Concealment Read online

8

  Home was a spacious Victorian terrace house in Chiswick, bought with Greg in a fever of optimism for the future. I’d joined Pearson Malone as a new partner six years before and met Greg at a conference. A year later we’d been married, and within three years we’d divorced.

  I found it painful now to remember how happily it had all started. We’d had such great plans, Greg and I—the golden couple who’d produce amazing children and live the picture-perfect life I’d always coveted. The house represented a tangible symbol of the dream.

  Interior design was a mystery to me. This surprised Greg—after all, as he pointed out, I dressed snappily enough. Surely decorating a house must require similar skills? Not really, I’d replied cagily.

  Instead we hired designers and a few months later were surrounded by stylish furniture and dramatic colour schemes. The crowning glory was a futuristic kitchen with black granite worktops and sleek white cabinets, and filled with hi-tech gadgets. Most poignantly of all, we had decorated the nursery.

  We threw dinner parties, with elaborate menus cooked by outside caterers. This concept of entertaining and proudly showing off the house was alien to me. But a few stiff gin and tonics reliably saw me through the ordeal.

  Children were problematic, though.

  Greg must have speculated about what terrible event had triggered the estrangement from my mother—she’d even been excluded from our wedding. He may have suspected a link between this and my second thoughts about starting a family, but we never discussed it. Fact was, I dreaded passing down the crazy gene I felt sure was lurking somewhere inside me.

  Greg came home one evening and announced he was leaving me for Tiffany, his blandly pretty twenty-one-year-old secretary. Our life together was so false I’d suspected nothing. Once I’d recovered from the shock, and the rage at Greg for becoming a walking cliché, relief kicked in. His departure had released the mounting pressure to tell him the truth, like a boil being lanced. At last I was free from the terror of being watched and found wanting.

  When he left, he bought a much larger house several streets away and took much of the furniture with him. I’d heard Tiffany was pregnant, so Greg now had the life he aspired to and a mind-numbingly normal person to share it with. But despite the relief, it still hurt that he’d discarded me so callously.

  I should have moved, instead of staying in a house that served as a constant reminder of an unattainable ideal. But I couldn’t do it. Paralysed by fear and indecision, I rattled around in a beautifully decorated, semi-furnished house—its emptiness echoing the bleakness of my emotional life.

  All in all, another drink was inadvisable, but in a physical act divorced from any brain activity, I poured an enormous gin and tonic. I flopped onto the sofa—lacking the energy even to get ice from the freezer. I told myself it would help me sleep—a flimsy excuse—I needed it to smooth the jagged edges off the day.

  Just as I applied my lips to the glass, the doorbell rang.

  I froze. Not that I’m an overanxious woman afraid to answer the door at night—I’m a deranged woman who hates unexpected visitors violating my personal space at any time. It was an anxiety hard to unlearn in a mere twenty years, but in a supreme effort at normal behaviour, I opened the door on the chain.

  ‘Ryan. What a surprise,’ I said, forcing a rictal smile.

  Surprise was an understatement. Ryan had only visited the house a few times, and not at all since Greg’s departure. On reflection, remarkably few people had visited since then.

  ‘I was passing,’ he said, ‘on the way to Greg’s.’

  ‘Really?’

  Funny how often he called on his brother now he was with that slag.

  ‘OK, I drove over to see Greg, but Tiffany’s away at her mother’s, plus he’s out somewhere and not answering his phone. Then I went for a few drinks and he still isn’t answering.’

  So you came to disturb me instead, I thought sourly.

  ‘Aren’t you going to ask me in?’

  Leaving aside my visitor phobia, there were a couple of good reasons not to. Clearly, it would be unprofessional to invite a male staff member into my house so late at night. And if his dissatisfaction with his pay review wasn’t the main reason for his visit, he’d be bound to raise the topic and I was in no state to respond.

  ‘Sure,’ I said, despite all the years of practice at shooing visitors away.

  Once inside, Ryan stared, perplexed by the bareness of my lounge.

  ‘You don’t have much stuff, do you?’

  ‘It’s the way I like it.’

