by Jules Wake
I sucked in a breath, loathe to say it because saying it out loud made it too real.
‘I-I,’ I swallowed back the sob. ‘T-they suspended me.’
‘You? But why? Not because of Vince. That’s ridiculous. It’s outside of work. They can’t fire you because I’m … I’m with Vince, can they?’
‘No, they can’t.’ My hands shook as he grabbed them and towed me to the sofa. ‘But they can if they think you’ve been selling stories to the tabloids.’ I sank into the seat, feeling my pulse banging in my temple as I stared at his hand holding mine. The dark hair flopped forward. He was a grown up, he shouldn’t have floppy hair. I freed my hand, pulling away from him. ‘They have evidence. That it was me.’ I still couldn’t get my head round that.
‘Who have?’
‘The management. The computer people.’ I kicked my heel back at the sofa leg. ‘Who cares? I’ve been suspended. Because of gross misconduct. Me. They think I sold stories to the tabloids.’
‘But you … can’t you tell them?’
‘Tell them what?’
He shrugged. ‘That it wasn’t you?’
There was no sense of contrition on his face. He really didn’t get it.
‘Felix.’ I shook my head sadly, knowing that he would never understand and I had invested badly, oh so badly, in him. ‘It makes no difference, I shouldn’t have told you.’
‘What are you going to do?’
For a second the room spun and I couldn’t say a word because I had absolutely no idea. Without my job, I had nothing.
‘Tilly?’
I suddenly realised I was wet through. Almost catatonic, I walked out of the lounge, dimly aware of Felix repeating my name, shedding clothes as I went before locking myself in the bathroom.
Finally feeling warm again after a lobster skin inducing shower, I’d managed to half dress when he banged on the door.
‘Tilly, it’s your phone.’ Through the frosted glass, I could see him waving my mobile.
‘Oh, for God’s sake,’ I muttered and cracked the door open and stuck my hand out to grab it and then slammed the door shut again.
Christelle’s words were tumbling out as I put the phone to my ear. ‘Tilly, oh my God, are you OK? Guillaume told me … you’d been escorted from the building. What’s happened? Why did they do that? What have you done? Have you been suspended?’
Being a legal eagle she would know what that meant. Know that being escorted from one’s place of work boded badly. It hit me all over again just how much trouble I was in. The anger I felt at Felix had been a welcome distraction.
My breath hitched and an involuntary sob escaped. A second one followed in quick succession and another, and another.
‘Tilly?’
I sank onto the toilet seat. I couldn’t hold it back anymore and for the first time I began to cry in earnest.
‘Tilly!’ My sister’s voice called out but like a swimmer being swept away, the riptide of emotion held me fast and I couldn’t stop the sobs shuddering through my body.
‘I-I’m s-sorry … it’s j-just …’ I sucked in air, trying to talk but now I’d started I couldn’t stop and the sobs overwhelmed me. ‘M-my job. It’s … g-gone.’
I broke down and began to weep even more. I slid off the toilet seat onto the floor and hunched against the wall, trying to make myself as small as possible. I put the phone down on the floor and wept into my hands.
When I finally spluttered to a halt, my eyelids sore, tired and puffy, I sat on the floor, the cold of the tiles seeping into my numb bottom.
‘Tilly.’ I heard Christelle’s urgent tones. ‘Talk to me.’
Snatching up the phone, I whispered, ‘You’re still there?’ She’d stayed on the line all this time.
‘Of course I am, where did you think I’d be?’ Her clipped, matter of fact response, made me smile. Typical Christelle in one way, but totally unexpected in another. There was no of course about it, I couldn’t think of anyone else who would have waited on the line for so long.
‘Now tell me what’s happened.’
Between unladylike sniffs, blowing my nose on toilet paper, I told her the whole sorry tale. The letter, Vince and Felix. I omitted the detail of Marcus, I couldn’t bear to reveal that.
She listened without interrupting, apart from making a few encouraging noises. I finally ground to a halt and lapsed into silence. My head on my knees, eyes closed as if that might keep the world at bay.
‘Did you do it?’
‘No I didn’t but Felix …’
‘That’s not what you’re being accused of. Did you sell the information to a tabloid newspaper?’
