Rebound

by Aga Lesiewicz

  ‘It’s OK, mate, we’ll get you home,’ says Tom, leading him to the door. I thank him profusely as I watch him guide Alden down the front steps. He flashes another perfect smile at me and they are gone.

  Ten Days Earlier

  No Heath for me this morning, I have a splitting headache and don’t feel well. Normally this wouldn’t deter me from running, but the thought of some psycho lurking in the bushes waiting for a woman to pounce on taints my image of the Heath. I know the feeling will pass, but at the moment the Heath has lost its attraction. Even the Dior Man isn’t going to tempt me out there.

  At work the restructuring shit is hitting the fan with the full force of corporate ruthlessness. We, and by ‘we’ I mean the higher echelons responsible for The Change I reluctantly include myself in, are hitting the first snag in a long line of structural obstacles. We, the selected few, gather in a small conference room on the top floor and are addressed by Anthea, the harassed-looking head of HR. Strangely enough, the representatives of Cadenca Global are absent. The reason for the snag, she explains in a boring monotone, is the anti-nepotism policy actively promoted by our company. Why should this highly principled – at least in theory – policy be a problem? Because The Change is going to shake the very foundations of our corporate structure, cause a massive reshuffle, an avalanche of shifts, promotions and demotions; and this may lead to ‘unwitting nepotism’ where couples who previously had nothing to do with each other professionally are put into the position of boss/subordinate. Thank God I have never been inclined to have an office romance, I think to myself, discreetly checking my iPhone for emails and messages. There is a voicemail from my Filipina cleaner Sherie Lou; she comes to the house once a week and today is her day. I’ll listen to her message later. As our company does not prohibit inter-office dating, Anthea drones on, we should consider restrictions on both assignments and communications about job performance in the case of existing couples as a precautionary measure. I have nothing to add as a discussion breaks out on the subject of the increased risk of litigation.

  As soon as the meeting is over I’m back at my office, answering emails that seem to multiply like rabbits on speed. There is another message from Sherie Lou. I access my voicemail. She sounds upset and goes on in a chaotic way about broken glass in my house. I can’t quite work out what she means, so I call her.

  ‘I broke a glass in the hallway last night, but I thought I’d picked up all the pieces. I don’t want Wispa to cut her paw.’

  ‘No, no, Anna, I mean the kitchen. I found the flower vase all broken, in pieces on the floor. And plenty of water and roses scattered everywhere. I don’t want you to think I broke it, I found it like this.’

  Now I get it.

  ‘Don’t worry, Sherie Lou. Did you manage to clean it all up?’

  ‘Yes, yes, no danger for Wispa.’

  ‘Thank you. I wonder how it happened?’

  ‘I have no idea. Maybe Wispa or a draught when I opened the front door? I’m sorry, Anna, but I didn’t do it.’

  ‘That’s fine, Sherie Lou, don’t worry about it. As long as you’ve managed to pick all the pieces up.’

  She assures me all is well in the kitchen, I thank her again and put the phone down. Bless her heart, she gets so worried when something gets broken or damaged on her watch.

  I get home to an immaculately clean house, as is always the case after Sherie Lou’s visit. The kitchen is spotless, all signs of the broken vase cleared away. The roses stand on the kitchen table in a silver champagne bucket. Good thinking, Sherie Lou. Prompted by a touch of OCD, I reposition the bucket so it’s right in the middle of the table. With all the water and flowers in it, it’s heavy. Too heavy to be blown off the table by a bit of a draught. A shiver of unease runs through me. What could’ve happened here? I wish I’d left my Mac open with Witness running before I set off for work this morning. Michael installed it on my laptop, mainly to track Wispa’s behaviour when I’m not at home. The software changes your laptop into a spy camera, triggered by movement and recording thirty seconds of action every time. It simultaneously sends an alert to your iPhone. Unfortunately, I hardly ever use it, maybe because I know exactly what Wispa is up to when I’m not around. She’s asleep and snoring. I find an open bottle of Malbec, pour myself a glass and go to the sofa in the sitting room.

