She didn’t respond and, when I looked up, I was surprised to find her staring into space.
‘What?’ I asked.
She looked at me. ‘What?’ she echoed.
‘You’re miles away.’
‘Mm,’ she said, returning her attention to her Mac. ‘Just running through the day in my head. Oh and,’ she looked up at me, ‘before I forget. Jon called.’
Jon. The panic of my morning had temporarily freed me of my miserable pre-occupation with him. Now, at the mention of his name I experienced a sudden dip in mood, which was just as quickly replaced by an immense sense of relief that he had made contact – he wanted to talk to me. I don’t know how this rapid succession of emotions was reflected in my facial expressions, but when I refocused my attention on Sophie, she was looking at me with a mixture of concern and fascination.
‘Bloody hell, what was that?’ she asked.
‘What was what?’
She pointed at my face and made a circling motion with her index finger. ‘You looked like you were giving birth to a Lego baby.’
‘Did I?’
‘Yes, you did,’ she said. ‘And it was very weird. So don’t do it again.’
‘OK,’ I said and then, attempting nonchalance, ‘So, does Jon want me to call him back?’
‘Nope.’ She began to tap at her keyboard. ‘He’s tied up all day. He was just phoning to say he can’t make tapas with us tomorrow. Something’s come up. And you’d have been very proud of me,’ she added, smiling at her screen. ‘I didn’t pry.’
I slumped back in my chair, feeling numb, my mind a blank.
‘Alice.’ I heard Sophie but felt no need to respond. Instinct told me that the current sensation of emptiness and nothingness was definitely preferable to thought, and I wasn’t ready to give that up just yet. ‘Alice.’ God, she was persistent. I turned towards her. ‘Alice,’ she said, ‘what’s wrong?’
I sighed. It was no good. I was going to have to think and speak.
I resolved to keep it shallow.
‘I’m starving,’ I said. ‘I skipped breakfast.’
‘Right.’ She opened her desk drawer, removed a brown paper bag and peered inside it. ‘Wholemeal raisin muffin or tuna mayo sandwich?’
‘I can’t eat your lunch,’ I said.
‘You can get me a replacement when you pop out later.’ She looked at me questioningly. ‘Come on. Choose.’
‘Muffin, please,’ I said, knowing better than to argue further.
She got up from her desk and brought the muffin to me, placing it in front of me with a smile. ‘There you go.’
‘Thank you.’
‘My pleasure,’ she said, returning to her desk.
I stared at the cake in front of me, trying to generate an appetite for it. But despite my best attempts to focus on the muffin, the whole muffin and nothing but the muffin, I couldn’t prevent non-nutritional matters from dominating my thought processes.
So Jon didn’t want to see me. But on the other hand, he had called the office knowing that there was the possibility that I would answer the phone. So at least he was willing to talk to me. He wasn’t trying to avoid me completely.
This last thought was by far the most comforting to have so far entered my head during a morning of otherwise total gloom. I therefore focused my full intellectual capacity on it and clung to it in the same way I had witnessed Phoebe cling to a half-eaten lollipop she had found on the ground during a recent trip to the park with Miriam and myself.
‘OK,’ said Sophie suddenly, now standing in front of my desk and making me jump, ‘so now we’ve established that you’re not actually very hungry after all…’
I looked down at the muffin, which now lay picked apart and neatly piled in the shallowest compartment of my desk tidy.
I picked up the desk tidy and popped a few of the larger chunks of the deconstructed muffin into my mouth, for which I was rewarded with an appalled, ‘Yuck,’ from Sophie. I then tipped the rest of the mutilated cake into the waste paper basket next to my desk.
‘Anyway,’ I took a deep breath, ‘that’s a shame about Jon.’
‘I think he must be really busy at work,’ she said. ‘He called from his desk before eight. I was just getting in the car.’
I looked up from the pile of waiting correspondence, which I had begun to peruse. ‘He called you on your mobile?’
She nodded.
‘Oh.’ I struggled to smile and felt my throat tighten, as the single grain of comfort I had managed to distil from events, was blown away.
Sophie walked round to my side of the desk, bent down and squeezed my arm. ‘Are you OK? You don’t look great.’
