‘Oh, and I’d prefer it if we just kept this between ourselves,’ he adds. ‘I don’t want anyone worrying about their job security, especially in this recession. Fingers crossed they won’t have to.’
‘Of course,’ I nod. I think about Kym and her holiday booked to Ibiza next year, the girl in Accounts who’s having a baby, John in Marketing who’s just got married and is buying a house.
‘Oh, and Tess, just one more thing.’
I turn.
‘I just had a quick look through all the paperwork for the India trip and it all seems to be in order, except you haven’t returned my passport. I know it was sent off to the embassy for the correct visa, so I’m assuming you must still have it.’
‘I’ll go and fetch it,’ I reply confidently. ‘I’ve probably filed it away in a drawer, or in my in-tray.’
‘Just as long as it’s not been lost in the post,’ he chuckles jovially.
‘Ha, yes,’ I laugh.
Leaving his office, I go back to my desk to get his passport. To be honest, there’s been so much going on in the past few weeks that I can’t actually remember sending it off to the embassy, but I must have, as there are no Post-it notes about it on my computer screen. I only peel them off when whatever it is it’s reminding me to do is ticked off my list. Maybe not the most orthodox of organisation systems, but it works perfectly for me.
So if I hadn’t sent it off, it’d still be left on there. And it’s not, I tell myself firmly, turning my attentions to my in-tray.
I rummage around for a bit, but there’s no sign of any passport. How odd. I wonder if the embassy sent it back? Gosh, I do hope so, I muse, feeling a flicker of worry. I quickly dismiss it and start going through the piles of paperwork on my desk instead. I always pay the extra fee to get the visas expedited and couriered back. So it can’t have got lost; it must be here somewhere.
Out of the corner of my eye I spot a flash of pink. A scrap of colour almost hidden in the gap between the monitor and the bit where all the cables go. I feel a slight iciness around the bottom of my spine. What’s that? I try to reach it with my fingers but it must have fallen down the back and become wedged. Grabbing a ruler, I try to poke it out. The iciness is creeping up my spine but I pay no attention. It’s nothing. Probably an old flyer. Or something that’s fallen out of a magazine. Nothing important at all.
It’s a Post-it note.
All scrunched up and torn where I’ve stabbed it with the ruler, but most definitely a Post-it note. Realising my mouth’s gone dry, I swallow hard, then, with trepidation, smooth it out.
I stare at my scrawled handwriting with disbelief.
VISA
Just one, seemingly innocuous word, but it’s enough to send me reeling. Oh no. Please tell me I’m wrong. Please tell me . . . I can’t even finish the thought before I’m gripped with panic.
OK, come on, calm down, I instruct myself firmly. Let’s not jump to conclusions. So I’ve found a Post-it. So what? It’s a ridiculous bloody system anyway. Sticking Post-it notes as reminders on my computer screen. Honestly! It doesn’t definitely mean I haven’t done it. I’ve applied for dozens of visas for Sir Richard in the past. Admittedly I always leave it until the last minute to send it to the embassy, but I’ve never just forgotten.
I try to focus, but my mind is spinning. I can’t think straight. You’re looking for his passport, I remind myself sharply. Yes, of course, I just need to find Sir Richard’s passport, check the visa’s in there and then I can stop worrying over nothing. It’s like when I think I’ve lost my keys and they’re in my bag the whole time, I just can’t recollect putting them in there. It will be the same with this Indian visa, I’m sure of it.
I start emptying the contents of my desk drawers, in the middle of which Wendy the Witch strides past and makes some comment about the state of my desk and how ‘a tidy desk makes a tidy mind’, but I don’t answer. I’m too busy frantically rummaging through piles of crap . . . packet of Cup-a-Soup . . . emergency pair of tights . . . mini sewing kit . . . an envelope with some forms inside and – oh my god, here it is! Sir Richard Blackstock’s passport!
With a burst of relief I pull it out of the envelope and start flicking through it. It’s filled with visas from all his foreign travel. China . . . Hong Kong . . . Australia . . . the rest are blank pages.
No, that can’t be right. I went too quickly, I must have missed it. I start again. Slowly this time. Page by page. I reach the end.
No, it can’t be.
