Talk to Me

by Jules Wake

  He got out of the car and stomped round to the passenger door. Olivia all but fell out. Sighing to himself, he scooped her up into his arms and carried her down the street to the front door. Her hair tickled his nose as her head snuggled into him. It smelled of apples and sunshine. Just shampoo, he told himself.

  ‘Mmm … D’nel … thaaa …’ she slurred, her breath warm on his neck. She felt limp and soft and he tightened his grip, worried she might slip right through his arms. Holding her as he reached the door, he realised neither of them had a key. Tough, he’d have to wake Emily to come down and let them in. At least she’d had some sleep.

  There was nowhere to put Olivia but on the sofa, bundled up in an old sleeping bag that Emily managed to sulkily produce.

  He gritted his teeth as he stood in the doorway of Olivia’s bedroom looking at the blood-soaked bedding. Shit, what a mess. Some, but not all, of the dark red stain had faded to brown. Exasperated he rolled up his shirtsleeves. Why should he have expected Emily to sort it out?

  He strode to the kitchen and grabbed a couple of black bin bags.

  ‘What are you doing?’ asked Emily in a plaintive voice. ‘It’s nearly six in the morning. Come to bed. I’ve got to go to work soon. I need some more sleep.’

  ‘We can’t leave Olivia’s bedroom like that.’

  Emily shrugged, her hands fluttering as if that might make the mess magically disappear. ‘I don’t see why not. It’s not going to make much difference now.’

  He closed his eyes and counted to ten. It would have made a difference if someone had at least stripped the bed a couple of hours ago instead of letting the blood seep into the mattress. He stomped back to the bedroom.

  He stuffed the sheets straight into the black bags. No point trying to save them or the double duvet. Hopefully Olivia wasn’t too attached to them. If it were him he’d want new. These were stained with nasty memories and you couldn’t be sure you’d get all the glass shards out. The glass in that window must have been quite old.

  He could order her a new duvet today and it could be delivered tomorrow. The mattress he’d sponge as best he could and then she could always turn it over and she had spare bed sheets.

  He hoisted the black bags over his shoulder and took them down the fire escape steps and through the shared yard at the back of the junk shop, to the wheelie bins arranged in a neat row like sentries on guard. He didn’t hang around, the enclosed yard was full of dark corners and shadows.

  Olivia had fallen asleep again, scrunched up on the sofa, her head at an odd angle. He went over and shifted the cushion under her head. She didn’t stir but she looked a bit more comfortable now.

  Half past six. No point in trying to go to sleep and he didn’t want to disturb Emily again … no, not strictly true, he wanted to avoid her, avoid saying something that would upset her. His hands clenched, tension rocking up his arms into his shoulders. Tiredness had scoured out his eyes and they felt gritty and sore.

  Making a cup of tea, he sat in the kitchen staring out of the window. How had life suddenly got so complicated? He rubbed at the stubble on his chin, things felt different but he couldn’t quite figure out what it was that had changed.

  ‘Olivia? Do you know where my house keys are? I can’t find them.’

  These were the first words Emily addressed to me the following morning as I lay on the sofa, bundled up in a sleeping bag. Had she forgotten I’d been at the hospital half the night? Of course I hadn’t seen her bloody keys. She was always losing them.

  ‘When did you last have them?’ I asked patiently. Irritatingly, she stared at the ceiling as if mentally retracing her steps.

  ‘Can’t remember. You used your key last night after work. The night before that I was home after you – so you let me in. I thought they were in my handbag.’

  ‘Tried your coat pocket? Changed handbags?’

  ‘No, they were definitely in my bag. My new one.’

  She wouldn’t have changed that then, not her limited edition special.

  ‘You’ll have to let me in later. I can’t be bothered to look for them now. It’s not as if you’ll be going anywhere?’ She nodded towards the swathe of bandages around my arm. ‘How did you get on? Daniel said the cut wasn’t too bad after all.’

  Thanks for the sympathy.

