The Spiral

by Gideon Burrows

  Megan had to work hard to maintain above average. Rachel was top of the class without blinking. It took little for her to be excellent.

  What was she even doing there? She was making Megan look like she belonged with this lot. Those girls dragging their heels into college because there was nothing better to fill their time.

  There was only one space at the top, and Rachel had it with room to spare. She was the girl who, if you met her in the waiting room for an interview, you would walk out again.

  No chance.

  But Megan really liked Rachel. She was everything she wanted to be, but Dad had always prevented.

  Ambitious. Clever. Determined. Beautiful.

  The young woman never spoke about her family, but Megan assumed her folks backed her every step of the way. She’d come back home from college, and there would be dinner on the table, the walls stacked high with frames of diplomas, and certificates, and pictures of hockey teams, or netball, or fucking ballet.

  If Rachel wasn’t so quiet. So closed, maybe, Megan could have called her a genuine friend. But friends open up.

  Instead she was - what was it? - a rival. A friendly rival, but a rival nevertheless?

  It was all one way.

  The Apprentice.

  It was the bitches that always got furthest on that show. Some of them were dumb, that was obvious enough, but intelligence wasn’t what got you hired.

  Dad liked to watch The Apprentice. Megan hated it, but he always forced her to watch it instead of moping in her room.

  It was all about the ability to play the game, make the right friends, make cold choices for your own greater good. Good fun to see those posh bastards get hammered, Dad would say. Never done a bit of work in their lives.

  God, those Apprentice women were horrible, but look at them. The worst behaved and the best looking ones were those who’d got to stay week after week, along with the smarmiest of the boys.

  But it was going to be a dog eat dog world out there in the City. If she was going to rise up the ranks, well, she would not get there by being all cupcakes, sweet smiles and letting the pretty girls and boys get on with it.

  Dad didn’t want her climbing any ladders. Not even to change gutters.

  Rachel didn’t seem to have the drive Megan did. She didn’t need to escape her own father’s underwhelming expectations. His warnings not to get ahead of herself. To be satisfied with her rightful place.

  “So, what was this interview you’re now more than…,” Giles looked at his watch, “nearly two and a half full days late for.”

  “Oh, it was nothing,” said Megan. “Hardly worth discussing now, is it?”

  “No, sorry. I am interested. It came out wrong.” Giles was trying to get the sarcasm out of his voice. Resolved from his time down the steps with Charles.

  Sarcasm was the tone his workmates always used. Everything he’d learned at his secondary boarding school Winchester, and at Cambridge. He had to admit it: he was privileged. Never paid for anything in his life, never really paid. Mum and Dad took care of it.

  He’d never strived, never had to work that hard. He’d detected Megan’s panic about the job interview. He’d never had to sweat through a proper job interview. Never been turned down for a job. The CV did the work for him, and he’d even paid a career coach to write that for him.

  Even his mental health problems had been taken care of, thanks to his parents’ money.

  He knew every word he said came out as a slight put down, even if it was good news or congratulations. Among his peers and their privilege, they never needed to take each other seriously. Never really had to sympathise.

  It was the tone of voice he always heard in his head whenever those idiots from work or college were talking to him. Giving him a constant commentary about his every move. It was his own tone of voice. The one he was now coming to hate.

  He felt bad for Megan. She was obviously struggling to gain success, and something else: was it pressure from her own upbringing? Essex girls don’t make good, do they? They become hairdressers. Beauticians. Nail girls. They earn £8 an hour in tanning salons.

  Giles took a deep breath and tried to make his voice as flat as possible. “Something in the City?”

  “Just a legal secretary thing,” said Megan, shying away. As if resigned to the fact that talking about anything was better than the endless silences echoing off the walls.

  “It was a second interview, actually. I reckon I could have got this one too. I’d bought new clothes, done the whole thing.”

  “I’m sorry,” he said. This time it didn’t come out sarcastic.

  “Thanks.”

