by Alice Castle
Naturally, Ben himself had shown zero interest in the kit – and she could hardly blame him. But miraculously, when she shoved the mug under Potter’s nose, there was the key, shining innocently at the bottom. If he’d plucked it out at that moment, he’d have discovered it was unpleasantly warm, having been clutched in Beth’s clammy palm for all too many anxious minutes. That would certainly have been difficult to explain away. But, having had a very public hissy-fit about something which now seemed trivial, Potter was suddenly keen to distance himself from the whole key business as though it were all deeply unimportant and way beneath his lofty dignity.
‘Right. Well. When you’re ready, then, Beth,’ he said gruffly, and stalked back into his office, shutting the door with a snap.
Beth, her knees sagging all of a sudden, remained where she was, pressed up against the loo door. She took a few cautious breaths, then gathered herself together. Potter’s dictation was bad enough at the best of times. Now she was mentally and physically exhausted, and it wasn’t even ten o’clock yet. Had he believed her about the cupboard-cleaning business? It was impossible to say. She’d been through worse moments – and she had a quick flashback to a nasty episode in a passageway in Camberwell not very long ago – but for some reason Potter scared her out of her senses. Was it because he was so tall? She’d always had a problem with people looming over her. Well, most people did, but some of them did it in a much more emphatic way than others. Potter, because he was so solidly built, not the sort of beanpole one usually got at his altitude, was extremely intimidating. She’d have to ask Nina if he had that effect on her.
Again, she had a flash of suspicion. Perhaps that was the reason she was sitting here – Nina just couldn’t bear her boss. Maybe there was nothing more to the mystery than that.
But no. Beth knew there was something more, lurking in this building, that was the explanation to a lot of the strange goings-on here. The empty appointment book, the lack of clients, the tumbleweed that must, surely, be blowing through the accounts. And yet Potter’s lifestyle was as lavish as anyone’s in Dulwich, supporting not only him, but also a high-maintenance wife and some very expensive kids, with pricey habits like piano practice, ballet, and extra karate lessons on top.
At least they had one less mouth to feed, since Lancelot had gone to the big kennel in the sky. And what a mouth! That was going to be a huge saving in dog food. As Beth knew only too well, from her efforts to provide Magpie with dainties that she considered worthy of her notice, a discerning pet could be quite a drain on delicately poised finances. Lancelot must have eaten Magpie’s weight in top-notch protein every day. Mind you, he was probably the least of poor Potter’s worries. No wonder the man was tense. So would Beth be, with all that on his mind.
Feeling a new sympathy for him, Beth started to calm down. When she’d gathered herself enough to step back into his office, with her wad of A4 clutched firmly in her hand this time, she gave Potter as sharp a glance as she dared, then took her seat and braced herself for the endless spiel of dictation. She badly wanted to know what was going through his mind. But his eyes were blank, unreadable, no trace left of his earlier emotion. And he barked out his reports in mechanical style. It was impossible to tell whether she’d really got away with the key business or not. She was forced to admit that Potter might well be a much better actor than she was.
This time, when Potter started murmuring vaguely about coffee, once he’d dictated the first few reams of bristling legal jargon at her, Beth was all too glad to cotton on – finally – to his hints.
‘We don’t have a coffee machine, I’ve looked everywhere,’ she said patiently, mentally laughing at the idea that one could have been hidden all this time in their miniscule kitchen area. She waited a beat. He looked expectantly at her. ‘Oh, wait a minute. Here’s an idea. Why don’t I pop down to one of the shops and get us a takeaway each?’
Potter broke into a smile and she couldn’t help reciprocating. He was definitely a scary man, but when everything was going his way, he really wasn’t so bad, she decided, as she slung her bag over her shoulder and made for the door. And at least caving in and getting the coffees gave her a bit of a break from typing.
It was a huge relief to be out and about in Herne Hill. The office, for all its airy beigeness, was surprisingly claustrophobic – or maybe, again, that was just the inescapable presence of Potter. Anyway, it was lovely to be liberated, however briefly. She was getting to know and rather love the string of shops. Anywhere else, it would have been called a parade, but she’d certainly never heard that word used here. Instead, it was a loose collection of quite useful stores, something unheard of up the road in Dulwich, where you could buy a hand-fringed cashmere poncho for just shy of a thousand pounds any day of the week, but a loaf of white sliced was almost out of the question.
