by Jules Wake
I’d made the driver stop outside a local greengrocer and although he wasn’t keen, I persuaded him to help me stuff a Christmas tree in the back of the cab, the top doubled over to fit, shedding needles everywhere. It took several trips in the lift to get everything up to Christelle’s ninth floor apartment and by the time I’d got the last load in, I almost collapsed in a heap.
Now, with Michael Buble’s Christmas CD blasting out, I’d lined up all my ingredients, Blue Peter style, with everything weighed out in little dishes. That was the joy of Christelle’s kitchen, she had loads of stuff. A proper blender, measuring jugs, pastry cutters, a real pastry brush and a cooker that worked. I’d set her iPad up on the counter and had found the special Jamie Oliver stuffing recipe, thankfully I’d remembered most of the ingredients, even the sage leaves, when I was shopping. It was a family favourite that we’d adopted after watching a Christmas cookery programme.
My first batch of mince pies were already in the oven and I’d guestimated the amount of orange juice I’d used in the pastry but I was hopeful they’d taste as good as Mum’s. I’d put grated orange zest on the top of the mince-meat before sealing each pie, just the way she did and had even painstakingly cut tiny holly leaves to decorate the top, which she didn’t do. I quickly realised why. I got bored trying to roll tiny berries and decided that the holly leaves glistening with beaten egg were quite fancy enough, thank you. The second batch would have to go unadorned. Life was too short.
I flopped onto one of the cream leather sofas with a cup of tea and ran through my mental check list admiring the view. Today was one of those crisp frosty days with the deepest blue cloudless sky and the view from the picture windows spread out in the brilliant sunshine.
Despite being close to zero outside, inside it was lovely and toasty. No drafty windows and half-hearted radiators here. Although the apartment was a touch too modern for my taste, I realised everything being properly maintained, cared for and looked after was far more comfortable to live with. With a sense of shame, I thought about my flat and my laissez-faire attitude to it, realising that all the things I’d got so used to, could be improved and repaired. I’d fallen into a rut, accepting things as they were.
The thought splintered in a thousand directions as it dawned on me, I could move. Sell the flat and buy another one. Or rather I could, if I got my job back. I had enough equity to put down a big enough deposit to take out a small mortgage. It suddenly seemed the grown up, sensible thing to do.
Finishing my tea, I put down the cup on a coaster and sat up. Once all this job business was resolved, I’d put the flat up for sale. Decision made, I felt much more positive. And now I’d had a brief rest, I had work to do. Jumping to my feet, I went and sorted through Mum’s huge bag, which proved a revelation. She’d packed Christmas. There were two separate parcels of decorations, including tinsel, silver for Christelle, gold for me and a selection of familiar family decorations, as well as some new ones. With the added collection I’d bought that morning, the tree was going to be well laden.
There were also several wrapped presents for each of us and two stockings. I rubbed my finger over the sequinned M on one of them. We’d had them forever. I couldn’t remember a time when they weren’t hung with great ceremony on our doorknobs before we went to bed on Christmas Eve.
With a pang, I thought of home and the family celebrations we had, our particular traditions. Bucks fizz for breakfast, the neighbours in for champagne cocktails, Dad wearing his elf apron in charge of the turkey and Mum’s hopeless attempts at lighting the Christmas pudding.
I was going to make sure that Christelle and I had a Christmas of our own to remember.
Putting up the tree proved the more problematic element of my perfect sisters’ Christmas mission. I cursed. I really wanted it all to be done by the time Christelle walked through the door after work. I’d bought extra decorations in the supermarket and two strings of fairy lights but hadn’t thought how I was going to get the blasted tree up.
Ransacking her cupboards didn’t help. I didn’t think my sister would be too pleased if I used her biggest saucepan and I’d still need something inside it to anchor the tree. And then I spotted the parasol outside on the balcony. The base would be perfect.
Almost perfect I discovered, but with a bit of shaving and planing with a very sharp knife and building a fine sweat, I managed to ram the trunk into the parasol base. It’s amazing what you can do with a bit of determination and I did use Christelle’s oldest Sabatier knife.
