Girl Reading (35 page)

Jeannine repeats her question.

What?

This one should be given to the police.

What is it?

The one I pulled out. It’s incendiary.

What does it say?

It says that, basically, this person is likely to attack someone. Jeannine shows him the letter that she has put in a document pocket in case fingerprints can be taken off the paper, DNA off the envelope. (No one told her to, she just assumed.)

Jonathan skims through it. It’s a green inker.

It isn’t. It’s far worse. The police ought to see it.

Why? What specifically bothers you?

Jeannine did not expect Jonathan to challenge her. The tone of the letter is vicious. In her opinion, the police should decide whether a crime has been committed or could be prevented, whether the writer of it is a danger to anybody, whether there needs to be a referral to social services. She thought Jonathan would think so too, thought he would tell her to use her discretion in future.

The politician says, To be fair, the language isn’t directed at you or me. He takes it out of the plastic pocket, jeopardizing the chance for forensic science to have its way, inserts it into the folder to be answered the next day.

Jonathan, that’s a threat of violence.

I’ll look at it later.

Even if we don’t actively report it, you can’t condone it by replying as if it’s an ordinary letter. (In so saying, Jeannine realizes her error; no need for forensics when the author has included a name and address.)

He sighs. The trouble is, people like this are very vocal and probably use their vote, and probably have twenty friends who hold similar views and who also vote.

Jeannine doubts it.

I said I would look at it later, didn’t I?

Yes. And she tries to decide whether to keep arguing or to give in.

And in the instant before she makes up her mind, Jonathan says,
People are watching.
Then he waves her away, turns his attention back to his work.

If he means the two of them should not be seen disagreeing with each other (or more precisely, she should not be seen disagreeing with him), this is unnecessary: they are alone apart from Erica in the other office, who pays them no attention.

Then she thinks he means people generally, in the constituency, for example; after all, it is in Jeannine’s interest as much as Jonathan’s that he maintain his majority.

During controversy the media are always watching, of course.

Back at her own desk, the syllables just uttered, fresh in her mind, an odd thought—

Her shoes are hurting her; she slides her finger inside them to relieve the pressure. The suede looks flawless, the design elegant. No one has complimented her on them yet. They will soon give a little.

Erica taps at her keyboard, the cursor invisible as it zips across the screen, leaving a trail of perfect spelling in its wake. She is in apricot.

Erica, what do you do with letters that are unacceptable?

Depends what you mean by unacceptable. I have seen some
horrific grammar in my time—Erica engages the brakes, turns her chair to face Jeannine— You aren’t having difficulties, are you? If anyone is saying or doing anything you don’t like, you tell Aunty Erica about it and I will set it straight. That includes (she jabs her finger toward Jonathan’s office door). I shan’t tolerate it. Believe me when I say I can make things happen they wouldn’t like.

Jeannine is grateful to have Erica’s battle-ax on her side. She assures her it is nothing like that, explains about the letter and its contents.

The older woman rolls her eyes. First, whatever you do, don’t take it to heart. Second, it sounds like it could have been worse; be thankful it was written on paper and not on something sharper or wetter. Those ones certainly can be dealt with by the police. You were right to show it to him if you had concerns, and remember that a reply will have his name on it, not yours. If Jonathan asks you to do anything you don’t want to, you should just say no, because you’re sensible and your reasons will be sound. I will back you up. Jonathan is young. Not to you, obviously, but he is, and the gaps between general elections can feel very short. Your job is to help him, and that can mean keeping his desk clear of the “rubbish.” Some people out there are very dissatisfied with their lot and looking for ways to express their rage. Members are in the public eye, are perceived as persons of power and influence. The public has no idea how much effort goes into making a tiny little change, let alone a big one. Even keeping things the way they are can be an uphill struggle. They get thousands of letters and e-mails on hundreds of subjects, it is inevitable . . . But you know, don’t you, that sometimes it’s the respectable-looking ones you have to be most careful of?

Jeannine knows it well, has seen for herself what some people do to spoil their ballot papers in the privacy of the polling booth. It occurs to her Erica would know what Jonathan meant, might be in the mood to tell if asked.

