When She Was Bad (33 page)

When Mark Hamilton had first approached her about Gill Marsh’s job, he’d made it clear he was looking for a radical overhaul of the department. He wanted someone to come in and ‘play hardball’, he’d said. She remembered that because of the way he’d over-emphasized those two words as if he’d been rehearsing them. She’d been flattered to be headhunted, plus she hadn’t been altogether reluctant to leave her last position after the unpleasant business with her second-in-command. Although that hadn’t been her fault. The woman had a history of mental illness she’d kept hidden from the company. It had been upsetting though. Watching someone have a nervous breakdown right in front of your eyes. And afterwards the woman’s husband had made things very uncomfortable, sending emails to staff members directly accusing her of all sorts of ridiculous and libellous things. The emails had been anonymous, so there could be no legal repercussions, but everyone had known it was him. Rachel wondered what he was doing now with all his rage and vitriol. Perhaps he’d started emailing the staff in her current job. She wouldn’t be surprised.

So she’d done what she was brought in to do. Easier to go in strong and make the painful decisions before you had a chance to get too close to anyone, then ease back later. But maybe Ronan walking out had affected her more than she’d thought. She certainly wouldn’t win any prizes for diplomacy. She had gone too far and this was the result – this hastily scrambled summit meeting to smooth out the ruffled feathers. Mark Hamilton had been furious to be called in to mediate between Amira and Charlie and herself. ‘I don’t care how you do it, just sort it out,’ he’d told her. Rachel had been shaken. She wasn’t used to being on the wrong side of management.

The kitchen table was a 1960s vintage piece. White and circular with a chrome central column underneath, which flared out at the bottom. Around it sat six retro 1960s chairs, S-shaped, in chrome with different colour seat cushions – red, turquoise, yellow, orange, green, bubblegum pink – the only splashes of colour in the otherwise uniformly white space. They’d been Ronan’s sole contribution to the décor. He’d bid for them on eBay, paying an over-inflated price to a dealer in Camden, who’d delivered them the next day. She supposed he’d be taking them to wherever it was he was living now. The thought of him sitting on those chairs in some other house, maybe even with the twenty-two-year-old intern, gave Rachel a shooting pain in her chest.

When she’d settled her staff in around the table, dragging a bar stool for herself over from the island in the centre of the kitchen – realizing too late that the extra height was not helpful to her objective of breaking down the barriers that had built up between her and her team – Rachel launched into her carefully prepared speech.

‘I realize we’ve got off on the wrong foot,’ she began. ‘I always did have two left feet, so it’s not surprising I failed to find the right one.’

Silence.

Rachel ploughed on. She’d been brought in to make some tough decisions, she said. Nevertheless she should have handled things better. She understood that Paula must be feeling upset and sidelined, but she assured her that her position with the company had never been in question. Rachel had never intended for her to leave, merely to move sideways to a position more suited to her skillset. And Amira and Charlie had never been in competition with each other; she was only weighing up different people’s strengths to make sure she had the best person for the job.

Her own voice sounded fake in her ears. But still she ploughed on. She knew just what she needed to say. Just what they needed to hear.

She’d done all this before.

38
Charlie

Was this how it felt to have a nervous breakdown? It was as if Charlie’s normal self had vacated his body and was observing from a distance as this other alien self twisted his limbs and guts into knots of hatred. Rachel’s house with its classy address and expensive understated décor was the sort of place that would have impressed Stefan. Sitting in that fabulous kitchen with its clean, modern lines, listening to Rachel wittering on about ‘unique strengths’ and ‘skillsets’, Charlie felt as if the house was mocking him, as if
she
was mocking him, holding out this bricks-and-mortar embodiment of everything he was never going to be, everything he was never going to get.

Individuals like Rachel destroyed people, just like that first anonymous email had said. They got you to act like them even though it half killed you to do it, by dangling a prize in front of your eyes. And then, when you’d lowered yourself so you were sliming down on the floor alongside them, they snatched the prize away. And there you were. Nowhere. No one.

