Flights of Angels (4 page)

Oh that life were as simple for him.

After the strange bathroom sighting, Claudie had gone straight to bed. Lavender essential oil was, she’d read, meant to induce a sense of well-being, not a sense of madness.

But she hadn’t been able to sleep. It had all been so vivid: like watching a little film. She really had seen a beautiful woman in a pale lemon dress dancing without a care in the world, as if the white enamel tiles were a ballroom rather than a bathroom.

Claudie had even got up in the middle of the night and tiptoed back into the bathroom as if she’d still expected to see her dancing, or at least find some little wet footprints to confirm that what she’d seen had been real. But no. The shampoo bottle and the loofah remained alone. Nothing had been disturbed.

She couldn’t help but feel a little disappointed. It was almost as if she’d discovered an amazing new drug and just had to have another hit. She really wanted to believe in what she’d seen.

‘What would Dr Lynton say?’ she said aloud to herself in the broad band of morning.
‘
Why
do you want to believe what you saw?’ she mimicked his soft, low voice and giggled at her accuracy.

‘Because?’ Claudie paused. What possible reason could she have for wanting to hallucinate?

‘Look deep into yourself and question what you find.’ That’s what one of the self-help books had told her, but what did they know? Who wrote those books anyway? What could they possibly know about her? Anyway, she didn’t want to look deep into herself. She was still too afraid of what she might find there, and even more afraid that there might be nothing to find at all. Just a great abyss.

That probably explained why she was watching more MGM musicals than ever before. Her usual diet of one a week had multiplied by seven. One a day - after work with a large cup of hot chocolate. What better combination to combat the world than Gene Kelly and Cadbury’s? As soon as she heard that lion roar at the start of a movie, she could feel herself slipping gently into another world. A world of colour and music, of love and laughter. A world populated by a cast of characters she knew so well that they were like friends to her. And she didn’t care what Dr Lynton said about barriers and blockages. Her diet of musicals certainly beat the hell out of all the self-help books which had been thrust at her by friends and therapists.

Ever since Claudie could remember, she’d relied on musicals to get her through the tough times. She had a vivid image of herself sitting on her bedroom floor at weekends, snuggled in a nest of cushions, her curtains drawn tightly against the wet Whitby weather as she immersed herself in early Deanna Durbin, Judy Garland, Gene Kelly and Doris Day on her portable TV. It was the perfect way to escape her mother, the drudgery of homework and, during her late teens, the trauma of boyfriends. The world was a better place when it was filled with song and dance. June Allyson never yelled at her for not tidying the kitchen, Marilyn Monroe never gave her detentions for not doing homework, and Gene Kelly never
ever
stood her up.

It had started innocently enough but soon become an obsession, with Claudie scanning the weekend television guide and circling her favourite films with a bold red pen and becoming inconsolable if something was cancelled owing to extended sports coverage. Over the years, she came to know many of the films by heart and that was where the greatest pleasure lay. There was enormous comfort to be had in knowing what was coming next; of the absolute knowledge that a happy ending was just around the corner and that, although there may be tears and heartache along the way, there was nothing but bright eyes, smiles and a grand finale before the end credits.

Despite constant teasing from friends and family, this obsession hadn’t abated through adulthood so, after a weekend immersed in
High Society
,
Singin’ in the Rain
and
Brigadoon
, Claudie entered the office on Monday morning with her head chock full of uplifting lyrics and neat little dance steps. She even attempted a little routine as she walked up the stairs, but it proved rather unwise in her kitten heels.

‘Ouch!’ she winced, rubbing her twisted ankle. She would never cut it as a Cyd Charisse, that was for sure. But then, she thought, Cyd Charisse would never be able to cope with Mr Bartholomew and his mounds of paperwork, his hieroglyphic handwriting and unpredictable mood swings.

Like Dr Lynton, Mr Bartholomew had never given Claudie leave to call him by his Christian name, but she knew what it was. George. Not terribly inspiring but thoroughly suitable.

‘Morning!’ Claudie chirped as she entered the office, pulling her seat out with a flourish and igniting her computer with a wand-like finger.

‘You’re in a good mood,’ Kristen said. ‘Good weekend?’

‘Lovely.’

‘Don’t tell me - Warner Brothers?’

