‘I know. There’s an announcement this morning, I wanted to get organised.’ He smoothly inserted the key and opened the large wooden door.
‘Announcement?’ With sudden anxiety, Moira wondered why he was telling her.
‘I thought I’d give you a heads-up. You’ve been with us a long time.’
She was flattered but shocked.
He laughed, ‘Hang on! Don’t look like that. It’s nothing for you to worry about. I just thought you should know there are some changes coming. Keep it under your hat for now though, okay? That’s my girl.’
Moira practically swooned. Here was the man of her dreams confiding in her, trusting her. Things were looking up. That’s my girl, she thought with a quiver of excitement, MY girl. Anyone else using such a condescending term would have soon realised the risk and hurried to safety. Moira was a feminist through and through. Usually.
He smiled as he allowed her to enter first, the sort of gentlemanly yet intimate smile that turned Moira’s insides to jelly and made her optimistic about the future. Once through the door, she stood back under the pretext of searching her bag for her phone, but really she wanted to enjoy watching his long, strong legs as they paced quickly up the stairs, gliding the man of Moira’s dreams away in effortless motion. And he was the only man to whom she had ever felt truly attracted, so much so that he crept into every hope and dream. This encounter, as with all others, would be stored away for later use when it would be built upon, embellished, and turned into a daydream woven with subtle looks and words that any author of romantic fiction would be proud of. Moira felt that so many things in life were better savoured in the controlled form of invention. In this, she was more self-aware than her brother, whose constant quest for love was bound up in the pursuit of the unachievable. At least, this is how it seemed to Moira.
*
By ten o’clock the announcement had been made and it was clear that the regular occupants of the few empty spaces were not late but had been sacked or made redundant. An old hand, Moira could appreciate why most had been let go, but the single promotion announced made her sick to the stomach. How was it, she asked herself, that somebody profane and unspeakably stupid could find herself in a position of authority over and above Moira. Rather than allow frustration to simmer, Moira could not resist airing her grievances with her new boss.
‘Congratulations,’ she said, as she rushed towards her quarry, ingratiating smile surrounding gleaming teeth, ‘I had no idea.’
‘Thanks.’ The woman, previously so dismissive of Moira and equally indifferent to the attention of others, looked back with suspicious eyes. ‘Guess all those fucking late nights paid off.’ She sighed, ‘So Big M. Does it bother you? Reporting to me.’
‘No.’ The lie came easily.
‘Good. Then you might want to get your arse in gear and make a start on the day.’
Moira tightened. She glanced across the room and saw the man she adored move into view, and knew her adversary had observed the drift of her gaze. It was then a revelation reached over her mind and smothered sense, allowing unchecked words to fall from her mouth.
‘Dear God, is that how you got promoted? When you so crudely say ‘fucking late nights’ do you mean that you and he are sleeping together? You know, actually fucking, late at night?’
For an instant the two stared at each other in total silence, and Moira expected either to be fired or, if her statement had strayed somewhere near the truth, that her opponent would walk away to gather her thoughts. But as is so often the case, expectations were far from fulfilled.
‘Absolutely, Big M. Exactly that.’
For Moira it was the worst possible response.
*
Moira was crying, sitting on the toilet. Throughout the morning she had repeatedly locked herself in a cubicle before weeping uncontrollably into toilet tissue, hidden away with the resentful tears she was unable to control, desperate that others should not see them.
Again and again, Moira determined it could not be true, that she had been lied to simply to save face, or perhaps to cause heartache. She would then return to her desk feeling renewed, only to scurry back to the sanitary sanctuary she had just left with tears welling once more. Sat in clinical solitude, Moira wondered what it was that he saw in such a soulless creature, asking herself what did she have that Moira did not? But of course Moira knew at least part of the problem was that she herself possessed something other women did not; a thing most people would consider defining apparatus. A thing she hated. To classify a person using a physical anomaly was a peculiar notion, she felt, something that would never happen had she simply an extra toe or finger. But soon it would all change. Soon she would be complete, not a transformation from old to new but reconfiguration of what should always have been. Moira knew other people like herself, many women whose lives were challenged by the same deception. But most were smaller than Moira and naturally more feminine. For them, she thought, surely life was easier.