There’s no Indian visa.
I stare at the blank pages in horror. It’s not there! The Post-it note must have fallen off my computer screen and I never sent off his passport to the embassy.
And his flight goes first thing tomorrow.
I glance frantically at the clock, but it’s already nearly four o’clock. It’s too late. By the time I get a taxi to the embassy, it will be closed. Plus, there’s no way they’d process it there and then.
Suddenly Sir Richard’s voice plays in my head. ‘So far I’ve managed to avoid making any redudancies, but I’m not sure how long this can continue for with the current market trends, which is why my trip to India tomorrow is so crucial . . . This isn’t just another business trip, it’s much more than that.’ As I start to take in the consequences I feel sick. I’ve fucked up. I’ve fucked up big time.
My heart is racing and I feel dizzy.
What the hell am I going to do?
Chapter 32
‘Tess? Are you OK? Tess?’
It’s like I’ve dived underwater. Everything has receded and I’m only vaguely aware of muffled noises, but I can’t make out what they are. Instead there’s a growing sound in my ears as I sink lower and lower into the depths. A whooshing that’s getting louder as everything else diminishes. Fades away around the edges. Disappears into the darkness—
‘TESS!’
I suddenly come up for air to see Fergus peering at me with a worried expression.
‘Huh?’ I mumble. I feel dizzy. Like I’m going to faint.
‘Crikey woman, what’s got into you?’ he complains.
My mind’s like a computer booting up again. Shell-shocked, I stare at him for a few moments. ‘I’ve done something terrible,’ I finally manage in a whisper.
‘You’ve done what?’ he frowns, leaning closer to hear me.
I swallow hard, trying to slow my racing heart. ‘I’m in big trouble,’ I say in a low voice.
‘Don’t tell me, you’ve been busted for impersonating your voicemail again?’ he quips, snapping on a mischievous grin.
‘It’s really bad,’ I’m muttering to myself now as the consequences of my mistake start to run away from me like a line of toppling dominoes.
‘What’s worse than pretending to be an answering machine?’ he laughs.
‘Fergus, this isn’t funny!’ I snap, close to tears. ‘This is really serious.’
He looks taken aback by my outburst. ‘Sorry, I didn’t realise . . .’ Coming around the side of my desk, he pulls out my chair. ‘Look, sit down, tell me all about it—’
‘I don’t have time!’ I almost shriek.
Kym, who’s on her way back from the Ladies, shoots a surprised look across at us.
‘What are you two up to?’ she asks, raising an eyebrow suspiciously.
God, the last thing I need is Kym finding out what I’ve done. Or haven’t done.
Though she’s going to find out soon enough, I realise, a surge of panic rising up again. Everyone will find out soon enough.
‘Oh, nothing,’ I say, forcing my voice to stay level. ‘Fergus is just driving me mad as usual.’ I give a tight little laugh.
‘Ha, ha, yeh, that’s right, I’m driving her crazy,’ joins in Fergus.
Given he’s an actor, that laugh couldn’t be more fake. It’s like canned laughter, only worse.
‘Hmm, right . . .’ nods Kym, but she doesn’t look convinced. ‘Well, don’t leave me out if it’s some office gossip,’ she s
ays, a little sulkily. ‘I’m bored rigid.’
‘We won’t,’ I say airily, forcing a wide smile as she continues on to reception.
Fuck. If she wants gossip, how about the company is about to collapse because I’ve just screwed up the CEO’s crucial trip to Delhi, and everyone’s going to lose their jobs?
At the thought I go cold and on impulse I grab my coat. Shoving Sir Richard’s passport back into the envelope with all the paperwork, I stick it in my pocket.
‘Where are you going?’ Fergus shoots me a worried expression.
‘I don’t know . . .’ I trail off, shaking my head. ‘I just need to get some air. Breathe. Think.’
‘Wait, I’m coming with you.’
Without hesitation he follows me as I rush outside, past Kym in reception, who looks up from the phone as we hurry past and opens her mouth to say something; but she’s too late, I’m already out through the automatic doors with Fergus right behind me.
‘What’s going on?’ he gasps, as the cold air hits us.