Claudie shook her head. ‘Too serious.’

‘RKO?’

‘Not enough colour.’

‘Then it’s got to be -’ Kristen hesitated, ‘MGM?’

‘You bet!’ Claudie laughed. ‘MGM - the three most magical letters in the English language.’

‘Oh, Claudie! You haven’t spent a whole weekend watching musicals again?’

‘No. Not a
whole
weekend. I reread that Doris Day biography too.’

‘Claudie! You really should get out more.’

Claudie laughed again. She’d heard it all before, and she chose to ignore it again.

‘Coffee?’ Kristen sighed.

‘Please.’

Kristen disappeared down the hall for their early dose of caffeine. Claudie logged onto her computer and sifted through the papers that had miraculously collected in her in-tray since Friday.

‘Claudie?’

‘Yes?’ She turned round, but there was nobody there. Strange. She felt sure she’d heard someone. Perhaps she’d imagined it. She still had half-a-dozen film scores whizzing through her brain.

‘Claudie!’

She turned round again. Somebody
had
called her name, hadn’t they? She hadn’t imagined it.

‘Clawww - deeee!’

It wasn’t coming from behind her. In fact, there wasn’t anyone in the office to call her name. She looked around the desk, moving her pencil pot, picking up files, peering behind her computer screen as if she might come across some kind of voice throwing machine.

‘I’m over here! Look up
here
!’

Claudie looked up, and there, perching on the giant fig tree behind her desk was the little woman who’d been waltzing in her bathroom the night before.

‘Well, don’t look so surprised to see me! You
can
see me, can’t you?’

Claudie nodded at the dark-haired girl in the yellow dress who was sitting, quite comfortably, on one of the thicker branches of the fig tree, legs dangling happily.

‘Thank goodness for that! I was beginning to think you were ignoring me. Or that maybe you couldn’t see me after all. People are always trying to pull one over on us.’

‘What do you mean?’ Claudie whispered, looking round her in case somebody saw her talking to a plant.

‘You know - they like to be in charge - like to think they’ve got things sussed and that they don’t need our help.’

‘Are you real?’ Claudie frowned, her eyes narrowing.

‘Of course I’m real!’ she said somewhat indignantly. ‘Don’t you believe your own eyes?’

‘Frankly, no. Not lately.’

The dark-haired girl stared at her with sudden tenderness. ‘People always think they’re so tough, but they aren’t tough. They’re tender. Tender as baby birds.’ She spoke the words as if they were lines from a poem. ‘And that’s where we come in.’

‘You?’

‘Us.’

‘What? You mean there’s more than one of you?’ Claudie suddenly looked round her desk, half-expecting to see a whole troupe of little people.

‘Gracious, yes! I couldn’t do this job on my own.’

‘Claudie?’ another voice called her name. Claudie felt her body freeze.

It was Mr Bartholomew. How long had he been standing there? Had he been watching her? Listening to her talking to a fig tree?

‘Is there anything wrong?’ he peered at her closely: something he didn’t normally do so it was rather unnerving to have his beaky nose pushed into her face.

‘I’m fine,’ she replied hesitantly. She felt herself turning round quickly again to look at the tree. The dark-haired girl was still there, swinging her legs merrily, humming a little tune.

‘Are you sure?’ he repeated his words very slow, his beaky nose only inches away from her face.

Claudie nodded. Could he not see the little girl, then? She looked at her boss, her eyes wide and questioning.

‘Look!’ he said, remembering why he’d come into the office in the first place. ‘I’ve made some amendments to this letter. Can you get it typed and run three copies off before lunch?’

Claudie took it from him and nodded, trying not to grimace at the amount of red pen and scribble on it. It looked like one of her old school assignments.

‘No problem,’ she added hastily, lest he thought her away with the fairies. Claudie started at the thought, turning back round to the dark-haired girl when her boss had walked back to his own office. Was that what the little figure was - a fairy? And why hadn’t her boss seen her?

‘Look,’ Claudie began, ‘I don’t mean to be rude, but what on earth are you?’

The girl smiled back at her. ‘Before you say it, no, I’m not a fairy!’ She held her tiny hands up in mock defence. ‘
Everybody
asks that.’

