The Rival

by Charlotte Duckworth

  ‘No, I’m not. I just don’t want to buy a load of crap,’ I reply, sighing. ‘Is this really the best you can do?’

  ‘It’s decent enough money,’ he says, sounding subdued. ‘They bus us all up here – twenty lads at a time – give us the gear and leave us to it. You can make a fair bit, so long as you’re polite. I give them some sob story about trying to get my life back on track, how I’m about to join the Marines. Usually does the trick. Especially if you turn up before the wanker banker husbands get home, and they’re alone bathing their kids. They’ll chuck fifty quid at you just to make you piss off. ’

  ‘It’s not a job, though, is it?’ I say. ‘It’s just glorified begging. Or theft by intimidation.’

  ‘Better than robbing,’ he says. ‘Guess we can’t all be as clever as you, Ashley. What’s with the “L, E, Y”, anyway? Ashleigh just too chavvy for your new workmates? You might be trying to pretend you belong on Made in Chelsea now, but I don’t think much of your neighbourhood.’ He gives a sideways sneer at the damp patch above the kitchen units.

  ‘What do you want, Jason?’

  There’s a pause. I wonder if I have any cash in the flat, or whether I’ll have to trudge outside to get some. If so, I might get an opportunity to leave the steak. I know the dog gets its final toilet session at about 11.30 p.m., so I have a couple of hours to go.

  He shrugs. ‘Nothing. Just thought you might want to chat. Seeing as it was her birthday this week.’

  I breathe out, rubbing my eyes with my fingers. I’m knackered. The last two days haven’t gone to plan at all. I want to go to bed. No, it’s worse than that; I want to cry.

  ‘What do you want?’

  He sighs, and for a second he looks like the brother I once loved; the one whose bottom I wiped when Mum had disappeared on an eight-hour bender and we hadn’t eaten properly for days. The one I went to the corner shop and stole baked beans for. The one who sobbed and held me at night, asking me to promise I’d never leave him.

  The one who, aged fifteen, punched me so hard in the face I broke a tooth.

  ‘I haven’t got anywhere to stay right now,’ he says. ‘They haven’t exactly been welcoming, the grandparents.’

  ‘Not my problem,’ I snap. ‘Don’t you have a parole officer, or something, looking out for you? You’re a grown-up. About time you sorted your own life out.’

  ‘Where’s your bedroom?’ he says, changing tack.

  This is why I’m in no hurry to leave this place. Because I knew that this would happen at some point. Staying in the studio means that I’m safe from him; there’s no room at the inn.

  ‘I don’t have one. You’re sitting on my bed.’

  He looks down at the sofa.

  ‘Look, what do you want?’ I say, again, losing patience. ‘I can get you some money, I suppose. Enough to get you a hostel, or whatever, for a few nights. But you can’t stay here. As you can see, there’s no room. And I’m tired and I need to go to bed. I’ve got a long day ahead . . .’

  My phone starts to ring. I grab it. It’s Joel. Finally. Finally. But fucking hell, he doesn’t half pick his moments. I stare at the phone, feeling it vibrate in my hand, like a grenade about to go off.

  ‘Fuck,’ I say.

  ‘Don’t mind me,’ Jason replies, leaning back on the sofa and giving me another smirk.

  I want to punch him. I cancel the call, muttering under my breath.

  ‘No one important, then?’ he asks, and I can see, despite the needling, that he’s actually interested. It’s those flickers of humanity that are usually my downfall. I have to remember who he is and what he’s done. He isn’t the little boy who used to wet the bed, terrified of Mum and her drunken outbursts. Not any more.

  ‘How much?’ I ask.

  ‘What?’

  ‘How much to make you go away?’ I’m exasperated now – I’ll give him the entire balance of my bank account, if it means he’ll leave.

  ‘Jeez, Ash, that hurts,’ he says, feigning a tear. ‘We haven’t seen each other in, what, eighteen months, and you just want to get rid of me? Thanks. Thanks a lot.’

  ‘Please,’ I say. I wonder if I should call Gran, whether that would be any help at all. But it’s late; she’ll be asleep, and she’s only just out of hospital. I can’t stress her out any more, it wouldn’t be fair. ‘I’m just getting things sorted for myself, I’m busy at work . . . it’s late.’