Or Jeannine could ask about the other matter, the shock of which is finally starting to wear off. But Erica does not invite confidences of that kind, for she keeps her own private life intensely private, has managed to conceal if she has children, whether she is married or has ever been married. That information is effectively off-limits.

Instead, the younger woman alights on: What do you think will happen today?

It’s going to be close.

Jeannine realizes she does not know Erica’s position on the issue, had presumed it was the same as her own but it could easily be the opposite, does not want to fall out with her over it.

Erica speaks as though she guesses Jeannine’s thoughts. What concerns me is that we may be headed in the direction of the United States, where people’s opinions on this influence their voting behavior, that this one question becomes more important than pensions, or foreign policy, or law and order, or taxation, and so on. I find the thought distasteful. There is something distinctly un-British about it. I think it will be a close-run thing, and then it will be gone and then we’ll get our knickers in a twist about the next thing, hopefully worthier of our attention. A recession, I expect.

Soon?

Erica shrugs once. That would separate the men from the boys. Are your shoes rubbing, my dear?

Jeannine admires her feet. They’re new but they’re fine.

Her colleague does not take the hint. Remember, anyone who gives you a hard time will have me to answer to. Erica goes back to work.

To give her mind a rest, Jeannine Okoro phones the Department of Work and Pensions. She puts on her competent, authoritative voice when she explains who she is: Jonathan wrote to you over two weeks ago and the letter was clearly marked as urgent. Is somebody looking into it, please? Then can I talk to someone who
knows, please? The next stage for Jonathan would probably be an FOI request regarding all cases of this type—but I am sure it would be better if you could just chase the progress and get back to me. Today? Thanks.

In between her typing, copying, and phone calls, Jeannine sends three succinct e-mails: two to her university friends, Tess and Naomie, and one to Gina, who she has known since school. She sets a reminder on her calendar,
Lunch w. H at 1pm.

Jeannine can’t remember how Hazel became her closest work friend, but if socializing with one person more than anyone else is the definition for it, she is. Before Hazel was Alexandra Douglas, a researcher for another MP. They started their jobs around the same time, went to the same inductions and orientations, met up occasionally at the beginning.

Alexandra spoke first: Are you new? I’m new too. Can I sit here, please?

Of course. I had a top just like that, you know, I love the button detail.

Thanks. People call it red but I think it’s sort of orange. It’s a bit too nice for work . . .

My boyfriend washed mine at the wrong temperature, it came out a funny shape and I had to throw it away.

Oh,
no
! Alex recalled how much she paid for hers and shared Jeannine’s grief momentarily. It’s a big place, isn’t it? Who do you work for? (Jeannine told her and she frowned.) It’s not a name I recognize—

Then Alexandra realized what Jeannine had already guessed would be the case.

But everything else was a match. Their taste in music, their love of fitness and training, though Alex preferred the swimming pool to the gym; they had read some of the same books and both liked horror films. It transpired they used to live in the same borough and
went to the same ice-skating rink as children. They spent some time trying to work out if they had met before.

It is unclear why Alexandra Douglas dropped off the radar.

Someone, probably Hazel, told Jeannine that friendships across party lines could be viewed as subversive. She found the suggestion hilarious . . . But what if someone else had said the same to Alexandra, and she had not? Jeannine gets a pang—like from childhood, like in the playground—uptight—despondency of isolation. She liked Alexandra, and not just because they had the obvious things in common; Alex was warm and funny and considerate. Not as self-centered as Hazel, not such a flake.

Jeannine considers this as she walks along the corridor, dreamesque for its eerie repetition, tremulous lights, audible hum of equipment, low ceiling. More corridors of the same, above and below the offices, like cabins of a cruise liner. Imagines the walls closing in.

They lunch at the café in the atrium. Hazel is talking about a new man in her life, one from the bar last week, but Jeannine cannot remember which. They have been out four times (how did she manage
that
and keep it quiet?). All right, three and a half times.

During a pause, Jeannine asks about Hazel’s sister, who has not been mentioned since.

