by Emma Cooper
The fridge hums inside the kitchen and I open it, staring at the contents. Grabbing a bottle of white wine, I twist the top off and go to take a sip; the memory of him is almost too close to bear. In rebellion I take a swig anyway, this time continuing to drink without a glass. My phone begins to vibrate. I take it from my pocket and without looking at the screen throw it against the wall. Tiny pieces of it shatter on to the floor, emails and data, photos and contacts surround me, and I start to laugh. Look at it; look at how pitiful my life is: a few broken pieces of glass, memory chips, plastic and gleaming metal. Look at how useless it is. I take another swig of the wine then pull out my laptop. I log on to my email and close the account, allowing myself the small victory of taking charge of the decision rather than having a faceless name denying me access. I take another swig: delete, delete, delete – I close all my social media accounts. By the time the last of the wine slides down my throat I have erased Sophie Williams. Sophie Williams is dead. I unplug the landline from the wall and throw it into the bin, then I sit down and cry. Each tear that falls strips away the façade that I’ve worked so hard to put up; the business woman with clipped vowels walks away without a backwards glance, leaving behind a girl with scuffed shoes and a hand-me-down uniform.
Week Three
Samuel
The door thuds. A quiet, hushed thud, the type you would make if you spread your arms, leant back and sank into soft snow, an angel created, a memory cherished. My eyes open and I know. I know she’s gone.
I rush to the window just in time to see the taxi pull away, the blue sky reflecting back at me from the rear window. I bang on the window with my fists. The sound is angry and urgent inside this room, but outside, I know, it will not even drown out the insistent tapping of the woodpecker in the large conifer across the road. ‘Shit,’ I say as I push my feet through my jeans.
Optimism instructs my eyes to look for clues around the house. Maybe she has just left to go and grab us a coffee? Groceries for a romantic breakfast in bed? Hope fills me until I see the note left on the table.
How can she possibly know? And what does she think she understands?
I have no idea where she is or where she would be going, but as I leave the house, I hope against all the odds that she’s at the same hotel as last time.
‘Feck sake,’ I groan as I stand in front of the hotel. Rotating doors: my nemesis. My eyes narrow at them as I take a confident step towards the slow-moving glass rectangles. They have hindered my path many times before, but today is not going to be one of those days. Here are the reasons that this is not going to happen to me today:
1. I am not carrying an oversized bag over my shoulder that could get myself and said bag trapped.
2. I have not drunk a bottle of ten-year-old ouzo and felt confused enough to do three whole rotations before my sister pulls me out (after she has recorded it to upload to YouTube).
3. I am the only person about to enter the revolving doors, therefore reducing my chances of being trapped once again while Sarah jams the doors and films my inability to escape for yet more YouTube uploads.
I take a deep breath, loosen my shoulders and walk into the gilded chamber to be deposited into the hotel lobby without incident. I straighten myself and give my glassy-eyed opponent a nod of respect.
I follow my feet, which are encased in pale-blue baseball Converse, in a fashion probably more suited to younger soles; slightly worn on the inside because I always walk – according to my sister – like I’m deliberately trying to trip myself up. Their hastened steps stop at the desk; I face a small receptionist with caterpillar-like eyebrows – no, not caterpillar-like . . . It takes me a moment to place where I have seen such beasts before, then it dawns on me: the tail of my childhood pet cat, Marmalade. I’m mesmerised as they arch up and down, in the same way that Marmalade’s tail would swish and curl at the sound of the tin opener, and wonder what the deal is with women and their thick eyebrows at the moment. She is talking to a tall, unkempt man in a crumpled black suit. It is much travelled, that suit, I can’t help but observe.
‘Excuse me?’ I interject. In my head, an image pops up of Marmalade’s tail shooting up in fear as I squirted water at him with a home-made water pistol: the latest in the highest end of the Fairy washing-up bottle range. ‘Please could you tell me which room Sophie Williams is staying in? I’m her, um, brother.’
I have no idea why I said that, when clearly we both have very different appearances and our accents are nothing like the same. ‘Half-brother.’ Shite. That would still probably give us the same accents. ‘I mean, step-brother, um, twice removed.’ I look at the eyebrows, unfurling above two amused-looking eyes. The transatlantic suit wrinkles and shifts.
‘Is she expecting you?’
‘Yes.’ I nod convincingly. I watch as the minute hand on the clock above the desk clicks onwards.
‘Four-Five-Four.’ The eyebrows reward me for my hard work. I grasp the information, run towards the lift and press the up button. And press it again. And press it again. Until the doors finally open.
