But, whereas on our previous, fleeting visit, the pub had been only about half full, now it was packed almost to capacity. There was a group of women at a corner table, who I recognised from the Star and Garter, where they always were on Tuesday evenings with a pile of paperback books on the table in front of them, talking earnestly and drinking Prosecco. They had no Prosecco now – bottles of white wine were clearly the closest the Nag’s Head could offer to bubbles. Three bearded guys were squeezed together on a faded green chaise longue beneath the portrait of Princess Diana, balancing pints of beer on their knees as they shared a packet of crisps.
There was a crowd three people deep at the bar, and just one person serving, but the mood was cheerful. Clearly, refugees from the Star and Garter were a resilient lot – or possibly just thirsty.
‘There’s nowhere to sit,’ I said, glancing around the busy room.
‘Look – over there. That couple look like they’re leaving. Go and nab their table and I’ll order drinks. What do you fancy?’
‘White wine. No, a gin and tonic.’
Joe nodded, and I threaded my way to the corner table, reaching it just as the couple stood up.
‘God, the state of the ladies’,’ the woman was saying. ‘Just as well I had tissues in my bag.’
‘And that jar of pickled eggs on the bar,’ her companion grimaced. ‘How long do you reckon they’ve been there?’
They brushed past me, and I sat down, feeling the legs of the chair creak and splay alarmingly under me. Over the hum of voices, I could hear the click of dominoes from the next-door table, where the four old men were determinedly carrying on their game as if it was a normal night and there’d been no invasion from across the road.
‘It’s a proper old-style boozer,’ Joe said, arriving with our drinks. ‘You don’t see many places like this any more, now the area’s got so gentrified.’
‘Perhaps this place will get gentrified too.’ I poured tonic water into my glass.
‘I reckon it would be a shame,’ Joe said. ‘You have to admit, it has character. I got us some peanuts and pork scratchings – there’s a kitchen, but I didn’t think we should risk it.’
‘You weren’t tempted by the pickled eggs?’
Joe laughed. ‘No, but I got all the local gossip. Apparently the Star and Garter is no more. It’s been bought by property developers, and they’re going to turn it into luxury apartments.’
‘What? That’s such a shame. I mean, I know there’s a housing shortage in London but it’s not like the people who need homes can afford hundreds of thousands of pounds for a luxury flat.’
‘I know, right? And Shirley – she’s the landlady – reckons she might be retiring soon, because she’s been in this game for forty years and her varicose veins are killing her.’ He slipped into a convincing south-east London accent.
I glanced over and saw the landlady behind the bar; her brassy blonde, bouffant hair catching the light, as bright as her chandelier earrings and the smiles she bestowed on her customers. She was wearing a low-cut, lime-green satin blouse, the sleeves pushed up to her elbows to reveal a jangling charm bracelet.
‘Maybe the people that ran the place over the road will take it over then.’
‘Maybe,’ Joe agreed. ‘But anyway. We’re not here to talk about pubs. I’ve got some news.’
I sipped my gin and tonic and took a pork scratching, checking the best before date on the pack first – not that I cared about potential food poisoning once the crunchy, fatty saltiness filled my mouth.
‘Go on.’
‘You’re not the only one who’s got a job after we qualify. Laurel let me know today. As of September, I’ll be a newly qualified solicitor in the Public Law department.’
‘Oh my God!’ I jumped to my feet and hugged him. ‘Joe, that’s incredible! I’m so proud. You must be over the moon. You loved working on all that human rights stuff.’
He ducked his head in an ‘aw, shucks’ gesture. ‘I’m pretty made up about it.’
‘Of course you are! And you know what this means? We’ll go from earning peanuts – well, I mean relatively – to both bringing in decent wages. We can book a holiday somewhere where we get bladdered on piña coladas and have all-you-can-eat shellfish buffets and there are sun loungers that you don’t have to bagsy with your towel at seven in the morning.’