‘No.’
‘Ergo there can’t be any evidence that you did. What is the evidence?’
‘They said emails but I never sent any emails to anyone. Well not on purpose–’ Surely the virus thing couldn’t have anything to do with it.
‘As your legal representative, I’d be very interested in seeing this evidence.’
‘My what?’
‘Tilly, I am an expert in employment law. A barrister at one of the top chambers in London. Barracuda. A barracuda you hear. Not my words I hasten to add, but we are going to fight this. We are so going to get your job back.’ The way she said it made it sound as if she was the heavyweight champion of the world. ‘And they are going dooooowwwn.’ I let out a startled giggle. ‘Nobody messes with my sister. Now go pack a bag.’
‘What?’
‘I’ll be there in twenty minutes. You’re coming to stay with me.’
Chapter 36
Christelle giggled as Guillaume reached around her to snag something from the wok on the hob where she was busily rustling up a fragrant stir fry. Garlic, ginger and Chinese five spice perfumed the air, waking up my appetite. I hadn’t eaten all day.
He leaned in and tugged at the strap of her Kath Kidston pinny saying something a little too loudly in her ear. (Only Christelle would wear an apron in the kitchen.) She giggled again and pushed him away playfully.
I scowled. Guillaume had obviously forgotten that I could understand every word of the sweet nothings he kept murmuring to her – although, there was nothing sweet about the last one.
That was the problem with Christelle’s ultra-svelte apartment, I’d discovered in the last twenty-four hours. Escaping the love birds and their early mating rituals was impossible.
Christelle’s palatial pad was beautiful, the last word in deluxe; smart bathroom fittings, granite topped kitchen with shiny surfaces and posh appliances and a vast lounge dotted with not two but three cream sofas. My tatty little flat didn’t compare at all, although I could get used to everything working properly. The whole place was a testament to open-plan living and since Guillaume’s arrival, it had been difficult to avoid their enthusiasm for one another. And I was being a miserable, depressed, horrible old cow. How could I possibly begrudge Christelle her obvious happiness, especially not when she’d been so brilliant since she’d come like an avenging angel and scooped me up.
As soon as she’d brought me back here, battling through the snowy roads in her Volkswagen Golf, she’d got me settled into the spare room, insisted on making me eat hot soup with crusty rolls and a very runny brie and then sat down with an official looking notepad and cross examined me in great detail. Her first question had been brutal. ‘Did you send those emails?’
I almost burst with frustration. ‘Of course, I didn’t. I thought you’d believe me.’
‘It’s not a question of whether I believe you or not. Sometimes I must defend people I know are lying through their teeth, but if that’s what they’ve told me, I have to go with it. Ergo, I must ask the question. It doesn’t matter whether I believe you or not.’
I nodded as if that made complete sense. Was ‘ergo’ a legal technical term or just a Christelle type of word?
‘Do you do that a lot?’ The concept of defending people even if you knew they were guilty seemed totally alien to me.
‘Yes,
it’s part of the job.’
‘Oh.’ I sat back. That just sounded wrong. ‘Really?’ I asked wanting confirmation that what she said was true. ‘Do you ever get people off that you know are guilty?’
‘Yes, Tilly.’ She swept her hair back in exasperation.
‘Oh.’ It was as if a pin had pricked a balloon. My perception of her professional, upper level career changed in that instant. At least my job was honest. We transported people to a make-believe world but those audiences were willing participants, volunteering to suspend belief the minute they paid for the tickets.
By eleven o’clock I was exhausted but Christelle pronounced herself delighted with our progress. It didn’t feel like progress to me but she was adamant she now had a strategy. It all hinged on the evidence they had. She’d drafted a letter which was so full of legalese and demands for her client, that I was pretty sure it would put the fear of God into the HR Director. My sister, I liked saying that, made Godzilla look tame.
‘OK, we’ll call it a night. And tomorrow I’ll have a letter couriered over.’ She pulled her chair round next to mine and nudged up to me, leaning against me, shoulder to shoulder. ‘We’re going to fight this. And you can stay here as long as you want.’ I heard her draw in a quick breath. ‘I … would you think about staying for Christmas? We could have Christmas Day together. If you haven’t got any other plans. You know. Then it might be, you know, nice.’
