Precious You

by Helen Monks Takhar

  An extended Christmas break, followed by six weeks pockmarked by regular sick days, followed by my GP signing me off work as a beige cloud surrounded me, washing the color out of everything. Recently, that familiar filter of dread that had only recently lifted felt like it was on the descent again. If I went back to my GP, I suspected he’d want to put me back on my antidepressants again. But Citalopram had given me weeks of terrible side effects so that I suddenly needed help to achieve even the basic requirements of life: eating, concentrating, remembering both what had happened that day and things I’d done years ago. I felt sleepy constantly, primally drawn to dark rooms, my bed, or under a blanket on my sofa, like an old animal looking for a quiet place to die. Eventually, getting to work became impossible and the pills made all of it worse, with a mouth like cotton wool and a suppressed sex drive to boot. My GP said I’d only need to take it for a few months to “jump-start myself again.” My former masters at work were understanding, and anyway, they were too distracted by finding a buyer for the struggling business at that point. I doubted whether the new owners would be so sympathetic, or their attentions as diverted.

  When Christmas rolled around again last year, I’d been off for nearly ten months. I knew I had to bed myself back in before the new team took over. I had to persuade them and anyone else who was looking that I was back to “normal.” By January I’d come off my pills and was back at work, but in my heart, I knew I hadn’t been “fixed.” The beige cloud was lying in wait to blow in again; I could see the faint shape of it growing larger on the horizon the day I met you.

  Lily, when you came along you were like a flash of hot pink, cleaving through the paper-bag tone threatening to take over my world again. I think this is why it was so easy for you to do what you did. If you ever flattered yourself by thinking for one moment you’d sent me to rock bottom all by yourself, you really have no idea what state my life was already in.

  I knew the route to Borough you’d suggested would add at least ten minutes to my journey to work, meaning I had no chance of making my first meeting with the new publisher, Gemma Lunt, on time. She’d know I was missing in action for the greater part of last year and why. I was sure she’d be looking for signs of weakness.

  “We’ll go your way.”

  When these words left my mouth, it was my very first act of knowing submission to your will. This was the precise moment my life, such as it was, started to end.

  We didn’t talk at first. I looked out the window on your side and waited for you to thank me, as you had to, surely. You couldn’t have failed to notice the banks of increasingly forlorn faces on the 141’s route up to De Beauvoir. But you were silent, holding your laptop case on your legs in what I’d soon recognize as the buttoned-up, butter-wouldn’t-melt way you choose to hold yourself. I said nothing, waiting for you to speak. But my curiosity finally got the better of me. “I don’t think I’ve seen you at the bus stop before,” I said. “You just moved here?”

  “Yeah, but with any luck, I’ll just be passing through.”

  You must have seen the flicker of offense on my face. “Not that Manor House isn’t awesome. I mean, it’s so super-easy to get everywhere. I cycle mostly.” You turned your head away again to watch the world from your window as we crawled up Kingsland Road.

  “Well, if you’re not wild about Manor House now, you should have seen it round here twenty-odd years ago. The whole place was a red-light area. Hard to imagine now.”

  “That sounds pretty dark.” You didn’t seem to think very much of my corner of the capital. It seemed that just like the constantly changing bus stop crew, you’d use Manor House as a stepping-stone; once you started earning more than me, as you all seemed destined to, you too would be off to a more desirable postcode than mine.

  It struck me that your poise and your choice of words added to the sense that you were some kind of chimera—stilted mannerisms that tried to convey control and maturity—but then you’d defaulted to a childish Americanism: “awesome.” Young and old at the same time, just as I’d guessed by looking at you. Your accent was unanchored too, a southern clip with northern vowels.

  “Are you a native Londoner?”

  “So, I was born here, but I grew up all over the show. Some time here, on and off. Right now, my mum has a little bolt-hole and she wanted me to move in with her, but I told her it’s time I took responsibility for myself, because that’s important, isn’t it? You should take ownership of your life, don’t you think?”