  This was a semi-truthful answer. Although I did relish the vast expanses of open space, uncertainty over what to choose was the main reason for not replacing the furniture. All the lounge contained now was the sofa, a coffee table, the television and a lone picture over the fireplace.

  ‘But this is a huge room.’

  ‘What else do I need?’

  ‘Well…’ He wrinkled his brow. ‘Nothing I suppose, but most people have ornaments, flowers, photographs, books... I mean, you had them before, when…’

  ‘Greg took stuff when he left,’ I said, although there’d been ample time for shopping in the two years since.

  ‘Any chance of a drink?’ Ryan cast around, as if the emptiness of the room might extend to the contents of the fridge.

  ‘Hope you’re not driving.’

  I recalled Ryan’s pride and joy, a 1977 Triumph TR7, in a ridiculous yellow colour—not for him a bland executive model. The quirky choice of car somehow symbolised all Ryan’s troubles at work—despite all the fuss they made about diversity, if you were a white heterosexual male you were expected to fit the template they’d cut for you.

  ‘Don’t worry—I left the car round the corner from Greg’s place, and it’s not moving an inch till the morning.’

  ‘OK, I’m having G and T,’ I said, ‘more of the G and less of the T. But I expect you’d prefer a beer.’

  Unbidden, he followed me. I hate guests assuming they can wander at will in my home—from habit I suppose.

  ‘Wow—I’d forgotten how awesome your kitchen is.’

  ‘Yes, it is amazing.’

  Ever since moving in, I’d always felt like a visitor at someone else’s house, and nowhere more so than in the kitchen. My inability to cook, overlaid with a nagging suspicion that I was unworthy of such luxury, left me fearful of being exposed as an imposter. But tonight I viewed my surroundings through Ryan’s eyes, for the first time allowing myself to take in its glamour without any sense of inadequacy.

  I handed Ryan his beer and he took a hefty swig.

  ‘Issy and I had a terrible row today,’ he began.

  ‘Yep, I heard. I’m sorry.’

  ‘I think we’re through.’

  ‘Can’t you patch things up?’

  ‘No. I made some spiteful comments—and I was rude to you too.’

  ‘It’s OK—I understand.’

  It had been totally unacceptable for him to swear at me, but I guessed the time to complain was long gone.

  ‘Everyone thinks I’m sore because she got such a humongous pay rise and promotion, while I got nothing.’

  ‘And aren’t you?’

  ‘Well—a bit pissed about that stupid line you drew above me, but best let that lie.’

  He swilled down another mouthful of beer and gave a loud belch.

  ‘But Issy’s awesome,’ he said. ‘She royally deserved everything.’

  ‘So what’s the trouble?’

  ‘When she told me, she played it down, saying she wasn’t worthy of it—like she was worried I couldn’t handle her success. It made me incredibly angry—the way she was pussyfooting round me.’

  ‘I can see that might be annoying,’ I sympathised. ‘But you know what? When I told her, she didn’t seem at all pleased. Maybe that’s how she truly feels.’

  ‘Yes, that’s what I decided when I’d calmed down. Which is even worse, because you have to ask yourself—why would she feel that
way?’

  ‘Why do you think?’ I asked, intrigued.

  ‘The answer’s obvious—she’s been shagging Smithies, and she believes that’s the only reason she got the promotion.’

  My head spun. The small part of my brain still functioning screamed out a warning. If this was a serious allegation, it ought to be discussed sober. And if not—we shouldn’t discuss it at all. But how funny he should bring it up.

  Ultimately, curiosity triumphed over common sense.

  ‘What makes you say that?’

  ‘It sounds stupid, but she’s been acting oddly—taking phone calls outside. And when I checked her phone, his number came up. I didn’t think anything of it at the time, but now…’

  The evidence in favour of this improbable liaison was mounting.

  ‘Did she give any explanation for the calls?’

  ‘Yes—she claimed she had an issue on a client.’

  ‘Which one?’

  ‘JJ.’

  My brain whirred—Smithies shouldn’t have been discussing JJ with a member of the client team, given his close relationship to the Finance Director. So either he’d broken the rules on client independence, or Isabelle had lied to Ryan.

