by A J Waines
Franciska wasn’t giving up. ‘Only because you haven’t tried it.’
‘Okay,’ he said, finally able to appease her. ‘I’ll give Cassandra a ring, this evening.’
‘Oh, good.’ She sounded pleased with herself.
He’d lost his way in the film by the time the call ended and he turned it off. Heavy with weariness, he was glad to reach Cassandra’s voicemail so he could leave a message, rather than be forced to engage with her.
Then he climbed the stairs to bed.
His eyes drooping, he stopped abruptly as soon as he reached the top. A clammy sense of unease slithered down his spine as something caught his eye. A tiny pile of grit. It looked like someone had shaken a pepper pot on the carpet. He looked up. Directly above was the loft hatch. He stared down at the pile again and back up at the hatch.
When did I last go up there? It must have been months ago, surely?
He couldn’t be certain of the last time; his mind had been on so many other things lately. A tremor of shame sunk his spirits even further. He clearly wasn’t holding things together as well as he thought. The grit must have been there for ages and he simply hadn’t noticed.
Chapter 16
The last time he’d seen Cassandra Remington-Slade was close to three years ago. She was one of a number of Sophie’s friends who’d stopped coming to the house after Ben was born. They were largely the ones who regarded motherhood as an inevitable misfortune that was best avoided for as long as possible. Any infant was nothing less than a liability. Not only an active danger to hairdos and expensive clothes, but they ruined any decent conversation. Cassandra was one such ‘friend’.
Not that Daniel missed her visits. He didn’t like using the word, but ‘shallow’ was the best way to describe her. Greta was different; she’d drop anything if Sophie needed her.
‘Sophie does the same for me,’ Greta had told him. ‘She’s a brilliant editor. The best we’ve ever had. She’s got a gift for making people want to work their butts off for her, if that makes sense.’
He could forgive Greta’s fondness for adding ‘if that makes sense’ to the end of virtually every sentence. He could even overlook Cassandra’s pungent perfumes. But he couldn’t turn a deaf ear to her obsession with calorie counting and nail polish and a conversation loop that should be marketed as a potent sedative. It revolved around Prada, fake-tanning products, the disparaging of bling and back again.
Sophie put up with it because she prided herself in office harmony.
‘She has other strengths,’ Sophie had said once, doing her usual trick of seeing the best in people.
Cassandra had agreed to meet Daniel after work. It was raining hard and Daniel stood under an umbrella outside Otterbornes’ main door in Holborn, idly looking at the window display of new children’s books they’d just released. He recognised one of the titles: The Ogre Comes to Tea, a book Sophie had been editing in the months before the attack. The portentous wording of the title didn’t pass him by.
He checked his watch. It was ten past six and she was late. Fed up with getting soaking wet outside, he pressed the entry buzzer and was allowed through to a narrow corridor with a small desk on the right and a couple of chairs on the left. A young woman with bad acne and long greasy hair pointed to one of them and asked him to wait.
He’d only been seated a moment, when the clatter of footsteps came down the stairs and Cassandra appeared, clutching a batch of files and a mobile phone to her chest. Clumps of blonde hair, like yellow snakes, were dislodging themselves from the intricate chignon on her head and he noticed that her powdered skin was starting to crack at the corner of her mouth.
‘Running late. Talk in the taxi,’ she said. She pointed to the exit to indicate she wasn’t stopping. He’d forgotten how she didn’t bother using any more words than was necessary. The mark of someone entrenched in the world of publishing perhaps.
He couldn’t help wondering how Cassandra had the time to be production manager, when, according to Sophie, her beauty regime was so time-consuming. Once she’d spent hours at the gym, the massage parlour and appointments having wraps, waxes and facials, how much time was left for putting books together?
She ran out onto the street and straight off the kerb, waving vigorously for a taxi. ‘Emergency meeting. Printers,’ she said.
‘Thanks for seeing me,’ he said. He was trying to hold his umbrella over both of them, but she kept straying into the rain whenever a cab came into view. ‘I just wanted to talk to you about Sophie. You know what’s happened?’