  “I think that is important.” I was thrown by the sudden panorama of your sentence, but I liked how you now seemed to want to share your thoughts with me.

  “Well, anyway, for now I’m on my own in one of those vile, gentrifying Woodberry Downs high-rises—right behind the bus stop—you probably totally hate.” You turned to look me up and down. “You look like you’ve probably got a beautiful Victorian house, tons of character, lots of beautiful things. My place is kind of a nowhere place.”

  I was taken aback by your flattery. It was the nicest thing anyone had said about me for a long time, besides Iain, of course. An unexpected compliment. How good that had felt. As your eyes moved urgently over my face to assess my reaction, I suddenly got the notion you were lonely in that newbuild tower of yours. Maybe you needed a friendly neighbor. I wanted to think this because, Lily, I was so lonely too.

  I considered admitting I had a Victorian flat, not a house, but you didn’t need to know the limits of my success. Not yet. I wanted more from you before I let you go at Borough. I pointed to the dirty stripe on your face. “I think you’ve got oil on your—”

  “Oh God—puncture. Trust that for a Monday.” You lifted the back of your hand to the opposite side of your forehead to the smudge.

  “Other side. Here.” My fingertips reached the skin on your face.

  I didn’t mean to touch you, but it happened. My blood seemed to surge toward the surface and I know I felt yours too, coming forward to meet mine, like iron filings to a magnet. You blinked and pushed yourself back into your seat, saying, “Thanks, I think I’ve got it.”

  The cab was suddenly hot and small. I thought about texting Iain, but it was way too early in the day for that, so I cracked open the window and tried to move the conversation on.

  “What is it you do?”

  “I’m a journalist.”

  Not Training to be, or Hoping to be, but I’m a journalist, already, though no one had probably paid you a penny for a single word yet. People your age are incredible. I didn’t tell anyone I was a journalist until my second promotion, when I’d just about stopped living in fear of someone telling me I wasn’t good enough to be there. We didn’t have “Fake it ’til you make it” in the nineties. Neither did we have parents who had us believe we were the center of the universe and that universe was rightfully ours.

  “Who do you write for?”

  “Myself mostly, I guess. I blog.”

  “What about?”

  “You know. This and that. My life…What I see.”

  I thought and I waited. I enjoyed that moment before I said what I said to you next, “I edit a well-thought-of trade title. We’re always looking for interns if you’re in the market for the next move.” I anticipated your breathlessness, the sound of your body turning toward me to give me your full and urgent attention. But it didn’t happen, so I kept talking. “I usually have between four and six interns working for me—one on design, another on picture research, and at least two writers.”

  Nothing.

  “I’ve seen people your age really learn their trade working in a professional environment, so, have a think, maybe. Opportunities can be hard to come by. Maybe this is fate?” I tried to laugh, but it didn’t come. I sounded so old, so seasoned. I was forty-one, but I wanted to feel fresh and relevant, not like someone who says things like Your age and Learn your trade. I still felt young inside, but
then thought, Isn’t that what old people say?

  You looked at the road ahead and muttered, “I’m actually starting at a trade today. Interning.” I noticed your fingers were gripping your laptop case. Clearly, you’d have liked it if I’d just stopped talking. You made me feel something I was suddenly aware I’d been closing in on without being able to badge it: You made me feel like an old fool. You continued. “It’s about management and stuff. Interviews with businesspeople. Things bosses care about. It’s called Leadership?” You didn’t look at me as your voice inflected upward again at the end of a sentence in a way that made you sound unambiguously young and annoying.

  The next words formed in my mind, but they seemed to lose their power as soon as I went to say them. The offhand way you described the magazine told me you wouldn’t be deeply impressed by what I was about to say. And if I didn’t find myself remotely impressive anymore, why should anyone else, least of all you?

  “I edit Leadership,” I said quietly.

  You looked right at me. “Oh. That’s literally where I’m heading right now.”