  The mystery roses, they were an emotionally charged gift I still feel slightly uneasy about. Who were they from? James? I haven’t heard from him since he dropped my keys off right after our last phone conversation. He’s probably busy seducing the blonde Sue saw him with. There are a couple of other guys who would be capable of such a dramatic gesture, including my psycho ex-husband. Thankfully, I haven’t heard from him for years. Maybe Tom after all? I put my wine glass down. The charming dentist with the million-dollar smile. He did seem a bit keen during our morning jog the day the roses got delivered, but maybe he was just trying to be friendly. Anyway, he wouldn’t be making such romantic gestures right on his doorstep, under the nose of his wife. That reminds me of the lovely Samantha, the keeper of my shameful secret. I groan and put my face in my hands. Since I went to see her at the hospital I’ve had another encounter in the park, and I’m not even considering going back to the clinic for more tests. I’d completely forgotten about my HIV test. Another ten weeks to go. How could I have grown so desensitized in such a short time? I know I’m playing Russian roulette with my health by keeping up the encounters with the Dior Man. The Dior Man . . . could he be the mysterious sender of the roses? He doesn’t know where I live. But he could’ve followed me from the park. No, it would completely destroy what those encounters are about. What are they about? I’m not sure myself, it’s all gut instinct, some primal urge that doesn’t translate into words. I jump when my phone rings. It’s Bell.

  ‘Just saying goodbye, hon. Off to catch my plane at the crack of dawn.’

  ‘Bon voyage, babe. Do you need a lift to the airport?’

  ‘No, thanks, it’s far too early to drag you out of bed. I’ve booked a cab.’

  ‘Hope you’ll have a fabulous time. And hope Candice is nice.’

  ‘Hope so too. I’ll keep you posted. No need to water my plants, I’ll be back on Tuesday. Oh, by the way, did you get your keys back from James?’ There she goes, in her mother hen mode again.

  ‘Yes, I did, actually.’

  ‘Good girl.’ She ignores the note of annoyance in my voice. ‘And promise me one thing.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Stay away from the Heath until I’m back.’

  ‘Bell . . .’

  ‘I’m serious, Anna. Don’t go there this weekend. Jog around Waterlow Park if you must. Promise.’

  ‘OK, I promise,’ I say half-heartedly. I’m not sure I’ll stick to my word.

  I put the phone down and pour myself more wine. Something Bell has said makes me feel uneasy. The keys. James has given me his set back, but he could’ve easily made a spare. A chilling scenario builds in my head. James comes in, for some reason, this morning. Wispa knows him and doesn’t lift a paw when he arrives. James sees the flowers. Gets jealous and angry. Knocks the vase over. Leaves before Sherie Lou arrives . . . Whoa, stop right there. Am I getting just a teeny-weeny bit jealous that James is dating someone else? Am I developing a dog in the manger syndrome? Would I actually want him to come over and break some glass just to show that he still cares? The problem is, James is not the jealous type. He would never create such a scene. And I’m getting paranoid. But the vase incident has unnerved me and, just to put my mind at ease, I decide to change the locks. To save myself the hassle of getting spare keys for all the locks, I decide that changing just the main mortice will do. I get up, go to the front door and put the chain on.

  Nine Days Earlier

  Thursday, a day I occasionally work from home, just to catch up on emails without interruptions. Emails, they do make our lives easier, but aren’t they a sneaky time-thief? They have been gathering in my inbox since the beginning o
f The Change with a frightening speed, multiplying faster than bacteria in a warm fridge. I need to D&D them urgently, deal and delete. I ring Claire and let her know I’ll be working from home. Then I call the local locksmiths and arrange for a visit. I’m in luck, they can send out a locksmith with a new lock almost straight away. By the time I’ve brewed my coffee he’s ringing the doorbell. He doesn’t ask me why I want to change a perfectly good lock, just sets to work with a knowing nod.

  I’m bringing a mug of coffee out for the locksmith when someone calls my name through the open front door. It’s Tom, looking businesslike in dark trousers and a white shirt, clearly on his way to work.

  ‘Hi, got a bit worried when I saw all this . . .’ He gestures at the locksmith’s tools on my front steps. ‘It wasn’t Alden making a nuisance of himself again?’

  ‘Oh no, just replacing an old lock that hasn’t been working for some time,’ I lie to him. ‘Nothing to worry about.’