At that moment, David’s office door opened. He emerged, engrossed in some drawings he held in his hand. ‘Do you think…’ he began, before looking up at Sophie and me and completing his sentence with, ‘…I should go back into my room for a little while?’ He retreated back into his office and closed the door.
Sophie sighed and smiled down at me. ‘Is there anything you want to talk about?’ she asked gently.
I shook my head, aware that at that moment, any attempt to explain to her either the situation or my feelings would not only fail but also, quite possibly, result in personal disintegration and the loss of the entire working day. It was best for now, I decided, to retreat into denial. ‘I’m just very tired and hormonal,’ I said.
She looked at me sceptically for a moment, before straightening up and returning to her own desk. ‘Well, if you decide that you do fancy a chat, just let me know.’
I nodded as David’s door opened for a second time and he walked quickly across the office and towards the loo, without looking at either of us. ‘Sorry,’ he mumbled. ‘I just need a…’ He cleared his throat before continuing. ‘So I had to come out,’ he concluded, closing the toilet door behind him.
Sophie shook her head. ‘What’s he like?’
‘He’s lovely,’ I said, just about managing my first genuine smile of the morning, before pressing on with the day.
* * *
What was left of the morning passed surprisingly quickly, thanks largely to the multiple emails which I had at first viewed with such horror. Most took a matter of moments either to bin or answer. But one or two required more thought, and they proved a more effective distraction from my personal problems than the muffin. I could only assume that both David and Sophie had similarly full inboxes as, other than the coffees we silently placed on each other’s desks at regular intervals, there was nothing to distract us from our screens.
It was such a quietly intense morning in fact, that the sound of the telephone ringing at just before 1pm, made me jump and gasp. Sophie laughed, without looking up, as I picked up the receiver.
‘Hello, Moore Interior Design. Alice Waites speaking. How can I help?’
‘Hi, Alice. It’s Stephen Powell.’ He hesitated. ‘Greg Golding’s friend.’
I felt myself colour slightly. ‘Oh hello, Stephen.’ In my peripheral vision, I saw Sophie look up sharply from her screen. ‘Connie said you would be in touch.’
‘Great. Look, the first thing I have to say is that I’m sorry for calling you at work. I was given a mobile number too but there was no answer on that and I left quite a…’ he hesitated again, ‘…quite a formal message because I wasn’t sure whether it was the right number or not. The voicemail was just a standard leave a message job.’
I laughed. ‘I must change that. But anyway, don’t worry, I think you probably did call the right number. I just missed a lot of calls this morning.’
‘Oh, OK, well, have you got two minutes now?’
I took a deep breath. ‘Sure,’ I said. ‘Are you going to be in Bristol sometime soon?’
‘I am actually,’ he said. ‘I’ll be there after lunch tomorrow and I’m staying with friends
overnight. So, I’m around for a coffee, or even a bite to eat, if you are.’ Another hesitation. ‘I know it’s really short notice. I expect you’re busy but I thought it was worth mentioning.’
‘Oh, I’m afraid I can’t take time out tomorrow afternoon,’ I said. ‘And I’m out after work with friends. What a shame.’ I became aware of Sophie windmilling wildly at me. I looked at her.
‘Invite him along,’ she mouthed. I gave her a puzzled look, pretending not to understand.
‘I see,’ he sounded flatteringly disappointed. ‘Well, don’t worry. I knew it was a long-shot.’
‘I’m so sorry,’ I said.
Sophie ceased windmilling and now held up a sheet of A4, upon which she had written in large capitals: INVITE HIM ALONG.
I swivelled in my chair, turning my back on her. ‘I’m sure there’ll be another time,’ I said, closing my eyes. ‘When is your next visit?’ Upon opening my eyes, I saw that Sophie was now standing in front of me, with a fresh piece of A4. On it, she had written: WHY NOT?
I stared at the sheet of paper and realised that, other than a general lack of enthusiasm for doing anything at all, due to combined sleep deprivation and ongoing angst over Jon, I couldn’t actually come up with a why not. If there was anything else holding me back, it was impossible to pinpoint.
I became aware that Stephen was still talking. ‘Hello? Are you still there?’
