Not long after we get to the classroom, we hear a siren. Everyone runs over to the window to watch the ambulance drive into the playground – everyone except Anouk, that is. She’s gone really quiet and she looks scared. I don’t know why, she isn’t the one who’s broken their arm. The ambulance men are just getting out when Miss Pickering says she’s taking me to Mr Finch’s office and Mr Wylie is going to look after the class until she gets back.
I’ve never been to the headmaster’s office before. It’s smaller than I thought it would be, and the bin under the desk needs emptying. Mr Finch has a grey beard and greasy hair that’s stuck to his forehead. He looks very serious. He tells me to sit down, so I do. Miss Pickering stays standing up, over by the door. Then Mr Finch asks me what happened out on the playing field. I tell the truth; my truth – that Liam deliberately broke our daisy chain because he didn’t want us to break the world record and that I grabbed his arm, just to frighten him . . . only I must have grabbed it a bit too hard without meaning to.
While I’m talking, Mr Finch sits there nodding, with his fingertips pressed together like a church steeple.
‘And how do you feel about the fact that Liam has, in all likelihood, broken his arm?’ he asks me.
I look up at the ceiling while I check to see what I’m feeling: it’s nothing, a great big ocean of nothing. Mr Finch is looking at me and waiting. Miss Pickering’s waiting too; I can’t see her, but I feel her eyes drilling holes into the back of my head.
‘I feel horrible,’ I say. ‘I never meant to hurt Liam; he’s my friend.’ I bite down hard on the skin inside my lip and manage to squeeze out a tear.
‘One of the dinner ladies said she heard you using foul language,’ Mr Finch says. ‘What was it again, Miss Pickering?’
‘Fuckwit,’ says Miss Pickering. ‘She called him a “flipping fuckwit”.’
It’s ever so funny hearing Miss Pickering swear, but I know I mustn’t laugh; that isn’t what Mr Finch wants to hear. I know exactly what Mr Finch wants to hear – like I said before, I’m clever, cleverer than anyone knows – and that’s why I’m going to make sure I say all the right things. After all, I don’t want to get into trouble now, do I?
24
Chloe
A lump rose in my throat and the room seemed to tilt. Taking a deep, steadying breath, I unfurled my tape measure and checked the measurements again. This couldn’t be happening. I would never be so careless . . . would I? Swallowing hard, I hurried over to my computer. My hands were sweating as I pulled up the paperwork on the screen. Please God, let it be the contractor’s error, not mine. A second later, my worst fears were confirmed. The mistake was mine – mine and mine alone.
I sat down quickly in my chair. There was a leaden feeling growing in my bowels that owed nothing to the apple Danish and double espresso I’d wolfed on the train in lieu of breakfast. Bryan was going to go crazy when he found out about what I’d done. Finally, he had concrete proof of my incompetence and over-ambition – and he wouldn’t keep the news to himself, that’s for sure. Oh no, he would be shouting this one from the rooftops and pretty soon Richard Westlake and everyone else at the theatre would know I was an utter imbecile.
I buried my head in my hands, feeling like a puppet whose strings had been cut. I tried to think of a solution, but my brain had frozen and I couldn’t see any way through the great big shitty mess in front of me. I’m not sure how long I’d been sitting there before Jess arrived.
‘Morning!’ she chirruped as she threw her handbag on her desk.
‘Chloe?’ she added when she got no reply.
Even just raising my head seemed to take a mammoth effort. ‘I’ve made a major balls-up,’ I said, meeting her gaze.
Jess frowned. ‘What do you mean?’
‘The Neurosis mirror, the one the specialist glass company has spent the last six weeks making at huge expense . . . it was delivered this morning.’ I paused, reluctant to say the words out loud as if, by not saying them, I could somehow pretend it hadn’t happened. I scratched the back of my hand absent-mindedly. The rash was getting worse. My skin was now stippled with dry red lesions; it felt as if a small army of microscopic insects had taken up residence there. I turned my attention back to Jess.