‘We can even think about saving for a deposit on a flat of our own.’
‘We can pay off our student loans.’
We looked at each other and laughed. We both knew that, unless we won the lottery or Joe turned out to be Boris Johnson’s long-lost son or something equally bonkers, the huge, terrifying debt that had got us through six years of university would still be hanging over our heads when we were doddering around on Zimmer frames and our grandkids had student loans of their own. But this glimpse into our future felt like a ray of light, even in the gloomy surrounds of the Nag’s Head.
It felt like things were falling properly into place for Joe and me. Maybe, I thought, in a couple of years, once we were properly settled with a mortgage and everything, and one of us had perhaps even been promoted a rung higher up the long, steep ladder of advancement within the firm, we could get married.
I let myself dream, briefly, of the village church near where my mum and dad lived, sunshine streaming through the stained-glass windows on a perfect summer’s day as I, wearing a simple column dress of white satin (or maybe an over-the-top lace meringue), walked up the aisle on Dad’s arm to Joe, waiting for me at the altar.
‘Alice? You’re miles away.’
I felt myself blushing. I knew Joe loved me. I knew we were committed to a future together. But still, after less than two years, I didn’t want him to know that I was already daydreaming about our wedding.
And I definitely, totally, wasn’t going to tell him that I felt a bit less celebratory about my own job at Billings Pitt Furzedown than he did about his.
‘Sorry. I was just thinking… We’re really lucky, aren’t we? Everything’s coming together.’
I didn’t know, that night in the seedy pub, that just as quickly as things come together, they can fall apart again.
Five
I was almost late for work the next day. Joe and I had stayed in the Nag’s Head for way longer than we’d intended to, had several more drinks and three more packets of pork scratchings. As we drank and talked about our future, the place had seemed to take on a different feeling altogether – because we were celebrating, the dim lighting felt like a glow of contentment; the foggy atmosphere felt warm and cosy.
And when the landlady finally turned up the lights and said, ‘Time, ladies and gents, please,’ it felt like waking up from a dream.
So I was sleepy and a bit hungover as I hurried to the station – alone, because Joe had a rare morning off for a dentist appointment. My head was banging, my shoes were pinching my toes as I stood on the packed train with no chance of getting a seat, and the chokingly strong aftershave of the man next to me made me want to sneeze. Again, I had that feeling, that sense of something that was almost dread. Was this it? Every day, for years and years, getting the train and going and sitting at a desk for eleven hours? Seeing the same faces – Rupert’s arrogant and sneering, Gordon’s benevolence hiding his ruthlessness.
But it was my job. One way or another, I’d earned it, and I had no choice but to make a success of it.
I thought of the trite, cheesy saying, ‘Today is the first day of the rest of your life.’
On that sunny morning, it felt profoundly true. I just didn’t know how true.
I hurried into the lobby of the Billings Pitt Furzedown building at five to nine, my heels clacking on the marble floor, and squeezed into the lift with a group of people I recognised from my stint in Litigation, who’d apparently already been to a super-early meeting. They were talking amongst themselves, sipping their takeaway coffees, tucking their files under their arms as they checked their phones, casually and normally.
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But when I stepped through the doors, just as they were closing, silence fell.
Of course, it was a lift. No one talks in lifts – everyone knows that. It’s practically written into the constitution. You face the front, keep your eyes fixed on the digital numbers as they inch upwards, and you say nothing. Need to sneeze? Tough, wait for your floor. Someone farts? Nope, didn’t happen. The lift code decrees suspended animation throughout.
But today the silence felt different. It felt loaded and awkward and, facing the door as I was, it was as if those four pairs of eyes were trained so hard on my back that they were practically lasering through my navy polyester shift dress. And when I stepped out on the twelfth floor, I could actually hear a rustle of papers, an exhalation of breath, as they started to move again and – breaking the cardinal rule – to speak.