More pesky tears welled up at her sudden diffidence.
I leaned back into her. ‘I’d love to. That would be lovely. The two of us. We could even try and skype Mum and Dad.’
‘Yes.’ She beamed at me. ‘With bucks fizz. Toast them. And bagels and cream cheese for breakfast. And a proper Christmas dinner. Queen’s speech and everything.’
‘You have to promise me one thing,’ I said. ‘Actually, make that two things. We get to watch Dr Who and …’
‘What?’ she asked looking wary.
‘No chestnut stuffing!’
Despite her reassurances, that I mustn’t be despondent, it didn’t stop me waking early the following morning with the horrible realisation that I wouldn’t be going to work that day or for the foreseeable future. It was highly unlikely that they’d hold a disciplinary panel before Christmas or until at least the New Year.
Without work or being able to contact anyone there, I felt isolated and lonely in this strange part of London that I didn’t have the nerve to venture out in. When I looked out of the window, the snow had melted away in the night, leaving no trace. With a horrible thought, I wondered if my job might do the same. Christelle left for work the next morning leaving me with a key, so I could come and go but it was as if all the confidence had been sucked out of me. I didn’t want to leave the safety of her flat.
Instead I’d spent the day brooding over the fabulous views of the Thames which could be seen from two sides of the bank of windows that lined the apartment and torturing myself by re-reading the old emails on my Kindle.
Marcus. He should have been on the stage. What an actor. He’d made me believe him. Saturday night had felt so real and I felt physically sick, each time I realised again that he’d been setting me up. He hadn’t meant a word of what was said that night. And why was I even surprised by that. I so clearly wasn’t his type. It wasn’t even as if he ever intended to stay at the LMOC. He’d be back with the professional, corporate types probably now that his investigation was over.
Despite the pain that reading them gave me, I couldn’t bring myself to delete his emails. Perhaps I’d keep them as a salutary reminder of my complete and utter stupidity.
‘Dinner will be ready in fifteen minutes, Tilly. Can you lay the table, please?’
I rose without answering and crossed to the cutlery drawer. Guillaume shot me a horrified look. I couldn’t help laughing. Christelle had asked me in French.
‘I-I’m sorry,’ he stuttered.
I smirked and said dryly, ‘It’s OK – I’m getting used to it.’
He blushed, obviously thinking of all the suggestions he’d made in the last half hour.
Christelle, with her back to us, tightened the bow of the floral pinny, her shoulders shaking with suppressed laughter. Guillaume looked nervously at her and then back at me. As well he might, he had obviously had a fascination with the damn apron.
I felt slightly awkward now that the three of us were sitting at the table. Did Guillaume know what I’d been accused of? Were people talking about me at work? Whispering and wondering? Christelle had already warned me that I shouldn’t bring it up. The suspension letter had made it clear that the allegations were confidential.
Guillaume gave Christelle a look, she shook her head slightly but he shook his.
‘Tilly, no one believes it you know.’
Christelle put her hands over her ears, saying ‘La-la-la-la-la.’ Guillaume smiled.
‘That’s what I love about her, everything by the book.’ He winked at me as my sister blushed. Love eh? That had been quick.
‘Tell me about …’ I winked back at him. ‘But in this instance, I wouldn’t swap her for the world.’
‘Aw, Tilly.’ Christelle reached over and grabbed my hand and gave it a squeeze.
‘You’re not supposed to be listening,’ I said with a teasing smile.
‘I know and you two are not supposed to be talking about this but it’s very useful to have someone on the inside.’
Guillaume raised one Gallic eyebrow. ‘I have other uses you know.’
‘I know,’ she replied with a sultry look.
‘Excuse me,’ I interrupted.
‘Sorry.’ Guillaume’s irrepressible grin suggested he was anything but. ‘But everyone is talking about it, saying they can’t believe you would do anything wrong. You are held in very high regard. Philippe is suggesting we all go out on strike. Jeanie, she is very cross. Even Vince is subdued. I think they all miss you, already. There is a nasty tension in the air. Everyone has also heard what Vince has done. Most people are disgusted with him. Vince and Felix.’