‘The minute I unwrapped it, I knew there was something wrong; it was too big – much too big. Then, when I checked the paperwork, I realised what had happened: I gave the glass company the wrong measurements.’
Jess winced. ‘How bad is it?’
‘Thirty centimetres out on the width, forty-five on the height.’
‘Ouch.’
‘Yup,’ I replied gloomily. I stared at the Neurosis model box that was sitting on the shelf unit next to my desk. The tiny oval mirror in its decorative Gothic frame seemed to taunt me. You stupid idiot!, it shrieked. You were mad to think you could pull this off. I smiled bitterly. I must be going mad if I believed a piece of silver foil was talking to me. Now wouldn’t that be ironic . . . me, having a nervous breakdown, while I worked on a play about mental illness?
Jess sat down at her desk. ‘How on earth did it happen? You’re always so meticulous when it comes to measurements; I’ve seen the way you check and triple-check everything.’
I let out a low growl of exasperation. ‘The mirror – frame and all – has to be a very specific size so it fits perfectly on the hydraulic platform that’s going to create the revolving effect. But when I spec-ed it for the glass company, I forgot to deduct the frame measurements.’
‘So they ended up cutting a piece of glass to match the platform dimensions – and then added the frame on top of that, meaning the whole thing’s now way too big.’
I nodded. ‘It’s a schoolgirl error and utterly unforgivable. I said the mirror would be ready in time for dress rehearsals next week . . . it’ll be a miracle if that happens now.’
‘It’s annoying, agreed, but surely there’s a way round it. Can’t the tech guys just adapt the hydraulic platform to accommodate a bigger mirror?’
‘No. Unfortunately, it wouldn’t be capable of bearing the additional weight – all that extra glass is pretty heavy, remember. They’d have to build a whole new platform from scratch, and that would never fly with Bryan; there’s no money in the budget.’
‘Hmm,’ Jess said, folding her arms across her chest. ‘So, why don’t we take the frame off and get the glass re-cut to the correct size?’
‘Not an option. If we did that, we’d have to commission a brand-new frame to fit the smaller dimensions – yet again, the cost would be prohibitive.’
‘Let’s get rid of the frame altogether then.’
‘No way, the frame is a fundamental part of the design. I specifically wanted the mirror to have a Gothic feel . . . it reflects the dark nature of the piece.’ I threw my hands in the air irritably. ‘It’s no good, Jess, whatever we do it’s going to look like a botch job and I so wanted everything on this set to be perfect.’
Jess was quiet for a few seconds, her eyebrows knotted in thought. Then she pushed her chair away from the desk and stood up.
‘Can you print off the mirror spec for me?’
‘Sure,’ I said, turning to my computer screen and looking for the relevant file. ‘Why do you need it?’ I added, as I hit print.
‘I’ve got an idea,’ said Jess as the printer on her desk began whirring. ‘Don’t make any decisions about this until I come back, OK?’
I achieved very little in the hour-and-a-bit that Jess was gone. I had so much to do, I hardly knew where to start, and on top of everything else I’d developed a splitting headache. I hardly recognised myself; I used to be so capable, so organised, but now everything around me seemed to be falling apart. It was as if some pivot had shifted in my life, some relentless mechanism that had begun to pull the pieces slowly apart. I was certain that my erratic sleeping patterns held the key. I hadn’t experienced any night terrors in the past few days (at least none that I could remember), but I’d started waking up at all sor
ts of strange times in the night, emerging from the scraps of oblivion that passed for sleep, only to lie awake for hours, watching the minutes flick by on my digital clock with a growing sense of desperation. Tiredness was making me short-tempered and as a result my relationship with Tom had become strained. Meanwhile, I was receiving dwindling support from my best friend, the person who had previously been my rock, a situation that was only set to get worse as Megan’s romance with her surgeon progressed. Just to round it all off, I still hadn’t found my grandmother’s necklace, which was a constant source of worry. I didn’t dare tell my father; he would be absolutely furious with me.
I’d only managed to make a cup of tea and answer a few emails when Jess bounded back in, still clutching the spec in her hand.