  ‘I just need somewhere to stay for a few days,’ he says. ‘That’s all. While I’m up here selling. I won’t get in the way of your oh-so-successful life.’

  ‘I told you, I’ll give you money for a hostel,’ I reply, flatly. ‘That’s the best I can do.’

  ‘I don’t want to stay in a hostel. That’s exactly the kind of place I need to get away from. Fuck, you’re my sister. Can’t you put me up for one night?’

  I fumble in my bag for my purse. ‘Here, take my bank card. The pin number is 2902. Take out what you like. I’ll call the bank tomorrow and say I’ve lost it.’

  He stands, and I remember how tall he is, how much bigger than me. And then, with a frustration I’ve seen before so many, many times, he throws the mug he’s holding at the wall behind me. It smashes behind the kitchen sink, breaking into pieces and leaving a brown stain on the wall.

  ‘Fuck’s sake, Jason!’ I shout, but he storms out, yanking his bag from the floor and slamming my front door behind him. It bounces back open, then creaks on its hinges to a close, without shutting properly.

  Nothing changes.

  I allow a few unwanted tears to trickle down my face before blowing my nose on a tissue. And then I hear it, the front door creaking again.

  ‘Ashley?’ a voice says.

  I look up to see Joel, standing there, his fingers wrapped around a bunch of roses. His eyes take in the scene: the luminous duster, my blotchy face and the huge tea stain on the wall.

  ‘I tried to ring you to tell you I was here . . . Some guy let me in downstairs. Why was your door open? Are you OK? What’s happened?’

  ‘I’m fine,’ I say, ‘don’t worry. It was nothing.’

  ‘Who was he?’ Joel asks, reaching out and smoothing my hair. He lays the roses down on the coffee table, and I smile at them sadly.

  I walk to the sofa and sit down, looking at the tea stain behind the sink. The pieces of mug are still scattered across the worktop, the largest chunk on the drainer. I feel Joel’s arms around me, pulling me towards him, and it’s only then that I realize I’m shaking.

  ‘He was . . .’ I begin, my brain racing to concoct a story. I haven’t got the energy to tell Joel about Jason, the fact I have a brother who’s been in and out of prison since he was seventeen. Not yet, anyway. ‘He was just some lad selling stuff.’ So much, so true. ‘I was stupid, I felt sorry for him. I invited him in, but then he tried to sell me all these crappy cleaning products for twenty quid. And when I told him that they were too expensive, he just went ballistic.’

  ‘You need to report him,’ Joel says.

  ‘No,’ I say. ‘Not . . . not now . . . I’m really tired.’

  ‘But he smashed the place up!’

  ‘He only broke a mug,’ I say, pushing Joel off and walking towards the kitchen area. I collect the pieces carefully and pile them up on the drainer, then take some kitchen towel and try to blot up the tea stains on the carpet. ‘My stupid fault for inviting him in and giving him a cup of tea. I just felt sorry for him and I wanted to give him a break.’

  The words are an act, but as I say them the tears start to return. I think of Helena, her perfect life with her glamorous parents, no black sheep siblings turning up to wreck things all the time.

  It’s not fair.

  He looks at me.

  ‘I can’t believe you’d be that . . . trusting,’ he says, a hint of suspicion in his voice. ‘Is there something . . . anything else you want to tell me?’

  I shake my head. Does he think I fancied him? Is that it? He thinks some bloke turned up at my door selling d
usters and I thought he was fit, so I invited him in?

  ‘I just want to go to bed . . . please. He’ll be long gone now, anyway.’

  He stands up, wraps his arms around me and pulls me towards him. I’m going to cry again. It’s inevitable, as it was earlier. I can’t escape Jason. We’re all that’s left of each other’s pasts, bound together forever, no matter how far I try to run.

  ‘You came back,’ I whisper, as Joel strokes my hair.

  ‘Of course I did,’ he says. ‘I was worried when you didn’t answer your phone. It’s OK. You’re going to be OK. I’m sorry for storming off.’

  ‘It doesn’t matter,’ I say. ‘Let’s go to bed.’