Eventually Moira left the bathroom clutching at the belief that the claim of a sexual relationship was untrue. The immensity of feeling had eased enough for her to attempt light work, but as the day continued she was increasingly drawn into watching the pair’s interactions. Instead of filing or emailing or researching, or any number of tasks that more urgently required her attention, she found herself spying. Finally, given the evidence of her own eyes, she had to let go and concede that the thing she feared more than anything was indeed true. It was nauseating. In the instant it took for reality to assume a foothold, the part of life Moira had been satisfied to maintain purely in the realms of fantasy – that vital element giving emotional nourishment through private vision and secret desire – suffered a crushing blow. The only person she had ever wanted didn’t love her, and never would. In truth he had never suggested they were anything more than colleagues, except through those half-flirtatious glances she thought he delivered. These had been enough to fuel fantasy. But perhaps each look, each gentle word, every time he gallantly carried a heavy box or courteously stepped back to allow Moira to enter or exit first, perhaps these things had been born of pity. The world, it seemed, was not fair in any respect.
From there the day tumbled into a destructive concoction of oversensitivity and misery, momentary highs achieved only by passing the cruelty of it all onto others with a lashing and spiteful tongue. Feeling utterly deceived and bereft, Moira eventually found consolation in hatching a plan: simply, that she would whistle blow. She would reveal that both had severely abused their expenses in order to indulge their relationship and thus get them fired. If there were no genuine proof available then it wouldn’t be too difficult to manufacture the evidence.
So it was that Moira went about unearthing anything and everything she could find. As the afternoon progressed she had nothing in the way of hard evidence, although several dinners could easily seem like abuse once corroborating invoices were safely discarded. Moira discovered it was surprisingly easy to create authentic looking documents with the variety of paper and sophisticated printers available. The only problem she could foresee was that a mutual crisis might push the couple closer together, so for good measure she created extra evidence to discredit her nemesis in the eyes of her lover. It was fun playing with lives, deciding how many men one woman could be sleeping with at any one time. Moira looked to be a busy woman that day, and she was, enjoying the public nature of her artifice.
When Moira felt she had created everything needed, she stowed the resulting paperwork in her bag. There was one more thing to do, one possibility yet to explore, before she could finally blow the whistle with a clear conscience. She decided the greater part of the plan should take the form of a test for the man at the centre of her world, the man she now felt had cruelly deceived her. Come the end of the day, when everyone else had gone home, two sealed envelopes would lie upon his desk. The envelope to the left would contain neatly folded copies of incriminating receipts, the envelope to the right a careful
ly worded letter from Moira threatening suicide, just to see what he would do.
Chapter 11
SUNDAY MORNING GRACE
Grace passed through reception, heading out for a Sunday morning walk, looking to brighten her mood. Once outside the hotel, the freshness of the air went some way to revive her, easing the world-weariness that seemed to hang from every limb.
The previous night she had fallen asleep with no difficulty, soon after returning to the hotel. The emotional trauma of the day had sapped energy for even the most basic function, and she had flopped into bed without brushing her teeth, neither showering nor washing before sleep had taken her. Half undressed, her reading lamp on and book open with words unread, Grace had at first slept deeply, until the early hours of the morning saw her wake, lying then wide-eyed until daybreak. The strange sort of tiredness made her feel unwell, as if she were travelsick. And in a way, she was; sick of the unwelcome journey she appeared to have begun.