I hesitate. There’s a part of me that doesn’t want to say it out loud. I’m the only person who knows right now, and if I don’t acknowledge it I can almost fool myself it’s not really happening.
‘Tess, tell me!’ demands Fergus.
My heart is hammering in my chest. I don’t want to tell him, because as soon as I do, it becomes real.
Except, who am I kidding? It’s real anyway, whether I tell him or not.
So, taking a deep breath, I blurt it all out: about the passport, the visa, the trip to India, the company hanging in the balance:
‘And it’s all going to be ruined, because of me, because of my mistake!’ I wail.
Fergus’s expression is serious. He hasn’t spoken the whole time I’ve been talking; instead he’s listened intently, a cleft running down his brow.
‘There has to be a way to fix this,’ he says finally, shaking his head. ‘There has to be.’
‘There isn’t. The embassy closes at four thirty, and even if we get there, they won’t process it in time, it’s too late—’
‘It’s never too late to try to put something right,’ replies Fergus, his voice calm and determined. Stooping down, he unchains his bike and turns to me. ‘Get on,’ he instructs.
I stare at him blankly. ‘Excuse me?’
‘We’re going to the embassy.’
‘What? Both of us? But there’s only one bicycle.’
‘I’m giving you a backie.’
I look at him in alarm. ‘Isn’t that dangerous?’
‘Very,’ he nods. Unstrapping his helmet, he passes it to me. ‘So put that on.’
I falter. There’s no way I want to risk getting on the back of that bike. But I can’t do nothing. Even if there’s the tiniest chance I can put this right, I have to take it. Even if that means getting squashed under a double-decker bus.
‘Come on, hurry!’
Strapping on Fergus’s helmet, I climb onto the saddle. ‘Do you think we’ll get there in time?’ I gasp, as he jumps onto the pedals.
‘I can usually do Victoria in half an hour.’ He checks his watch. ‘Damn, we’ve got less than twenty minutes before the embassy closes.’
‘Will we make it?’
‘Hold on tight, cos we’re sure as hell going to find out,’ he cries, and with a thrust of the pedals we accelerate off down the side street.
I’m going to die! Seriously, it’s going to be One Day all over again. Only this time there’s going to be two of us. Me and Fergus. Squashed in a mangled wreck underneath a lorry. Or a car that’s just pulled out in front of us and we’ve had to brake sharply and swerve—
Argh!
As I cling on for dear life, my arms wrapped tightly around his waist, Fergus whips the bike safely past the bonnet of the car and shoots down a side street. He’s obviously a true professional at this. Not only is he incredibly fit – I swear I have never seen calf muscles like it, they are literally pumping like pistons – but he’s also a human GPS. Nipping through alleys, zigzagging down back streets, he whizzes his way across London like a silver bullet, leaving the rest of the gridlocked traffic behind.
Gripping onto him, I watch as the tarmac speeds away beneath us. I’m absolutely terrified. I never take risks. I don’t like danger. I’m the one who puts on her seat belt in the back of a black cab. I mean, I know you’re supposed to, but who does that?
Me. I do.
And yet at the same time, at least the fear is preventing me from thinking about the visa. About what’s going to happen if we don’t get there in time.
At the very thought I experience another flurry of panic. If I’m going to die, at least I’ll escape the fate that’s going to be waiting for me back at Blackstock & White, I console myself. I’ll never have to face Sir Richard, never have to see everyone’s faces when they hear about the inevitable redundancies . . .
No, stop! That’s not going to happen, I tell myself firmly. It can’t happen! We’ve got to get there in time!
After crossing Hammersmith Bridge, we race along the Chelsea Embankment, following the Thames as it weaves its path through the city of London. Shafts of sunlight break through the heavy clouds intermittently, like a light display, each winter beam bouncing off the water. We head east, whizzing past the stationary traffic, before cutting up towards Victoria and Buckingham Palace.
There’s never a moment’s hesitation. This is what Fergus does all day and he knows this city like the back of his hand, taking in beautiful garden squares surrounded by iron railings, white stucco houses, majestic buildings rising up above the city sprawl. Forget any tourist on an open-top double-decker bus: this is how to take in London. Now I understand why he loves cycling so much – it’s like the city is a living, breathing thing and you’re part of it.