‘Can’t believe she… the knife… I mean,’ she said, still looking out into the road. ‘Is she still...?’
‘In the psychiatric unit?’ He nearly stumbled into a waste bin, trying to keep up with her. ‘Yes, she is.’
Cassandra winced as if a pigeon had just swooped down and pooped on her head. ‘Can’t believe it,’ she said.
A black cab pulled up and she yanked open the door and sank back into the seat. As soon as they were in the confined space, Cassandra’s sickly perfume overpowered him. He slid away from her and opened the window, preferring the constant spatter of rain to the cloying air inside.
She crossed her legs and Daniel noticed the heels of her glossy red shoes must have been at least five inches high. He wondered what damage they were doing to her posture. Next, she’d be adding chiropractic to her list of regular appointments if it wasn’t on there already. Her tight-fitting cream suit looked like it was made of fine silk and she wore a Liberty-print neck scarf that was starting to unravel. She looked more like she was on the way to a wedding than a business meeting.
‘I wondered if she’d said anything to you. If you had any idea where she’d picked up this nonsense that I was having an affair?’
‘Nonsense?’ she said, recoiling.
She opened a compact and started applying scarlet lipstick. It was an exact match for her shoes.
‘I certainly wasn’t seeing anyone,’ he said. ‘I wouldn’t be here asking you about it, if I was, surely?’
She rubbed her lips together and checked them in the mirror. It was stop-start traffic at this time of day and Daniel hadn’t a clue where they were heading.
‘Can’t comment. She had photographs.’
He snapped back his chin. ‘What? Which photographs?’
She shrugged.
He pressed her. ‘Did you see these photographs?’
‘Yes and no. Delivered to the office. Saw the envelope,’ she replied, while staring down at her phone as if she was expecting a call.
‘Did she open the envelope? Did you see what was inside?’
‘No. Sophie opened it and was too upset. She ran out.’
‘Did Sophie show anyone these… pictures?’ He tugged at her sleeve, then let go when she froze and glared at his wet fingers.
‘I don’t know. She said they’d gone from her bag by the time she got home. She must have got confused. You know what kind of state she was in.’
Daniel stared blankly ahead of him.
So, once again, no one else had actually seen the ‘evidence’.
‘Well, if they existed at all, they weren’t of me. They can’t have been.’
Another figment of Sophie’s crumbling imagination.
‘If you say so.’ She kept her eyes on her phone.
‘Did she talk to you before the attack?’
‘Didn’t have to.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘She was distracted. Tearful. Jittery. That sort of thing. Very distressed. Everyone knew it was “domestic issues”. Senior editor was getting hot under the collar.’
‘Have you been in touch with her?’
She looked at her nails, pushing back the cuticles. Daniel was getting tired of her unwillingness to engage with him.
‘Been awfully busy. Deadlines to meet.’
The taxi suddenly pulled to a halt and she got out, paid the driver and turned to go.
‘Where are we?’ he said, looking
up, trying to find a street sign.
‘Hanbury Street. E1. Got to dash.’
She was abandoning him in the middle of Spitalfields.
‘Send her my love, won’t you? Mwah,’ she said, air-kissing as she tottered off into the rain.
He ducked into the doorway of a nearby newsagent, feeling dazed.
Not knowing where he was heading, he stepped out into the street and walked blindly into the crowds.
Chapter 17
Sophie was relieved to find her room empty; Shareen was probably playing pool.
As she sat on the bed, her arms wrapped around her knees, she noticed a scrap of paper sticking out from under the mat between the two beds. Sophie lifted the corner and found a small collection of magazine cuttings. Each one showed the Queen wearing an assortment of flamboyant hats at various state functions. On each one, thick black pen had been added, following the line of the Queen’s mouth. Sophie shuddered. She remembered the reason Shareen was in there in the first place – you don’t set fire to anything if you’re in your right mind.