Claudie found herself smiling unexpectedly. ‘I mean, who are you?’ She scratched her head. ‘Am I finally losing it?’

The dark-haired girl shook her head. ‘You’re not losing it, Claudie. You’re finding it!’

‘Can’t anyone else see you, then?’ God, she thought, this was madness. Talking to apparitions! You could still be locked up for that, couldn’t you?

‘Of course nobody else can see me! I’m
yours
!’

‘Mine? What do you mean?’

‘I’m here for you - nobody else. Don’t you realise that?’

Claudie shook her head very slowly. ‘And you’re not-’

‘A figment of your imagination?’

‘Yes! How did you know I was going to say that?’ Claudie was becoming more perplexed by the second.

The girl shrugged. ‘Because I’ve done this before. I know all the questions.’

‘God! I think I’m going mad!’

‘Claudie?’ It was Kristen’s voice.

Claudie jumped for the third time in ten minutes. This was getting ridiculous, she thought. Perhaps she should just admit defeat and go home and get some sleep. Maybe she was just over-tired.

‘Coffee.’ Kristen placed it on her Peter Rabbit coaster and perched on the edge of her desk as she sipped hers. Claudie knew that meant trouble.

‘Are you all right, Claudes? You look a bit pale.’

‘I always look pale,’ she joked, giving what she hoped was a cheerful smile but it was hard to tell under the circumstances. ‘I’ve just been handed this.’ She pulled the letter her boss had given her out of her in tray in the hope that Kristen might believe she’d been talking to herself about that.

‘Blimey! No wonder you’re pale. Why does he do that? You’ve typed that letter at least five times before.’

‘Six. This will be number seven.’ Claudie peeped surreptitiously over to the fig tree. The dark-haired girl was still there but she was sitting perfectly still now, watching the pair of them with intense eyes. Claudie smiled to herself. She was losing it, wasn’t she?

‘Claudes,’ Kristen began again. Claudie recognised that tone of hers. It always preceded a probing question.

‘Yes?’ she said airily, bringing up the saved letter on her computer screen, with just a quick flick of the eyes to the dark-haired girl who had now descended and was dancing behind her computer.

‘How are your sessions going in York?’

‘Fine. Why?’

‘Just wondered,’ Kristen said, injecting far too much nonchalance into her voice. ‘What’s he given you to read this week, then?’

‘Nothing. I told him I didn’t want any more books.’

Kristen scowled, pushing her red hair away from her eyes in disbelief. ‘Are you sure that’s sensible?’

Claudie looked up at her friend, trying to ignore the girl who was dancing in the corner of her eye. ‘I’m tired of reading,’ she said.

Kristen’s grey eyes narrowed. ‘Your accent’s come back.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘I mean, you always return to your French roots when you’re under stress.’

‘Rubbish!’

‘See! Perfect!’ Kristen nodded, pointing a finger at her friend.

Claudie shook her head, not daring to admit defeat, or to speak again.

Kristen sipped her coffee slowly, not showing any signs of leaving until she had a full confession out of her.

‘I’m half-French. What do you expect?’

‘Aye, lass, but yer can’t ’alf speak Yorkshire when yer want to.’

Claudie smiled. ‘Look - I’m perfectly all right. There is absolutely no stress here.’

Kristen chewed her lip. ‘Well, if you’re sure?’ She made to go back to her own desk.

‘I’m sure,’ Claudie reiterated, eager to get rid of her.

‘Okay. But you know where I am if you need me.’

‘Thanks.’ Claudie watched as Kristen sauntered over to her desk, shaking her head at her own growing heap of paperwork. Then, turning round, Claudie spotted the little woman again. She was sure she would have disappeared by now; that she really was only a figment of her overactive imagination. But no, she was still there - smaller than life - but there all the same.

‘Well!’ the little lady began, her tiny hands resting on her exquisitely slender hips. ‘You’ve got to be the worst liar I’ve ever come across.’

‘What?’ Claudie whispered, shocked by the candid remark.

‘
There is absolutely no stress here!
’ She repeated Claudie’s remark with more than a hint of irony. ‘Well, what do you think I’m here for?’

‘I think, perhaps, I’d better explain exactly who I am,’ the little woman began. ‘I always forget my manners when I meet clients for the first time. I just get so excited.’