As well as a deli, a small wine bar, a Thai takeaway, and a hairdresser’s she’d never seen anyone in, there were also two chemists here. They were positioned on opposite sides of the road and, according to Nina, were involved in a deadly rivalry going back years that was so arcane no-one quite remembered any more how it had started, though some people darkly mentioned a nit shampoo cartel. There were also two branches of Oxfam. This could have given the place a depressing feel, but one was dedicated to second-hand books, and the other was the unacknowledged drop-off point for plenty of last season’s Anthropologie and Oska numbers, briefly worn by the yummy mummies up the hill. Beth certainly wasn’t above having a rummage now and then, although you did run the risk of having an embarrassing encounter with your jumper’s previous owner in the playground.
Though it was cold and there was a mean-spirited wind nipping at her exposed hands and face, Beth was happy to see one of those perfect December skies up above, only a few tones lighter than Matisse’s favourite cerulean blue. The trees along the pavement pointing into this heavenly shade were nude as any artist’s models, leaves shamelessly shed into the gutter long ago. But Beth still saw the promise of spring in the bright chill. Maybe it was her lucky escape this morning, maybe it was the lingering delight of the night before, maybe it was simply being outside, but she felt irresistible bubbles of happiness rise up, like prosecco in a chilled glass. No, like champagne, she decided.
Even waiting in the deli for a coffee for her temporary boss didn’t put a dent in her good mood. It was nice to stand in a really varied queue for a change, with women over the age of 40, even the odd man, and a pensioner or two. She adored the Village, she really did, but during school hours, without a jammy toddler and the keys to a Volvo, she sometimes felt like a fish out of water. Herne Hill seemed a bit more real. Even the gritty floor beneath her feet, the steamed-up windows, and the smells of fennel, coffee and bacon, the shouts of the kitchen staff preparing orders, seemed a little closer to urban living. It was refreshing.
Conscious that much more time had passed than she’d anticipated, Beth bustled back to the office. She wasn’t quite expecting a reprimand, but she wouldn’t have been surprised if Potter had looked down his long nose at her, from his great height, and made her feel small – all too easy for him to do, of course. Getting the coffee had been his idea, but the fact that she’d enjoyed bunking off to do his bidding so much made her feel obscurely guilty. It didn’t take a lot, she realised. She had to get better at shrugging stuff off. She was pretty sure other people didn’t go through life feeling bad about things that really weren’t their fault.
She braced herself, squaring her shoulders as she reached the frosted glass, and opened the door with some difficulty, due to the large cardboard cups in each hand. Only to find the place deserted. Talk about an anti-climax. ‘Hello? Paul?’ she called out. She dumped the drinks down on her desk, stepped over to Potter’s door and knocked just to check, but wasn’t surprised when there was no answer. The place had that deserted feel.
Had he left her a note? Nothing on her desk. She quickly looked at her phone. A line of kisses from Harry, which had her blushing up
to her fringe, but nothing else.
She sat down, a bit deflated, and now with two cups of coffee to get through. She was damned if this cappuccino with extra chocolate on top was going to waste. She took a sip, but the liquid was still boiling hot. Should she just finish typing out those reports first?
Beth shook her head at herself. She was prevaricating. And the reason wasn’t hard to divine. All the shocks of the previous day, and this morning, had damaged her nerve. But she didn’t know how much time she had. Potter could be back at any moment, and she would have made no progress. How much time, she asked herself sternly, did she really want to spend typing in someone else’s chair? This was Ben’s Christmas holiday. She should be out with him, doing nice festive things, instead of letting him moulder away in front of a telly. And what about Harry? She hadn’t quite broached the whole telling-him-what-she-was-up-to thing. He had no idea about the little plan she’d cooked up with Nina.
