Hard Rain

by Melissa Vayle

  ‘Good morning.’

  His voice. Her heart leapt. She looked up and there in the doorway, smiling at her, stood a tall man in a dark suit. Michael Richmond. At last.

  ‘Oh, hello,’ she said, and got up, nervously brushing a patch of dust from her clothes. He was taller and even more handsome than she remembered from the interview.

  ‘Well, how are you settling in?’

  ‘Oh, fine, thanks.’

  There was an awkward silence though he seemed quite comfortable with her own uneasiness.

  He’s enjoying this. She could tell.

  ‘How are you getting on with Anne?’

  ‘Oh, fine,‘ but she didn't sound convincing and his face showed that she was not believed. ‘She's helped a lot,’ she added, disingenuously.

  His eyes lingered on her then he smiled a gracious smile. He had exposed the lie and she looked away, vaguely staring at the wall. He came closer. She needed to gulp but dared not and suddenly felt hot and uncomfortable. He was now standing in front of her, just several feet away. Well-built, yet with the almost nimble quality of an athlete, he seemed to have a lightness in his frame when he moved and there was something relaxed about him that contrasted with his rigid composure at the interview. In control, smiling or gracious, an iron hand or whatever, he knew how to be in control. Like now.

  ‘Miss Day.’ She gulped and was forced to look up at him. ‘Or shall I call you Catherine?’

  Already going red, she smiled rigidly, gulping once more.

  ‘Hmm...,’ clearing her throat, ‘Fine,’ she said.

  ‘Fine what?’ he looked slightly confused.

  ‘Hmm… fine, Catherine's fine,’ she added quickly, suffused with a calamitous feeling of stupidity and being like some six-year old.

  ‘You look hot. It's quite warm in here. Surely you can’t be comfortable in this heat? Perhaps you could do with more windows open?’

  Gracious again. She clutched at the straw he threw her.

  ‘Yes, I am. You're right, I hadn't noticed. Hmm...I'll open another window,’ and with that, eager for the opportunity to turn her back on him to gulp again and try to compose herself, she went over to the window to open it. The huge pile of books she had built by the window forced her to stretch over to reach the window catch and she suddenly felt he was ogling her as her body tensed, her skirt rose and her clothes tightened around her. She turned round to find him still gazing upon her, a gentle smile going with those deep, dark eyes that straightaway evaporated what resilience she still had left inside her.

  ‘That's better,’ he said, ‘We should always try to be comfortable, not least with ourselves.’ At that, the eyes fixed her closely and his seemingly searching look threw her for a moment. Silence. She looked at the wall, the floor, a pile of books, hemmed in on all sides, there was nowhere to go. She was suddenly wringing her hands, wriggling under his look.

  ‘Yes,’ was all she could say and wanted to gulp.

  ‘And are you comfortable with yourself, Catherine?’

  His voice was soft, silky, intimate. Heat flushed up through her, her hot cheeks telling her and the whole world she was acutely embarrassed. He could see that, she was sure, but nothing changed in his face. The gaze pressed home hard and she could not look him in the face. He stepped forward and folded his arms in front of him. She looked down instinctively at the floor at his feet.

  ‘Hmm...’ was the only sound she could make. Her breathing was laboured, her heart pounding. Her eyes had nowhere to go, now fixed on his immaculately polished black shoes. He towered before her, his presence bearing down on her. A whiff of a gorgeous aftershave caught her senses,

  ‘Hmm…,’ her mind suddenly froze.

  ‘You're not, are you?’ Silence. ‘Comfortable with yourself, are you?’ Then slightly firmer in tone, ‘Are you?’

  Please! A silent protest rose up inside her. It's not fair! The walls were crumbling.

  ’Are you?’ this time deeper. The rack was cranked harder. Then…

  ‘No,’ almost a whisper.

  ‘What was that?’

  A gulp, deep breath and this time louder and clearer, ‘No.’

  The room was still, his shoes didn't move, she was overcome by a paralysing weakness.

  ‘And why are you not comfortable with yourself, Catherine?’ his voice lowered, she knew all resistance was now useless.