Weird, I thought. Instead of opening the door to the open-plan area that housed the M&A team, I turned away from the lift and through the door to the ladies’ loo. The people in the lift had acted so oddly when they saw me – almost embarrassed. I scrutinised my reflection in the mirror. There was nothing untoward to see: no lipstick on my teeth, no suspicious stains on my dress, no pair of knickers stuck halfway down one leg of my tights. I wasn’t wearing mismatched shoes, as I’d done one horrible, hungover morning almost two years before.
Remembering that, my face flamed with shame. It had been Joe who’d noticed, that day, that one of my shoes was black and the other navy; Joe who’d dashed out on an emergency mission to M&S to buy me a new pair so I didn’t have to do that walk of shame myself. And then we’d been out for a drink together, and the rest had been history.
Most importantly, the night before the morning with the shoes was history. Or, at any rate, it was retreating steadily into the past, one day at a time. If I didn’t think about it, it was almost like it hadn’t happened at all.
The thought of Joe made me feel better, and forget for a moment the strange reaction of the people in the lift. Maybe they’d just had a difficult meeting, and couldn’t discuss it with me there. Maybe they’d been in the middle of a disagreement about something, and had had to suspend hostilities so I couldn’t overhear.
I checked my face one last time and hurried to my desk.
Again, there was that subtle feeling that something wasn’t right. Niamh glanced up from her computer screen, saw me and glanced away again, not saying a cheerful good morning as she usually did. Rupert watched me silently from the moment I entered the room, his eyes following me all the way from the doorway to my desk, a strange half-smile on his face like he was in on some private joke.
I put my bag down and switched on my computer. Usually, I’d ask if anyone wanted a coffee, and head off to the kitchen to get one for myself. But the thought of standing up again, crossing the office to the kitchen and returning with a tray of mugs was suddenly an even more daunting prospect than getting through the next hour without my caffeine fix. The room that had become familiar over the past five months, the faces of my co-workers, the photocopy machine and the coat stand suddenly seemed alien, even menacing.
You’ve got the Fear, Alice, I told myself firmly. You shouldn’t drink on a school night.
I got my water bottle out of my bag and took a sip, then turned to my computer screen, opening first my email and then my billing timesheet. I wasn’t going to make any money for the firm sitting here being unnecessarily paranoid.
But then the phone on my desk trilled urgently, making me jump and sending my stomach lurching. Opposite me, I saw Rupert turn his head ever so slightly, his smile becoming wider. Something’s going on, and he knows what it is.
I could tell from the ringtone that the call was internal, but I still put on my best professional voice – all that time binge-watching every episode of Suits hadn’t been entirely wasted – when I answered.
‘Mergers and Acquisitions, Alice Carlisle speaking.’
‘Hi Alice, it’s Fatima from HR, Samantha’s PA. Any chance you’re free to pop down for a quick chat with her?’
My mouth suddenly went chalk-dry. My water bottle was right next to me, but I didn’t dare take a sip – I felt like I wouldn’t be able to swallow.
‘Do you—’ I had to stop and clear my throat. ‘Do you mean now?’
‘Any time this morning would be great,’ Fatima said. ‘But, yeah, now would be good. If you’re free.’
I glanced at my calendar. I was sitting in on an internal meeting at ten. I had a bunch of changes to input on a contract. But none of it was urgent – there was no way I could pretend I was snowed under and this ‘chat’ would have to wait. Preferably until never.
‘Sure. I’ll be down in five minutes.’
The handset clattered as I replaced it in its cradle. Opposite me, Rupert’s smirk became positively shark-like and I saw rapidly him type a few words. She’s going downstairs, or maybe, They’ve called her in.
I stood, gathered a notebook and pen and my phone, and walked back out to the lift, trying to keep my legs steady and my breathing regular.
It’s just a chat with HR, Alice. It could mean anything, or nothing.
But everything that morning – the weird reaction of the people in the lift, Niamh’s silence, Rupert’s grin, that call – now would be good – told me that something was up. Something bad.
