The Dead Ex(68)

I shook my head numbly.

‘She’d hidden the kid’s reins. Just learned to walk, he had, before they were parted.’ He rubbed his eyes. ‘Makes you wonder why we do this, doesn’t it?’





34



Helen

1 December 2017


When I wake in the morning, David has gone. His side of the bed is almost uncreased, as though he was never in it. The kitchen area is immaculate. Gone is his wine glass. In fact, there is no evidence of last night at all. If I wasn’t physically in the apartment, I might think I’d dreamed the whole thing.

My mouth is parched, so I help myself to orange juice from a fridge which takes up half the wall. It has an ice cube dispenser on the outside. I spend a few minutes trying it out just for the hell of it.

Then I see the note on the massive island in the middle of the kitchen. Funny: I’ve never seen David’s handwriting before apart from his signature. This is entirely in capitals; almost childlike as though the author has never learned to do joined-up.

YOU’RE A REMARKABLE GIRL WITH A BIG CAREER IN FRONT OF YOU. I’M SURE YOU UNDERSTAND THE NEED FOR DISCRETION. JUST SHUT THE DOOR BEHIND YOU. THE SECURITY SYSTEM WILL KICK IN.



Naturally he wants to be careful. But he can’t forget last night. I won’t let him. My mind goes back to the angry woman with red hair on the other side of the restaurant window. I wonder if she had a similar letter once.

Half an hour later, I head towards his office. Inside, there are raised voices. ‘Just bloody find them.’ David’s deep voice is unmistakable. ‘They want to see them. It will look suspicious if we can’t produce the paperwork.’

‘I’ve tried.’ So are Posh Perdita’s indignant squeals.

‘They have got to be there somewhere in the archives.’

‘Could you have kept them at home?’

‘Maybe. I’ll check. Meanwhile, get rid of that hack in reception.’

‘Are you sure? He’s waiting right now to do an interview with you and that irritating work experience student …’

‘She’s just ambitious. Nothing wrong with that.’

Suddenly David’s door opens. I manage, just in time, to look as though I was walking past. ‘Ah, there you are, Helen.’ His deep voice is detached and professional. His face friendly but not over-familiar. There is no sign to show he’d been up half the night making love to me. ‘Ready for the interview, are you?’

Then his eye takes in the cardigan I am wearing. I’d found it in a wardrobe next to his immaculate line of suits, immediately spotting it as his daughter’s from the picture on his desk. It’s my size. Turquoise with pretty pearl buttons. Soft to touch and smelling of something expensive.

I give him one of my butter-wouldn’t-melt-in-mouth looks, which I’ve been cultivating. ‘Sure. Let’s go for it.’

‘So what have you learned from your week’s experience, Miss Evans?’

I look up through my eyelashes at my boss and then back to the earnest young man with tortoiseshell glasses. ‘You need to be resourceful if you’re going to work in this kind of business.’

David looks distinctly nervous.

The journalist is scribbling. ‘Would you like to define that?’

‘Well, you need to take all the opportunities you are given.’ I am rather enjoying this. ‘I’ve got some great shots as a result, and they’re going to really boost my portfolio.’

My boss smiles, looking more relaxed.

‘Of course, there’s one problem.’

They both look at me. David’s eyes are wary. The journalist’s are keen.

‘What’s that?’ They speak as one.

‘A week’s work experience is all very well. But it hasn’t led to a paid internship. We’re meant to find one this term. It’s part of our course, and if I don’t, well, I might not get my diploma.’

‘She has a point, Mr Goudman.’

A flash of distinct irritation passes over my boss’s face. ‘It’s not as simple as that.’

‘Really?’ I finger the buttons on my cardigan. ‘I could be useful to you, Mr Goudman. Maybe you’d like some photographs showing one of your many homes. I heard you had a loft conversion with a fancy shower that plays music.’

David is rubbing his chin. Not in that relaxed fashion as in over dinner. But fast. Angry. Have I gone too far?

‘I will definitely consider it.’

‘Is that a “yes”?’ persists the journalist.

I undo one of the pearl buttons and then fasten it as though I am the twitchy one.

‘Like I said, I’ll consider it.’

The journalist is still writing. ‘This is going to make a nice piece on how companies like yours are helping young people get onto the career ladder. Thank you, sir.’

David finds me at the end of the day. I’ve stayed late, hoping for this.

‘What the hell did you think you were playing at?’ There are little dots of sweat on his forehead. They make me feel pleasurably powerful.

‘I thought you’d be pleased to have me around,’ I retort.

‘I don’t like being pushed into a corner.’

As he speaks, he begins to do exactly that to me. The wall is cold and hard against my back. His face – the ugly one – is close to mine. ‘It so happens that I was thinking of offering you a job anyway, Helen.’