Hazel’s face falls into its worry mask. Lucy’s not herself. We had coffee over the weekend, and it’s the first time since we were about twelve I have seen her without makeup on. She says her fiancé doesn’t like it. I said, Lucky you, you don’t have to bother. Of course she has beautiful skin and it makes her look ten years younger, but she didn’t seem too happy about it. I asked her if she wanted to go out one evening, but she brushed me off. Again. She dresses differently too. I reckon she’s found God, what other explanation could there be?

Jeannine has a pasta salad, presses the rocket onto her fork. It is perfectly tasteless.

Hazel eats her jacket potato with veggie chili, which looks more appetizing.

Jeannine mutters casually, What’s your opinion of the Fast Stream?

I think you should watch out if you were appointed, because folks who got their jobs in the usual way could easily resent you for it.

Jeannine gets her own prick of resentment; Hazel intuitively makes a good point. Clearly she’s got skills Jeannine hasn’t.

And now her friend starts explaining what she knows about the application process (it’s tough), how she’s heard of really good people who didn’t even pass the exam, and the nonsense questions they put on the paper to profile you. I’m sure you’d pass, though! But wouldn’t you kick yourself if Jonathan ended up on the frontbench after you’d gone . . . ?

Jeannine Okoro lets the commentary run on.

Are you leaving, Jeannine?

Whatever gave you that idea?

I thought you said . . . ?

No. No. I’m not leaving, just thinking out loud.

I’m getting muddled. Are these the new shoes, then?

Jeannine shows them off.

They are fabulous. You always have such beautiful clothes. Are they Italian? I might start learning Italian. I fancy the idea of a second home in Tuscany one day, buy somewhere dilapidated and do it up, drink the local wine, eat vegetables from the market. Sounds ideal, don’t you think?

How is she dressing differently?

Hmm?

Lucy . . . you said she’s dressing differently.

Oh. Um. Well. She used to wear short skirts and dresses, she’s very slim, you see. Practically size zero, it makes me want to puke.
Tiny little tops. And since, you know, the fiancé, she’s become more . . . Hazel furrows her brow in effort.

Demure . . . ?

Yes.
Demure.
Prudish. She’s taken to wearing clothes that are baggy and frumpy. Concealing sweaters and tracky bottoms. She’s not the girl I once knew. Apparently, he wants Lucy to put the wild days behind her, start being more of a “lady,” whatever that means. Made her get rid of her old clothes. (Hazel stares down at her plate.) Sort of peculiar really, she came home one afternoon and found he had shredded all the clothes he didn’t approve of with a pair of scissors, because he thought they were too slutty. Isn’t that weird? Hazel rests her knife and fork.

An episode from Sophia’s past jogs Jeannine’s memory, a passage from a charity briefing paper comes back to her. Is Lucy’s fiancé hitting her?

Her friend goes pale, goes quiet. In the absence of their conversation, the echoes of other people’s amplify to the roof, the trickle of the water feature. Hazel’s eyes take on the glassy appearance of partial tears.

Jeannine leans closer, embraces her friend briefly.

Hazel whispers into Jeannine’s ear that she doesn’t know what to do, is frightened for her sister.

Jeannine replies it will surely be okay, you just have to be there, support her when she needs it, when she’s ready for help.

Wretched platitudes. What else can she say?

On the treadmill after work, Jeannine reflects: at no point did it seem like a good idea to confide in Hazel, either.

Naomie was pleased to hear from her, sent a long reply sharing her news and suggesting some dates for an overnight visit to London, or equally, Jeannine is invited to stay with them in Birmingham.

Gina said she would love to meet, but because of half-term and the children . . .

And Tess has never yet answered an e-mail the same day. Jeannine should have phoned Tess, that would have been better.

This is her own fault.

She runs past five kilometers, thinking it might not be such a bad idea to drop Alexandra an e-mail.

Hi Alex, I saw you the other day but you were with colleagues, and I didn’t want to interrupt. How are you? Have we really been here for over a year? Mental. I wondered whether you wanted to meet for a drink? Not in this dump, we’ll go somewhere better!