She stared at her roommate’s pillow and felt a heartfelt sadness grip her. Shareen’s life was a genuine tragedy, but it didn’t mean she was a bad person. On a number of occasions, she’d used terms like ‘evil things’ and ‘sick, unnatural things’ when referring to her father’s conduct. Do people ever fully recover from abuse like that? Damaged, that’s what she was; this weird little collection of cuttings demonstrated that.
She slid the clippings back. In spite of the surge of sympathy that flooded her chest, she got up to wash her hands.
‘I want to go home,’ she said, out loud, staring into her grained reflection in the metal sheet above the sink. ‘I want to be with my little boy.’ She stared up at the sky through the small window reinforced with chicken wire. ‘Am I really insane?’ She watched the white puffy clouds slowly slide out of view. Heard no reply. If anyone was watching her they’d have no doubts that she was in exactly the right place.
She sank onto the bed, pulled the sheet over her head and tried to lose herself in Emeli Sandé on her iPod.
Chapter 18
After putting Ben to bed, Daniel had to open Sophie’s wardrobe where she’d kept a pack of vests she’d bought for him a while back. Daniel had not looked at any of her clothes or opened any of her drawers since the incident. As the doors swung open he had to hold on to them, as though afraid of falling in and being suffocated.
It was like opening a photograph album, reminding him of the places they’d been, the life stages they’d passed through together and the different facets of Sophie he’d witnessed in the last eight years.
He spotted the long backless gown she’d worn when they first met at the Lanesborough Hotel in Knightsbridge. He’d been playing the guitar in an ensemble providing background music at a conference supper and she had been invited, with her boyfriend at the time; a diplomat, like her father.
At the end of the evening, she came over to Daniel and said she’d enjoyed his playing. The jade-green silk brought out the vibrant colour of her eyes, the dress clinging to her slim frame to the waist, then floating in delicate folds to the floor. It made her look like a Greek goddess. Through her vibrant smile, he discerned a pale trace of sadness he was instantly drawn to, the glimmer of yearning within her he felt compelled to pursue.
He was taken aback that she’d bother to approach him. He was even more astounded when she surreptitiously pressed a folded piece of paper into his sticky palm. It was her phone number. It turned out her relationship was on the rocks. Soon after, she split from the diplomat; Daniel taking his place.
A creaking floorboard under his foot brought him back to the present. He took what he needed from the wardrobe and closed the doors. Then went down to make a cup of cocoa; that’s what Sophie always did for him when he had something on his mind.
He was lounging on the sofa, watching a roundup of the sport, when a sound broke through the silence from upstairs. It was barely audible. Ben must be talking in his sleep. Then he heard him laugh. Without another breath, Daniel was on his feet, bounding into Ben’s room. He took a moment to adjust to the low light, but could only make out the crumpled bedclothes where Ben should have been sleeping in his cot. There was a shape at the window.
How did he climb out of his cot?
‘Hey, little chap,’ he said, walking slowly towards him, not sure whether Ben was sleepwalking or awake. Ben turned to him and charged into Daniel’s legs, burying his face in the denim. He was giggling and dribbling.
‘Ben, what’s going on? You should be fast asleep, it’s nearly nine o’clock.’
He squatted down, looking for clues in his face.
‘Funny…’ said Ben, suddenly sleepy, rubbing his eyes.
‘What’s funny?’
Ben laughed again and gave a tired sigh, leaning into Daniel’s chest.
‘Where’s Mummy? I want Mummy,’ said Ben.
‘Mummy can’t be here right now. She’s sick in hospital, remember?’
Ben appeared to think about it, but didn’t seem to have the energy to get upset. Daniel carried him back to the cot, noticing that the drop side was down. He lowered Ben onto the mattress, slid the side up and firmly clicked shut the childproof locking mechanism.
‘Did you want a song?’ he asked. ‘Daddy could get his guitar.’
‘Song, Daddy!’
