by Abi Silver
Luckily for Toby, Martine generally paid him little attention, so he could gawp from afar and privately congratulate his boss and mentor on his good fortune, with a lewd chuckle, or routinely grumble to himself about her interference in the business, without the discomfort of her unsettling presence close by.
But today Martine was standing very close to him and speaking to him very directly.
‘Toby. Just the person I was looking for.’
‘Hello Martine. How are you?’ Toby gulped and checked to see if anyone else was in earshot.
‘Good, thank you. I wanted to ask you if you had any plans next week, in the evenings?’
‘I don’t think so. Does James need me to do something?’ he asked.
‘I thought you might like to come over for dinner, to the house, on Monday night?’
‘James is away Monday night.’
‘Yes.’
‘In Germany. I organised his schedule.’
Martine had squeezed out a smile.
‘I wanted to discuss a business idea with you. I thought I’d surprise James with it, but I’d value your views first. I don’t want to look stupid.’
‘Oh.’ Toby felt colour flooding to his cheeks.
‘And we never get much time to talk privately at work. There’s always someone listening in. Can you come around seven?’
‘Yes. Thank you,’ Toby stuttered. ‘Monday at seven.’
‘I’ll make us some food. Just something light. I never eat a heavy meal at night,’ Martine added. ‘It affects my sleep.’
‘No. Me neither. Sounds great. See you then. I’ll look forward to it.’
13
JAMES JOINED Peter for coffee at Haz on Foster Lane in the City. Peter sometimes did this, requested James’ company at short notice, usually to pass on some wisdom he had overheard or to probe James for information. Peter had already ordered a large expresso and some baklava and he dug into the latter with enthusiasm and the aid of a large fork.
‘Ba-kla-va,’ Peter exclaimed as syrup oozed out onto his plate. ‘Food of the gods.’
James ordered a camomile tea; he was trying to cut down on caffeine and it was nearing his watershed of 3pm. He refrained from any food. He wanted to know why he had been summoned this time.
‘I got the recipe off the internet and gave it to Fiona, but she hasn’t mastered it yet,’ Peter continued. ‘Filo pastry is tricky, apparently. You know where it originated?’ Peter tapped his taut stomach companionably. ‘Topkapi palace, Istanbul. The best I’ve ever tasted was in Armenia, where they add cinnamon and cloves, but this is not bad, I have to say.’
James’ eyes travelled to the counter, where the young man making his tea was trying to accept money from another customer while simultaneously answering the phone.
‘You wanted to meet?’ he said flatly.
‘Yes. Look, this is awkward. You know I hate to be the harbinger of bad tidings.’
‘You and Fiona can’t make it to Amadeus now, after all.’
Peter took another mouthful of cake.
‘No. We’re still up for it – looking forward to it. It’s the cyber security stuff we talked about at the last Cinderella meeting. I’ve talked to Alan again, but you’re going to have to give on this one, I’m afraid.’
James’ tea arrived and he poured it straight into his cup.
‘I don’t understand why Alan is insisting,’ he said. ‘I can’t believe it’s happening in any other industry. Why are we being singled out? Maybe if I spoke to him myself I could explain.’
‘I don’t think that’s a good idea. Alan can be quite fiery. Just think about it. Autonomous vehicles will be the norm in, what, ten years’ time? Everyone will have them and we will be totally reliant on them to get us from one place to another and to transport things across the country. Blind people, sick people, old people, they will be getting into these vehicles too. Alan’s job is to protect the public.’
‘Alan’s job is to administer transport…’
‘Which necessarily includes road safety.’
‘So you are telling me that BAE and Rolls Royce have welcomed the Ministry of Defence in to vet their security? Or British Airways has allowed the CAA to probe its systems?’
‘Frankly, I haven’t a clue. I just know that Alan is not to be moved! It’s just to take a peek, nothing more.’
‘What kind of peek?’
‘We send some computer geeks into your offices for a couple of days.’
‘A couple of days!’
‘We could do it while you were away. You wouldn’t even have to see them.’
‘And who are these computer geeks?’
‘They work for us.’
‘They’re probably contractors, with no allegiance to anyone. I handpick my staff.’
‘You think that makes them incorruptible?’
‘And I pay well.’
‘No one is incorruptible. I’ve learned that after twenty years in the Civil Service. But I can assure you, there is no more risk of a leak than with your own staff. And it’s only what you’re planning to share with the other car manufacturers, in any event. Or that’s what you said?’
‘I choose what we share with the others, and it’s the minimum. I don’t just open the doors and invite them in and spill our innermost secrets. No.’
‘I don’t see how we can move forward with SEDA if you don’t agree.’
‘Was this all because of Dr Fielding? Because I might just pay him a visit myself.’
‘It’s not just Dr Fielding. I can’t provide details as it’s confidential.’ Peter fixed James with a serious stare. ‘But there have been lots of memos on this from multiple sources. Hacking is a serious concern.’
‘And unfounded. It’s all in hand.’
‘Is that your final word, then?’
James downed his tea. He wanted to bang the cup down and storm out. Instead, he shoved it to the centre of the table.