  He makes me a cup of peppermint tea and I sit on the footstool again, watching as he makes the bed up. It’s uplifting to see this new side of him, more serious and sensitive than I thought he could be. Today’s not all bad, then.

  And perhaps that’ll be it for the next eighteen months or so. Perhaps now I’ve stood up to him, Jason will leave me alone.

  THEN

  Helena

  I can’t escape the atmosphere in the office this morning. When I first arrived, Ash and Toby were sitting in the breakout area, having far too intense a discussion for 9.20 a.m. Ashley’s face was flushed, her cheeks and neck bright pink, her nostrils flaring. Toby was gesticulating wildly, all arms and hands in her face. But as soon as I came in, the two of them stopped speaking, and Ashley stalked off to the toilets.

  ‘You missed all the drama,’ Jess says, dropping a page of proofs into my in-tray as I sit down at my desk.

  ‘Looks like it,’ I say, keeping my eyes on the screen as my computer drags itself into life. If I give Jess even the teeniest of windows she’ll be here for the next fifteen minutes, chewing my ear off about some row she had with her colleague at her previous job. She’s sweet enough, but definitely an oversharer.

  ‘I think Toby might quit, you know,’ Jess says, lowering her voice.

  She wins; I look up at her.

  ‘He’s that annoyed. He was telling me in the pub last night. She doesn’t care who she treads on to get what she wants.’

  ‘Right,’ I say, straightening up in my chair. ‘Thanks for the heads-up. I’ll have a word.’

  She gets the message and wanders off to Amy, to try her luck at a chat there.

  My computer gives a gentle bleep and I see a new email from Toby.

  From: TobyJ@kamu.com

  Subject: Ash – sales tactics

  Hi Helena

  It’s not in my nature to ‘report’ my colleagues, but I just wanted to make you aware that Ashley has been offering my leads discounted prices (and in some cases reduced contracts) on their listings if they take out space at the pop-up. As far as I understood from your and David’s brief, the listing fees are non-negotiable. As a consequence of several of her discounted ‘deals’, word has been getting round and it’s not only undermining my position, but making it increasingly difficult for me to do my job.

  I’d appreciate it if you could speak with her, or clarify the position to me, if indeed I have misunderstood our discounting policy/the priority of the pop-up.

  Cheers

  Toby

  I flick my eyes up, and glance towards Toby’s screen. He’s frowning, clearly still upset – and understandably so – his fingers fighting with the keyboard, no doubt venting all to a friend. I take a deep breath, try to put myself in his position – one of David’s top management tips – and reply to his message as empathetically as possible.

  *

  My period hasn’t arrived. After spending what feels like the whole morning locked in a meeting room reassuring Toby that I will have words with Ash about her tactics – that we do, indeed, value him and that she has, indeed, been behaving out of turn – I head out to the small chemist on the corner of our building. It takes me a while to find what I am looking for, and I buy two – just in case. The woman behind the counter gives me a curious smile as I pay. She must sell these things all the time, to all kinds of different women experiencing all kinds of different emotions.

  Afterwards I go next door to Pret and stare at the racks of sandwiches and salads and soups for what feels like hours. Busy worker bees jostle to get the things they want, pushing in front of me, tutting when I don’t get out of the way. A child is wailing in a high chair in the corner, throwing all his mother’s offerings on to the floor, as though the small pieces of baguette and cheese are the most disgusting foods he has ever seen. I walk up and down, trying to find something to suit my gnawing stomach, but none of it is what I want. I settle on some chocolate-covered rice cakes and a peppermint tea. They aren’t going to fill me up, but they might stop this dreadful churning feeling.

  Back in our building, I press the button and wait for the lift. I usually take the stairs but my legs are unwilling today. At our floor, I have to turn left for the toilets and right for our office. There’s no one in the corridor, and I stand there for a few seconds trying to decide what to do. Get it over with now, or wait until tonight?

  I’ve never been good at waiting. I walk a few paces and push the toilet door open. Ash is standing in front of the mirror, leaning on the basin, breathing heavily. There’s a small make-up bag in front of her – something else that’s new. I want to tell her that she doesn’t need it, that there’s barely a blemish on her clear white face, that too much make-up makes her look unnatural, clown-like. But I don’t dare. She jerks her head towards me when she hears me come in. From the way she’s standing, I expect her to be crying, but it’s the opposite: she’s angry.

