Concealment Page 4

  Ryan seemed doubtful, maybe because he somehow recognised that Greg’s remarriage did in fact rankle.

  ‘So it’s because I puked on your shoes?’

  ‘You’re kidding—that was last year.’

  ‘But there must be a reason.’

  ‘The reason is simple. We have to examine promotions extremely carefully in the current economic climate, and having considered all the evidence from the appraisal process, we couldn’t justify your case.’

  ‘Bullshit. I don’t believe you.’

  ‘What—that we have to examine promotions carefully or the case couldn’t be justified?’

  ‘I’ve pulled my socks up in the last twelve months—you said so yourself. I did a grand job on the hotel client spotting all those unclaimed allowances, didn’t I? And on Project Rocket.’

  ‘You did,’ I agreed. ‘But your appraisal grading was “meets expectations”. You did what we would expect someone of your grade to do.’

  ‘Which means there’s no reason not to move me up.’

  ‘No,’ I said, shaking my head. ‘It means quite the opposite.’

  ‘But usually if you get meets, you automatically…’

  ‘It’s never been automatic,’ I put in quickly. ‘But you’re right—we have been tougher with the promotions this year. And we told everyone all this beforehand.’

  ‘I don’t recall being told. If I’d known it’d be such a struggle to get moved up I’d have challenged my grading.’

  ‘But you were very happy with it. Now let me see.’

  I pulled up a copy of his appraisal form on screen and read.

  ‘This was a fair grading and I’m keen to build on the progress I’ve made in the upcoming year.’

  Checkmate.

  ‘What a lousy piece of shit you’ve become,’ came the little voice. ‘I hate you.’

  I guessed I was lucky she’d kept quiet up till now. Who the hell was she, and what was her problem?

  ‘You tricked me into accepting that appraisal,’ said Ryan, with contempt. ‘Greg always said you were cold, and he was spot-on.’

  ‘Let’s talk Monday when you’ve calmed down,’ I replied, trying not to rise to the bait.

  ‘Let’s fucking well not.’

  He walked out, disgusted at the idea, and leaving me to deal with my conscience.

  But by Monday, Ryan’s promotion would be the least of his problems.

  6

  The monthly group drinks was a Smithies innovation.

  ‘You must do more to bond the team together,’ he’d chided, having swiftly identified this as a “weakness” in my management skills.

  In my view, we were close knit enough without any enforced jollities. But Smithies always put on an elaborate show of caring about his people and expected others to follow his lead. Reluctant to fight over such a trivial difference so early in our working relationship, I’d fallen in line.

  Most of the team had now assembled in the tatty Fleet Street pub, where we’d hired the upstairs room. They’d laid on a plentiful supply of weary samosas and chicken drumsticks to soak up the unlimited free celebratory wine and beer.

  It ought to have been a fun get-together, but for one small hitch. Few had cause to celebrate tonight.

  ‘Damned if you do and damned if you don’t,’ Smithies had said unsupportively when I’d pointed out the poor timing. I was certain he’d known the party would clash with our pay review when I’d set the date. But instead of alerting me, he’d let me go blindly ahead. These sneaky, destructive little ploys were, I was rapidly learning, typical of the man.

  He insisted on attending himself “to get a feel for the mood”. That his mere presence might alter the dynamic had not occurred to him, but people were wary for sure. Smithies drank little alcohol, but often feigned intoxication to encourage others to shed their inhibitions. He then viewed their antics from a position of complete sobriety, while logging down the details to undermine them later. Sometimes he would even take pictures, to be exhibited (accompanied by jokey banter) at away days. But folks were quickly wising up to his techniques and besides, the low team spirits made high jinx unlikely tonight. In fact, it promised to be a depressing evening all round.

  Mercifully, Ryan hadn’t shown up. If he’d still been in the same truculent frame of mind, he’d have been a catalyst for discontent, perhaps re-enacting his projectile vomiting. I’d heard he and Isabelle had rowed furiously in the office and guessed he was sulking. Isabelle came though, but didn’t look ecstatic, especially when Smithies advanced towards her.

