There was a pause.
‘Everything OK?’
‘Yes. I just …’ She paused – was she really going to do this? ‘I just thought I’d ring because, well, I’ve thought about it and – well, I’m in.’
Chapter Twelve
Clare was surprised the next day to find a hump beside her in bed. Which snored. She glanced at her phone. It was only 6 a.m. She poked the hump.
‘Toby?’
‘Eh?’
‘Tobe – wake up. We need to talk.’ Telling Dan a definite yes, taking charge of her life and making decisions yesterday had felt good. And although it was a small thing, it had made her realise just how much she’d given up on herself – how she let life happen to her rather than taking charge. Well, no more, she’d decided. It was time to take back control.
‘Eh?’ he rolled over and looked at her out of one eye.
‘Toby, I’m buying a car today.’
This, it seemed, was the impetus he needed. He sprang up onto an elbow – both eyes open now. ‘But …’ He looked at her open mouthed as if she’d told him she was growing a beard or taking up sumo wrestling.
‘But nothing, Toby,’ she said firmly. ‘If you want to trade in your car and take the train, that’s fine. But I can’t spend another morning running for the bus.’
‘OK,’ he nodded. ‘Fair enough … although …?’
‘Although?’ she challenged.
‘It’s just the money …’ he said, weakly. As well he might, with a wardrobe bursting with designer threads and having recently bought a car worth as much as a two-storey extension.
‘Don’t worry,’ she said. ‘I’ve done some sums, and we can. I don’t need much. Just something, you know?’
He reached out and ran his finger softly along the curve of her face. ‘I’m sorry. I don’t know why I bought that car. It’s … well, I just wanted to fit in, you know?’
‘I know … the whole car park thing.’
‘Yeah, only I’ve realised that most of the top-notch execs are taking the train now. Or biking even. All about the green credentials suddenly.’
‘Toby,’ she said, suddenly. ‘Have you thought about what you want?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘I don’t know. All these new clothes, this new image. It’s great – you look great. But do you … is it really you?’
He shrugged. ‘It’s kind of me. A better me.’
‘According to?’
He was silent for a minute. ‘You’re right,’ he said. ‘I’m being an idiot.’
‘I didn’t say that.’
As their eyes met, she felt suddenly warm. He was still Toby, underneath his career-ladder-climbing, overly stressed, image-conscious exterior.
‘It’s just – well, you don’t have to prove yourself to me. Or to Katie or Alfie. We all love you. And I obviously want you to be happy, Toby, but I feel like you’re kind of slipping away from me.’
‘It’ll get better,’ he said. ‘I … I don’t know. I’m just finding my feet. Sometimes,’ he paused, and glanced at the ceiling, ‘I don’t even feel like I’m me any more.’
They hugged then, tightly, and she nearly told him about her decision to rap in a local talent show. But somehow, her resolve to be forthright and decisive left her.
It was quite fun walking to the bus in the unseasonal early morning sunshine, knowing that it would be the last time she’d have to do it. She’d miss Mr Flasher with his secret under-coat sequins; she’d even developed a soft spot for the hipster driver. Dressed in her best black work suit, she felt smart and professional, and although her files were not yet in a leather satchel as she eventually intended, she’d at least borrowed one of Alfie’s old gym bags and ditched the tote.
Yes, she was definitely going up in the world. Although her folders had started to smell of socks.
‘Morning!’ she breezed to Nigel half an hour later, as she walked through the reception area at 8.05 a.m.
He visibly jumped, like a child caught with his hand in the biscuit tin, she thought. (Then she noticed that he was actually rummaging in Jane, the receptionist’s, not-so-secret snack drawer.)
‘Morning, Carol,’ he said, after a pause. ‘Just … just getting an envelope or two … eh?’
‘It’s Clare,’ she said.
‘No, en-vel-opes,’ he said, slowly and carefully, as if she was hard of hearing. ‘Ah, here they are!’ he said loudly, brandishing a couple of manilla A4s and acting as if she couldn’t see the bulge of sweets in his pocket.