  She wanted to confess, bare all, tell him everything, she knew he would understand. He who could see down to the roots of her soul, could see right through her, knew what drove her, knew how to drive her. At last she could confess all. She opened her mouth as if about to address the shoes and struggled hard to wrest the words from deep inside.

  ‘Because...’ One more wrench and it would come. ’Because...’ One last heave and it would all be over. ‘Because...’ The turmoil within was ripping every nerve and tearing every taut muscle as her brain threatened to burst. A glance up at his face and the struggle was over. ‘Because I feel a failure.’ The words were now flowing. ‘Because I'm here and not in a secure job, because I'm a thirty-something with nothing to show for it. Because I've thrown away a good relationship, like a wanton fool.’

  He looked stunned. No smile now. Clearly not the response he was intending to get.

  She checked herself as a sense of relief washed over her. She had just escaped from a moment of near, sheer madness. Sheer utter madness.

  ‘I'm sorry!’ she breathed in deep, and felt transformed, a hundred thousand times better than just seconds before. ‘You don't want to know about my problems,’ and she moved away from him, past his inert form and towards the doorway. He remained there, rooted to the spot, his back to her, giving no indication of anything he was feeling or thinking.

  Suddenly, he turned round, not looking at her, surveyed the cluttered floor around him and looked most uncomfortable, despite an attempted air of relaxation.

  ‘Perhaps another time,’ and looked at her. ‘Perhaps when you are settled in more. Yes, we can talk again,’ and with that he smiled and walked past her to the door. ‘Oh! If there's anything you need, inform Anne, and she'll see that I get the message.’ Then he was gone.

  She was left standing there, stunned by his sudden leaving, and felt empty and horribly let-down with the outcome of her long-awaited meeting with him. It was ghastly, she realized, and then: It was so unreal. I can’t believe I did that! Can’t believe that just happened right now. How could I?! How could he?! But she stopped in full flow and played back in her mind the horror she had just, miraculously, escaped from. She relived the surge of heat that flushed through her as the trauma grabbed her and threatened to rip her to shreds and expose her and destroy everything that she valued that made her … self-identity, self-respect, her humanity, her loves and feelings, relationships, and music, and laughter, and … The list went on, all of it encapsulated in a split-second of thought that counterbalanced the appalling, near endless duration of the dreadful experience she had just gone through. How on earth did I do that? How could I have let him do that to me?

  She struggled to fix the precise moment when she took the wrong turning that led to the ground opening up on her like that. Him! It was him! He knew exactly what he was doing. Yes! The fixed gaze that drilled right into her. She felt violated and abused that he should force himself on her to see right into her secret self. How dare he! A bully and a thug! That’s what he is. She felt sick at his behaviour. She resented his arrogance to come in here, cynically take control and toy with her just as if she were another item of his property. He’s already got that bitch under his heel, you can tell that. But me? Think again, mister! Ridiculous! To think I may have even begun to fancy him in the first place! Well thank God, I’ve had my eyes opened to your fake, plastic charm and you’ve been exposed for the creep you are! Then she stopped in her tracks and seemed blank and empty.

  Quietly, suddenly feeling drained and tired, she sat down. She was glad she had opened the windows and breathed in deeply the almost
palpable, fresh air. A bird was tweeting spiritedly somewhere in the distance over where the poplars were. She realized that out there, beyond the confines of this small room, the world was still turning and that life was still beautiful, and that others out there were alive and kicking, and many so happy that the thought of it all suddenly made her want to cry. But the tune of the bird, seeming endless and so optimistic, made her smile, if only sadly. It was a lovely day out there but, here inside, a dark cloud blocked out the summer in her soul and she knew it was up to her to save herself.

  What do I do now? I’ll quit and never have to see him again. But she knew she needed the money. And she knew she needed a good reference to get another job. Her heart sank. Perhaps he’s learnt his lesson and there’s no more of that silly stuff now I’ve shown I can handle him. Yes. Nothing rash … see how it goes … And so, with a mixture of relief and self-reassurance, rapidly turning into renewed self-confidence and increasing optimism that the future was now looking bright, she decided to carry on. Thank God, she did not fancy him anymore.