But I was just a lowly trainee. No one cared about me. Even if I was suspected of having done something terrible – like the guy a few years back who’d gone viral on YouTube boasting that his job was all about ‘fucking people over for money’ – or made some massive fuck-up, like signing off an email to a client with ‘Kind regards’ but putting a T in place of the G, it wouldn’t have warranted HR’s involvement. The head of Mergers and Acquisitions would have given me a massive bollocking herself, or got a senior associate to do it for her.
Maybe something’s happened to Joe. But Joe wasn’t in the office – he was, probably right this second, in the dentist’s chair having his teeth scaled and polished.
My finger trembled as I pushed the button on the lift, and when I got in my stomach lurched far more than it should have done on the gentle descent to the fifth floor.
Most of the Billings Pitt Furzedown offices looked – in spite of the firm’s status of being not-quite-but-almost within the elite of magic circle law companies – like any other office, anywhere in the world. Grey desks holding computers and piles of files; used coffee mugs scattered about; people’s coats hung over the backs of chairs. But the HR floor was different. This was where prospective new staff members came – where they formed their first impression of what the company would be like to work for. And clearly someone, at some point, had decided to make that first impression count.
The reception area was softly lit, decorated in cool blue tones. A massive abstract painting in sunset colours hung on the wall. My heels sank deep into rug with a swirly, wave-like design as I approached the reception desk.
‘Hi, Alice!’ Fatima smiled like seeing me was the best thing that had happened to her all morning. Like the room itself, I couldn’t help thinking that she’d been carefully selected by an interior design consultant. Her hair was a black, glossy curtain. Her scarlet dress matched the artwork. Her teeth were white and perfect.
‘Good morning. I’m here – well, you know why I’m here. Because you just called me.’
In sharp contrast to her friendly, professional poise, I felt shy and clumsy.
‘Of course. Sam’s ready for you. I’ll just take you through to the meeting room.’
I followed her along a corridor lined with more paintings and closed, highly varnished doors at intervals on either side. Fatima opened one and stood aside for me to enter, then softly shut the door behind me. The meeting table was the same shiny, golden wood as the doors, and four chairs stood around it, upholstered in slate-blue fabric. A bottle of water and two glasses were arranged on the table, and Samantha was seated in one of the chairs.
‘Hello, Alice.’ She got
to her feet and extended a cool hand for me to shake. She was tall and slender, her blonde hair cut in an edgy pixie crop. The first time I met her, I’d thought that she looked like Kim Cattrall; now I just thought that she looked absolutely terrifying. Although, let’s be honest, Kim’s not entirely un-scary either.
‘Thanks so much for coming down at short notice,’ she said. ‘I know how busy you are. Take a seat.’
‘That’s okay,’ I mumbled, relieved to sit before my knees gave way underneath me.
Samantha looked at me for a moment, her expression unreadable. Then she poured water into one of the glasses and pushed it across to me.
‘I suppose you’re wondering why I asked to see you.’
I nodded mutely.
‘I know you were expecting to begin your new role in Intellectual Property at the end of the month. Gordon always spoke very highly of you, and I know he was looking forward to your becoming a real asset to the team.’
Were expecting… spoke highly… was looking forward. Past tense.
‘Has something happened?’
‘Unfortunately, there’s been – well, let’s just say there have been a series of allegations. Serious enough to warrant investigation at the most senior level of the business. While that investigation takes place, Gordon is suspended from the firm.’
‘But what…?’ I began, and then stopped. I knew what someone in my position should be thinking. What horrible miscarriage of justice had taken place? What could Gordon – my mentor, my future boss, the closest thing I had to a guardian angel – possibly have done?
But the words that were racing through my mind were different. But what about me?
I picked up the glass of water and tried to drink, but my hand was trembling so much I splashed the polished surface of the table.
Just Saying: An absolutely perfect and feel-good romantic comedy Page 4