  ‘Good.’ He flashes his gorgeous smile at me. ‘Oh, by the way, it’s my daughter’s birthday this weekend and we’re having a small party – actually two parties, kids at eleven a.m. and grown-ups at seven p.m. on Saturday. It would be lovely to see you.’

  ‘Thank you, that’s sweet, I’d love to come, but I’m going away to visit friends in Norfolk this weekend,’ I lie to him again. I don’t think I’m up to facing Samantha just yet.

  ‘No worries, next time. I’ve got to rush, I’m running late today.’ He waves goodbye and marches off down the street.

  I don’t think I’m imagining it, but I’m sure he fancies me. Or am I just thinking that to make myself feel better? Anyway, I must say I’m slowly warming to the idea of neighbourly friendships. They certainly make living in the urban jungle less lonely. But they do take away the anonymity of a big city, which is something I value a lot, having grown up in a small, nosy town. You can’t have everything, I think, as the locksmith calls me to the door and hands me five brand-new keys.

  ‘Have you ever considered enhancing the security of your home?’ he asks me.

  ‘I have, but I’ve never got around to actually doing anything about it, to be honest.’

  He launches into a lecture about the dangerous world we live in and how his firm offers free security surveys for homes.

  ‘It’s like looking at your home through the eyes of a burglar,’ he explains and goes on listing all kinds of extra protection they offer: window locks, patio-door locks, door bolts, grilles and alarm systems.

  ‘It’s definitely something you should consider, being a woman alone in a big house like this,’ he concludes.

  I’m annoyed by his ‘woman alone’ comment. I tell him I’ll consider my options, pay him for the new lock and close the door. I go to the study, log on through the remote access to my work account and start the tedious process of sifting through my emails. If only people stopped hitting the ‘Reply All’ button so readily! I’m deleting millions of emails that should’ve been addressed to one person only (not me) and another million that should not have been written at all. I read somewhere, probably in an email, that thirty per cent of people’s time at work is spent reading and writing emails. Bring back pen and paper and pneumatic mail! I’m just about to go to the kitchen to make myself another coffee when I hear a strange sound at the front door. Wispa rushes to the hallway, but doesn’t bark. The noise stops, then repeats itself. Someone is trying to get into the house. My heart is pounding as I grab my phone. I select 999 and with my thumb on dial I peek out from the study down the hallway. Wispa is standing by the front door wagging her tail. Through the small stained-glass window in the door I can see someone dressed in pink. Somehow this unlikely-for-a-burglar colour reassures me and I step into the hallway, shouting out a tentative ‘hello’.

  ‘Hello,’ answers a female voice.

  Of course, it’s Nicole, my dog walker. I open the door for her, feeling like an idiot.

  ‘Nicole, I’d forgotten you were coming.’

  ‘Anna! Nice to see you. Sorry, I didn’t know you were home, I would’ve rung the bell. I couldn’t open the lock . . .’

  ‘Oh, I’m so sorry, I’ve just changed it, that’s why your key wouldn’t work. It actually wasn’t even locked.’ I laugh sheepishly. ‘Let me get you a new key.’ I rummage on the hallway shelf for the set the locksmith has given me.

  ‘You all right?’ asks Nicole.

  ‘Yes, thanks, just have tons of emails to catch up on, so decided to work from home.’ I know she’s asking me how I am because I’m behaving strangely and because I’ve changed the lock. ‘I was just about to make myself some coffee. Would you like one?’ I’m giving her the new key.

  ‘No, hon, thanks, I’d better go, I have another three dogs to pick up. Do you want me to take Wispa?’

  ‘Actually, why not? I wouldn’t be able to take her out for a while with all the work,’ I lie. Wispa looks at me accusingly when Nicole puts a leash on her.

  ‘OK, I’ll drop her off in a couple of hours.’

  ‘Thanks, Nicole. Be careful out there, will you?’

  Nicole throws me a curious glance.

  ‘I always am, Anna. Cheerio!’

  I shut the door behind them and put the chain on, then take it off, remembering that Nicole will be dropping Wispa off. I’m wound up about something, but I don’t know what it is.

