“Bye then,” Eileen says, “see you next week,” and she is out of the door before Catherine can reply. Her mother is fast asleep. She pictures herself and her mother side by side, both asleep, the before and after, although Catherine wonders whether she will actually make it to where her mother is now. She stands up and goes into the bedroom.
She checks her phone. Two more messages. She listens to them: the one from Simon and then two from a woman in human resources. She sits on the bed and calls her back.
“Hello, it’s Catherine Ravenscroft for Sarah Fincham.” She waits, hoping that she will be “in a meeting” and that she won’t have to speak to her.
“Catherine, hello. Thank you for calling back.”
Catherine says nothing.
“I understand there was an incident in the office today.”
Still she says nothing.
“Simon has said that he doesn’t want to make a formal complaint but we are obliged to record that you physically attacked him. It will have to go on your file although, as I say, Simon isn’t pushing for any further action.”
“I see.” Catherine hears her mother stirring, the television going on again.
“And there will have to be an investigation into the allegations made by a Mr. Stephen Brigstocke. They are serious. I’m sure you understand that. Is there anything you’d like to say at this stage?”
“No.”
“Well. I’m going to sign you off work for a week — a week to start with. Just for now.” She waits. “Catherine? Are you there?”
“Yes, I’m here.”
“I understand you’ve been under pressure. That you have felt under pressure with work…”
“It’s not work — I haven’t been under pressure at work. I’ll take some leave…”
“No, there’s no need for that. Save your leave — I’ll sign you off sick.”
HR-speak for you’re a fucking nutcase.
“I think we should talk again in a week when you’ve had time to gather yourself. Then we can discuss next steps.”
Silence.
“I wonder whether it might be helpful for you to talk to someone about managing your anger. I’m sure they could come up with some useful coping mechanisms. We could help with that — pay for counselling — someone independent of course, and confidential. How does that sound?”
“Fine, that sounds fine.” Catherine chokes on the words.
“We could offer four sessions, then after that, if you wanted to continue, you would have to meet the cost yourself. Catherine?”
“Yes, yes. Okay,” is all she can manage.
“Bye now,” and the woman hangs up. Catherine lies back on the bed. It is out of control. Everything is out of her control, it is sweeping her away and she closes her eyes and gives in to it.
SUMMER 1993
It was eight o’ clock when Nick was tucked up and asleep, but Catherine wasn’t ready for bed. She had fooled Nicholas into thinking it was dark by closing the shutters in his room, but from her window she could see it was still light outside — too early yet for the Spanish, just a few Northern Europeans in the bar opposite. She put on a denim skirt and a vest and tied up her hair. She looked okay. Her skin had a light tan, and she thought, what a waste, Robert not here to enjoy this peace with her. She took her book, cigarettes, and key and went downstairs. The girl in reception promised she would keep an eye out in case Nicholas appeared, but Catherine knew he wouldn’t. Once asleep he stayed asleep.
She sat at a table on the terrace bar overlooking the beach. A waiter brought her smoked almonds and fresh anchovies and she ordered a small carafe of white wine. She waited until it arrived before she lit her cigarette, then inhaled with relish and realised that she was relaxed. Maybe it would be okay after all. She looked at the sea. Small waves licked at the sand. A few people were still on the beach: families, Spanish she guessed, and a smattering of couples waiting to watch the sun set. And then she noticed him.
He had a beer and was smoking. He was wearing a T-shirt, pale green. He turned and looked at her and she was embarrassed that he’d caught her staring at him. Why was she staring at him? Because he stood out. Because he was the only one with his back to the sea, the only one not interested in watching the sun make an exhibition of itself. He was looking up towards the promenade and when he looked at Catherine she smiled, even though he hadn’t smiled at her. She wasn’t flirting, it was instinctive. She hadn’t wanted to appear unfriendly. She was on holiday. So she’d smiled. He didn’t smile back and that made him seem older. And it made her feel self-conscious, knowing that he knew she was alone.
She reached for the nuts, trying to look casual, carrying on reading, but her fingers dipped into the oily anchovies instead and she had to look up and find a napkin before smearing grease all over her book and the wineglass. And she saw he was still looking at her, and then he raised his bottle of beer and almost smiled, but she pretended not to notice and wiped at her fingers with the napkin, then stabbed at an anchovy with a cocktail stick. She checked the time. Eight forty-five, fifteen more minutes and then she’d go up.
A flash of light caught her eye. A flash from his camera. A photo taken, but not of the beautiful salmon-coloured sun. The camera was pointing at her. And she remembers being ashamed of her assumption that he’d taken a photograph of her. It was the promenade he wanted to capture, with the pink sun reflected on the buildings. And he was below her so it would have been an odd angle to photograph her from. With his prominent zoom lens. An expensive camera for such a young man. She pulled her skirt down, trying to force it to reach her knees, and crossed her legs and it reminded her of a scene from a film, and she wondered whether to uncross them again, but thought better of it. What was the matter with her?
She remembers her discomfort. She wasn’t used to being out on her own anymore. She wasn’t used to being looked at like that. She didn’t know how to be. And she didn’t know that the photograph he’d just taken would find its way into her home years later and be thrown in her face by her husband. A triangle of lace and darkness, of hair and skin and shadows. She didn’t know that then, but she does remember the feeling his attention gave her. It made her nervous, but it excited her too, she has to admit that. She felt excited. And what she forces herself to remember too is that as she sat on the terrace, with a glass of wine and an anchovy on a stick, she thought of being in bed alone later and touching herself and that it would be that boy she would fantasise about. She punishes herself with that memory and how her thoughts of having sex with a stranger were interrupted by a phone call. It was her husband, the waiter said. He was on the phone in reception. She picked up her things, left her wine unfinished, and followed the waiter back into the hotel.
When she was on the phone to Robert, she saw him walk through the entrance of the hotel and her heart flipped in anxiety, not excitement. He walked through reception, right past her. She remembers wondering whether they would stop him, but they didn’t. He had an expensive camera round his neck. And he had a nice face. She turned away, concentrating on Robert, telling him she missed him. He told her he loved her, which he did then. She loved him too. Does she love him now? She won’t think about that, not yet, she can’t. That’s not the point of this remembering. She remembers blowing a kiss into the receiver before putting it down. When she turned around she saw him sitting on a stool at the bar, looking directly at her, two drinks in front of him. His bag was on the next-door stool, and still looking at her, he removed it and put it on the floor. And then he smiled. Finally. Right at her.