Charlie picked absently at the scab on his arm where he’d cut himself breaking into Stefan’s flat. He remembered some of the words Stefan had thrown at him over the phone when Charlie had called him to try to explain: loser, stalker, maniac, freak. Charlie had always been hard on himself, his own worst critic. Nevertheless he’d felt a level of pride in his own integrity and loyalty. Those had always seemed to him to be non-negotiable. And yet for Stefan, he’d offered them up. No, not offered them up – but allowed them to be taken.

And what had he got in return?

He looked around the table at the people he’d once considered friends and saw only a bunch of strangers who’d all in different ways betrayed their best selves, leaving behind these empty husks.

There was a knife lying on the table in front of him that Rachel had used to cut the supermarket quiche she was warming up in the oven. Heavy, sharp, expensive. While Rachel was talking at them, Charlie picked it up and ran it gently against the soft pad of his thumb, enjoying how solid it felt, the heft of it in his hands.

If he looked closely into the blade he could see that other Charlie’s eyes glinting back at him.

39
Rachel

It was rubbish. They all knew it and she knew it. Nevertheless, as she talked about creating the tightest possible team, about how thrilled she’d been to recognize the potential of the staff she’d inherited, Rachel glanced around, trying to gauge how what she was saying was going down. The biggest imperative now was to calm everyone down and get them working properly again, and then gradually she could once again try to shave off the weaker members. She couldn’t get rid of Sarah, but she could start taking away her responsibilities. Then, by the time her leave started, she’d find she was doing a different job, and in the staff reshuffle Rachel was planning, Sarah would be given a different job title too – more junior to the one she had now – with a salary drop to match. Chances were she’d decide it wasn’t worth coming back – not with the costs of childcare.

Chloe would doubtless apply for Sarah’s old job, which would probably need to be retitled in order to get around HR regulations. It was a natural progression for the girl, and with any luck when she didn’t get it, she’d start applying elsewhere. Instead, Rachel had decided to give Sarah’s position to Paula. It would be an ignominious step down, and maybe that would help her decide that voluntary redundancy wasn’t so bad, after all. But all that was in the future. Now Rachel had to start building some bridges. If only there wasn’t such a sense of resistance. Hostility hung over the table like a bad smell.

‘Forgive us if we’re not exactly jumping for joy to hear all this,’ said Amira. ‘I think we all feel . . .’ Then she tailed off, and Rachel had a sudden moment of clarity, realizing that Amira was regretting her presumption that she could speak for the others. They were not a united group, linked in opposition to her. They were not a group at all. The insight comforted her.

‘Well,
I
feel,’ Amira corrected herself, ‘that since the moment you arrived, Rachel, you’ve tried to set us against each other so that you could implement whatever changes you wanted without fear of opposition. You’ve deliberately and systematically cultivated favourites and pets among the staff.’ She didn’t look at Ewan. She didn’t have to. ‘And done everything you could to undermine the ones who, for whatever reason, don’t fit into your vision of what this department should be. I’d go so far as to say your tactics have amounted to bullying.’

Amira glanced around as if looking for support. Relieved to see that no one responded, Rachel was quick to seize the advantage.

‘Bullying is a very strong accusation, Amira. I could almost say slanderous as it’s a disciplinary, even a criminal offence. Do any of you others agree with her? Now’s the time to get it off your chests, while we’re clearing the air.’

She scanned slowly around the table, forcing herself to make eye contact with each person in turn. One by one they dropped their gaze, or found something interesting through the window, or over near the door. All except Ewan, who hadn’t even raised his head, and Charlie, who was fidgeting with the kitchen knife.

For Rachel the silence was like someone opening a valve in her chest and releasing the pressure. She’d won. She would keep her team together. There would be no revolt. Mark Hamilton would not let her go at the end of her probation period. The relief was overwhelming. And was closely followed by a feeling of near-tenderness towards the people sat around her table.

‘This is exactly why we’re here,’ she said, her voice soft. ‘To air these festering grievances and then put them to bed. Thank you, Amira, for being so direct. In a moment we’ll go round and see what everyone else has to say, but first of all let’s eat!’

She flung open the fridge door, taking out clingfilm-covered dishes into which she’d already decanted the ready-prepared food she’d bought from M&S early that morning. ‘And why don’t we have a couple of bottles of wine as well. I know it’s officially a work day, but it’s more important that we talk it all through. And what better way to do it than with wine.’