Well, they weren’t at the stage where they were living in each other’s pockets, were they? It wasn’t as if she was blithely going off every morning, lying to him. She had just glided gracefully over her whereabouts, and he’d made a series of comfortable assumptions. That was his lookout, and she hadn’t sought to disabuse him. But she knew, in her heart of hearts, that he would seriously lose it if he could see where she was right now. ‘Under false pretences’; ‘meddling where you have no business’; ‘putting yourself in danger’. In some ways, she didn’t even have to tell him – she knew full well what he’d say. And he had a point.
She had to knock this thing on the head, find out finally what on earth was going on. And the way to do that wasn’t by drinking coffee and typing reports. But first, she had to cover her back. Carefully, she used her chair to fish out the Simpkin key, then she unlocked Potter’s office and pushed her chair up against the Rothko. While she badly wanted to delve into the filing cabinets, she had no idea how long Potter was going to be out, and after their scary encounter this morning, she didn’t want to risk it. She reluctantly put the key back on the top of the frame. She then shoved her chair all the way back into place at her own desk, and sat down on it, exhausted.
The minutes ticked by, and she cursed herself for her cowardice. If she’d just peered into that cabinet, she could have solved the mystery by now. What a stupid waste of an opportunity. She got up again, decision in every movement. Perhaps a bit too much decision, as she caught one of the cups with her elbow and the rich brown liquid burst out everywhere as one paper cup knocked the other, and both hit the desk. Damn.
Inexorably, as liquid split on a desk always will, the lake of coffee found its way to her keyboard. Her laptop screen, which had been showing the latest interminable legal report, suddenly went blank. Beth wailed aloud, the sound shocking in the quiet emptiness of the office. Even the pervading beigeness was under attack now, as the drips started falling busily off the edge of the desk and onto the seagrass flooring. Beth didn’t know what to salvage first, the laptop or the carpet. She grabbed the computer and lifted it clear of the puddle, then threw a packet of tissues – still in their cellophane – from her bag onto the floor. Doing no good at all, she realised. She ripped them from the now coffee-soaked pack and trod them into the gathering puddle, mopping up the rich and deliciously-scented cappuccino. What a waste.
She was gasping for a drink now, parched – but there was still so much staunching to do. Frantically, she tried to remember all the internet cures she’d ever read for wet equipment. Cover with rice, bury in pasta? Or was that a half-remembered tuna bake recipe? She ran a tissue over the keyboard in despair – and was thrilled when the blank screen came to life immediately. Perhaps things weren’t as bad as she’d feared. She turned the laptop over and shook it. Only a dribble of coffee came out, and she wiped it off straight away. To be on the safe side, she switched it off, then carried on dabbing the keyboard. There. It looked fine. Smelled a bit of coffee, but that wasn’t a bad thing, surely? Well, not today, a little voice told her. Might not be so great down the line, when all that frothy milk started to go off. An even littler voice told her that might be Nina’s problem, if she could possibly get all this mystery stuff wrapped up.
She turned to spill number two, under her desk, and pressed unenthusiastically at the small mound of damp, brownish tissue that was rapidly absorbing the coffee. Nothing much she could do there for the moment. She’d nip out to the Sainsbury’s later, get whatever was the latest in carpet cleaning products. There was bound to be something. And on the bright side, it was all under her desk – not on show to the public at all. Not that there ever seemed to be any public in this office, anyway.
But no sooner had she had that thought than she heard a sound she’d almost forgotten. It was the bell of the street door, as someone pushed in from outside.
‘Freezing out there. Oooh, you’re nice and snug in here, aren’t you, dear? And doesn’t it smell nice. Lovely, always liked the smell of coffee, I have,’ said a tiny bent figure. It was an elderly lady, wheeling a tartan shopper towards her over the carpet, and bringing in the very last of the autumn’s leaves on her contraption’s wheels.
She followed Beth’s eyes down to the trail. ‘Oh, I’m so sorry, dear, my basket’s so useful, can’t quite manage the shopping the way I used to, you see. But it does sometimes get in a pickle. I’ll just see if I can…’ She tottered forward, ineffectually brushing at the crushed leaves with her brogue shoes and stamping the leaf mould further into the carpet.