  I’m usually quite disciplined about working from home and get much more done than in the office. But today it’s as easy as drawing blood from a stone. I sit in my study, looking out through the window, staring at my lush garden, and I know I should be feeling extremely lucky that I am where I am, with a beautiful house, great job – despite the on-going shit-storm – and all the trappings of an affluent life. Of course, I do have a hideous mortgage to repay, thankfully ticking over nicely on a very low interest rate, and I am a prisoner in the golden cage of a big corporation, but I can live with it. What is bothering me, then? Am I getting broody? Nah, I’ve never wanted to have children and being on the wrong side of thirty-five hasn’t changed how I feel about it. My friends with kids say the biological clock will wake me up sooner or later, but I haven’t heard it ringing yet. I need to clear my head and I fall back on the only way I know how to do it: I have to go for a run. I remember what I’ve promised Bell and decide to head to Waterlow Park. Just as well – I don’t want to stumble upon Nicole with the dogs on the Heath, it would only confuse Wispa.

  I trot down the High Street, stop briefly to peek at the bookshop’s window, then enter the park through the gate next to Channing School for Girls. As I pass the tennis courts on my right I slow down and look back for Wispa, only to remember she’s with Nicole on the Heath.

  Waterlow Park is small, but it always takes my breath away when I get to the top of the hill and look at the rich meadows sprawling down its gentle slopes, the elegant trees, the windy alleyways and the magnificent view of the London skyline below. Today there is a group of happy pensioners, amateur watercolour enthusiasts, scattered on the lawn, busily recreating the view. I can feel my body and soul sing as I pass them and run down the alley towards the ponds. The singing stops when I see a pale-skinned and almost-naked silhouette lying in the grass, right by my path. Alden. He seems to be blissfully asleep in the sun, but when I pass him he raises his head and shades his eyes with his arm.

  ‘Anna!’

  Damn. I slow down and turn towards him with a forced smile. I really don’t fancy any company right now.

  ‘Alden.’

  He’s on his feet now, his tan Bermuda shorts riding down his flat stomach, revealing a tuft of dark hair above his belt. Normally I’d enjoy this slightly narcissistic display of a cute male body, but now it just annoys me.

  ‘Anna, I’m so sorry about the other night. I really don’t know what came over me. I saw your front door open and . . .’ He waves his arm and gives me his charming puppy-like look.

  ‘No worries, Alden, glad you’re OK now.’

  ‘Oh, yes.’ He brushes his fa
ce with his hand. ‘It was just a little tiff with Tina, all well now. You OK?’

  ‘Yes, I’m fine, just getting my endorphin rush.’

  ‘Oh, I get mine from eating hot chillies and sex.’ He winks.

  ‘Lucky you.’ I can’t help but laugh.

  ‘You off work?’

  ‘Working from home,’ I say with a pang of guilty conscience.

  ‘I can see that. Me too.’ He keeps his face comically straight and I must say he is cute.

  ‘How’s your film?’

  ‘Still trying to get funding for it. It’s really tough these days. Even the freelance jobs have dried up. But I have a lodger now, so at least the bills get paid.’

  ‘I’ll give you a shout if I hear of any DA jobs opening.’

  ‘That would be awesome, cheers, Anna.’

  He waves at me and lies back down in the grass. Strange boy, I think as I continue jogging. There is something weird about him, going on about his girlfriend. Didn’t Tom say they’d split up some time ago? Why is he acting as if they are still together? He’s either in complete denial about the whole thing or they’ve got together again, unbeknown to Tom.

  I do a loop round the park then head for the gate out to Swain’s Lane. When I’m at the gate I slow down and look back, a habit of waiting for Wispa, who’s usually dragging her paws a bit when we run together. Of course she’s not there, I remember, but when I look back I catch a glimpse of a runner who looks familiar. I stop and turn, but by then the runner has veered off into a side alley and disappeared behind the bushes. This is not good, my suspicious mind is beginning to play tricks on me.

  I get back home and hop under the shower, taking time to check my breasts for any suspicious lumps, a self-check I do regularly since I discovered a benign cyst in my breast a few years ago. I emerge from the bathroom feeling reassured, clean and energized. I’m ready to do some work. I’m just settling in with a cup of coffee in the study when the front door opens and I hear the pitter-patter of Wispa’s paws. She comes straight to me, her tail wagging.