There had been little in the way of an actual sunrise to watch, the view from her room instead favouring glorious sunsets across the gorge to the west. But the sky had taken on the pleasant pink glow of reflected light, and Grace watched the mute grey twilight fill with colour in much the same way she had the morning before, at home. She lay quite still, gazing, wondering what the hell she was doing. She had witnessed the man she loved in deep distress, so why hadn’t she gone to him and offered support? Because he’d lied too many times, was why. She’d been angry. Felt deceived. There was only one reason a man was never where he said he would be. But then again, he’d been by himself. Crying, alone.
Even before leaving her room for breakfast, Grace had made the decision to go home, and although the very idea of it made her already sensitive insides flutter, she wanted to sort things out. If the marriage was over, then it was over. Through the course of the night, exactly this thought had crossed her mind many times, and each time her stomach somersaulted uncomfortably. The bottom line was, she was afraid. She feared both the loss of her husband and coping alone. And the practicalities could not be ignored: what of her future financial security, so tightly bound to his? She also worried about her daughters. Adults they might be, but she knew both still looked to home as a place of sanctuary, somewhere to find both Mum and Dad still living the life the girls loved to remember enjoying themselves; garden full of laughter, kitchen filled with the smell of baking, happy parents with teasing smiles. One daughter, Primrose, still needed the foundation of a secure family unit as much as she ever did. In fact, it was mostly because of Primrose that Grace had wanted to stay strong, in the café. A break-up would hurt everyone, regardless. Even friends would wobble once the ground began shifting beneath their feet, for it was not possible to feel anything but unsteady when something reliably steadfast proves to be entirely fallible. And, if she were honest, a small part of Grace was embarrassed. It all felt like failure.
Standing outside the hotel, Grace looked up. The day was again promising to be another good one, with a pleasant lightness in the air. Following a deep sigh, she began walking. Yesterday the bridge was the only place she’d wanted to be, today she wasn’t sure. She paused to consider direction.
Close by, someone spoke. ‘Morning.’
Turning, Grace saw the same young man she had met the day before, crouched tying his shoelace. In the over-tired muddle of crazed dreams during the night, he had appeared to her, staring through the hotel window whilst hand-in-hand with her husband. ‘Good morning,’ she replied, smiling politely.
‘That drink still on offer?’ he said, rising.
Grace didn’t understand.
‘Yesterday evening. You suggested …’
‘Oh yes. Sorry. A bit early, don’t you think?’
Ric smiled a little, ‘I was thinking coffee. Coffee and cake, or something. I haven’t had breakfast. Plus it was a long night.’
‘How did it go?’ Grace asked, remembering only then that he had gone to spend time with his parents. ‘I imagine it wasn’t easy for you. But perhaps it helped, in some way? I am sure it helped them.’
‘I survived.’ Ric wearily ran a hand through his messy hair, before extending both arms above his head as if pushing the sky.
Sweeping them round to his sides in one huge arc, he suddenly looked taller to Grace, as if the action had somehow added inches. Air squeezed from him as he stretched, a small groaning sound. She smiled. Ric smiled back, broader this time, white teeth bright. He was a handsome young man, she noticed, for the first time. He had a face that came to life once there was a smile. It gave him a certain radiance, lighting up his eyes. And his hair; the sandy tones were very similar to her husband’s, before grey took over entirely. ‘And what brings you back here?’ she asked.
‘Left something behind when I checked out. A book. I was awake anyway, so thought I’d come early. I’ll get back to my folks soon, though. They’re not doing too well.’ He paused. ‘It’s been such a shock.’
The charming expression had vanished and Grace noticed his lower lip quivering and tightening as he spoke. Before he could cry, she said, ‘Why don’t you get your book, then we’ll go for a walk and get that drink. If you have time?’
His face relaxed a little. ‘Are you sure?’ A welling tear peaked and rolled free. ‘I don’t want to impose.’
‘I’m in no hurry if you aren’t. Besides, it was you that asked me, really. So I am simply saying yes to your invitation.’
‘Thank you.’ Ric wiped his face with the back of his hand.