  Chapter 5. Presage

  ‘Havlingham?’

  The request was simple enough but Catherine did not take it all in at first.

  ‘Yes,’ said Anne, ‘Down the Parkway, straight over the roundabout at the filling station and then all the way. It's a straight run.’

  ‘When? Now?’

  ‘Well, have a bite to eat first if you like. It's lunchtime, more or less, anyway. You can set off after.’

  ‘But how far is it?’ enquired Catherine, a little concerned about driving off into God-knows-where on some rushed errand she had no forewarning of, and never one to be totally at ease with her driving.

  ‘Oh, fifty, sixty miles, maybe a bit more,’ replied Anne quite casually. ‘Of course, you can claim your expenses. Mr Richmond will see to it that you are not out of pocket, far from it.’

  ‘Sorry, what is it again you want me to do?’

  Anne looked a little impatient and seemed somewhat testy.

  ‘Here, I'll write it down,’ and with that she wrote down the name of the book dealer on the first piece of paper to hand: Saunders & Co. ‘That's Kingfisher Crescent, first turning on the left as you pass the sign saying twinned with Choixy-sur-Seine, you can't miss it,’ and she wrote that down too.

  ‘And what is it again I am supposed to be collecting?’ asked Catherine, already lost. Anne carried on writing and then, without a word, handed the piece of paper to her.

  ‘James Milroyd-Barclay - a Life,’ said Catherine, reading it out. ‘Gulenkov - the Warsaw years’. Gulenkov, she knew, or at least knew of his Thracian Symphony but the other... Her questioning look drew no response from Anne, and it flashed through her mind that she was none the wiser either. No matter, it was what Michael wanted, she was doing it for him and it was a chance at last to prove she was more useful than just sorting out a room full of archives.

  ‘And remember …’ Anne was keen to impress this upon her. ‘You can bring the books back with you when you come in to work tomorrow morning. There's no need to come back here today, you can go straight home with the books. With luck, you'll be home early today, and that can't be bad, can it?’ and smiled at Catherine.

  ‘I don't mind coming straight back with them, really, if they are so rare and valuable.’ But Anne would have none of it.

  ‘No, you go straight home. They'll do tomorrow when you come in to work.’ And that was that. ‘James Saunders is expecting you. They're already paid for.’ Anne made it sound so simple. And so it should be, thought Catherine.

  ‘I'll have my lunch then be off,’ she said and Anne smiled, and then was gone out the door.

  A stop at the filling station, then Catherine was on her way with a lightened heart, having calculated, with luck, she could be home perhaps one and a half hours earlier, maybe two. All she hoped was that the gathering dark clouds did not presage a storm. She hated driving in the rain and her foot instinctively pressed down harder on the accelerator. Oh, I hope it doesn't rain tonight, she thought, and then at once gasped in alarm.

  ‘The tickets! The tickets for tonight's concert!’ She had left them in her drawer at work. ‘Oh no!’ and without checking her rear view mirror, she immediately pulled over to the side of the road oblivious to the blaring horn of the car behind her and the screaming curse of the driver as he shot past her.

  What's Val going to say? And she knew her disappointment would be huge. They had both been looking forward to this for days, ever since Catherine managed to pick up two cancellations. There was only one thing to do. She had only come about five or six miles. It wouldn't take her long to go back to Blackthorne and get them, and without more ado, she drove off looking for the first road on the right she could turn off into. There was a distant rumble of thunder off in the distance but it did not register with her. All she thought of was retrieving those tickets.

  As the car turned into the driveway, the black sky bore down ominously on an almost twilight landscape and Catherine knew she could not escape what was coming. She had no keys to the front door and would have to wait while Anne came to let her in. It would be quicker to drive round the back to the door of the south wing near the library which led to the garden. If she was lucky, she could dash in, grab her tickets from the drawer and be back in her car before the skies opened up.