And then, before I know it, we’re speeding around a corner and there, just ahead, is the India Visa Application Centre.
‘We made it!’ gasps Fergus, braking sharply and coming to a halt. He jumps off the pedals. I can’t believe his legs don’t just crumple beneath him.
‘Oh my god, that’s incredible . . . we’re here already . . .’ I stammer in disbelief. Even more incredible is that I’m still in one piece, I think, as he helps me off. My heart is racing and even though I haven’t done any pedalling, I’m all wobbly and breathless. Part fear, part anticipation, part dread.
We both rush up to the door and I go to push it open, except . . .
‘It’s locked!’ I cry, twirling around to Fergus.
‘It can’t be! We did that ride in eighteen minutes, I timed it!’ he protests, snatching at his watch. ‘What time do you make it?’
‘Um . . . hang on . . .’ I fumble at my wrist. ‘Only four twenty-eight!’ I cry indignantly. Twirling back around, I hammer on the door.
A security guard appears on the other side of the door. ‘We’re closed,’ he says firmly through the wired glass.
‘It’s not four thirty yet,’ I protest, ‘there are two more minutes.’
‘Not by my watch,’ he says gruffly.
‘But I need a visa urgently,’ I try to explain, but he’s unbudgeable.
‘’Fraid you’ll have to come back tomorrow,’ he replies emotionlessly.
‘But I can’t come back tomorrow!’ I wail, my voice getting higher and higher. ‘It’s for my boss and his flight leaves for India tomorrow morning.’
‘Well then he’s not going to be on it, is he?’ he says with a shrug that shows, quite frankly, he couldn’t care less.
I stare at him, feeling both like yelling and bursting into tears at the same time. ‘Please!’ I plead desperately. I have no shame. I am willing to start begging.
With a glower he pulls down the blind.
For a moment I stand there, unable to take in what’s just happened. And for a moment my hopes remain suspended in the air, like Wile E. Coyote who runs over a cliff and doesn’t realise until he looks down.
Then I look down.
An
d as the reality hits, my hopes go crashing. That’s it. It’s over. The company will be ruined. People will lose their jobs. And it’s all my fault.
I turn away from the door, my body sagging in defeat. ‘It’s too late,’ I say quietly to Fergus, who’s been waiting anxiously. ‘I’ve ruined everything.’
‘Hey, stop beating yourself up,’ he says immediately, putting his hand on my shoulder. ‘You tried to put it right. Anyone can make a mistake.’
‘But not this huge,’ I choke, feeling the tears rising up in my throat, ‘and not like this. This isn’t about me, I don’t care about me, it’s about everyone else . . .’ My eyes are filling up and I have to blink them away. ‘People have kids, they’ve got mortgages . . .’
‘Hey . . . hey,’ he says, putting his arm around me as I start crying and bury my face in his chest. ‘Now come on, they’ll understand, they’re your friends, they’ll know you didn’t do this on purpose . . .’
But I don’t hear the rest of his sentence because I’m sobbing my eyes out. Big fat meaty tears that stream down my cheeks as if they’re never going to stop. I’ve made mistakes in the past, but not of these epic proportions. How could I have been such an idiot? How? How?
I’m not sure how long we stand there, two people in the middle of the pavement, on a cold, grey January day, with the traffic and the world whirling around them. With my eyes squeezed tightly shut I want to block everything out, I don’t want to think about anything. Until I become vaguely aware of the sound of a door opening, muffled voices, then the security guard instructing loudly, ’Can you move away from the door so the staff can exit?’
‘C’mon Tess, no point standing here.’
I hear Fergus’s soft Irish accent in my ear and look up, blearily, to see a few people leaving the building, and the security guard glaring in my direction. He’s right, it’s pointless. It’s over.
Roughly wiping my face with my sleeve, I step backwards. I catch some of the staff looking over, brief curious glances as they wonder fleetingly what the story is behind the girl with the puffy face who’s obviously been crying, and the dark-haired bicycle courier trying to comfort her. Before, just as fleetingly, I’m forgotten and supplanted by more important thoughts of meeting friends at the pub, the tube ride home, the children’s tea.