‘It is so incredibly hard when you lose someone,’ Grace remarked.
Ric nodded, pale face now emptied of all expression, other than sorrow. The unyielding pain of loss was so tangible that Grace felt she could reach out and touch it. She questioned why she sensed it so powerfully. Was it because she knew it well, having encountered this same desolation herself, or was it because she was a mother?
Around them, the morning was brightening into a beautiful day, Clifton Village’s limestone Georgian architecture – so reminiscent of Bath – beginning to glow warmly in the rising sunlight. ‘Naturally you are devastated,’ she continued, ‘but are you coping? It’s early days, of course, but if you are not coping, then you may need to talk to someone, a professional. Sometimes it is better not to wait with these things.’
‘There is nothing else to do but cope.’
Grace felt a pang of guilt. She had brought him down by asking after his evening. Perhaps she would have been better to ignore his prompt. But she also knew from personal experience that to have someone dance about the difficult topic of death felt like duplicity. However he might seem to others, the only thing filling his mind would be the inescapable burden of loss. ‘So. A coffee. But your book first.’
‘I’ll just run in and grab it.’ He turned away before swinging back. ‘My name is Ric, by the way. I didn’t introduce myself yesterday which was very rude of me.’
‘Grace. I am very pleased to meet you, Ric,’ she squinted with a thought, ‘funny how names don’t really matter.’
He agreed, and they shook hands in retrospective greeting. Grace noted Ric’s handshake had a pleasantly positive grip, not in the least vice-like or dominating and equally not the revolting damp flop of limp lettuce, something she disliked and made sure her own children had grown up without. Again she looked at his face, admiring his even features.
‘It’s really good to see you again, Grace. One minute I’ll be right with you.’ Jogging towards the hotel entrance, he glanced back with a gleaming smile.
As Ric disappeared through the revolving door, Grace wondered what on earth she was doing, standing waiting to have coffee with a stranger in the middle of Bristol on a bright Sunday morning. Since there had been no attempt to contact her via the hotel, she also wondered what was happening at home. The expectation that the girls would become entangled in their father’s grief and renege on the deal by revealing her whereabouts, appeared to be without foundation. But perhaps he wasn’t
sad that she’d gone; not interested in where she was hiding. Either way, they had left her entirely to her own devices, as agreed. But twenty-four hours and a few miles separation had not left Grace any clearer about what she should do next. She had no wish for divorce anymore than reconciliation, because without the facts nothing could be settled. Again the idiom if it’s over it’s over passed through her mind, and again her already tight stomach lurched. One thing was finally clear to her: she did not want it to be over.
Devoid of the outrage that first fuelled her anger, insecurity hovered. Where anger and accusation had temporarily anchored Grace, the very real possibility of change cut her loose, leaving her tumbling as if in outer space. She opened her bag and looked at her phone, weakening towards her natural propensity to give in. She wanted to call him. It seemed as if she had been gone for an age. Her subconscious was on the verge of assuming direction, determining that the best thing to do would be to drive home right now, even if only to begin the end. But instead, Grace refastened her bag.
*
The walk across the Downs was glorious, and Grace was glad to have stayed. It might be the last pleasant moment for sometime.
Conversation, though not happy, was not of sadness and loss after all. Words flowed easily and steadily, helped through the occasional lull by the mewing of a lone buzzard overhead, drifting and watching, all seeing. The first football matches of the morning were underway, and food vans churned out bacon butties to the hungry, the pleasant aroma likely to tempt even those who had already eaten their fill elsewhere. Here and there, young people wandered slowly home from the night before, still dressed in their finery and looking beautiful and youthful despite lack of sleep. Happy children ran with kites flapping and bouncing along the ground, while dogs raced amongst them, chasing balls endlessly.
Eventually they stopped and Grace apologised. ‘I hope you don’t mind, but this is it. Maybe you thought we were going to a proper café?’