Despite the fact that her boss seemed incapable of remembering her name, Clare felt uncharacteristically positive. Why had she ever felt so dissatisfied? she wondered. Work was going well, she enjoyed her job most of the time, and while she hadn’t made partner yet, she was still young – and well on the way to netting the firm a decent profit as long as Camberwaddle came around. Which of course he would, she reassured herself.
Tonight she was going to find herself a decent second-hand car and get herself back on track … or road.
She thought again of last night, when she’d rung Dan. He’d whooped down the phone, almost bursting her eardrum. It was hard to believe that someone really felt she’d make that much difference. Perhaps that was the reason for her good mood this morning, too.
Then: ‘Oh, good news,’ Nigel said. ‘Your new office is furnished and ready to go!’
‘It is?’ When she’d left work yesterday, she’d passed the door and peeped in. There had been a few carpet tiles scattered on the floor, and an old shoe in the corner. Despite Nigel’s assurances, she hadn’t really thought things would move so quickly. And, deep down, she’d still convinced herself that he’d see sense.
‘Yes! Got some of the boys on it last night. Looking rather swish, I thought.’
‘Right. Thank you,’ she said, feeling the buzz of anxiety in her chest.
She waited for him to disappear then went up the stairs slowly, like a character in a horror movie convinced they’re about to find a body. Reaching the old coat cupboard she saw a printed A4 sheet with the name Carol Bailey on it in comic sans. Feeling sick, she pushed the door open.
In the dim light of the windowless room, she saw her desk, practically filling the whole space. The floor had been hastily carpet tiled and the smell of glue lingered in the air. Her filing cabinet bulged in the corner.
She tried not to cry. Was this dark corner with its tiny electric bulb on a wire really going to be her office from now on? She’d worked hard for this firm, yet was being shoved aside like a coconut eclair in a box of Quality Street. Well, she was no coconut eclair! She was at least an orange creme. Maybe even a strawberry delight. And what was Will? A caramel at best.
But caramels are the kind of sweet that everyone likes, she realised. Orange cremes are opinion splitters. Sure, they’re some people’s favourite. But some people can’t stand them.
‘Is he serious?’ came a voice over her shoulder.
Clare jumped. It was Ann. She kept her face towards the office, afraid her colleague would see the tears pooling in her eyes.
‘I think so.’
‘Oh god, Clare.’
‘Have you been moved, too?’ Ann’s desk was currently in the open-plan part of the office, where she sat with several other secretaries.
‘Not yet. But I wouldn’t put it past them,’ her friend replied. ‘Oh, Clare. You can’t put up with this, you really can’t.’
Clare didn’t reply. ‘Hmm,’ she managed at last. Because she knew deep down that she probably would put up with it. And it would become normal. And she’d stop thinking about it. Because that, it seemed, is what she tended to do.
At 10.30 a.m., when Ann poked her head around the office door to tell her that Stefan had arrived, Clare didn’t notice her at first due to the dim light; meaning that when she did s
uddenly see what appeared to be a floating head halfway up the wood of the door, she spilled coffee on her leg, screamed and had to dab herself dry with a crumbling tissue.
‘Whoops!’ Ann’s head exclaimed. ‘Sorry!’
‘Don’t worry.’
‘Want me to keep hold of Camberwaddle while you get changed?’
‘No, think it’s sorted,’ Clare said, crossing her fingers and holding them up.
‘Good luck,’ Ann winked.
Stefan Camberwaddle had the confidence and ease that only comes with having grown up with money and an entourage of people to deliver praise and compliments on tap. ‘Mrs Bailey,’ he said, holding out his hand.
She took it, standing up, and he shook hers with such a forceful jerk that she felt a muscle tear in her shoulder.
‘Good morning, Mr Camberwaddle,’ she said, smiling through the pain. ‘Do take a seat.’