  ‘What issue?’

  ‘It was about tax losses, but there was other stuff too I didn’t hear properly.’

  ‘There was a technical query over some loss relief,’ I told him.

  ‘So you reckon she was telling the truth?’

  ‘For sure.’

  I didn’t necessarily believe the two words I’d just uttered with such certainty, but closing down the discussion now seemed the wisest course. I mean, who wants to report her boss for inappropriate behaviour with a team member?

  ‘But why would she say she didn’t deserve the promotion, if she hadn’t done something dodgy to get it?’

  ‘People are complicated, Ryan—and not always as confident as they appear. The explanation may be as simple as that. She’s probably feeling hurt—she tried to open up to you about her insecurity and you blew your stack. Why don’t you give her a call and try to smooth it over?’

  He whipped out his phone.

  ‘No answer,’ he proclaimed after a short interval. ‘Which tells me all I need to know.’

  ‘You don’t seriously think they’re together now do you?’

  Ryan didn’t answer—he waved his empty beer bottle in the air.

  ‘Shall we have another?’

  I was already woozy from an excess of wine and gin, but before I could refuse he headed off to the kitchen, returning a few minutes later.

  ‘Blimey, this is strong,’ I said, after taking my first sip and finding it even more alcoholic than my own industrial-strength concoctions.

  ‘Well, you did say more of the G and less of the T.’

  He slumped onto the sofa and, filled with an inexplicable apprehension, I sat down tentatively beside him.

  ‘And you,’ he began. ‘Are you as confident as you appear to be?’

  For a moment, I lost my nerve. Had he, like Smithies, seen through to the inner Amy?

  ‘Oh yes,’ I replied, brushing it off. ‘More so.’

  ‘Then why keep so much of yourself hidden?’

  ‘I don’t keep anything hidden,’ I lied, my defences rising.

  ‘You do, and I never noticed before today, but you’re so sad.’

  ‘Not sad—not really.’

  ‘I’m sorry if I gave you a hard time earlier.’

  ‘You were upset and disappointed—I understand.’

  ‘Is it really the economic climate?’

  I switched back into professional mode.

  ‘Honestly—yes. Five years ago we’d have promoted you, no question at all. And this isn’t the end, Ryan—this doesn’t mean we’ve written you off.’

  ‘You’re different from the others, Amy. You spout off all the corporate bullshit but underneath you don’t believe it.’

  ‘I don’t think anyone believes it,’ I laughed, gulping at my gin, ‘neither the people who deliver it nor those on the receiving end.’

  ‘But the others don’t care whether it’s true or not. You do care, and some would say it’s a weakness, but I don’t agree.’

  ‘This morning you said I was cold…’

  ‘That was meant to hurt you. Greg never said it either. But he always thought you kept secrets from him.’

  ‘Only one,’ I said, before I could stop myself.

  ‘Something to do with your mother.’

  ‘I’m no longer in contact with her—we don’t get on.’

  ‘Yes, I know, but why?’

  In retrospect, it seemed extraordinary that Greg had never asked this question directly. But maybe it wasn’t so strange. I’d constructed my whole life around avoiding awkward questions, not only avoiding answering them, but somehow making people reluctant to enquire. Only Lisa, in her fearless quest for the truth, had probed. Until now.

  A strand of hair fell down over my face. Ryan gently flicked it back.

  ‘You wouldn’t understand.’

  ‘Give it a go.’

  ‘I can’t.’

  ‘Shame,’ he said. ‘Don’t they say the truth will set you free?’

  Strangely, the temptation to unburden myself to Ryan almost overwhelmed me. Perhaps the effort of holding onto a secret eventually became too much. But I checked myself—it wouldn’t be appropriate to spew it out drunkenly to him now. And why discuss it anyway? Here I was, a successful professional woman—my mother’s problems hadn’t affected me at all—apart from those occasional silly dreams.

  ‘Perhaps you’re so sad because you can’t be true to yourself.’

