When She Was Bad (27 page)

As we stood up to shake hands around the table, I glanced down at Nancy Meade’s notepad. She’d written down each of our names – Ed, Jana, Debra, me and even George Sullivan the lawyer. Next to each name was a scribbled version of what they’d said. All except mine. Alongside
Dr Anne Cater
was a series of question marks.

31
Charlie

Charlie’s life was spinning out of control, and he was twirling round and round, grabbing at air, trying to hold it down. That’s how it felt. The weekend in Derbyshire had destabilized some elemental thing in the universe and now everything was out of kilter, everything was wrong.

To be completely accurate, the problems had started before the weekend. For days now, Stefan had been growing increasingly distant. When Charlie tried to phone him, he didn’t pick up. He’d return the calls hours later and always when he was walking to the gym or running a bath or some other activity that necessitated a curtailed conversation that rarely dipped beneath the surface. The one night they’d spent together the previous week had been soul-destroying. They were supposed to be meeting straight from work but Stefan had cancelled at the last minute, saying he had a dinner meeting and would call him afterwards, but it had been after 11 p.m. when he’d finally got in touch. ‘I imagine you’re safely tucked up with your camomile tea,’ he’d said, not altogether kindly. And Charlie, who’d been sitting on his sofa wearing the brand-new Calvin Klein trunks he’d bought for the occasion, had humiliated himself by pretending he’d only just got home himself and offering to jump in a cab to go round. Which he did, to find Stefan already in bed. ‘I’m exhausted,’ he said, coming to the door in a tatty old dressing gown Charlie had never seen before. He’d been asleep before Charlie had even had a chance to take his trousers off.

The sane, rational part of Charlie knew Stefan had already grown tired of him, was just using him for the occasional meal or when his ego needed boosting by Charlie’s undisguisable adoration. Yet, still he couldn’t let go. Meeting Stefan had been like pressing the ‘enhance’ option on his digital photos, so colours that had previously been drab and monochrome sprang suddenly, gloriously to life. He’d never known such agony, but equally he’d also never known such exquisite euphoria as when Stefan laughed at something he said, or surprised him with a hug from behind as he was brushing his teeth. Charlie stored up those moments, rare as they were, like an alcoholic hides bottles, bringing them out to savour when no one else was around.

But last Friday, the day before the Derbyshire weekend, he’d been supposed to meet up with Stefan for dinner. He’d spent hours online, trawling through restaurant recommendations before picking a place he thought Stefan would enjoy. It wasn’t the sort of place Charlie would have chosen for himself – too cool for its own good, too expensive – but it was new, and had featured in the gossip section of the free commuter paper the previous month when a hugely popular blogger Charlie had never heard of launched her new book there.

All day he’d been warning himself not to get too excited, reminding himself that Stefan would probably cancel at the last minute. He’d tried to manage his own expectations so that the blow, if it came, wouldn’t be too traumatic. And yet when Stefan rang at 5.25, to say something had indeed come up – a potential client who needed schmoozing – Charlie’s expectations hadn’t been managed at all. While he’d held it together on the phone, afterwards, alone at his desk, he’d felt a ripping pain in his chest as if someone was cutting him open, followed by a rage more powerful than anything he remembered feeling before.

On his way to the Tube, he’d logged on to Facebook, clicking on to Stefan’s home page. Stefan used social media in the same way most people used food or air – posting photos or updates was a normal physiological reflex to him, just like breathing. Sure enough, there was an automatic tracking update showing a little map of a small section of Soho marked with red lines and accompanied by an automated message:
Stefan Lovato is at Buns ’n’ Roses with Jacob Collins
.

Charlie knew exactly who Jacob Collins was – had observed the moment he and Stefan first met at a private view in a gallery a couple of weeks before. Jacob: early thirties, bearded, long hair tied up on his head in a topknot. Cool. Stupidly handsome. He was no potential client.

That little update on Stefan’s page turned a dial inside Charlie’s head.
Click
. And suddenly he wasn’t the Charlie who put up with disappointment, whose job it was to make other people laugh, or comfort them when they were sad and then go home alone. His heart was a wild, unpredictable animal released from its cage. Instead of going home, he’d gone to Soho. He’d tracked down Buns ’n’ Roses (which was every bit as hideous as its name suggested). He’d stood on the pavement opposite the restaurant looking in at the man he loved leaning over a small table so that his head touched his companion’s ridiculous topknot – and something had gone off in his head like a mini explosion.