  As she got out of the car, she could see through the window in the back door that the lights in the corridor were on. There was not a moment to be lost as another thunderclap struck overhead. Up to the door with outstretched hand she hurried, turned the handle and crashed into the door. It was locked. Damn! Of all the times! It was never locked when she went out at lunchtimes. Why on earth now?! Another peal of thunder, and it made her jump as she dithered before the locked door. But even before the thunderclap died down, her eyes took in for an instant the form of a passing figure on the corridor.

  Fleeting though the image was, it was that of Anne, unmistakeably. But surely some mistake nonetheless? Catherine tried to grasp what she had just glimpsed. To be sure, it was about to rain, and hard, but this? What on earth...? But try as hard as she could, she could not cancel or recreate the image in some other meaningful form. This was real, there was no mistake. What she had seen, briefly for a second, fleetingly for a moment, passing before her eyes across the gap of the passage to the door and where it joined the corridor, almost gliding ghostlike and silently, was Anne, and Anne as she had never seen her before.

  She was not wearing her normal clothing but something else and as the seconds ticked away, Catherine could still not believe what her eyes had told her. Anne was dressed in black underwear - bra, panties, suspenders, black stockings - and black stilettoed shoes. And something else. Over the underwear she had on a see-through, red plastic raincoat, belted at the waist. Catherine could not have been mistaken. It was a transparent-style mac, not a negligée she was sure, the photographic image was fixed in her mind for her to focus on again and again. It definitely was a raincoat, with an attached hood at the back, and the way the garment hung on her and caught the light made it glisten. A picture flashed through her mind, of a schoolgirl long ago in a pink mac. But that was for outdoors in the rain. This - black underwear, suspenders, high heels - she dared not imagine further. It couldn't be Anne! But try as she might, her eyes had seen her and almost at once came an even more shocking and disturbing thought. Michael. Does he know? More still - Is he involved? The very thought made her reel and feel sick and empty. Was he in the house, even at this minute? The shattering bang of a thunderclap overhead startled her and brought her back to the moment. A drop of rain glanced her forehead.

  ‘The tickets!’ she cried.

  She dashed back to the car and as the first large raindrops settled on her windscreen, she frantically drove back round to the front of the building, to the main entrance and once more rushed up to the door. The thought struck her: Anne, will she come to the door and let me in? But Catherine was desperate and had to have those ticket
s. She pressed the doorbell. And then again. ‘Damn her!’ she thought. ‘It’s all so ridiculous, so stupid!’

  ‘Oh, come on!’ clamoured a voice inside her, ‘Come on!’ She didn't care about the mac, the underwear. ‘Just give me the tickets, I don't give a damn,’ she told herself, as the raindrops were now audibly striking the doorstep and falling on her. ‘Michael, I don't give a damn!’ came the voice within, and a surge of emotion that brought a tear to her eyes.

  ‘Oh shit!’ she cried and she rang again, only for longer. Another thunderclap and almost at once, the heavens opened up. She banged on the knocker. ‘Oh God!’ she pressed hard on the bell shouting ‘Please!’ almost beseechingly. She banged on the knocker again. And still no-one came. She stood there like a statue, and getting soaked. ‘Please!’ again, but now more like a whimper. Of course she won't answer the door, it’s obvious, why should they? Doing what they were doing? Feeling wretched inside and out, she turned to make for her car. Then the door opened. She turned round and there was Anne.

  ‘You!’ said Anne, looking surprised and clearly embarrassed. She was dressed normally but looked most uncomfortable and was slightly flushed.

  ‘I've been ringing for ages!’ cried Catherine and with that, pushed past her into the hallway. Anne seemed flustered.

  ‘I didn't hear, I was out back, the noise of the thunder...’ and then, more composed ‘You're wet through, I'm sorry, I thought you had gone.’

  ‘I had!’ replied Catherine, sopping wet and boiling with rage at what this woman had done to her. ‘I have, but I forgot my concert tickets in my drawer in the library.’

  ‘Oh, I see,’ said Anne limply, trying to resume some form of normality between the two of them. ‘You stay here, I'll get them for you,’ and made as if to fetch them at once.

  ‘No, I'll get them!’ snapped Catherine, and pushed past her to get to the library, leaving Anne rooted to the spot.