‘I’ll sound out the others early next week,’ he said. ‘We have another meeting.’
‘And you’ll let me know?’
‘Yes. I’ll let you know.’
***
After James’ hasty departure, Peter ordered another slice of baklava. He knew he shouldn’t, but he would walk the long way back to the office and his diet, strictly enforced at home by his wife, Fiona, was making him listless and grouchy.
He checked that no one remotely interesting-looking was present in the café before making his call.
‘Hello. Is that Toby Barnes?’ Peter leaned back in his chair and scratched the area around his belly button. ‘We haven’t spoken before. My name is Peter Mears. I work for the Department of Transport.’
‘Yes, that’s right. “Cinderella”. You do know.
‘…Thing is. I think it would be useful if you and I could meet. Do you think that would be possible?...
‘…Oh no. It would be better if he didn’t know about it just yet. I’ll explain everything then...
‘…Very good. I’ll send you an invite.’
14
TOBY SAT IN Martine’s kitchen on a bar stool, his knee jogging up and down, concealed below the worktop. Martine was at the stove, stirring the contents of a large wok, into which she was liberally splashing various mysterious liquids. Nearby, she had positioned a remote-control handset and she flitted industriously from one song to another, the walls vibrating with the pounding rhythm of her hip hop playlist.
Martine turned around, beamed at Toby and re-filled his glass. This was Toby’s third. He couldn’t remember now precisely what ingredients she had mentioned throwing into the mix. He knew that it was some kind of margarita, as he could taste vodka and lime juice, and it just kind of slid down so effortlessly he was not going to refuse.
Martine hummed to herself as she work
ed, and he wondered if he had misjudged her. Here, in her kitchen, without her earrings or boots, with her wild hair tied back, she seemed, well, normal and relaxed; any celestial or diva qualities subsumed by her domestic persona.
By the time Martine placed the sizzling beef in front of him and turned the volume down on their musical accompaniment, he was already at the off-balance, not-totally-in-control-of-his-mouth stage and in danger of moving into the hysterical giggling phase.
‘Thish looksh good,’ he said, picking up his fork and shovelling up some noodles, failing to notice a large chilli until after its heat had seared the delicate underside of his tongue.
‘Oh, it’s just something I rustled up,’ Martine said. ‘James likes it.’
Toby ate some more, the noodles sliding awkwardly off his fork and flicking sauce across his cheek.
‘Here.’ Martine dabbed Toby’s face with a paper napkin.
Toby coughed distractedly. His mother was the only one who had ever wiped his face, until now.
‘I’m so pleased you’ve come,’ she drawled. ‘It’s always so hard to find you at the office. Sometimes I think you’re hiding.’
‘James keeps me busy,’ Toby said.
‘Look, I have a confession to make.’ She lay down her fork and gazed at Toby over her cocktail.
‘OK.’ Toby swallowed his mouthful of food, even though he had not chewed it sufficiently well. His half-sozzled brain had reasoned that the chilli may have less impact if it passed through his system making minimal contact with his already burning tongue.
‘It wasn’t just that I wanted to run my idea past you, see what you thought. I hoped you might help me develop it further.’
‘Oh. OK.’ Toby’s voice came out weaker than expected and he sipped at his cocktail to clear his throat.
‘James is always so busy.’
‘Sounds sensible to talk to me then. What’s the idea?’
‘Do you like the beef?’ she asked suddenly.
‘Yes. It’s really delicious,’ Toby slurred.
‘So. Well, you’re not to laugh.’
‘I promish I won’t laugh.’
‘All right. This is what I was thinking.’
***
Toby woke up in the middle of the night. He was alone in bed in a strange bedroom and he had no recollection of how he had got there or of having gone through any of his bedtime routine. He peeked under the covers; he was naked, his clothes sprawled across a chair by the window. He tried hard to recall anything which would provide a clue as to where he might be and then he remembered dinner and Martine.
He stumbled over to the window and peered out. Although it was still dark, the well-lit driveway confirmed to him that he was still at the Salisburys’ residence. Crossing the room again en route to the bathroom, his foot nudged something soft on the floor. He bent down to pick it up, transporting it with him into the glare of the bathroom strip light. It took seconds for him to register that it was a piece of clothing. Toby held it up in both hands. It was a champagne-coloured silk camisole with lace edging. The fabric rippled at his gentle caress. It exuded sultry, seductive sexiness. Suddenly, the realisation hit him like a brick; it was Martine’s. It must be. She was the only woman who lived in this house. Martine’s underwear had been lying on the floor of his bedroom.
He closed the bathroom door tightly behind him, the need to pee taking over momentarily and preventing him from thinking straight. Only afterwards did he tiptoe back out into his room and check for any other signs of Martine. Thankfully, he found none. He was half way back to bed, when he realised he was still holding the camisole. He wrenched the bedroom door open, flung it out on to the landing and returned to his bed, desperately hoping that he and Martine had not…what?
God. What had he done? James was a black belt in one of the martial arts. Toby couldn’t remember now which one, but he was fairly sure it was the one in which they used nunchucks. Carol had once whispered to him that she had seen a pair in James’ desk. And there were cameras everywhere in the house, weren’t there? He’d counted at least three on the drive on the way in. He switched on the bedside lamp and directed its beam around the room, sending a search light into all the far away corners. He couldn’t immediately see anything, but you could hide a camera anywhere these days.