Rage mixed with heartbreak and frustration and self-disgust, forming a toxic liquid that travelled through his veins and arteries until it reached every part of him, and not one cell of his body felt known and familiar.

He’d taken a taxi round to Stefan’s flat and broken in through a back window that he knew didn’t lock properly. Half an hour later, when he finally let himself out, his anger was still churning and he’d been carried home on a tide of blind fury. So it was only when his alarm went off on Saturday morning to wake him up for Derbyshire, and he discovered streaks of blood across the sheets from the arm he’d cut breaking into Stefan’s flat, that the reality of what he’d done hit home. He had a sudden image of how Stefan’s bed had looked by the time he left, with the duvet ripped up, feathers strewn around the room like confetti, and he thought he was going to be sick.

On the journey to meet Amira and Sarah at St Pancras station, he’d rehearsed his story for how he cut his arm. Opening a can seemed like a lame excuse but it was the best he could come up with. His core muscles were clenched so tightly, he’d given himself a stomach ache, and a couple of times he thought he might actually throw up, imagining that at any moment, he might feel a hand on his shoulder and turn round to find the police standing there. But as the morning wore on with no irate messages from Stefan accusing him of trashing his flat, he began to relax. Maybe he hadn’t made as much of a mess as he’d thought. Maybe Stefan would see it as fair retribution for what he’d done. It never occurred to him that Stefan might fail to link him to what had happened. In his mind it was too obvious. Too inevitable even. But by the time he’d had a couple of canned gin and tonics with Sarah and Amira, he’d calmed down and was even starting to enjoy the weekend in a ‘so bad it’s good’ kind of way. Until the texts came. They’d started on Saturday afternoon and gone on all through that evening and Sunday. Stefan accusing, Charlie defensive, not admitting what he’d done, until it finally occurred to him that the reason Stefan had delayed contacting him was because he’d spent the night with Jacob. After that, the rage had returned until he’d had to turn off his phone just so he could breathe again. Then had come the business with Rachel falling in the stream, and the whole thing with Stefan had been pushed from his mind.

Now, though, walking back into the office on Monday morning, he was plunged into a kind of black gloom, torn between grief at the loss of Stefan, and fear about what he’d done to Stefan’s flat. He kept imagining Jacob Collins with his stupid beard and stupid hair. Charlie knew Jacob ran a successful business selling artisan ice creams from pop-up vans around the capital. Money. With Stefan, it all came down to money in the end.

He made a decision. If Rachel came back in today, he’d march straight in there and demand to be put forward for the promotion. He knew it wasn’t fair on Paula, but surely at some point he had to start looking out for himself. He couldn’t carry on living his limbo of a life, aimless and lonely. Going nowhere. He may have failed in love but he could still achieve something at work, get out of the rut he was in. He had to try to rid himself of the feeling he’d had ever since he could remember that he was somehow unworthy of happiness.

‘What’s the atmosphere like in there?’ he asked Amira when he popped into the kitchen straight from the lift, to find her filling up the kettle.

She shrugged. ‘Like you’d expect.’

Black shadows ringed Amira’s dark eyes, making them look as if someone had smudged them with a soft pencil.

‘Maybe Rachel won’t come in today – after what happened.’

She shrugged again. ‘She’s like one of those snakes who grow a new skin. She’ll probably turn up right as rain.’

‘What’s up, Amira? You seem really down.’

A third shrug. Followed by a sigh. Then her shoulders sagged.

‘I’ve fucked up, Charlie. Big time. Run up all these debts on store cards. Thought I’d be able to pay the interest when I got paid, but forgot about the bloody service charge on the flat. That came out automatically and now there’s nothing left – no credit anywhere. And I got a bailiffs’ notice in the post this morning.’

A tear formed in the acute angle at the corner of Amira’s eye. Charlie followed its track down her cheek with dismay. Amira wasn’t the crying sort. Sarah seemed to burst into tears with such frequency he sometimes found himself wondering if, behind the delicate membrane of her eyeball, there existed a reservoir of salty water, and one prick would send the whole lot crashing through. But Amira wasn’t like that. It wasn’t that she was hard, but she didn’t wear herself as close to the surface as Sarah did. So the tear made Charlie uncomfortable.

