“I don’t have to explain myself to you, Simon. Or to you, Kim,” and she glares at her. “This is a personal matter. It has nothing to do with work.”
“Well, then why did you ask me to get his address and telephone number?” Kim is on the verge of tears.
“Did you let him in here?” Catherine demands.
“Yes — reception phoned and I went down to meet him. When he told me who he was—”
Simon interrupts her. “It’s okay, Kim, I’ll handle this,” and he sends her a smile over his shoulder. “Here’s the thing. I don’t know what’s in this book, I haven’t had time to read it yet, but a man you had been investigating as a paedophile turns up here with a book he has written. And he tells Kim that you’re part of the story. That you are in this book. I mean, what is it? Some kind of confession?” And he fans the pages as if they’ll answer his question.
“I didn’t say he was a paedophile.”
“But…,” Kim stutters.
“I asked you to help me find Stephen Brigstocke’s contact details and some background on him. I asked you because I trusted you.” Now Catherine is close to tears.
“Hey, don’t take it out on Kim — she’s not the one who needs to defend herself.” And he shuffles his chair closer to Catherine’s, leaning in so close she can smell his perfume. He has succeeded in making her feel like a nervous animal. She looks around the office, but still no one else is in.
“I told everyone we were having a meeting, so they’ve gone to the canteen.”
“God, you’re such a shit. You’re enjoying yourself, aren’t you. You could have done this in the meeting room but no — you want everyone to know about this fucking charade.”
“Cath, Cath — you’re the one who’s created this situation. You’re not being honest with us and that worries me — it jeopardises the reputation of the whole team.”
“What? What the fuck are you talking about?”
“Mr. Brigstocke came here because he was frightened. You used Kim to get his address and telephone number and then you went round to his house. He says you tried to break in and then left threatening messages on his answer machine.” He leans in even closer. She is cornered. She must get away. She picks up her bag, but Simon puts his hand on her arm.
“Cath, come on, we need to talk about this…”
“Get your fucking hand off me.” And he backs off raising both hands, one holding the book, in surrender.
“He is the one stalking me — that’s why I went to his house. To talk to him… he is the one who is threatening me….”
“Okay, okay. And why is he doing that? I mean, what’s he threatening you with?”
She is deafened by the sound of blood pumping in her ears.
“It’s private. Can’t you get that through your fucking head?”
“Listen, just try to stay calm.”
“Don’t you fucking tell me to stay calm. You have no right to ask me anything about it and I’m not—” She is about to cry and she will not do that.
“You’re clearly very upset. Whatever it is you’re covering up, I’m sure it would be better if you just came clean about it.” Then he touches her again. She snatches the book out of his hand, and throws it. It hits him in the face. She stares, fascinated by the burning red on his cheek and the beads of blood which appear from a cut on the side of his nose. Both of them are too shocked to speak. Kim is the only one to move, grabbing some tissues and thrusting them at Simon.
“You shouldn’t have done that,” he says as he dabs at his nose and she hears the threat in his words. His eyes flick over her shoulder and she turns to see they have an audience — small but appreciative. Her colleagues watch through a glass partition. She is the show — a one-woman show. They are shocked, but they pity her too as they sip their coffees. She has humiliated herself. Simon waits for an apology.
“You fucking asked for it,” she says as she walks out, feeling the eyes on her but refusing to meet them. She takes the lift down and imagines them all rushing to Simon. God she looked crazy. She’s really lost it. She walks passed security and out through the glass doors. She keeps walking until she reaches the bus stop. She has no idea how long it takes the bus to come, two minutes? Twenty? And when it does she barely remembers getting onto it, swiping her Oyster card, sitting down and staring from the window at streets that are grey and nondescript.
SUMMER 1993
When was the first time she saw him? Was Robert there or had he already left? Did she notice Jonathan when she, Robert, and Nicholas were still a threesome? She thinks not. When Robert was there she hadn’t even known Jonathan existed. And what was her first impression when she did see him? Youth, carelessness — he was carefree and she wasn’t. His dark hair, tanned skin, long limbs. He was watching her and Nicholas. They were in a café near the beach. It was the day Robert left. She was trying to get Nicholas to eat his tea: one more mouthful and then he could have an ice cream, just one more mouthful of rice then we can both have an ice cream. She was on the verge of tears, hating herself for not coping for one fucking day without her husband.
“Make the most of it,” Robert had said. “It’s pissing down in London.” And he’d smiled and she’d tried to smile back but she couldn’t. She didn’t cry either although she felt like it. She didn’t want to make a scene or push Robert into making a choice: which was more important, work or her? She could have done that. She knows she would have won. But she didn’t.
“We’ll come home with you,” she’d tried instead.
“Don’t be silly — why would you want to do that? It’s beautiful here. The hotel’s paid for, just enjoy it. No cooking, no washing, a beautiful beach.” Yes, there was a beach, there was the sea, the sun was shining, but she didn’t want to be there on her own. Postnatal depression. But five years on? She hadn’t owned up to it. She was lucky, that’s what everyone told her. She was lucky.
Did she flirt with him then? When she noticed him looking, did she flirt? Did she do something with her eyes that sent him a signal? She gave in to Nicholas and bought him an ice cream before he’d finished his rice. She had a beer. And the young man, whose name she didn’t know yet, had smiled and she’d smiled back and that little connection had given her a boost. And then she and Nicholas went back to the hotel. He wanted to be carried, and the beer had softened her, so she picked him up even though he was too heavy and she was already carrying the beach bag with their wet towels and toys and a litre of water and her book. She remembered walking away from the café and imagining the attractive stranger watching her from behind and her being conscious of how she looked from behind. Did he follow her back to the hotel? He told her later that he was going that way anyway….
The bus pulls in and she opens her eyes, worried she’s missed her stop. But it’s the next one, and then a short walk back to her mother’s flat. It is her only place of refuge now.
When she walks in, the carer is there and her mother is watching television, the volume turned higher than usual so she can hear it above the sound of the vacuum cleaner. Catherine would like to turn round and walk straight out again but she has nowhere else to go. It is safe here but she knows this safety is as fragile as a bubble.
There is already a message from Simon on her voice mail but she hasn’t bothered to listen to it. Her phone rings again. Work. She ignores that too, putting it on silent, then switching herself to cruise controclass="underline" kissing her mum and saying hello to Eileen the carer; making a pot of tea and sitting down; closing her eyes and allowing the mash of noise in the flat to wash through her. When she opens her eyes again, Eileen is wearing her coat and putting on her outdoor shoes. The flat is quiet, the television switched off.