Whose room was this? Martine had told him. He tried to focus but a sharp pain was traversing his temple and the light was making him feel nauseous. Zac, that’s right. Their youngest son. How old was Zac now? Twelve or thirteen. Surely they wouldn’t spy on their own son? Maybe James had set the camera up and Martine didn’t even know about it. Sometimes parents hid them in soft toys. There was a teddy, of sorts, on the dressing table. Aagh! He leaped up again, ignoring the wave of dizziness which almost overwhelmed him, picked it up, squeezed it and was relieved to find it soft in all the right places. Even so, he stuffed it inside the wardrobe.
Returning to bed one more time, Toby tried to focus. What had they been talking about before he got so drunk? He wanted to remember. Martine had been asking him for advice. She had a plan and she had asked for his help. Slowly, as he allowed his head to flop onto the pillow and his shoulders to sink into the memory foam, it began to come back to him, one piece at a time.
15
‘SIDWELL HOUSE ortho clinic, how can I help you?’ Therese’s voice cracked around the edges as she uttered the words for the first time in five months.
‘Yes. We can fit you in, Mr Kelly...
‘...It is. Yes, thank you. I’m very well...
‘...A little girl...
‘...I’m in today, more days next week. And I’ll be back properly next month.’ Therese realised as she made the announcement that she hadn’t yet discussed any of this with Neil.
‘How about 10 o’clock next Tuesday the 10th?...
...Great. See you then.’
Therese felt a curious sense of pride at having completed her first call successfully, but there was no one to tell. Ella, the other receptionist, had disappeared five minutes ago and not yet returned. She double-checked she had entered Mr Kelly’s appointment properly. The practice had brought in a new booking system since her maternity leave began and she’d only had half an hour’s training.
Then she checked the cupboards behind the reception area to make sure they had plenty of toothbrushes and dental sticks. She noticed that only two packets of the red TePes, the most popular size, remained. She scribbled a reorder note to the practice manager.
Ella returned with two mugs of coffee and handed her one.
‘You don’t take sugar, do you? But I put in extra milk the way you like it.’
‘Oh thanks. That’s so kind of you.’
‘Biscuit?’ Ella offered her the packet of Oreos she had tucked under her armpit and Therese took one.
‘I bet you don’t ever get time for coffee at home, with three little ones,’ Ella said.
‘No. I can’t eat biscuits either, not without having to give them to the kids first. And we’re trying not to let them have a lot of sugar. Not just because I work here,’ she laughed, ‘but because, well, it’s not good for them generally. All this stuff about childhood obesity.’
Ella nodded her understanding.
‘Oh’. Therese said. ‘I saw Mrs Titian is coming in at 11.30. I wasn’t sure if you knew that she’s terrified of dogs. We used to have a note on the old system. To make sure that we don’t give her an appointment next to someone we know brings their dog, like Mr Bygraves.’
‘You’re right. It has dropped off. I’ll sort it out. I think Mr Bygraves’ dog died anyway.’
‘That’s a shame.’
‘It was very old. He practically had to drag it in here, literally. Last time it sat down just outside the door and wouldn’t move. Maybe we smell like the vet, all the anaesthetic. Um, do you know when you’re coming back, properly tha
t is?’
‘I’m not sure. I’ll be in a few mornings next week.’
‘It’s just, well, we’ve had people covering for you. But it’s much nicer having you here. And you know a lot of things, like the Mrs Titian stuff.’
Therese walked over to the seating area, where she tidied the newspapers on the low table in front of her and lined the chairs up. Then she sat down again and took a draught of coffee, before checking through the appointments for the rest of the day.
‘Soon,’ she said. ‘I need to sort out my childcare, but I’m really hoping to come back soon.’
16
CONSTANCE was reading through some papers for a new client accused of shoplifting, when her phone rang. She ignored it at first, and by the time her curiosity had overpowered her will to resist, and she had scrambled to retrieve it from the bowels of her handbag, it had stopped. But the name of the caller, Jermain, remained, emblazoned across her screen. As she contemplated what her brother might want, he called a second time. Constance checked the door was closed, before sitting back and tucking the phone into her ear.
‘Hello,’ she began, with the lump which accompanied most of her conversations with Jermain firmly lodged in her throat. And, as anticipated, the line was poor, suggesting he was speaking long-distance or from some underground bunker. There was probably a simple explanation for the weak connection, Constance reflected, but she would never forget that he had once called her from a cupboard in a basement in Colombia, where he was holed up while a gun fight erupted outside. They had been cut off part-way through and she hadn’t known whether he was alive or dead until he turned up in the public gallery at one of her hearings, two weeks later, and waved at her enthusiastically over everyone’s heads.
‘You didn’t answer first time,’ Jermain began.
‘I’m at work,’ Constance replied.
‘Me too.’
‘Oh?’
‘Yeah. Sorry I’ve been out of touch for a while. I’m in Swindon.’