It took two lullabies before Ben’s eyelids began to flutter. Daniel stood over him to check he was asleep. In the reduced light, he swept his eyes around the room, not sure what he was looking for. There seemed nothing unusual, except for the fact that he was certain he’d locked the side of the cot earlier. He half-closed the door and went downstairs, disconcerted.
By the end of the week Daniel was aching to switch off: from work, from Sophie, from questions about the future. Since largely dismissing his mother’s suggestion of getting in touch with people, he’d had a change of heart. Being with Ben was wonderful, but without an adult on hand to talk to, he was going stir-crazy. He wanted to think about something else apart from his predicament, for a change. Maybe see a film or exhibition. Anything to stop him being cooped up at home, stuck within the same four walls where the worst had happened.
He poured himself a small shot of whisky. It had been a long day. His computer had crashed at work and he’d lost several days’ worth of data.
He snapped on the TV, but found himself channel hopping, unable to find anything worth watching.
Against his better judgement, he picked up the phone and rang his ex, Yvonne, but only reached her voicemail. He didn’t leave a message. Then he tried Gordon, but he was on his way out to his father’s birthday do. As he wondered which friend to try next, a text came in from Rick:
Fancy Chinese in Soho, tonight? Just the two of us?
Fast running out of options, he accepted and texted him back for the details.
Chapter 19
Having left Ben with Edith, Daniel made his way to the exit of Leicester Square Tube. He stopped by a telephone box to steel himself against the rapid Friday night tide of people. A tall black guy dressed entirely in white leather passed him, then a thin girl wearing stripy over-the-knee socks, playing ringtones to her friend. He wanted to get used to this again; get back to that feeling of being part of something vibrant and exhilarating.
He rejoined the surge of bodies and allowed himself to be jostled by elbows and handbags. After dodging impatient taxis to get over Charing Cross Road, he turned into Lisle Street. Wafts of stagnant drains and the stink of dried fish announced the gritty, edgy atmosphere that was Soho. He passed a row of shiny orange chickens hanging at the front entrance of the Cheung Kong restaurant and took the stairs down to the left.
It was hot and buzzing. He was bewildered for a moment by the mass of figures around the tables, then searched the faces for Rick. He spotted a raised arm towards the back and headed towards it.
As soon as Daniel got closer, he could tell this wasn’t a m
eal for two. A table with six or seven people opened out before him. His heart sank. He felt like he was stepping onto a stage with an eager audience awaiting his performance. He wasn’t sure if he had the reserves to spend an evening being polite to strangers. Daniel caught Rick’s attention and narrowed his eyes, sending a silent how dare you glare. He then turned to the circle of faces tipped upwards in his direction and attempted a smile.
‘Better late than never,’ said Rick, smirking. ‘I knew you wouldn’t come if you thought there was a bunch of us, but we’re not rowdy; we’re arty and civilised,’ he said, his reedy voice already saturated with alcohol. ‘This is Mandy from work, this is her friend Sally and her brother… sorry, what was it?’
‘Peter,’ her brother answered. He sounded American.
‘Then we’ve got Ralph, Diane, Ajay… and this is Jody.’
Rick pointed to an empty seat beside Jody, who was the only one to stand up to greet him. She was slim and poised, wearing navy linen trousers and an ivory silk blouse.
‘Hi, everyone,’ said Daniel in a blanket greeting, pulling out the vacant chair beside her.
This is awful, he thought. He should have known Rick would pull some stunt, claiming it was ‘good for his recovery’.
‘Someone couldn’t make it, so Ajay invited me,’ whispered Jody. ‘I don’t know anybody except him.’
‘Snap. I only know Rick.’
‘The guy who looks a bit tipsy?’
‘That’s the one.’
A menu was slotted into Daniel’s hand and he ordered, choosing the first item on the list in each section to save having to think about it.
The woman was speaking again; something about being forced to do a voice-over that afternoon with a man, who, in her own words, ‘had the halitosis of a hippopotamus’. He hadn’t a clue what she was talking about.