This somehow made me even more furious. I can’t bear idiots who give you the wrong information on the telephone. Of course he wasn’t on bloody holiday, his holiday had been cancelled. That receptionist always had been dim.
‘Hello, Siobhan,’ said Diane when I got through to Phil’s office. ‘He’s not here, I’m afraid. He’s on holiday.’
Oh – well, of course, he’d have already booked the time off. I felt bad for mentally slagging off the receptionist. She wasn’t to know. She wasn’t to know I’d mentally slagged her either, so I suppose I didn’t need to feel guilty. I invited the anger back. ‘Don’t worry, I’ll try him at home,’ I said, about to hang up.
‘He’s not at home,’ Diane said, sounding half-puzzled, and half-impatient; sort of, what part of ‘on holiday’ do you not understand? ‘He’s gone to Portugal.’
Suddenly the hand I was holding the phone with began to shake a bit. I’d been chewing gum at the time, and shock made it slide towards the back of my throat, giving me a moment’s panic. I had to suck it back into my mouth again. I grabbed it and pulled it out of my mouth, then rolled it around between my finger and thumb, feeling it change consistency, becoming harder and smoother, like a small lump of fear personified, sticking to my skin.
‘When, exactly?’ I asked, having a weird feeling that the gum was still in my throat, choking me.
‘They – I mean, he flew out yesterday morning. He rang me from the airport.’
‘They? He went with Lynn?’
There was a silence.
I sagged against the back of the sofa, nearly dropping the phone. I didn’t give a stuff that he and Lynn appeared to have got back together – let them baby-talk their way around the Algarve, Philly-willy and Lynny-winny– but my mind was racing, and even while part of me was in denial and trying to figure out why he was still ringing me and hanging up from Portugal, with Lynn there too; or how the flowers could have turned up on my doorstep today…. another more cognisant part of me realized where the fear was coming from.
Because if Phil went to Portugal yesterday, he couldn’t have left the lilies. And if he didn’t leave the lilies, then he most likely didn’t send the card. Or make those silent phonecalls.
But if it wasn’t Phil . . .
Who the hell was it?
I don’t know. Maybe it’s my hormones. I’ve got that weird, slightly unreal feeling that I sometimes get with PMT, like I’m inhabiting a parallel universe, one not dissimilar to this: but hazier, more painful. More frightening. A universe where I want to curl up and sleep and let someone look after me. I keep losing things, too. I lost my keys again, turned the place over looking for them (although ‘turned the place over’ isn’t really the right expression. ‘Picked up, looked, and replaced neatly’ would be more apposite. Dr. Bedford said I have issues with cleanliness and tidiness. I disagree. I think it’s more to do with growing up in a big messy household that nobody could ever find anything in. I never could stand that, even as a little girl).
But the weird thing about the keys was that I’m sure the first thing I did when I realized they were missing was to check the front door, and they weren’t there. I suppose I was a bit distracted, trying to stop Biggles from running out into the street again, but I definitely checked. Went back upstairs, cleaned out the fridge, fed Biggles, checked again to make sure – and there they were, dangling from the lock. It was bizarre. And that was when I found the flowers.
I’d been thinking what a wuss Phil was, to leave the flowers and run away without telling me that my keys were sticking out of the front door – I mean, anyone could have let themselves in!
But the horrible truth is that it wasn’t Phil. Someone else must have seen those keys. Someone else. The same someone who sent me that card, telling me he wanted to fuck me? The same person who keeps calling and hanging up. When I thought it was Phil it was just irritating. But now . . .
Oh God. What if I’m not alone now? What if someone’s standing behind one of my doors, perhaps this one…?
I’m all out of breath. Have just run up and down the stairs with the poker, opened all the doors, looked in all the cupboards. Put on Combat Rock at full blast – The Clash make me feel brave. Biggles is disgusted with me. He was chasing up and down the stairs after me with his tail out like a brush. At first, being paranoid, I thought that he could sense something strange. Then I thought, yes of course he can: me, charging around like a maniac with a poker while listening to music loudly enough to make his fur stand on end.
Naturally there was no-one here.
I still don’t understand how I didn’t notice the keys the first time I looked, but it doesn’t really surprise me. I’m getting so scatty now that by the time I’m fifty I’ll probably be completely barking. It happened to that great-aunt of my mother’s. She died in an asylum. God, that kind of thing is hereditary, isn’t it?
I suddenly really wanted to talk to someone. I rang Paula, but one of her flatmates – I never can tell the difference between them – said she’s not back from Thailand till Sunday.
Then I tried Jess, but she wasn’t in either. I didn’t leave a message. Things have been a little strained between us since she had Tom. I know I’m a crap godmother, but really, you’d think she could cut me a little slack here. She lives miles away – how am I expected to go and coo at him on a regular basis? I think she just wants a free babysitter. Anyway, we haven’t spoken for a few weeks, and I didn’t want to leave a whingeing message.
Probably just as well she’s out, on reflection. She’d only have banged on - about Tom’s chesty cough and his mustardy nappies – urgh, babies. A cat is more than enough for me.
Eventually I rang Mum, and she was out too. Dad answered, but I didn’t feel like running through the whole rude card/hang-ups/dead flowers thing with him, so I just asked him to get her to ring me later. I’m sure if I talk about it out loud then we’ll come up with some logical explanation. Or at least it might help me figure out who it is and what’s going on.
In the meantime I think I’ll do some work. Try and take my mind off it.
Chapter 8
Alex
Thursday
I felt happy this morning. Really happy, endorphins fizzing and popping in my bloodstream. I could feel Siobhan’s key in my pocket; the metal warm where it touched my leg through the thin cloth. I kept stroking my pocket, a silly smile on my face, not caring what anyone thought of me, ignoring the looks I got on my way to work. I was so far over the moon I was about to collide with Venus.
So why did they have to fuck it all up?
I was just thinking maybe it wouldn’t be too bad, talking to customers today. I mean, sometimes I do have a laugh there. Although you only ever remember the bastards, 95% of the punters are alright. Of course, it isn’t my ideal job, but, I realised as I strolled from the Tube to the office, it would suffice until I wrote my novel and hit the big time.
As soon as I got in, I knew something was wrong. Across the floor, I saw several people look at me then look away. As I walked towards my desk, the carpet tiles felt spongy and vast, and Jackie – mein call centre Kommandant, old Hitler-with-halitosis herself – stepped into my path.
‘Martin wants to see you.’
‘Is this about my sick leave?’ I said. ‘I was only off for two days. I was genuinely sick. I can get a doctor’s note.’
The vicious expression on her face was replaced by something that looked very much like pity. She told me to just go and see Martin.
So I did.
Martin is only a year older than me, but he’s managed to become the biggest fish in this cramped tank. This is despite being dumber than the average football player. A triumph of ambition over talent, rather like Victoria Beckham’s career. He often treats us with jokes that he picked up at Sunday’s rugger game and we all pretend to be amused. I guess you could say I don’t have much professional respect for him. But he’s the boss, so I had to try to stay on his good side. Because of our similar ages and the fact that we’re both in possession of a penis – well, I assume he is – he often affects a fake bonhomie with me, asking me if I watched the footie at the weekend and pretending he’s heard of the bands I like. Our conversations make me want to weep with despair.