  I paused for a moment’s reflection, then sat bolt upright, as the full force of his insight hit me. He’d nailed it—this jokey little Irish wag. It physically pained me to hear him say it, but he was spot on. I’d been acting, one way or another, pretty much all my life, so much that I sometimes I questioned who lived underneath the veneer. All I knew for sure was that the real Amy didn’t deserve the nice house or the mega job, so she had to pretend to be the woman who did.

  But I couldn’t admit any of this to Ryan.

  ‘That’s ridiculous.’

  ‘No—it’s not—it’s the truth and you know it. I could see by the way you just reacted when I said so.’

  He nuzzled up against me; so close I felt his breath on my face.

  ‘I never realised you were so human before. I like that side of you—it makes me want to…’

  ‘Want to what?’

  Despite the strength of the signals, I could scarcely believe I was reading them accurately. A heady cocktail of fear and desire overwhelmed me as I sank back into the cushions of the sofa.

  We hesitated, but the time for analysis and sober reflection had passed. Our lips met and my stomach lurched in anticipation of the inevitable.

  Surely I should stop this madness…

  ***

  I woke at eight to the sound of the front door banging shut. Ryan had gone.

  The brutal force of my hangover floored me as I dragged myself out of bed. I crawled to the bathroom on all fours as if crippled, and gulped water from the tap on the bidet. It came straight back up, along with undigested scraps of the previous night’s food. I sat on the floor, gasping for breath and filled with self-loathing.

  Fragmentary but shocking memories jabbed at the edges of my perception. Ryan’s tenderness had vaporised in the instant I’d regained my sanity and tried half-heartedly to push him away. He’d been determined to have me and prove which of us was the real boss. The inside of my thighs ached dully, as did the developing bruises on my arms where he’d pinned me down.

  I’d been so weak—I’d surrendered. The Nicole Farhi dress lay in a wrinkled heap—yes, it had made me vulnerable alright.

  What had possessed me to be so feeble and stupid? My brain had said no, but my body had overridden it—I’d allowed myself to be used, like a loser with zero self-esteem. I could have stoppe
d him, should have stopped him…

  And most shaming of all, I’d boosted his ego by enjoying the experience.

  ‘Boy—you needed that, didn’t you?’ he’d said after it was all over, as though he’d done me a huge favour. And then, in a statement that simply begged for psychoanalysis, ‘You’re not the first woman I’ve shared with Greg, you know.’

  I shuddered. Was that it, simply wanting what his big brother had already sampled? Even if it was only his sad old minger of a boss?

  I pulled myself to my feet and peered in the mirror. Sad old minger was about right. My tangled hair lent a startling intensity to my wild, baggy, panda-rimmed red eyes, while fresh lines and wrinkles had etched themselves in my face in the dead of night.

  ‘You disgust me, you slag,’ said the little voice, from behind me. I turned, but Little Amy wasn’t there.

  I hoped to God Ryan wouldn’t tell anyone.

  9

  In the following forty-eight hours my mind obsessively circled the same ground.

  Easy to blame the drink—I must have been off my head to see the weird image of Little Amy. But alcohol didn’t absolve me of responsibility—it only added to the shame at my stupidity. Letting Ryan into my home while plastered—what had I been thinking? The minute I’d opened the door I’d shown I was up for it. What a fool.

  By Sunday, the humiliation was superimposed with a churning anxiety over what Ryan might do next. With luck, he wouldn’t ever refer to the incident again, but even that possibility unsettled me. Once my bruises had faded, I might as well have dreamt the whole episode. Still, feigned amnesia was a better outcome than him bragging to his mates, or confessing all to Isabelle, or the Armageddon scenario of a harassment claim against me.

  God—no.

  On balance, a claim seemed a remote possibility. Despite equality in the workplace, men who reported women were still generally considered to be wimps. But Ryan might see a complaint as a tactical move to have his promotion reconsidered. And who knew, Smithies might even back him if it gave him a stick to beat me with.

  No, the greater risk was of Ryan telling his chums, and me being landed with the reputation as the office slut, my authority irreparably weakened. The whispers would go round at lightning speed, quickly reaching Smithies’ ears, and I’d be finished. Still what did it matter? I was done for anyway—six years must be time to move on—before they all saw that I’d climbed higher than I deserved to.