‘Yes,’ I said. ‘I’ve just had a note passed to me. Sorry, Stephen.’
‘That’s OK,’ he said. ‘I shouldn’t have called you at work.’
‘No, don’t worry.’ I looked up at Sophie. She shook her piece of A4 and smiled at me, raising her eyebrows questioningly. I closed my eyes again. ‘Stephen, why don’t you come out with us tomorrow evening? We’re going for tapas.’
‘I wouldn’t want to crash anything,’ he said.
I resisted a significant urge to accept this as a refusal.
‘Not at all,’ I said. ‘It’s just me, my boss, David, and my friend Sophie. They’re both great and you’d be making up a foursome and helping the whole thing be a lot less intimidating for David.’
He laughed. ‘Well, in that case, I’d love to come. How about I let you get back to work now and we can sort out logistics later?’
‘Sounds good,’ I said. ‘Speak to you later. Bye.’
‘Bye. And I’ll see you tomorrow.’
I opened my eyes, replaced the receiver and sat for a moment, unmoving, my hand resting on the telephone.
‘Well done,’ said Sophie.
I turned towards her. She was still holding the A4 sheet across her chest. She placed it on the table, in the process revealing a second sheet underneath the first. This one said: NOW GET ME A MUFFIN.
I smiled. ‘Thanks.’
‘No problem,’ she replied, returning to her desk and sitting down. ‘Now, off you go. I’m sugar hungry and that’s not gonna be good for anyone.’
Chapter 25
The twenty-four hours or so in between inviting Stephen to dinner and finding myself sitting at my desk, checking my watch, waiting for him to arrive, passed surprisingly quickly and without any increase in anxiety levels. Unwilling, or unable, to think about the situation any longer, I succeeded in setting my depressing preoccupation with Jon largely to one side, allowing myself instead to fret mildly over a more immediate issue – that of meeting Stephen. Despite my new focus being not entirely stress-free, the prospect of an evening with him did offer the double benefit of being both a distraction from, and significantly less distressing than, a crumbling friendship. And I was pleasantly surprised to realise, several hours into Thursday evening, and after a second, more relaxed telephone conversation with Stephen, that I hadn’t thought to check my landline for possible missed calls from Jon.
Of course, he was not entirely absent from my mind. Every now and then I found myself sighing involuntarily, or experiencing a fleeting sense of something worryingly close to panic but, on the whole, such negative feelings remained at bay.
I had agreed with Stephen that we would meet at our offices at six-thirty and then walk to meet Sophie and David for drinks, before all going to the restaurant at eight. Sophie was reluctant to accept the plan and, as she and David put on their jackets at six, she was still trying to persuade me to change my mind.
‘What if he’s a psychopath?’ she asked.
‘He’s a friend of Greg’s,’ I reminded her.
‘My point exactly,’ she said. ‘If I asked you to name one person we both know who might befriend a psychopath, who would immediately spring to mind?’
‘David,’ I said tonelessly.
David raised a finger. ‘Er, excuse me but I—’
‘OK, OK,’ agreed Sophie. ‘Obviously, David. But if you had to name another.’
‘The computer guy. The one with ears shaped like Quavers.’
Sophie sighed. ‘I just don’t see why we can’t all head off from here together,’ she protested.
‘Because I don’t want an audience,’ I said.
‘An audience for what?’ she asked. ‘You’re just meeting a new person.’
‘You know exactly what I mean,’ I said.
She looked genuinely perplexed. ‘I don’t get it.’
I rolled my eyes at her. ‘I just need fifteen to twenty minutes in his company, without feeling under scrutiny by you, OK?’
She looked thoughtful and then shook her head. ‘I still don’t get it,’ she repeated, before turning to David. ‘Do you get it?’
‘Yes,’ he said, ‘as a matter of fact, I do.’
‘Really?’ She placed a hand on her chest, feigning surprise. ‘I am all astonishment.’ She walked towards him, buttoning her jacket as she went. ‘Because you’re not usually one to display any signs of anxiety.’ She smiled up at him fondly. ‘Well, come on then, Mr Darcy. Let us depart,’ she said, linking his arm and acknowledging defeat. ‘We can fetch ourselves a glass of refreshing punch, whilst we await the arrival of the Reverend and Mrs Bentley.’