  ‘Jolly well done on your promotion,’ he said, slapping her enthusiastically on the back. ‘You must be thrilled.’

  Her smile was convincing, if you didn’t catch the melancholy in her eyes. She seemed sadder even than earlier in the day, so sad that I felt a momentary pang of sympathy for her. Maybe she’d twigged that as Top Banana there was only one place to go, or was still reeling from Ryan’s obnoxious outburst. Either way, you would never have imagined she’d recently benefited from a massive hike up the greasy pole.

  ‘Oh yes,’ she said, in a flat voice. ‘I really appreciate the opportunity—can’t wait to get stuck into the new role.’

  ‘Great stuff,’ said Smithies, either not noticing or ignoring the non-verbal cues. ‘Let’s get something to eat, shall we?’

  I wasn’t hungry, but remembered his little dig about eating disorders. Shame to give him more ammunition.

  ‘Yes, let’s.’

  ‘What a super attitude Isabelle has,’ he said, piling food onto his plate, indifferent to its poor quality.

  ‘Yes, super,’ I replied, wondering if his comment was an implied criticism of me.

  I estimated the minimum amount of food necessary to avoid appearing hung up about it, and picked up a chicken drumstick with a serviette. Instantly, I replaced it—without investigating too closely, it smelled unpleasant to me.

  ‘Does chicken count as red meat?’ he asked, proving he’d been aware of my preferences all along.

  ‘I think it may be off.’

  He sniffed at his own chicken.

  ‘Seems alright to me.’

  As if to underline his opinion of my judgment, he helped himself to a second piece.

  ‘Your call—I’m not touching it.’

  I took a few of the pastries instead.

  ‘I suppose I ought to say something to Lisa,’ he said, the precarious pyramid of food on his plate wobbling dangerously as he moved away from the table. I couldn’t help but notice the lack of enthusiasm in his voice.

  So far Lisa had been doing a brilliant job holding court in the corner with a huddle of disaffected junior staff. I admired the way she buoyed them up despite her own disappointment. Still, it was easy for her—she hadn’t played any significant part in the tough decisions taken. If she ever made it to partner, she’d have to change her tactics. After all, it’s not so easy to slag the bastards off if you’re one of them.

  ‘I am so sorry to hear the disappointing news on your partnership,’ Smithies said, reinforcing the fiction that he was wholly disconnected from the process.

  ‘Me too.’

  ‘I trust Amy explained the reasoning behind the decision.’

  ‘Oh yes, but we both know the real reason, don’t we?’

  ‘Indeed?’

  ‘Yes, you think I’m a gobby cow.’

  ‘I must fetch a drink,’ I said, desperate to escape. Lisa’s natural belligerence fuelled by an excess of wine was a potent combination—the conversation would be constrained only by her need for a reference. That meant glassing Smithies was out, but practically anything else was permissible. Listening to her rant would be insufferable.

  ‘Ah well, it is Friday, isn’t it?’ Smithies replied, spotting my empty glass. ‘Although you should take it easy—we don’t want to stray off message do we?’

  The implication was clear—he believed it was me who’d coined the phrase “gobby cow”. And his snide little remarks about my
drinking were beginning to grate.

  Drunk or sober, I wasn’t likely to stray off message. Smithies might not know it, but I could drink the bar dry to the point of falling over in a stupor but still stay on script. I was used to acting a part.

  ‘Well, I’m going off message…’ I heard Lisa say, and left them to it.

  It may have been Smithies or the pervasive low mood, but by nine o’clock the last hangers-on were leaving, despite the lure of a free bar.

  ‘No drinking stamina, this lot,’ bellowed Smithies, in his pseudo drunkard’s slur. ‘You should have them better trained.’

  ‘They weren’t in the best of spirits.’

  ‘Ah yes,’ he said, draining the half pint of beer he’d been carefully eking out all evening. ‘I told you the timing of this was questionable, didn’t I?’

  I was about to give a spirited and indignant response when I spotted Lisa hurrying towards me, carrying my jacket.

  ‘We must go,’ she said, without giving a reason.

  ‘So soon?’ replied Smithies, apparently crestfallen.