  ‘Actually, it wasn’t the best evening of my life. They’ve Steri-Stripped it. Luckily I didn’t need any stitches. I was—’

  ‘It wasn’t much fun here, either.’ She glanced over her shoulder down the hall to the bathroom where Daniel was taking a shower. ‘I was terrified. I think Peter threw that brick. Who else could it have been? It must have been him on Tottenham Court Road yesterday. Do you think he followed us home?’

  ‘No,’ I said, rubbing my eyes. ‘You’ve been watching too many films.’

  That sort of thing didn’t happen in real life.

  Now in broad daylight, fear had receded and my imagination was back under control. As if anyone was going to chuck something through a window just because someone wouldn’t go out with them! That was Coronation Street not Earlsfield Road. That brick was just a random act of vandalism.

  ‘What if it was Peter?’ asked Emily, her words running into each other she spoke so quickly.

  ‘It can’t have been,’ I said, shaking my head with a confidence I didn’t feel.

  ‘Even so, he’s still odd. You should tell your cousin that one of his hand-picked candidates is a bit dodgy. Did you get hold of him?’

  ‘Yes, he said he’d vetted him.’ I crossed my fingers under the sleeping bag, not wanting to go into the detail of my conversation with my cousin. ‘But I’ll speak to him again.’ Although what was I going to say? Again, I had no proof that Peter was behind the incident.

  ‘See you later,’ trilled Emily, as she sailed through the lounge. ‘Come on, Daniel. Have you seen the time?’

  Her tone had changed considerably since our earlier conversation about Peter.

  Daniel came into the lounge. ‘Feeling better?’ he asked, with a diffident, almost shy smile, looking quickly at his watch before pulling a pristine white cuff back over his wrist, the crisp cotton emphasising his slight tan and the blond hairs on his arm. My stomach lurched with longing.

  ‘Thanks, Daniel. For looking after me. You must be shattered.’

  ‘Yes,’ he said, making no move to leave and suddenly finding his shoes of great interest.

  ‘I … em, really appreciate you taking me to casualty and waiting and … you know everything …’ God, I sounded a complete idiot. My tongue was well and truly tied in knots. ‘I don’t know what I’d … have done, if em … you hadn’t been, you know… here.’

  ‘Phoned an ambulance?’

  Did I detect a trace of amusement?

  ‘You might have picked up a paramedic,’ he quipped, although from his tone I don’t think he was trying to be funny.

  I decided to follow his lead. ‘What covered in blood and wearing my best bunny slippers? I don’t think so.’

  His face creased into a broad smile. I felt a small, golden glow inside, as if the sun had come out.

  ‘You have no idea what those bunnies do to a man,’ he mocked.

  A little voice inside me was dying to say, ‘No tell me’.

  ‘Right then …’ I said awkwardly.

  ‘Yes … I, um, need to get going.’

  In my head The Three Degrees had burst into song with a rousing rendition of ‘When will I see you again?’

  I got up, took a tentative step forward and laid my hand on his arm, about to kiss him on the cheek. Just to say thanks, of course.

  ‘Daniel. Hurry up.’ Emily’s voice was shrill, as she appeared at his side, threading her arm through his and marching him off to the front door.

  There was a lot of faffing about
downstairs with Emily snapping that she needed an umbrella. With an almighty slam that made the letter box rattle, the door closed on her strident tones.

  I let out a sigh and waited for my heart to slow again.

  Looking round the empty flat, I decided there was no point in being a wounded soldier and not making the most of it. Selecting a large bar of Dairy Milk from my secret stash and with a mug of tea, I switched on Radio 1, slipped back inside my sleeping bag and settled down.

  The night’s disturbed sleep caught up with me and succumbing to the soft-edged focus of the painkiller, I dozed off.

  I woke to the sound of a key in the lock and started. Was that Emily coming home already? Had I been asleep for the whole day? It didn’t feel like it.

  No, the clock on the wall said it was only quarter past ten. Puzzled and still half asleep, I called out. ‘Emily?’

  No answer. Dopily I swung my feet, still in the sleeping bag, onto the floor. She’d found her keys, then. I called her name again. What was she doing home at this time?