Rush hour had hit big time and Waterloo still thronged with people and noise but after being holed up in Christelle’s calm, quiet flat, the busy atmosphere felt as if I’d come out of hibernation. I’d achieved a lot today and feeling a little bit brighter, I lengthened my stride and weaved around the people, my skirt flouncing. Yes, I felt a lot more like me. It would be good to see Jeanie and I hoped that she might have some good news.
Taking an appreciative sniff of my Cappuccino I took a good look around the coffee bar. No sign of her yet.
Scanning the tables I missed him the first time but with magnetic power, my gaze was drawn back to a table in the far corner where familiar green eyes watched me. Ridiculously I still looked around to see if there was any sign of Jeanie.
I flushed, searing heat racing over my body like hot sand, my legs suddenly wobbly. The rush of emotion, so confused and fierce made me freeze. Shit, I didn’t want to see him. I had nothing to say to him. All I could remember was that horrible scene with him, Marsha and Julian all staring at me, united accusation radiating from their stilted body language.
In sudden panic, I wheeled round. I had to get away before everything overwhelmed me. Before I got to the door he caught up with me, stumbling over chair legs and bags in his haste. He insinuated himself between me and the door, blocking my way and put a hand on my arm.
I shook it off and took a step back, scowling at him. ‘Where’s Jeanie? Did you make her text me?’
‘No, I asked her to help because we both wanted to help.’
‘Help?’ I snarled. ‘Yeah right. What do you want Marcus?’
‘What do you think I want?’ he asked, irritation sharpening his words.
‘I haven’t got a bloody clue.’
‘I want to help you.’
‘Bit late, isn’t it?’ I narrowed my eyes, unaccountably annoyed by the calm, unemotional expression on his face. ‘I didn’t see you jumping to help the other day.’
‘Why don’t you come and sit down?’
‘I don’t think we’ve got anything to say,’ I said, pushing him aside.
‘For God’s sake, Tilly.’ He grabbed my arm, his touch angry and then let go, chastened when I gave him a look of icy fury. ‘Grow up. It wasn’t personal.’ Mutinously I stared at him. Suited and still bloody gorgeous. My heart fluttered, the traitorous bugger. I really wanted to hate him. I did hate him, it was just my body had other stupid ideas.
‘Easy for you to say. It felt extremely personal when they took my job away and …’ And after I slept with you. It hurt to think about being curled up in bed with him, instead I stared down at the steam curling out of my coffee lid. It didn’t help. Images tumbled in my head. His hands stroking my skin. The heavy weight of his leg over mine. The heat of his breath on my neck.
My stomach cramped in pain as I tensed, fighting to keep the memories in check. I couldn’t do this, not with him. My voice came out small and defeated as I looked up at him and said, ‘Please leave me alone.’
‘I can’t do that.’ He reached for me again but I moved my hand out of reach, my jaw clamping tight. He had no right to touch me. Not again.
‘Leave me alone, Marcus. You got what you wanted. You found your leak. Pretended you were interested. I don’t know what you’re doing now but I’m–’
‘I’m trying to help you for Pete’s sake,’ he hissed, his cheeks reddening.
Some small part of me was delighted I’d got a rise out of him.
‘
Why?’ I said as rudely as I could. ‘Guilty conscience?’
‘Just sit down and give me five minutes. What have you got to lose?’
I stood and weighed it up for a minute.
‘Please.’ His expression was guarded now.
‘OK.’
I followed him back to the table in the corner and sat down in my coat, making it clear that I wouldn’t be there for long.
I played with my coffee cup, anything to avoid looking at his face.
‘Something’s not right. I don’t believe you sent those emails.’
‘Funny, you didn’t mention that in the meeting,’ I muttered, still toying with the cardboard sleeve on the cup, the familiar sense of utter helplessness rising.
Frustration touched his face.