‘Really? How?’
‘Jeanie and he had a flaming row in the canteen. Most people heard it. She was furious with him. Avoided him all day, told Philippe she could hardly bear to look at Vince. Then Vince caught her at lunchtime. Made the mistake of asking her to forgive him. It was akin to watching a volcano erupt. Her face,’ he winced, ‘turned bright red and then kaboom … she exploded. Everyone knows now.’
Talking about them all gave me a sharp pain in my chest. God I missed it all. What would I do if I never got to go back? Christelle must have caught the flash of pain that crossed my face. She leaned over and put her hand on my wrist. ‘Don’t give up. You have to stay positive. They would have received my letter today.’ She gave a self-satisfied smile. ‘That would have put the shits up them. They won’t be expecting that you’ve called in the big guns.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘I sent it on the firm’s headed paper.’ Her smile was as smug as a cat who’d swallowed the entire contents of a dairy.
‘Is that good?’ I’d never heard of the company she worked for but then I was hardly likely to.
‘Anyone in employment law will have heard of us.’ She cited some of the high-profile cases of CEOs and MDs who’d successfully sued their employers for millions for unfair dismissal, breach of contract and sexual discrimination.
‘Wow. I didn’t realise.’
‘Yeah, this is slightly different, in those cases, they wanted to see justice done. You want your job back. So, we have to prove that they are wrong. They should provide the evidence. Until they do, we can’t do anything.’
‘But what evidence have they got? I never sent any emails to the paper. I swear I didn’t.’
‘Then, it’s up to them to prove that you did. We need to see those emails.’
Where are you? Need to speak to you urgently. Meet me at 5.30pm at the Costa at Waterloo Station.
Jeanie’s text at 6.30 on Thursday morning s
tartled me from sleep.
Her text posed a dilemma. Did I tell Christelle? Or not tell her. It was breaking the rules. The HR letter made it clear that I wasn’t to discuss anything with other colleagues. Although I’d decided, after listening to Christelle say she defended wrong ’uns, that the law was decidedly murky.
‘You’re up early,’ remarked Christelle, as I wandered into her kitchen. In a slim fitting black dress accessorised with turquoise beads and cropped cashmere cardigan, she epitomised elegance. The scarf I’d bought her was so going to look gorgeous with that outfit.
‘Did I wake you? I’m due in Chambers early because I’ve got a pre-trial meeting with the defendant’s solicitor. Pain in the arse because we’ve been over everything. We’re going to lose. The man’s an idiot and so is his client. And then,’ she brightened, ‘we can start thinking about Christmas.’ With a piece of toast hanging out of her mouth and darting about the kitchen loading papers into a soft leather briefcase, I decided it was probably best not to bother her about the text.
‘And you mustn’t worry. I’ve had another look at the paperwork. And that laughable confidentiality agreement, which they’ve introduced well and truly after the horse has bolted.’
She grabbed a notepad and waved it at me.
‘Sage and onion stuffing or sausage meat? Or I suppose I could try and find the Jamie Oliver recipe.’
‘What?’
‘I’m making my shopping list. I thought we could go shopping later this week. I’ll try and leave early one night.’
‘Christelle, it’s Christmas Eve the day after tomorrow.’
‘Well, I’ll,’ she wrinkled her nose. ‘I’ll swing it somehow. Not tonight, maybe tomorrow.’
Her excitement made me smile. Enough with the brooding. It wasn’t going to get my job back. I had to shake off this lethargic lassitude. It wasn’t me at all. Suddenly I knew exactly how I was going to fill the hours before I met Jeanie.
Chapter 37
By twelve o’clock I was well into my stride. I’d been to Clapham to my flat, collected Mum’s bag of goodies which had been forgotten in all the drama of the last few days and done a marathon round of shopping in Sainsbury’s on the way back to Christelle’s. My enthusiasm had over-taken the ratio of hands to bags which meant that I had to hail a cab to transport everything back and my fingers had only just recovered from the grooves cut into them by the heavy plastic bags.