  Not coming back to play Florence Nightingale that was for sure.

  She still hadn’t answered. I waited and listened. A faint click. The front door closing. My heart lurched.

  ‘Emily.’ I yelled it louder this time – as if sounding confident and a touch belligerent might scare off whoever it was, if it wasn’t Emily.

  Still no sound. Making as much noise as I could, I shuffled across the lounge to the top step, bent and looked down. From there I could see the bottom of the stairs but not the front door at the end of the passage.

  ‘Hello,’ I called, feeling daft. As if a burglar was going to answer me!

  Disentangling myself from the sleeping bag, I crept down the top six steps protectively holding my injured arm and paused. From here I could see the glass front door. There was no one there. I hesitated. It wouldn’t do any harm to put the chain on.

  As soon as I reached the bottom step I scooted to the front door. Like a child running and jumping into bed, frightened of a monster lurking underneath. I was about to shove the chain in place, when I spotted the black bundle leaning against the glass on the other side of the door. I opened the door carefully. Charlie, the junk shop cat, was curled up in a ball, meowing piteously.

  ‘Hey, puss,’ I murmured softly, worried by his obvious distress. Gently stretching out my hand, I tried to stroke him but to my surprise he hissed, jumped up and ran off up the street limping. Strange, he was normally so friendly.

  I slid back the chain on the door and turned to go back upstairs. That was when I stepped into a cold damp patch.

  Looking down, my foot seemed small in the centre of the large sodden footprint outlined on the carpet. Far larger than Emily’s delicate size fours.

  Emily’s keys! My mind raced, making terrifying connections. Had her keys been missing since the day of Peter’s visit to the office? I tried to remember the scene. Emily had taken everything out of her bag that day. Had Peter taken them?

  Heart racing, I fled back up the stairs, grabbed the phone and bolted myself into the bathroom.

  Fingers shaking I tried to call Emily’s work number, stabbing and missing the buttons on the phone. My heart was pounding double time and my injured arm was throbbing.

  ‘Emily! It’s me. Olivia. He’s been here … he’s got your keys,’ I burst out. ‘He’s—’

  ‘Olivia, slow down—’

  ‘He’s been here … he must have your keys. He got in.’

  ‘Who’s been there?’ asked Emily impatiently. ‘What are you on about? I’ve got my keys. ’

  ‘You’ve got your keys?’ I repeated stupidly.

  ‘Yes, they were at work all the time. At reception. I must have dropped them here.’

  ‘Thank God.’ I sighed with relief, my heart immediately slowing but still thudding furiously. ‘Sorry, Em, I really thought … I thought … Doesn’t matter. I must have been dreaming. Lack of sleep.’

  ‘I bet the painkillers have confused you as well. It was a bit of an eventful night. No one can believe it here.’

  Emily would have embellished the tale, no doubt exaggerating the copious quantities of blood I’d shed.

  Putting down the phone and unbolting the bathroom door, I gave myself a stern talking too. You’re tired. Overwrought. It was a bad night. Lots of painkillers. Your imagination is racing.

  That wet patch could have been made by Emily or Daniel leaving this morning. It was raining. There were hundreds of reasons why they might have stepped outside and then stepped back in. The carpet was cheap nylon; it probably would have retained the wet for ages.

  When I got off the phone from Mum, who’d given me oodles of sympathy, and offered to drop everything and come and take charge, I felt a bit better. Tempting as it was, I knew she needed the time in her studio. With some big exhibitions in major galleries under her belt, her reputation in the ceramics world had grown and she was working on a special piece which she hoped would ‘blow the pants off’ the owner of a famous ceramics gallery in North London.

  The arrival of a very garrulous glazier from The Glass Brokers – ‘The people who take the pane out of shattered glazing’– later that afternoon did a lot to reassure me. Phil was a big fan of antisocial behaviour because it kept him in business. My little broken window was, ‘Nuffink’. He got ten of these every week, more when the weather was warm. Apparently the real money was in the commercial stuff.

  ‘Triple time, between nine and midnight – after that blank cheque book, mate. Blank cheque book.’