  “That’s a bit fucking mad, isn’t it?” I said. I didn’t register it then, but would learn later that you winced whenever I swore.

  “Wow. I guess it is.”

  But it couldn’t have been that exciting, because you already sounded bored. It was the tone of a cooler person you meet at a party who spots someone more interesting over your shoulder and grabs a superlative out of the air as a sign-off. I used to do that, but now it’s people like you who do it to me, young people who use my magazine as a mere departure lounge that allows them to soar somewhere brighter and better, me existing only to on-board the next batch of interns who would leapfrog my life.

  “Do you know who you’ll be reporting to? I wasn’t expecting a new intern today.”

  “Gemma Lunt, the publisher. It’s her first day too.”

  “Right, well, don’t worry, I’ll explain why we’re late. Stick with me, and my deputy Asif. You’ll be fine.”

  “Should I be worried?”

  “No. Not really. Just keep your head down. You’ll probably be set up in my team.”

  You nodded. “Sounds great. I’m super-focused on what I need to do, like you say, being somewhere I can learn from older people?”

  A spike. The sense of the smooth, hard finger of youth prodding my loosening life. Subtle, and few would deny the barb if they heard it themselves. But I would learn very quickly that every single person in my world would take your side first, always give you the benefit of the doubt before they would me. A privilege given to the young and beautiful, a privilege I didn’t know I had until I lost it. I watched you for a moment from the corner of my eye as the first inkling there was something less than innocent about you prickled my stomach. I didn’t yet know if it was just paranoia; a wild idea sprouting from an already unreliable mind. I never fully realized how much danger a person is in when the individual they trust least is themselves. After you, Lily, I’ll never ignore my first instincts again.

  “It’s great you’re so ready to learn…I’m Katherine, by the way.”

  “Lily.”

  You offered me your narrow palm, but gave no indication you knew exactly who I was.

  * * *

  —

  THE MINUTES DRAGGED as we passed Liverpool Street. It had gone nine. I was supposed to be in Gemma Lunt’s office in fifteen minutes. I’d only agreed to the early slot so I could avoid the usual Monday morning social interrogation. I thought about dropping her a line to manage expectations, then decided I’d chance getting there on-the-knuckle and avoid my first communication with her being about something I’d failed to execute effectively.

  The cab suddenly picked up speed and we caught a couple of green lights. For a moment, it seemed possible I might just be OK.

  You leaned forward to speak to the driver. “Hi, could you pull in here, up on the left?” and we swerved into a side street. Turning to me, you said, “I have to pick up something from my mum? I’ll be so quick.”

  “But I’m already late. Couldn’t you—”

  “It’s OK. I can square it with Gem, promise.”

  “Gem?” You knew my new boss. How?

  I tried to remember what I’d only that hour told you about my work. When I struggled, a fresh anxiety rose in my chest. Another symptom of the beige cloud: forgetfulness followed by panic about what might have happened in the gaps.

  Before I could say anything else, you were out of the taxi, running through a carved stone archway. When you clearly thought I couldn’t see you anymore, you stopped running and instead walked slowly toward a heavy lacquered door. You pressed on a buzzer and spoke sullenly into an intercom, all urgency gone. In my head, I begged you to yank the door toward you and race through it like your life depended on it, but instead you pulled it carefully and stepped gently into the building.

  9:03.

  9:05.

  At 9:07 I drafted an email to Gemma, trying to convey confidence, a lack of guilt, but also some necessary undertones of contrition. I noticed your laptop case next to me.

  9:12.

  I wanted to know what the hell you were doing. I thought about telling the driver to get going, but you were apparently on intimate terms with “Gem,” the very woman who’d masterminded the buyout of Leadership. I couldn’t leave you there, even if I wanted to. The day had felt like a huge test I needed to pass. You were making me fail it.

  When it got to 9:17, the meter bust forty-five quid and I was getting seriously pissed off. Not only because I’d lost all hope of not being late, but also because once it got past £60, I’d have to submit a “business case” with the receipt under the new staff code of conduct.