  The two of them looked down at what they were wearing. Their once smart clothes were ragged and filthy with stains. Megan had blood on her toes. Her blouse was filthy.

  The sleeves of Giles’ Mark Powell shirt were soiled, and almost worn through at the elbow. Once pressed neatly and tucked into his trousers, it was now hanging out and grey.

  It hung off him as if he’d lost pounds in the last few days. Actually, with nothing going in the right end and everything going out the other, there was every chance he had.

  Despite their different backgrounds, Giles realised there wasn’t much between all of them. Strip away the money, the privilege, the luck, and what was left?

  With the hunger in their bellies and the thirst in their throat, all three of them were spending more and more time sleeping. Benny was resting right now, ten steps above.

  The two smiled at their situation. “Well, I think you made a real effort. You look great.”

  She laughed and shook her head, a genuinely good humoured gesture.

  Laughing Giles. This is new. Laughing is good, Giles. Next step, a little arm around the shoulder. Works every time, you know the drill.

  Giles pushed the voices down.

  “Go on,” he said, trying again to keep the tone encouraging. “Please, I’m interested.”

  “Well, it was with Rank and Tudor. It’s a little legal chambers close to Russell Square. That’s where I was going before this,” she lifted her palm limply. “It’s not much but it’s London, you know? The big smoke. Onwards and upwards?”

  Onwards and upwards? Career girl. Say no more.

  “Otherwise, it’s just stay local in Epping. Living with Dad. Some crappy reception desk, in the same crappy town I grew up in. Serving people I went to school with.”

  Giles sighed.

  “It’s overrated, I promise you. The whole London thing. The suits, the fucking drinks after work.”

  The fucking of legal secretaries with tight asses after nights out in the pub after work.

  He spoke more forcefully: “The dicks who you’re forced to work with. It’s good for a time, sure, but just when you want to step off the escalator, take some downtime, appreciate - well, appreciate life - someone comes and puts another big escalator right there in front of you, and it’s step on or get lost.”

  “All I want to do is get in on the first floor,” said Megan. “Get a break. I can worry about the rest later?”

  “Yeah, but later is when? Five years time? 10? 20? Time goes quick when you’re supposedly having a good time, then boom. That was your life buddy, you happy now?”

  Giles spat out the last words.

  “Wow,” said Megan. “That doesn’t sound like the you I met a couple of days ago. I thought it was all ‘A big firm, top for financial trading in Europe, actually.’”

  It was Giles’ turn to shake his head and smile as Megan made fun of him. God, had he really said that? What a prick.

  “Well, I guess there’s nothing better for taking you off the escalator than forcing you to take the stairs.”

  Now they were really laughing. He’d made a genuinely funny joke.

  Giles saw a gentle sparkle in Megan’s eyes, even though the surrounding skin was grubby and the area around her eyes was puffy and raw from crying.

  “You know, you’re alright Megan.”

  �
�Giles.” The retort was a matronly put down, an obvious rejection, but a friendly one.

  Ah, just being coy, Giles. Show some balls.

  “No, no, nothing funny. You’re a genuinely great person.”

  She smiled shyly.

  “And beautiful.” He cringed at his own words. “I’m just saying, if I have to be stuck down an endless staircase, I’m glad it’s with you.”

  This time Megan blushed.

  This shit will work on anyone. That’s your opening right there, Giles. Open permission if you ask me.

  Fuck. He’d lost it. The calmness. The consideration. It was so hard to hold onto. The pill packet was empty. The pull of the voices too hard.

  Giles shifted up one step towards Megan.

  “Look, I know that you and Benny have got something going on, but given the circumstances, that doesn’t prevent, does it, a little… It’s just us down here, and we aren’t going anywhere fast.”

  “Me and Benny do not have something going on. Christ, Giles, we’re just trying to survive. What’s your problem?”

  “No problem,” the sarcastic tone had returned. This was where it was sink or swim with the girls he chatted up. Drunk, of course.

  The money shot Giles.

  “I’m just trying to find a way into that beautiful head of yours.”