‘OK, so I’ve just had a lengthy discussion with the props team,’ she said as she perched on the end of my desk. ‘They’re going to take a mould of the frame and then recreate it in papier-mâché, which will obviously be heaps lighter than the original metal frame.’ She paused and rested her hand on my arm, a gesture of solidarity, of comfort. ‘You know how good those guys are . . . once that papier-mâché’s painted it’ll look just like the real thing. It’s going to take a few days, but they said they don’t mind putting in some extra hours to get it done.’
My eyes narrowed in suspicion. The solution couldn’t be that simple; surely there had to be a catch. ‘It’s a nice idea,’ I conceded. ‘But we’re sailing a bit close to the wind if we want to get this done in time for dress rehearsals, aren’t we? Don’t forget, we still need to send the glass back to the manufacturer’s for re-cutting and that’s going to take a couple of weeks, minimum.’
‘No, we won’t,’ Jess said, a smile playing around her lips. ‘That’s the beauty of my idea; the papier-mâché can be stuck over the edge of the existing glass.’ She waved the spec in the air. ‘I’ve done the calculations and the total weight of the new mirror, frame and all, will be two kilos less than the spec-ed version – meaning there’ll be no negative impact on the performance of the hydraulic platform.’
I could’ve kissed her. The relief was like a morphine rush, my body flooded with its opiates. It was a simple idea, but brilliant at the same time.
‘You, Jess, are an absolute genius,’ I said. ‘Why couldn’t I have thought of that?’ I was just so cross with myself, cross and disappointed. Jess was extremely talented, but she was only an assistant with barely three years’ experience on the job. I should’ve been the one who worked this out.
‘Don’t be too hard on yourself,’ she said generously. ‘Even the best stage designers in the world get creative block.’
I shook my head. ‘Creative block’s one thing, but this is basic problem-solving. Honestly, I don’t know what’s wrong with me; I seem to find it so hard to focus these days.’
Jess laid the spec down on my desk. ‘Actually, I had noticed,’ she said softly.
I could feel a blush unfurling. ‘What do you mean?’
‘Just that you haven’t been yourself lately. You seem distracted and a bit . . .’ She broke off.
‘A bit what? Come on, Jess, whatever it is, I can take it.’
‘I think testy is probably the best way of describing it,’ she said, smiling apologetically. ‘It’s water off a duck’s back for me, because I know that’s not the real you, but I think some other people at the theatre are starting to feel that they have to walk on eggshells when they’re around you.’
I felt a cold horror prickling my skin. ‘Really . . . that’s how people see me? I had no idea.’
She fixed me with a look. ‘So what’s going on with you?’
‘I haven’t been sleeping very well is all,’ I said defensively. ‘I just need a few good nights’ kip and I’ll be back to my normal self.’
‘Well, so long as that’s all it is.’ Jess pointed to my left hand. ‘By the way, you need to get some steroid cream on that rash. It looks like psoriasis to me. My nan gets it; it’s often brought on by stress.’
I ran a hand across the livid marks. ‘I’ll do that – and thanks for digging me out of the doo-doo with the mirror, Jess. I owe you one.’
She smiled. ‘Any time, boss.’
For the remainder of the day, I tried my hardest to push the mirror debacle to the back of my mind, so I could focus on all the other loose ends that needed tying up on the various productions I was working on. But try as I might, I couldn’t shake the sense of inadequacy I felt that I hadn’t been able to figure out a solution to the problem myself. There was something else troubling me too. Why, despite the fact Jess had just single-handedly salvaged my professional reputation, was there still a current of foreboding cutting a path from my throat to my belly?
25
Megan
I was going down the escalator at London Bridge station when I did a double take. Standing outside Krispy Kreme on the concourse below was a man in a leather jacket who looked just like Tom: same height, same colour hair, same goatee, except he was too far away to be sure. I contemplated calling Tom’s number on my mobile and seeing if the man picked up. Then, on the very perimeter of my field of vision, I saw another familiar figure striding confidently across the concourse: a tall, slim woman with long dark hair that waved in all the right places. She wore a lime-green skirt that swung in precise, geometric movements and a fitted peplum jacket. This time, there was no mistaking who it was. Something swayed and lurched in my gut, making me feel suddenly light-headed; it was just as well I was holding on to the handrail.