  ‘Yes, we have to.’ She steered me firmly towards the door.

  Once outside, she rummaged in her bag for a cigarette.

  ‘Bloody hell—had to get out of there before I killed that scumbag Smithies. And he was moving in on winding you up too.’

  ‘Thanks for rescuing me.’

  ‘Go somewhere for a last drink?’ she suggested.

  ‘And you tell me I put away too much booze,’ I reminded her, as we strode purposefully towards Daly’s.

  ‘Oh never mind that now – you can always cut down next week,’ she said. ‘You’ve had a tough day, and I haven’t made it any easier for you. But that lousy bonus wound me up. Anyway, I’ve got it all off my chest with Smithies now.’

  We pushed through the throngs of Friday revellers to the bar, and ordered a bottle of Pinot Grigio.

  ‘Hope you didn’t go too much over the top,’ I said, with little optimism. Didn’t she realise her gung-ho approach would reflect badly on me?

  She probably did realise, because she rapidly changed the topic of conversation to Isabelle.

  ‘That self-satisfied little cow was acting a bit glum, wasn’t she, despite her double promotion?’

  ‘Guilty conscience.’

  ‘Sorry, I’ve lost you.’

  ‘Oh keep up, Lisa. She kept mum about Goodchild’s mistake, didn’t she? That’s how she got the promotion.’

  This had only just occurred to me as a rationale for Isabelle’s muted reaction, but the more I thought about it, the more sense it made.

  ‘Oh I doubt that’s the reason,’ said Lisa quickly.

  ‘But you told me she knew…’

  ‘I was speculating, that’s all,’ she replied, cutting me off abruptly. ‘In fact, I’m thinking she and Smithies are having it off, and that’s why he promoted her.’

  I’d forgotten that the same idea had previously flashed through my own mind, but it still seemed just as ludicrous now Lisa had suggested it.

  ‘No,’ I said.

  ‘They were in the archived file store together the other day, which was strange.’

  Maybe not so ludicrous.

  ‘I saw them in the canteen, and he gave her the eye in the brainstorming meeting.’

  ‘There you go, it’s obvious,’ said Lisa, with a splendid disregard for the paucity of the evidence. ‘But he’s so gross though. How could she do it? And Ryan’s so cute…’

  ‘Ryan—cute? You wouldn’t say that if you’d been a fly on the wall in his one-to-one meeting today.’

  ‘Aw, cut the guy a bit of slack. You can understand him being sore, plus it must be so annoying to have a girlfriend as perfect as Isabelle.’

  ‘Isabelle reminds me of the posh girls at school,’ I said, using up most of the wine in pouring out two generous glasses.

  ‘I wouldn’t know,’ she laughed. ‘There weren’t any posh girls at my school. Anyway, you’re posh too.’

  If only she knew the truth. At least Lisa never had to pretend she was anything other than a chavvy girl from Basildon.

  ‘That’s what you think,’ I said, laughing hollowly.

  Lisa stared at me, puzzled.

  ‘I hate these cryptic little comments you keep making about your family. Wish you’d come out with it and tell me the whole story.’

  ‘It honestly isn’t important.’

  ‘Aw—come on—if it wasn’t important you’d share it.’

  ‘Actually, it’s so unimportant there’s no need to explain.’

  ‘Disagree—must be bad shit if you’ve fallen out with your mum forever. I mean, I fall out with my mum all the time, but we always patch it up.’

  ‘Your situation’s totally different.’

  ‘But we’re mates, aren’t we? You tell your mates stuff—right?’

  I wasn’t used to having friends you got close to—my survival tactics had always involved keeping my distance. Hell, I’d told no one, not even the man I’d married.

  ‘I’m sorry—I can’t talk about it.’

  But Lisa had no intention of letting it go, and continued interrogating me unabashed.

  ‘Your stepfather tried it on with you?’

  Oh, how I wished it were so simple. People “got” sexual abuse.

  ‘No stepfather.’

  ‘Or your mother’s an alcoholic…’

  ‘She’s teetotal.’

  ‘Or she beat you black and blue.’

  ‘Wrong again.’