‘Am I to assume that you’ve never actually read Pride and Prejudice?’ asked David.
‘I only got as far as: “It is a truth universally acknowledged…”,’ she replied. ‘I’m more of an Adam Bede, kinda gal.’ He laughed and, with that, they disappeared down the stairs, each calling a ‘goodbye’ to me as they exited.
On hearing the outer office door slam, I sighed and wondered how to pass the next thirty minutes. Stalking Stephen on the internet was out. He had apparently shunned all social media and the only picture I had of him was an indistinct and, I hoped, unflattering, thumbnail on Greg’s company website. I had considered asking Connie whether she or Greg had another photo, but decided against this in case she thought me superficial. I didn’t like the idea of disappointing Connie.
Online research being a no go, I leaned back in my chair and tried to remember what I had been told about Stephen. He was, according to Connie, good-looking. However, I had already decided not to get my hopes up in that department, as she had once confided that newsreader Huw Edwards was her ‘ideal man; both physically and intellectually.’ I had additionally been advised that Stephen was thirty-three, spoke beautifully, held an MSc in Bioengineering from Imperial, dressed well, thought government foreign policy was misguided, had a face which lit-up when he smiled and, of course, owned a Morgan 4/4 with a walnut dash. The eclectic nature of these personal details was due to the fact that they were supplied by two people, each with a rather different set of priorities. My primary source of information was Greg, with a few supplementary titbits from Connie, based upon her one, relatively brief, meeting with Stephen at a corporate event. The upshot was that I had no real idea of what to expect.
So it was with some relief, when he finally buzzed the intercom at 6.25pm, that I opened the street door to a man who resembled neither his thumbnail photograph, nor Huw Edwards. Stephen Powell was a few inches taller than myself, had strawberry blonde hair, blue eyes and a face which lit-up when he s
miled. He did the latter immediately upon the door being open wide enough for us to see each other.
‘Alice?’ he said.
‘That’s right. And you’re Stephen?’
‘I’m afraid so.’ He beamed and shrugged apologetically.
‘Oh don’t be afraid,’ I laughed. ‘I’m afraid enough for both of us.’
‘Are you really?’ His smile remained in place, but I could tell he was slightly anxious.
I held up my right hand, and indicated ‘a tiny bit’, using my thumb and index finger.
He opened his arms to their full extent. ‘Well, I’m way ahead of you. Never had a blind introduction before. Absolutely terrified.’
I laughed again, stepped out onto the pavement and closed the door behind me. ‘Well, shall we head off in a mutually terrified fashion? It’s a fifteen minute walk.’
‘Great,’ he said, popping his hands into his pockets in an appealingly boyish manner. ‘I’ll leave it to you to steer. Just tug on my sleeve as appropriate.’
Chapter 26
‘So, how often do you get to be in Bristol, Stephen? You’re based in Birmingham, aren’t you? And do have some more bacalao. It’s quite delicious.’ David picked up the dish and passed it across the table.
‘Oh, David, for God’s sake, tapas is always stretch or starve.’ Sophie intercepted the fish dish, depositing some of what was left onto her plate, before passing the remainder on to Stephen.
I sighed and realised that inviting Stephen to dinner with David and Sophie, was a bit like bringing a new acquaintance home to meet your parents – if your father was Bertie Wooster and your mother Julie Burchill.
Not that things were going badly. David and Sophie’s contrasting personalities always made for an entertaining evening out; the steady diplomacy and reserve of one, balancing the engaging energy and largely unedited conversation of the other. But I had wondered what Stephen would make of it all – of Sophie in particular – and I was relieved to see that he seemed to be holding his own so far. He had even coped quite well when, after drinks and while walking to the tapas bar, she had grilled him in the style of Louis Theroux; vacillating between charmingly off-the-wall, and rug-pullingly direct and incisive. I recognised the inquisition as a positive sign; knowing that it was an effort she wouldn’t have wasted on someone she didn’t warm to. But I couldn’t help thinking that to Stephen, it might appear quite the reverse.