As soon as I reached the bottom of the escalator, I walked towards the nearest ticket machine and stood in front of it, pretending to be studying the options, but all the while my eyes continued to track the woman in the green skirt – all the way to Krispy Kreme. When the man saw her, he smiled and stepped forward to deliver a kiss. Whether this was on the woman’s lips or her cheek, it was impossible to see from where I was standing, but it seemed to me that their contact lasted a fraction too long for it to be purely platonic.
They chatted for a few brief moments and the man clearly said something the woman found highly amusing because she threw her head back and opened her mouth wide in a show of hilarity. Then they started walking towards the exit that led out on to St Thomas Street, a route that would take them directly past me. As they approached, chatting animatedly to one another, I scuttled round to the other side of the ticket machine so they wouldn’t see me. But before I did, I got a good look at the man: it was definitely Tom. But what on earth was he doing meeting Sammi in the middle of the day?
To the best of my knowledge, Tom and Sammi had met half a dozen times at most – their acquaintance limited to shared dinners and snatched conversations over the breakfast table in the kitchen at Bellevue Rise. It was just about conceivable that, finding themselves both at a loose end, they had arranged to do something together – visit a gallery perhaps, or grab a spot of lunch – although, to my mind, this would still have been very odd. Knowing Chloe as I did, she would think the same too. Odder still was the fact that Sammi had failed to mention she was meeting Tom during a conversation we’d had just a few hours earlier.
As I tailed the pair out of the station, careful to maintain a discreet distance, I dredged my memory for the precise details of the encounter. Sammi had been sitting in the living room, eating a toasted bagel and watching breakfast TV, and I had come in looking for my phone. More out of politeness than any genuine interest, I enquired about her plans for the day. I remembered her reply quite distinctly: ‘I’m doing a Spin class at the gym,’ she said. ‘Then I’m going into town to talk to an editor about a commission.’ If her rendezvous with Tom was perfectly innocent, surely she would have told me about it. No . . . there was definitely something off about this cosy little meeting, but I was going to have to abandon my covert observation as I couldn’t afford to be late for work. I felt a wash of frustration as they turned right on to St Thomas Street and disappeared out of sight, then I turned on my heel and
began walking towards the hospital.
A couple of hours later, I was still preoccupied with what I’d seen when a vibration coming from the pocket of my white tunic signalled the arrival of a text message. I was in the middle of ward rounds, so it wasn’t until they were over and I was heading towards the staff kitchen to make myself a coffee that I had a chance to check my phone. My heart gave a painful fibrillation when I saw it was from Pete.
Free 2mrw pm if u are x
I pursed my lips and shoved the phone back in my pocket. It was nearly a week since I’d learned Pete and Fiona were expecting another child. Pete had called me twice since then, but both times I’d let it ring out and he hadn’t bothered leaving voicemails. I’d seen him once at work as well, in the staff canteen, engrossed in a medical journal and a jacket potato. Before he had a chance to notice me, I’d turned away, wrestling a flaccid sandwich from one of the hospital’s temperamental vending machines instead.
I had no appetite for any sort of showdown with Pete. I hated confrontation at the best of times and he wasn’t worth the energy. I had been very angry in the beginning, but that had now given way to a sort of tired resignation. Being practical by nature, there was only so long that I could permit myself to wallow in emotion. In any case, I was used to disappointment; I experienced it all the time with the men I met online. The pattern was always the same: the initial spark, the pursuit, the sex, followed by the exponential waning of enthusiasm and then, finally, the split. Some guys at least had the decency to tell me they were breaking up with me; others simply vanished from the radar without any kind of explanation.
I thought Pete was different – that here, at last, was somebody I could have a real, grown-up relationship with, but now I knew he was just like the others – an immature, self-serving prick, just out for what he could get.
The Housemate Page 12