He sat on the wobbly plastic chair that had replaced the leather seats in her larger office and frowned. Looking up at her, his blue eyes steely sharp, grey hair slicked back in a way she’d only previously seen on white-collar criminals in police dramas, he seemed to take in his surroundings for the first time.
‘Your office,’ he said. ‘Is … has it changed?’
‘Yes … it’s just temporary,’ she lied, feeling her cheeks go red. But honestly, how was she meant to inspire confidence in this client from a room that still smelled worryingly like feet?
He nodded, his brow furrowed. ‘So,’ he began. ‘You got my message?’
‘Yes,’ she said, feeling a little as if she’d been summoned to the headmaster’s office at school. ‘But let me reassure you that this kind of inattention won’t happen again.’
He nodded, kindly. ‘Yes, I realise you have no intention of it happening again, but I’m not sure you can really guarantee that. After all, your firm is rather on the small side. I was quite distressed yesterday when the meeting had to be cancelled due to your illness.’
‘Yes, I’m sorry.’
He waved her comment away with one of his large hands. ‘Yes, yes, not your fault, of course. Just made me realise that perhaps the Mann Company aren’t up to the job.’
‘I understand,’ she said. ‘But honestly, it’s not really a case of … well, we do have other conveyancing solicitors. It was more … well, the absence was so unexpected and so early on in our relationship, I hadn’t briefed any of my colleagues …’
‘I see …’ he frowned and clasped his hands together, with the tips of his fingers touching his lips. ‘I see … So you’re saying that you’re going to bring other people up to speed on this? Experienced people.’
‘Of course! Believe me, sir, once you’ve had the full Mann Company experience, you’ll never look back!’
‘OK. Look.’ He dropped his hands and looked at her with such a penetrating gaze that she felt almost violated. ‘I like to be upfront with my business interests – I’m sure you understand. I’ll give it some thought, speak to my team, and let you know by the end of the day. I can’t risk making a mistake.’
‘Of course,’ she said.
‘Bailey,’ he said, almost to himself. ‘You mentioned your husband was in television when we last met.’
‘Yes, that’s right.’
‘I saw a Bailey the other day, on the news,’ he continued. ‘Something about street lights, or some such. Was that him?’
‘Oh yes,’ she said. ‘That’s Toby.’
‘Interesting,’ he said. ‘Interesting. Well, it certainly wouldn’t hurt to have an influential TV star’s wife on the payroll.’
Clare was tempted to say that actually she wouldn’t be on his payroll, and that having the ear of her husband meant very little these days.
But she didn’t. She kept silent. She figured, while doing so, that if she had to be married to Toby; had to watch the man she loved morph into some sort of male mannequin, to wait with her legs crossed each morning as he preened himself in front of the bathroom mirror; to rush home every time he was late to keep their family life going, there ought to be some benefit for her.
Maybe one of them would be retaining her multi-million-pound client.
When Camberwaddle finally rang her later that afternoon to confirm that he would be remaining with the firm, she felt her stomach flip over with relief. After a day of angst, the news even made her forget briefly that she was sitting in a cupboard, like an old broom, or a forgotten tin of beans.
She stuck her head into Nigel’s office before leaving to give him a quick thumbs up. ‘Meeting went well with Stefan Camberwaddle,’ she said, as he looked up from a pile of papers.
‘Excellent news,’ he smiled, listening to her for once.
She turned to leave – a quick taxi ride to the garage and hopefully a new car by the next day. Her credit card was nearly burning a hole in her handbag.
‘Oh, and Clare?’ Nigel said, just as the door was closing. She was so used to being called Carol that she nearly didn’t answer.
‘Yes?’
‘Could you tell Will his prototypes are in?’
‘Prototypes?’ she said, wondering what on earth Will was trying now. The last thing he’d ordered on behalf of the firm had been car stickers displaying the proud words: ‘Trip or fall? Mann up!’
‘Rather innovative I thought.’ Nigel held up a couple of translucent labels which read ‘Accident? Who cares?!’ alongside the firm’s logo.