  ‘I can’t imagine what it is,’ she wailed.

  ‘No,’ I said. ‘You can’t.’

  I had erected a barrier in our friendship, but the more Lisa pushed, the more I resisted. And no, she couldn’t imagine, because normal people lacked the capacity to do so. I wished she’d stop probing and prying and leave me alone. Nobody else asked me all these questions.

  The wine disappeared disturbingly fast, especially given the amount we’d already drunk, but hey—it was Friday night, and it had been a stressful kind of day. Even so, although we were swaying slightly when we left Daly’s, I felt almost sober. So what happened next took me utterly by surprise.

  As we turned into Arundel Street to head for Temple Tube station, the last person I expected to see was walking towards us.

  Me.

  Not me as I am now, you understand, but me aged—oh about fourteen. At least, that was the age I remembered wearing the baby blue batwing sweater, black leggings, and the little preppy ballet pumps. I also vividly recalled the hooped earrings fully two inches in diameter. Ah well—you can’t expect a teenager to have impeccable taste in everything. She had her hair tied back in a neat ponytail—clean and shiny—consistent with the tidy, middle-class image. But looks can be deceptive.

  And I suddenly recognised the source of the pesky little voice that had been bugging me.

  ‘You see that girl heading towards us,’ I said to Lisa, tugging at her sleeve to grab her attention.

  But Little Amy had already melted away.

  ‘What girl, where?’

  It seemed too silly to explain, too spooky even.

  ‘Do you ever see things you know aren’t real?’ I asked. ‘Or hear voices nobody else can?’

  ‘Never.’

  ‘You see, lately I’ve been feeling strange, seeing shadows and hearing voices, but now...’

  Again, I hesitated to confide in Lisa, especially when she laughed and wagged her forefinger at me. ‘Jeepers—you’ve definitely had one glass of Pinot too many tonight—me too, come to think of it. Time to go home.’

  7

  Try as she might, Isabelle couldn’t take any pleasure in her promotion. And playing the part expected of her, knowing what she did, had been excruciating.

  First there’d been Amy, brimming with barely concealed hostility. While Amy was never anything but uber-professional, Isabelle had always sensed an underlying resentment. None of these top women ever helped others up the ladder, but today had been the wor
st. Smithies must have twisted Amy’s arm to deliver on his promise.

  Ryan’s reaction, though predictable, had been tough to take too. The way he’d mouthed off at her in the corridor had been mortifying. She understood that his male pride had been dented, and sympathised, but it didn’t excuse his boorish behaviour. Trouble was, his angst ran deeper than resentment at her earning almost thirty thousand a year more than him. At the same age Greg, Ryan’s brother, had also been awarded a double promotion and four years later he’d been made a partner. Ryan had spent his life trying to emulate his brother’s achievements, yet perpetually found himself on the back foot. Isabelle’s success merely underscored his failure. And when she’d tried to play it down, to hint at how she hadn’t really deserved it, he’d gone ballistic, frightening her with his rage.

  Then at the group drinks, everyone had congratulated her through gritted teeth, as she strained to act normal with Smithies…

  Ryan wasn’t picking up his phone—where the heck was he? Still mad, she guessed, and drunk. Drunk was bad news, because he’d taken the car. Unless he’d gone to visit Greg, which was always possible. She’d called Greg to check—he hadn’t answered either but she’d left a message.

  The knowledge that she’d come by her promotion dishonestly ate her up—this was the first time she’d cheated in anything in her life. But she felt even worse now she realised, too late, precisely what she’d got tangled up in. She was doing her best to correct the position, naturally, but handing back the promotion wasn’t an option. Only living up to it would salve her conscience.

  Isabelle popped open a beer. She seldom drank at home, but tonight she needed to slow the swirling vortex of negative thoughts threatening to engulf her.

  The doorbell rang.

  She opened it on the chain, although it was probably Ryan forgotten his keys. She loathed answering the door at night when alone in the flat. You read too many newspaper articles about dreadful things happening.

  ‘Oh,’ she said, ‘It’s you,’ relieved but mortified to have been caught out in neurotic security precautions.

  And she took off the chain and opened the door.