‘What does Tom say?’

Amira hung her head as the original tear was joined by another. And then another.

‘I haven’t told him,’ she admitted eventually. ‘He’d be so pissed off if he knew I was buying more stuff when we’ve just got this huge mortgage. But I thought I could pay it back without him knowing.’

Charlie felt suddenly exasperated. ‘How on earth did you imagine you were going to pay it all back if you’re so overdrawn?’

Amira looked up at him and an expression passed over her face that looked suspiciously like guilt.

‘If I tell you something, will you promise not to say anything to anyone else?’

Charlie nodded, although part of him wanted to say no. There were already so many secrets in the office. He didn’t know if he could face being burdened with another. But Amira clearly needed to talk to someone.

‘Rachel called me into her office a while ago. It was completely out of the blue – I didn’t do anything to encourage it.’

Amira was looking at him as if he’d accused her of something and he found himself nodding again, to reassure her, although he had no idea what he was reassuring her about.

‘She asked if I’d be interested in a promotion,’ Amira continued. ‘I said there was nowhere to be promoted to, no vacancy.’

Unease prickled on Charlie’s skin, causing the hair on his arms to stand up.

‘So then she said it was Paula’s job and did I want it. Don’t look at me like that, for fuck’s sake! I said no, OK? I was really straight with her. I said it was underhand. But she kept bringing it up. Again and again. And, you know what? I’d be fucking good at it. And it would be a lot more money, and you know Paula really has been doing it too long. She’s so slow, she’s practically Jurassic.’

‘So you changed your mind about taking it?’

‘Yeah.’ She nodded, looking utterly miserable. ‘Don’t get me wrong, I feel totally crap about it. But I need the money, and the department needs shaking up. Everyone knows Paula’s just treading water until she can retire. So anyway I just figured that soon I’d be earning more money and the bills would all get paid. Why are you smiling? What’s so funny?’

Charlie felt the laughter tearing painfully from him. Rachel was playing them both. What a bitch. What a total bitch.

‘Guess what?’ he asked Amira, still smiling although he actually felt like he might throw up. ‘She offered me that job too.’

Amira stared at him, tears brimming unshed in her eyes, so that her irises looked like brown marbles bobbing under water.

‘And you said yes?’

‘Course not. I did exactly the same as you. I said no a couple of times. But then I started to think about it and how I might as well take advantage of it because she’s going to get rid of Paula no matter what. Let’s face it, she’s just dead wood, isn’t she?’

There was a noise behind him, like a sucking in of breath. Facing him, Amira’s face changed, her mouth opening in horror. Dread rooted him to the spot, not wanting to see what she was seeing. But slowly his head turned, as if pulled by an external force outside his control.

Paula stood in the doorway, her round moon face frozen. Then abruptly it collapsed, the features folding in on themselves.

‘I thought you were my friends,’ she said in a voice so laced with hurt it seemed to be drawn out from somewhere deep inside her ribcage.

‘We are,’ Charlie began. ‘It’s just—’

But it was too late. Paula was gone.

‘Oh fuck!’ Amira said. But Charlie was too ashamed to look at her.

32
Paula

The anxiety, which before had been like an army of tiny ants swarming through her veins, had now turned into an endless oozing panic that pulsed and surged and tsunami’d inside her, sweeping in its wake all that had once been calm and ordered and stable.

Paula left work straight after the scene with Amira and Charlie, and for the first time in her entire working life she didn’t give a reason, nor did she tell anyone she was going. It should have been liberating, but instead her head was churning with the words she’d overheard in the kitchen: ‘dead wood’, ‘slow’, ‘Jurassic’.

All through her worst times with Ian, when she’d come home to a wall of resentment and all those little digs and put-downs that only someone who’s been close enough to know your secret weaknesses and soft points can come up with, the image of herself at work, reliable and responsible, had kept her self-confidence from shattering like the fragile stem of a wine glass. When Cam was playing up and Amy dropped out of sixth form, and she and Ian couldn’t talk about any of it without each blaming the other, work was her refuge – the still point of her turning world. The rest of her life might be crumbling, but there in the office, she was a professional, someone others counted on to hold things together, someone they looked up to.