‘Wow,’ she said.
‘Yes. All part of this rather modern business strategy of Will’s,’ he continued, settling back contentedly in his chair. ‘All about embracing positive thought and whatnot.’
‘Yes.’
‘And, you know, visualisation and body language.’
‘Right. And these are going where?’
‘Oh, on the paddle thingies in the hospital.’
‘The defibrillators?’
‘That’s it! Just think.’ Nigel shook his head in awe at the genius of Will’s idea.
She could imagine it now. A patient, blearily coming around from cardiac arrest suddenly leaping from the bed and jotting down the number so that he could make a negligence claim.
‘Great,’ she said, not quite wanting to burst the bubble of delusion Nigel was clearly happily living in. ‘I’ll let him know.’
Chapter Thirteen
When Clare woke the next day and looked out of the window at her new car she experienced a strange sinking sensation, not unlike the feeling she used to have at university when she’d woken up with a hangover to discover a stolen traffic cone in the corner, or realised she’d nabbed an ashtray from the student bar. Something that had seemed like a good idea at the time, but was a bit embarrassing in the cold light of day.
Last night, in the garage, the car had seemed the obvious choice. As soon as she’d leaned in and smelled the leather seats, seen the automatic top fold back into a neat slot in front of the boot, she’d been seduced.
Sure, she’d gone in with a budget of six thousand pounds, but with nought per cent finance over ten years, she’d barely notice the monthly payment. At least, that’s what she’d told herself.
‘It’s a limited edition,’ the garage owner had told her proudly. ‘Safety features, and even a built-in on-board virtual assistant, we call Claudia.’
‘Wow.’
‘Quite.’
She’d driven it around the block and been told how the assistant could dial numbers for her, would remind her to fasten her seat belt and even warn her if she was going too fast.
‘A bit like a nagging wife!’ he quipped, completely misjudging his audience.
When she’d roared into the driveway last night, almost totalling two of their solar garden lights, Toby had told her it was lovely, although the expression that briefly flickered across his face was more one of panic.
&n
bsp; Today, looking at her new purchase, she saw it for what it probably was. A classic ‘look at me’ midlife crisis car.
No. She refused to believe it.
Perhaps she was overthinking? Why shouldn’t she have a glamorous car? And why was she suddenly feeling self-conscious in any case? She’d agreed to perform as a rap artist – if she could do that, she could do anything. Perhaps she should have gone for tinted windows and a bangin’ sound system as well as the latest in AI technology.
She felt better, too, when a little later Katie asked her to take her to her gymnastics lesson in the new wheels and actually let Clare drop her off at the gate rather than around the corner as usual. ‘Bye, Mum!’ her suddenly communicative daughter said loudly, making sure as many people saw her as possible.
On the way home, Clare’s mobile began to ring. She answered hands-free on the dashboard.
‘Hi, Clare.’
‘Hi, Dan.’
‘Look, we need to start rehearsing obviously and I thought maybe later …’ Clare felt a prickle of panic. She’d forgotten somehow that they’d need to rehearse.
‘I can’t later, sorry. Busy weekend!’ she said.
‘Oh. Maybe tomorrow?’
‘I just can’t, Dan. Monday maybe?’
‘But we really need you. This sort of thing, we can’t just put it together overnight.’
‘I know, but I’m busy. I have a job, a family – weekends are busy. I want to help, but …’
Dan was silent.
‘Are you still there?’
‘Yeah, I just … Clare you seem like a great person – you want to support the boys I can see that. But if we’re going to do anything worthwhile, we’re going to have to start rehearsin’ as soon as we can.’
‘Of course. It’s just …’
There was a silence. ‘Look, Clare, I don’t know what your life is like. Probably pretty good if you’re a lawyer, right?’
‘I wouldn’t say …’
‘What I mean is – you’ve got enough money, security, right?’
‘Well, yes.’
‘Qualifications, right?’
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