‘Look I’m trying here. Trying to make sense of it. I shouldn’t even be here. I could lose …’
‘Lose your job?’ I flung the words at him. How dare he? I sat up straight, pointing at him. ‘You sat there,’ I relished the words as I spat them at him, ‘and said nothing while they accused me of sending emails to a paper. You said I’d sent them.’ I clutched my coffee cup, seriously considering throwing it at him now.
‘What the hell was I supposed to do?’ His words tumbled out. ‘And I didn’t say you’d sent them. I said they came from your account. There’s a difference. Unfortunately, it counts as evidence. Damning evidence as far as the board is concerned. There’s an email trail from your account to a national newspaper. That’s incontrovertible evidence.’
‘Well you can stick your incontrovertible,’ I raised my hands in exaggerated finger speech marks, ‘evidence, because I didn’t send those emails, but clearly while you were keeping me otherwise occupied, someone else decided I had been.’
‘I beg your pardon?’ He stiffened.
‘You heard me. I’m not completely stupid. Actually, I am! Completely bloody stupid. You were investigating the leaks. Funny that you magically found the answers that weekend. Is fucking someone part of the snoop’s charter?’ I hurled the words at him, making it as ugly as I could. ‘Is that why you slept with me?’
He crunched up his coffee cup in his hands, the cardboard crackling and coffee spilling over his fingers.
‘Thanks a bunch. You’ve got a high opinion of me. Is that really what you think? What you think of me?’
I shrugged, lifting my chin and ignoring the horrid mean feeling inside me. ‘I’d say the evidence is incontrovertible. You oversaw the investigation. Presumably you knew what was going on, while we were at the football and … a-afterwards.’ My voice cracked but I kept my chin held high as I gave him an icy glare.
His jaw tightened, the pulse in his neck twitching but he managed to keep his voice cold and controlled. ‘That wasn’t the case at all. The security consultant’s report went direct to the Chief Exec as well as me.’ I hadn’t realised it would hurt quite so much when he didn’t deny that they’d been digging while I was with him.
He carried on, ‘And as I said, the evidence was there.’ Finishing his sentence, he put both elbows on the table, his case laid out, all reasonable and logical.
I shot him a disdainful look as I took a sip of coffee before saying dismissively, ‘So you keep saying.’
‘Jesus Christ Tilly,’ he erupted, his Adam’s apple working furiously, ‘Stop being so fucking melodramatic. This isn’t getting us anywhere. I contacted you because I don’t think you did it. No,’ he hissed, slamming both hands on the table. ‘I know you didn’t do it but if we’re going to clear your name, you’re going to have to bloody talk to me and stop sniping at me. I was as blind-sided by that meeting as you were. You didn’t do it. OK.’
I drew back in my seat, shocked by his outburst, unsure what to say.
‘You don’t believe I did it? Big of you.’
He took in a breath, a touch of regret haunting his expression. ‘It’s not a question of believing. I know you didn’t do it.’
‘And how did you come to that conclusion, Sherlock?’
He went very still and held my gaze. ‘Because it’s completely out of character. You … you wouldn’t do something like that.’
The husky timbre of his voice made me feel things I didn’t want to feel. ‘It doesn’t help though does it? You said they’ve got evidence.’ I straightened up, determined to keep things professional.
He hadn’t got the same memo; when he leaned over and touched my forearm, his eyes intense, and said softly, ‘Yes, but if you didn’t send those emails, some else did,’ I had to fight against the growing warmth in my chest. I couldn’t afford to let him touch me again. His job came first and he wasn’t that scrupulous about making sure he got results.
‘Well duh, Sherlock,’ I sneered. ‘I think I might have already deduced that.’
His mouth firmed but he got the message. ‘We have to prove someone else sent those emails, using your account.’
I screwed up my face, and shook my head. ‘Easier said than done. I’m guessing if they’d handily signed their name on the emails coming from me that someone might have picked that up.’
Marcus’s mouth twisted in a wry smile. ‘Unfortunately, the paper isn’t being very forthcoming. Protecting their sources.’
‘I bet they are.’ I let out a thoughtful sigh. ‘I might as well tell you. It was probably Felix.’