  The innuendo, so obvious to Giles and his voices, and blatantly obvious to Megan.

  Will she bite?

  “I’ll tell you what Giles,” said Megan snapping, and speaking loud enough to include the now awakening Benny into the conversation. “Since we’re playing truths today, why don’t you tell us all about your wife? You’ve kept awfully quiet, but we all want to know about her.”

  It was her turn to use a tone of voice loaded with sarcasm.

  Giles’ lips curled.

  “That’s right, isn’t it Giles,” she said, moving her own body two steps further towards the man above until she could feel his leg against her back. “We want to hear all about your wife. Lisa. That’s her name, isn’t it? If crying out in your sleep is anything to go by.”

  “Whoa,” Benny said, dragging himself fully into consciousness. It took him a few seconds to read the situation as he sat up from his sleeping position.

  “Giles? You’re kidding right? You have a wife?”

  26

  Giles lit up. Four more left.

  He had a wife. Past tense. Not that it was anyone else’s business. Why did that lumbering hulk of meat always get in the way? What was he, Megan’s guardian angel?

  Muscling in. Guys like that may have all the brawn, but you can always teach them a lesson, Giles. Fucking oaf.

  Giles moved his hand down and felt his wedding ring in his trouser pocket.

  And she’s too clever for her own good.

  Someone had said it at work. When a man sees a woman for the first time, it’s chest first then face. When a woman sees a man, it’s wedding finger first. Then only assess the rest if it’s all clear.

  Megan must have seen Giles’ wedding ring when they first came down the staircase, before he later slipped it off.

  In the end, moving from sales into finance hadn’t been too difficult for Giles. That Oxbridge degree, a few tweaked contacts - his friends actually earned commission if they introduced someone good to their firms - and Giles’ natural sales charm got him a job on the finance floor of Herbert Ford Finance. From day one it would add 10k to his salary.

  “Come on Giles, it’s a straightforward decision. You should see some of the fringe benefits,” his buddy David had said. Well, David wasn’t really a buddy. He was a friend of an old college mate and he’d be making a bonus if Giles took the job. But circles could be tight in the City.

  “It’ll be long hours,” Giles had told Lisa. “I’ll probably have to be someone’s underling for a while. At least until I get up there. It’ll be more cash, private health care, gym membership for both of us. The lot.”

  “Will it make you happy?”

  “It’ll be a lot more pressure, but we’ll be able to have the things we want.”

  “Then you should do it,” said Lisa. “Hey, there’s even this little Victorian terrace that’s come up at Flixtons. With your new salary, we could make the mortgage. Just about.”

  Giles didn’t use the gym membership in the first year. He didn’t have the time. And the longer hours you worked, and the more hobnobbing with the partners after hours you did, the more you got on. Then you earned more, put in more hours, and became more senior. Then more hours, inside and outside of work. Then there were clients to take out.

  “This is the big-time now, Giles,” his manager Andrew Askew said over another pint after work after his first year and his third pay rise. “You could be Partner in a few years’ time. Work hard now and you could retire in fifteen years. Lovely pad, lovely little wife at home, and nothing to do all day but drive in your Merc convertible to your second home in the countryside.”

  Giles and Lisa didn’t move into that Victorian house. By the time Giles was earning enough, it had long gone and other properties nearby had gone up and out of their reach. Instead, they’d bought a three bedroom terrace house further out in east London, close to Snaresbrook. Central Line to Central London. Perfect.

  It was a little run down and Lisa was keen to get the main bedroom and the little box room redecorated, at least. But Giles said he didn’t have the time to think about house repairs, let alone anything more major. He too often had to work late, and Lisa would spend evenings at home staring at the TV alone. It was that or the peeling wallpaper.

  Got your pass stamped, Giles? Because the boys are off to The Fox to celebrate the latest round of bonuses. You in or out?

  Giles was in. It was what was expected. It would be the second night this week of him rolling into Snaresbrook on the second-to-last train. Another night of fumbling his way noisily in the dark and landing into the bed next to Lisa stinking of booze.