  Grumpily I reflected, as I made him a mug of tea, one person’s tragedy was another’s silver lining – Phil’s was made of £50 banknotes.

  After he’d gone I rattled around the flat growing steadily more irritable. I’d had enough of smug daytime presenters, I didn’t have the energy to tackle any job in the flat and I was too tetchy to read. My arm was itching and the pinprick scabs looked unsightly. I was fed up. Fed up and bolshy.

  I knew what was wrong and it had nothing to do with my arm. Determined to take my mind off things, or rather one person, I logged on to my laptop. No joy there either. No new emails apart from the ones from complete strangers offering me Biggadik penis enlargement patches.

  A good time to tidy up my inbox. Get rid of all those emails going back six months. My eyes were drawn to the name Ned Hillard. I re-read his email. It was funny. Was he the answer to all my problems? Perhaps he could take my mind off Daniel?

  Kate put paid to any more dithering when she called.

  ‘Olivia. It’s me. I just heard what happened. Are you OK?’ Her voice oozed concern and sympathy down the phone line.

  ‘I’m fine. Bit of an exciting night, though.’

  ‘Well, that’s a first,’ she mocked.

  ‘Ha, ha.’

  ‘Bloody yobs. It’s the same everywhere. Even here. Last weekend someone in the village had his car covered in paint. Some lads found a can on their way home. Bet your window was broken by some lagered-up louts. In that state they don’t give a toss if they damage something.’

  ‘Well, that something was me,’ I said crossly. ‘And I mind a lot!’

  ‘How are you feeling?’

  ‘Crap.’

  Kate didn’t deal well with other people’s problems. Her own life ran so smoothly that she hadn’t had the practice. I wasn’t surprised when she changed the subject.

  ‘So have you arranged to see Ned yet?’

  What! Was she psychic or something?

  ‘No, not yet.’ Why do I have to be so honest? It was the last thing I should have said, to Kate of all people.

  ‘You’re joking. He’ll think you’re not interested.’

  ‘I don’t know that I am.’

  ‘Of course you are. He sounds a laugh. If he can’t afford Jimmy Chews,
he might get you a pair of gumboots. Geddit?’ She sniggered.

  I rolled my eyes even though she couldn’t see.

  ‘You are so unfunny.’ I giggled in spite of myself. ‘Anyway I’m not sure …’ my voice trailed off. The painkillers were wearing off and my arm was throbbing. Where was my magic bottle of pills?

  ‘Know what your problem is?’

  I just had to find those tablets. The pain was suddenly excruciating. Kate was still twittering in my ear.

  ‘OK,’ I snapped. ‘I’ll go on a date with Ned.’ Anything to get her off the line. There was a surprised silence, followed by a laugh of triumph.

  The minute I said it I knew I shouldn’t.

  ‘I hear you’re going on a date, darling.’ That was my mother’s opening gambit on Saturday morning when she phoned under the pretext of asking how I was. It hadn’t taken long for the family grapevine to rev itself up.

  ‘Very sensible of you,’ she said happily. I could virtually see her hopping from foot to foot in the kitchen at home. ‘You need something to take your mind off the accident.’

  If only she knew. It wasn’t the accident I needed to get off my mind. It was the accident waiting to happen. I had to get Daniel out of my head. She warbled on enthusiastically for another five minutes before suddenly remembering that Dad was in the car waiting to take her to Waitrose.

  Perhaps I could get away with just making up the date. I slumped back on the sofa and dreamed up details of the perfect imaginary date − nice wine bar, long boozy lunch followed by a walk around Covent Garden, stopping along the way to watch the street entertainers.

  But no such luck. Kate rolled up in person at lunchtime to check up on me. I struggled down the stairs to let her in as Emily had abandoned me in favour of a shopping expedition to Westfield.

  ‘God, you look awful’ she said, marching past me into the flat, with a bag of Marks & Spencer goodies. Funnily enough, I thought the same about her. Her hair, as always, was perfect but there were dark shadows under her eyes. Either her favourite Estée Lauder Spotlight had run out or there was something she wasn’t telling me.