  I looked at your laptop case again. The driver thumbed his phone. The courtyard was empty. I let my hand inch over to the far side of the backseat. Your case was made of suede, soft as butter. It felt expensive. The closing mechanism was a string and leather tag wrapped around two buttons. Anyone wanting to sneak a peek would have to remember exactly which direction you’d tied the figure eight around the buttons. They would have to be quick about it.

  Before I could stop myself, my fingers had unspun the twine and flapped the case open. Your phone number and your name in sensible black ink capitals:

  LILY LUNT

  So, you were some relation to Gemma Lunt.

  Well, wasn’t that a neat detail you’d chosen to keep to yourself. I wondered what else you might be opting to not tell me. What would you divulge to Gemma from the information you’d gleaned from me so far?

  The driver stirred, saying something like, Here we go.

  I looked up to see you sweeping out of the door and into the courtyard. My fingers were suddenly sodden. Was the string wrapped around the top button first or second? From the left or the right? I tried one way. It didn’t look right. I tried another. It still looked wrong. I quickly glanced up again. You were still a few seconds away but, on seeing me, broke into a quick jog, a wholly fake display that you gave a shit over how late you were making me. I fumbled desperately. You were at the other door and your perfect little figure eight had been replaced by a damp, slack tangle. You climbed in, and if the mangled thread didn’t tell you I’d been tampering with your things, then my sweaty guilt surely would. I’d have to distract you and hope against hope you wouldn’t notice. So although you should have been apologizing to me for royally fucking up my morning, instead, I found myself overbrightly asking you, “Everything all right?”

  “Yes, good, thanks. Hi, we can go?” you said to the driver.

  Your eyes rested on your case.

  You knew.

  You were carrying a black cube with the words Caran d’Ache embossed in silver. I didn’t know they were a luxury pen maker until I googled it later. This, the family business, and a mother working in the City? You had t
o be made of money.

  “Something for Gemma?”

  You pulled your eyes off the dirtied twine and breathed as if you were saying Look, Katherine, without actually saying it. “I’m so, so sorry. I didn’t want to make things, like, at all awkward. So, Gem is my aunt. I know a bit about optimizing content, that sort of thing, with the magazine and the website. I guess it seemed a bit of a no-brainer, me helping out? Gem and my mum, they haven’t always been best buds.” You tapped the box with an alabaster finger. “Sorry. Family stuff. Look, I’ll explain to Gem it was me. I made you late. My bad, honest,” and your dark eyes flickered down onto your laptop case again before returning to my face.

  Optimizing content. We used to call it “good writing,” and once upon a time some, just a few of us got our jobs on merit, not because of the luck of birth. Now I was going to end up walking in with you, like I was in on it. My team was going to disrespect me even more than they already did.

  “Don’t worry about it. Really. How about we start again from the beginning?”

  You smiled: surprisingly wide and meaningful, some strange energy coming off you as your sunny lips stretched over tombstone teeth, eyes darting across my face again. My anger started to recede. That smile of yours. Another one of your gifts.

  “You got it. Let’s start again.”

  A minute later in Monument, the traffic was dire. My stomach turned with dread. I couldn’t afford to feel this way. I summoned what Iain would have said to me: It’s not so bad, is it, girl? Let’s get a bit of perspective, will we?

  OK.

  Maybe I wouldn’t have made it on time anyway, and now I’d rescued the boss’s niece from a puncture and missing buses. Perhaps this was a good start after all? Maybe I was actually winning.

  Come on, it’s a good day, no?

  We reached the open air of London Bridge and I let the thin March sun reflecting off the river lift me. I nearly loved London again in moments like that, when your eyes sweep left and right over the Thames and it feels like the Southbank, Big Ben, Tower Bridge, and good old HMS Belfast exist just to make you feel it’s good to be alive. Today will be a good day.