  He’d creep up to her, wanting to feel her warmth, but she’d shuffle away, letting cold air seep under the duvet between them. He’d creep closer and Lisa would shuffle again until she was almost balancing on the edge of the bed. Next morning he had no choice but to be out of the door early, grabbing a piece of toast to eat on his way to the Tube. He’d leave crumbs on the side and the knife sticking out of the margarine tub.

  “I was thinking we could spend Sunday at my folks next weekend,” said Lisa one Friday evening when Giles had come through the door by 8 p.m. He’d only stayed in the pub for a couple. “We’ve not seen them for ages. It’s Mum’s birthday.”

  “Ah, no-can-do,” Giles replied. “There’s this work thing. The boat race. We’ve got a corporate marquee at Mortlake. You’re invited, of course. But it’ll be pretty intense. I assumed it wouldn’t be your scene, really.”

  “How about the weekend after, then?”

  “We’ll have to see. I don’t know if I’m coming or going right now at work. There’s another promotion in the offing.”

  It’s yours Giles, if you show willing. But you do need to show willing.

  “But I never see you,” said Lisa, “and… I thought we were building a life together here.”

  “Oh, by ‘building a life together’ you mean having a baby,” said Giles. “This isn’t about me at all, is it? It’s about you.” He spat the last words.

  “No, it’s not about me. I just miss us, Giles. It’s not what I thought it would be like.”

  “What did you think it would be like? You told me to take the job. I’m doing this all for us, for our future.”

  “What, the drinking and the late nights and leaving me here by myself?”

  “It’s what we agreed. Work now, family later.”

  “We never said family later. We never even talked about family.” Lisa had tears in her eyes. “What else did you think we were going to do? All my friends have babies or they’re expecting.”

  “Yeah, and their husbands have all got decent jobs and can afford
to have children.”

  “We can afford…”

  “Maybe, but I’ll never be here. I still need to put in the hours. I’ve got to earn the money to keep us: you, me, it.”

  “It?” Lisa really was crying now.

  “You know what I mean. You’ll be here with a baby while I go out and work.”

  “What, drinking with your mates?”

  “It’s not drinking with my mates, Lisa. It’s the job. It’s what I do. It’s my job! It’s not some fluffy hobnobbing PR with celebrities you can choose to do or not.” Giles was angry too now. He had to get out of here.

  A few of us are getting together at The Fox, then onto a late bar. You in?

  Giles hadn’t changed out of his work clothes. “Fuck’s sake,” he said. He slammed the front door on his way out.

  The next morning was Saturday. Despite a banging hangover, Giles had cooked Lisa scrambled eggs to eat in bed. Work was getting on top of him right now, he said. He was struggling to balance giving his all to the company and what he really wanted to do, which was spend time with her and build their own little nest.

  That evening he surprised her with flowers and a restaurant booking at one of Liverpool Street’s more upmarket eateries. The next day, they went to Lisa’s parents’ for an early birthday lunch. And Giles attempted to flatter her mum and praise her cooking. On the way home, he’d said they should take the weekend away soon. They could talk then more seriously about having a baby.

  And Lisa agreed to go with Giles to watch the boat race.

  Despite him being right about it not being her scene - too many suits talking about too much money - she’d admitted she enjoyed the race itself. She’d even cheered when the Cambridge crew crossed the finish line first and giggled with him about ‘us trophy wives brought along for eye candy’.

  His work colleagues weren’t that bad either. Most were sober and, with their own girlfriends and wives about, obviously on their best behaviour. And to be fair, when she gave Giles the glance that said I’ve had enough, he’d whisked her away.

  They’d then gone for a private early evening meal at a quiet pub in Putney. That night they had better sex than Giles could remember. He’d been giving and tender; playfully resisting Lisa’s usual demands to be tied to the bedposts until the last minute. Then he savoured the way, when he finally relented, that she shivered through waves of pleasure.