Beth hurried out from behind the counter. ‘Don’t you worry about that, let’s sit here, shall we?’ she said, guiding her potential client to the seating area and lifting her astonishingly heavy shopper over to put beside her. ‘Oof.’
‘Just picked up the cat’s tins from the supermarket,’ said the lady, smiling.
Beth returned a slightly more circumspect smile, wondering silently if her back was ever going to be the same again. The lady’s cat must have an appetite as healthy as the late lamented Lancelot.
‘And what can we do for you today?’ Beth asked, though she wasn’t sure, truthfully, whether she could do anything at all for her. As Potter was out, the chances were that the firm was going to lose their first sniff at an actual paying customer for days. It was such a shame. She put on an extra-helpful smile and tried to look as though she knew everything there was to know about the law. She must try her hardest to land this job, whatever it might be. ‘Did you have an appointment, Mrs…?’ she said, trying to make it sound as though they were snowed under with clients, despite the yawning emptiness of the office.
‘I meant to ring, but I thought I’d just pop in on my way back from fetching Orlando’s bits. I live up yonder, round near the Sunray Gardens,’ she added, dashing Beth’s hopes that she might be trailing a huge fee. If she lived close to Nina’s, she was almost certainly talking about a flat, not one of the large Victorian villas off Half Moon Lane. ‘I’m in the sheltered housing,’ she added, unconsciously confirming Beth’s diagnosis. ‘I expect you think I’ve come to make my will,’ said the little old lady, with a beady look at Beth.
Beth had indeed rapidly run through and dismissed all the other possibilities in her head, but she decided to say nothing. Sometimes, as she’d found in her long-lost journalistic career, silence was much more effective than speech. Sure enough, the woman couldn’t resist filling the vacuum.
‘Well, it’s not that, see. Lots of others in my block have done their wills with your Mr Potter, right enough. Oh yes, they all love him, they do. Sam Cooper, Bert Hazelwood. Even Prue Smith came here, she did, and she only had buttons to leave. But I made my will years ago, on one of those forms from the Post Office. Don’t need a fancy lawyer for that, do you?’ she added smugly.
Beth, who wasn’t even a tiny bit of a lawyer, fancy or not, felt obscurely put out by this, but maintained a polite expression, reluctant to see off the slightest chance of a paying client, however unpromising they might appear.
‘No, I’ve come
about something completely different. See if you can guess what it is.’ The lady sat back, gave a little self-satisfied wiggle in her chair, settling herself down more firmly as though she was bedding in for the duration.
As she did so, a faint smell of old-fashioned mothballs reached Beth’s wrinkling nose, reminding her forcibly of her late, and much lamented, granny. She’d been a great aficionado of naphthalene, which Beth had always found hard to understand. Yes, the pungent chemical did deter insects – but it meant that little else with functioning nostrils would willingly approach you either. What use were immaculate woolly jumpers, if no-one wanted to hug you in them? But despite the heady vapours, Beth had been extremely fond of her granny. Now the smell, unpleasant though it was, reminded her of happy times with glasses of warm milk and an uncritical beam of affection.
Meanwhile, the lady opposite fixed Beth with mischievous eyes, set in a sea of wrinkles that even WH Auden would surely have slapped moisturiser on. She was wearing a tweed coat, buttoned up to the top, which she showed no sign of loosening despite the warmth of the office. Her legs appeared to be encased in thousand-denier tights, with as many folds as an elephant’s trunk, and her sensible lace-up shoes allowed an impressive set of bunions room to roam.
Beth ran through all the possibilities she could think of that could have attracted a dear thing like this – conveyancing, litigation, libel? But even a nasty spat with neighbours seemed unlikely; this lady seemed so twinkly. And surely she must have passed the quarrelsome age some decades back? Nothing at all seemed to fit. Much to the merry little figure’s delight, she admitted that she gave up.
‘Come for one of them pre-nups, in’t I? Like that Kim Kardashian.’
Beth was speechless for a moment. For one thing, she wasn’t sure whether Kim Kardashian had even had a pre-nup, and for another… well, her mind just boggled gently for a while, while the little old lady looked on and transparently enjoyed the sight.