  ‘What’s the matter?’ I ask, staring.

  She relaxes her arms, and her face follows.

  ‘Nothing,’ she says, looking back at the basin and turning on the taps. She starts washing her hands, a little too thoroughly, turning them over and over in the water. ‘I’m just pissed off with Jess. That’s all.’

  ‘What’s she done?’ I ask.

  ‘Just a stupid fuck-up, making us look like idiots,’ she says, wiping away some smudged eyeliner with her finger. She zips open the make-up bag, pulls out some face powder and starts patting it on her face with a ferocity that makes me wince.

  ‘Listen,’ I say, remembering my promise to Toby. Ambition is all well and good, but not at the expense of others. ‘Let’s have a catch-up later. I have something . . . something I need to talk to you about.’

  ‘Sure,’ she says, keeping her head down, the heavy fringe in front of her eyes preventing mine from meeting hers. She pulls four paper towels from the dispenser, screwing them up into tiny balls in her hands, then throws them into the bin.

  ‘Just grab me when you want to,’ she says, her voice flat, and then she’s gone.

  I try to get Ash out of my mind as I go into the cubicle, lock it and hang my handbag and coat on the back of the door. I pull the white paper bag out, open the box and carefully take out the test.

  I’ve never had to do this before, but I know the drill. But the whole experience is nothing like I expected. Not least because, deep down, I know I don’t need to take the test at all. I know my own body. I know I’m pregnant. It took me half an hour of rummaging through my bedroom to find the leaflet they gave me when I had the implant fitted, reminding me in the strongest terms to get it changed after three years.

  The irony of it all is not lost on me. I only have myself and my own stupidity to blame.

  I pause for a second, checking there’s definitely no one else in the bathroom. It’s a small toilet, only three cubicles, and the only sound I can hear is the gentle whir of the air-conditioning vent above my head. I rip open the foil wrapper, and then I crouch as best I can over the small white stick. I’ve held myself all morning for this moment and my urine comes out in a gush of relief, splashing my forefinger in the process.

  So much for having to wait three minutes. There’s no doubt about this result.

  My first thought is relief – I do understand my own body, after all. All the t
hings that didn’t make sense, suddenly do.

  But then the magnitude of the situation hits me. The timing couldn’t be worse. I’ve only been in this job for a few months: a job I created, that I had to fight for them to give me.

  What the hell am I going to do?

  THEN

  Ash

  Helena closes the door behind me, as though she’s trying to provide me with some privacy, but everyone knows why we’re in here. The meeting room is literally a goldfish bowl, for God’s sake, glass on all sides. It’s taken her four days to finally pluck up the courage to talk to me, and I’m keen to get it over with.

  ‘Have a seat,’ she says, gesturing at the chairs.

  ‘I’ve got a call with the catering team in ten,’ I say, but I know my voice sounds too aggressive. ‘Sorry, I mean . . .’

  ‘This won’t take long.’ Helena sighs, running her hands through her hair. As she does so, I notice the roots are slightly greasy. ‘I had an email from Toby.’

  ‘God, what a coward,’ I say, sitting back in my chair and crossing my arms.

  Helena frowns at me.

  ‘That’s not the word I’d use to describe him.’

  ‘No,’ I say. Shit, me and my big mouth. ‘Sorry, I just . . . I just don’t understand why people don’t talk to people face-to-face any more. I read a really interesting article online about it yesterday, actually, how email is killing productivity—’

  ‘Yes,’ Helena interrupts. ‘Listen, you seem to know what this is about. I wanted to give you the opportunity to put your side across. Toby’s very upset.’

  ‘The discounts,’ I say, shrugging. ‘It was a misunderstanding.’

  ‘Really?’ Her voice is laced with sarcasm. ‘A misunderstanding?’

  ‘Yes. I misunderstood the priorities, that’s all. I thought, as it’s a launch, it was important that we filled the stands at the pop-up. As it’s the first event. You know, build long-term loyalty, get them excited so that next time they’ll be more than happy to pay full price . . .’