibility. We also recently filled in several large potholes on Bushwicks Lane. We note your comments about surface water pooling in the road. However, we do not feel this is a sufficient issue to warrant further investigation at the current time.

  We appreciate your concern and assure you we are committed to road safety within the Pease Valley area.

  Best regards

  J. L. Thompson

  The contents of the letter are just an echo of what they keep telling me on the phone; a bureaucratic way of telling me to get lost. It’s the name at the bottom that makes my heart quicken. Her surname – a common enough one, of course – but the coincidence slaps me around the face, all the same. I cannot escape her, even when I am trying to. But more than that, I am sure, so sure, that she mentioned a brother once, that his name was Jason. I squint at the signature above the printed name, but it’s just a squiggle, like the one I left on the postman’s device. It gives nothing away. It could have been made by a toddler.

  I rip the letter into small pieces and sprinkle them into the recycling bin. What is the likelihood of Ashley’s brother suddenly having a job working at Pease Valley Council? Slim to nonexistent. I know nothing about him, only that he’s younger than her, that the two of them aren’t close.

  I turn my attention back to the small square parcel, sitting squat in front of me on the kitchen worktop, postmarked London. I pick it up and give it a little shake. Something inside rattles; another box. Jewellery. It’s light, so it’s probably a pair of earrings, or maybe a pendant. I push it into the corner of the counter, by the fruit bowl.

  We are going out for dinner tonight. Table for two at the poshest restaurant in our nearest town. Jack has been excited about it for days, downloading the menu and reading TripAdvisor reviews as though he’s planning a long holiday. He thinks it’s the start of something new, the celebration of a change. Post-treatment, he hopes I’ll be back to my old self. But is it that easy to erase the damage to your brain, to rub it out like a misspelled word on a page?

  *

  When he gets home, I am in our bedroom curling my hair with tongs in the way I used to when we first met.

  ‘I’ve booked us a cab!’ he shouts up the stairs. I hear him then, bounding up them like a puppy. ‘Oh!’ He stops short in the doorway of our bedroom.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Nothing,’ he says, smiling. ‘It’s just . . . well, you look nice. Really nice.’

  I am wearing the same dress I wore to meet David. It’s pretty much the only thing that fits me, these days; everything else is too big.

  ‘Thanks,’ I say, doing a hesitant twirl. I catch sight of my reflection in the dressing-table mirror and all I can see is a bony rake of a woman, all the vitality sucked from her. But my hair, at least, looks good. The clumps that fell out after I gave birth have nearly all grown back. And the corners of my mouth are almost completely back to normal. My tongue darts to them reflexively, running over the once-cracked skin. The iron supplement has worked; I might even risk lipstick.

  ‘I feel . . .’ Jack says, coming towards me. He puts his arms around my waist, rests his head on my shoulder. ‘I feel like things are changing. Changing for the better. Don’t you agree?’

  ‘Yes,’ I say, but he catches the hesitation in my voice.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Nothing,’ I say, switching off the hair tongs and setting them down on my dressing table. ‘It’s just . . .’ I try to find the words to tell him about David, about the job, about the LinkedIn profile I spent two hours meticulously brushing up this afternoon, but I know it’ll be the start of a bigger conversation, an
d I don’t want to ruin the moment. I want us to go out for dinner, and eat a meal and chatter meaninglessly, like we used to.

  ‘Tell me,’ Jack says, letting go of my waist. ‘What’s the matter?’

  ‘Nothing,’ I reply. ‘I was just . . . just thinking about maybe getting back to work. Some kind of work.’

  ‘Darling, you know you don’t need to do that. Are you worried about money? Because we’re fine, we’re absolutely fine. It won’t be long now before I start bringing some in again, I promise. And surely, surely, you have some left, even if you don’t want to rely on me?’

  ‘It’s not the money,’ I say, stunned by his ignorance. Doesn’t he understand that we don’t just work for money? That it’s so much more than that: that it’s fundamental to life, having a purpose, self-esteem, an identity. What’s the point otherwise? I’m a mother without a child. I’m a career woman without a job. I’m literally pointless. ‘I haven’t thought about the money at all. I want . . . I need to be doing something with my brain.’

  ‘But the house . . .’ He tails off. This has been his designated project for me, for the past few months. His way of helping me; giving me something else to think about, to put all my attention into. Minimal risk. I think it was my therapist’s idea, in fact. I swear the two of them email each other about me, even though I know that’s against her code of ethics. But giving me something to focus on is supposed to save me from myself. The only problem is, I have no interest in interior design – and Jack’s the one with all the talent in that department, anyway.

  ‘Jack,’ I say, and from nowhere I feel the stirrings of my temper. It’s so unfamiliar now, so utterly missed, that I want to seize it, drag it out of myself and let it erupt. ‘I don’t want to do the bloody house up!’ It’s not quite a shout, but it’s the closest I’ve come in a long time. ‘It doesn’t need doing up, anyway. It was all done when we got here.’