I flinched under Marcus’s cool assessing gaze. ‘Remember I told you I couldn’t forgive him. He sold the picture of Katerina. There were other stories as well. His friend’s brother is a reporter.’ I bit my lip. ‘It never occurred to me. I guess he used my email account.’
‘That makes sense.’
‘Why do you say that?’
‘Because whoever was doing it, deleted the emails from the sent box. Trying to hide their tracks or make sure you didn’t see them, but the security consultants we used found them all on the email provider’s server.’
‘Still doesn’t help, though.’ I felt more hopeless than ever. ‘Felix could have used his laptop when I wasn’t around. My password and log in came up automatically in the webmail.’
Marcus frowned and rubbed at his forehead. ‘He could have been emailing while you were somewhere else.’
I didn’t follow.
‘If we pull off the times that the emails were sent and work out where you were, we could find you an alibi. Do you keep … of course you don’t.’
‘What?’
‘I was going to say an electronic calendar. We could have shared it and I could cross reference the two.’
‘Ha! I’ve got something better. Remember this,’ I rummaged in my handbag, ‘funny little book.’ I opened my diary to point to the week to view page, filled with scribbles. ‘They have dates in. You use this thing called a pen, and write in it. Odd concept, I’m sure, but it worked for hundreds of years. Ever heard of a chap called Samuel Pepys. Oh, I forgot. We’ve had this conversation before. And you scoffed at handy little black book.’
I flicked through the pages. Dress rehearsal. Christelle lunch. Poker night.
Marcus pulled back his sleeve, with a quick peek at his watch. ‘I need to get back to work.’ He almost sounded regretful. ‘But we need to go through every date. I’ve got a list of all the emails sent which we can cross reference with your diary.’
‘I’m not sure that’s a good idea.’
Half of me wanted that more than anything else and the other half, protected by a strong sense of self-preservation thought it was a really, really bad idea.
‘Tilly, do you want your job back?’
I did, more than anything.
‘I tell you what.’ I couldn’t see him on my own, I needed distance. Keep it impersonal. ‘Come round to my sister’s. I’m staying there for now.’ I gave him a challenging look. ‘She’s a barrister.’
‘Yes, I know. She mentioned it.’
‘Did she mention she specialises, luckily for me, in employment law.’
‘No, I assumed she was … I guess a criminal bar
rister.’ He gave an approving nod. ‘But employment that’s good. Very good.’
‘Yes. She’s going to represent me at the hearing. I think she’ll want to be involved. She’ll need to see this evidence.’
His mouth twisted. ‘Are you sure that’s a good idea?’
‘Don’t worry about your job.’ I stood up and pushed my coffee away in disgust. ‘I’ll make sure Christelle doesn’t tell anyone. Let me speak to her and I’ll send you a text later.’
‘You’ve got my number.’
‘Yes,’ I snapped. He’d given it to me when we’d arranged to meet to travel up to Yorkshire.
As I went to walk away, Marcus grabbed my wrist. His touch on my forearm gentled and I think his thumb gave one tiny stroke of my inner wrist.
‘I’m not worried about my job. I’m worried about losing any leverage I’ve got on being on the inside. Access to information. The emails.’
Chapter 38
I was back at the flat well before Christelle who’d texted to say she was on her way home which gave me time to switch on the lights on the tree and the second set I’d arranged rather artistically, if I said so myself, in an outsize vase on one of the side tables. When she walked through the door, tea lights burned in votive glasses on the coffee table and the flat smelled of cinnamon and spice from the mulled wine I was heating gently on the stove, a last-minute inspiration after I’d walked past Marks and Spencer at the station where they were handing out free samples in tiny plastic glasses.
‘Honey, I’m h …’ her voice died away as she walked into the lounge. ‘Oh my God Tilly,’ she let out an excited squeal. ‘This is gorgeous!’
She stood in front of the tree and clapped her hands. ‘Wow! You’ve been busy.’
‘Come through to the kitchen and I’ll get you a drink.’