Ronan had called it the Precipice, that critical moment in a deal where he’d delivered his spiel and was teetering on the edge, waiting to see if the client would bite or back down. That moment just then had been her Precipice. And now it was over, she knew she could afford to be kinder. But first, wine.

‘Ewan, why don’t you come and help me pick out a couple of bottles of wine from the cellar downstairs?’

The ‘wine cellar’ was actually just a storeroom off the gym containing a drinks fridge and a few racks of red wine, but Ronan had always called it that, and the name had stuck. Singling Ewan out might make up for her earlier gaffe about checking his pockets, which she had instantly regretted. Plus it wouldn’t hurt him to get a look at the gym and the sauna. Ewan was impressed by material things. He wanted her, but more than that he wanted what she had. She recognized that want.

Around the table, the atmosphere was still tight. People sat stiffly as if moving might cause them pain.

Ewan kept his eyes downcast.

‘No, you’re all right,’ he muttered, not moving.

‘Come on, Ewan. There’s something down there I think you’d enjoy.’

She held her breath. The moment stretched out. Finally Ewan lumbered to his feet.
And – breathe.

‘It’s down here,’ she called, leading the way through the door separating the kitchen from the narrow staircase that led down to the basement. Only as the latch closed behind them, plunging them into darkness, did she remember the light switch on the kitchen wall outside the door. Damn. But it was just a few steps and then they’d be in the gym where the lighting was low, but better than nothing.

She heard Ewan’s footsteps heavy behind her, and the harsh rasps of his breath.

40
Anne

‘Can I just check my emails on your laptop, Mom? My piece of shit phone is acting up again.’

‘Sure.’

By the time I remember what I have open on the screen it is too late.

‘What are all these news reports up here? A London case? Hey, is that why you were so keen on watching the BBC news? What’s going on? Mom?’

Shannon has always been able to do this, throw out a volley of questions without even stopping to draw breath. When she was a child it used to exhaust me, never knowing which question to answer first.

‘Oh, it’s just something I’m keeping an eye on for a course I’m running.’

Even to my ears it sounds fake. Shannon knows I haven’t added any extra content to my courses for years. That’s part of the reason I’ve stayed all this time. Coasting along without effort left more time for the things that really matter, more time for Shannon.

But now Shannon is frowning at something on the screen, and I can feel cold bumps popping up on my arms and legs.

‘This guy – the one in the photos. He looks kinda familiar. Is that why you’re so interested in this case? Because we know him?’

I open my mouth to say no. But find I can’t get the word out.

Shannon looks up and sees something written on my face that shouldn’t be there.

‘Come on,’ she says, squinting at me across the room. My house has one integral living space and I am sitting on the couch facing the TV, while she is perched on a stool at the breakfast bar in the kitchen, my laptop open in front of her. We have adopted these same positions so many times over the years, it’s like we have worn a groove in time. I imagine us suspended here for ever, like tiny figures in a doll’s house.

‘Like I’m gonna buy that! We both know your courses haven’t changed since the Dark Ages. I bet you still get your students to write in a quill and ink. Why the interest in this case? Where do we know this guy from?’

For the first time in years, I have a sharp yearning for a neat vodka I could neck down in one to give me strength. Shannon is still gazing at me, waiting for answers.

‘Mom? Who is he?’

‘Shannon . . . Baby . . . He’s your brother.’

41
Ewan

They’d stood there in the wide, white hallway with the light flooding in through the huge arched windows over the stairs so all her lovely things – the paintings, the ornaments, even that funny naked back on the windowsill – seemed perfectly displayed like in a gallery. Rachel was dressed casually in tight dark jeans and a filmy white top with her black hair pulled back into a loose ponytail, smiling at him as if she was genuinely pleased he was there. He’d felt himself begin to unfurl for the first time in days; the fear that had coiled itself up inside him like a rope since Saturday night finally loosening. For a moment, he’d had an image of himself living in this house, or a house like this one, next to this woman, or a woman just like her. Nobody telling him what he could or couldn’t do. Nobody belittling him or limiting him or joining forces so it felt like it was him against the rest of them. And then she’d said that thing about checking his pockets when he left and everything had gone red.