I hurry out of the lift, looking to the left, to the right, taking in the Jackson Pollock-esque prints, the emergency exit posters, the cleaning trolley, the arguing couple – their middle-aged faces showing to the world that they’ve had this argument before and their relationship is over even if they don’t know it themselves yet. I walk past the doors; each room is hidden and each occupant a mystery. Only one room’s secrets escape, as the hymn ‘Lord of the Dance’ spills under the doors: one moment of its notes climbing higher and higher and I am thirteen again, standing in our church, pretending to look at the hymn book and not down the top of the girl in the pew in front of me; she always missed a button on her blouse, revealing a glimpse – a promise – of a lacy bra. The sound stops just as I arrive in front of her room: 454.
My fist hammers against the door. ‘Sophie!’ I yell, my hand becoming sore. The couple quieten, their argument forgotten, foreheads touching: a compromise met. ‘Sophie!’ I shout again.
‘She’s just left,’ the woman tells me. The husband puts a protective hand on her shoulder, guiding her into their room.
The lift announces its unexpected arrival and I quickly step inside, urging it to descend faster. I rush to the desk and interrupt the receptionist and the crumpled-suit man again, asking if she has checked out.
‘She’s just left,’ Marmalade explains.
I run out on to the kerb, scanning up and down the street: the people, the buildings, the traffic, the homeless man counting the change in his hat. All of this has blurred edges because all I can see is the back of her head through the taxi window, and indicator lights blinking as it edges away.
My feet chase, my mouth shouts her name over and over again, my hands pull at the back of my hair, but the taxi is already picking up speed.
I run back into the hotel.
‘Where was she going?’ I ask marmalade brows.
‘The airport,’ she answers, looking irritated as I interrupt her hair-swishing and furtive conversation with crumpled-suit man.
‘Which one?’ I ask. Something about my desperation must soften her opinion of me.
‘Reagan National.’
The traffic is slow. My eyes fill with tears of frustration and I pound the steering wheel.
Tock, tock, tock . . . time stands over my shoulder as I park the car and escape the seat belt. Tock, tock, tock . . . I push my way past excited groups of travellers, through the doors, and scan the screens for the next flight to London: it’s boarding. I sprint to the gate, but the air steward tells me that I can’t go through. No, he says, I can’t buy a ticket: the flight is full.
Actions that I have been performing all my life become difficult. I find that I’m having to concentrate on sucking in air and releasing it. I’m having to tell my legs to support my body, having to tell my hands to not respond to the heavy grasp of the security guard as he pulls me away. I have lost her, again.
Week Fou
r
Sophie
I sleep.
Mornings and nights roll into one, until I eventually venture out of my bed and into the shower.
I make a coffee, but the smell feels like mould: claggy and dense. Instead, I open a can of bitter lemon, resisting the urge to glug a shot of vodka into it, and add some crushed ice from the fridge dispenser, then drink it quickly, quenching a thirst that I didn’t know I had.
It’s strange having nothing to do. Time stretches in front of you, taunting you. I open another can of bitter lemon, refill my glass and carry it into the lounge where a stack of paperwork sneers at me from my glass-topped dining table. I lean against the door frame and sip my drink, daring myself to go over and take a look, like curling the edge of a plaster that needs to be ripped off. My waste-paper basket is full and as I scan the room, I notice that there is a thin layer of dust coating every surface. I wander over to the television screen and draw a smiley face on it then laugh out loud into the stillness, wondering how many of my ‘colleagues’ are laughing at me right now. I swipe the screen with my sleeve, and do the same for the inside of one of the box-shaped shelves of the TV storage unit – complete with slanting books and random glass ornaments, none of which really mean anything to me.
When I was growing up, my house was stuffed with heavy pieces of memorabilia. Mum would buy any old tat from the most mundane of day trips and fit them in hidden, cluttered spaces. She used to say they told our story; anyone could walk into our house and our whole life’s story would be there for anyone to see. It would bother me. Why would she want to share our memories with everyone? Surely the most precious of memories should be kept safe, away from prying eyes . . . but what was kept hidden and safe were the secrets, ugly and wounding. Perhaps if she had displayed her bruises and broken bones like her souvenirs, then she would still be alive.
The thought of Mum startles me. I don’t normally allow myself the indulgence of thinking about her; it hurts too much. But I hear her voice as clear as if she was standing right beside me as she read me my favourite bedtime storybook, The Alice in Wonderland Collection: ‘“Why, sometimes I’ve believed as many as six impossible things before breakfast.”’ I can feel her arms around my shoulders, feel her body shift, smell my damp hair after my bath as she reached her arm and turned the page. I picture us at the breakfast table as she poured milk into a jug, sugar into a bowl as we listed the ‘six impossible things’ we could do before we eat. ‘Grow wings,’ I announced, pushing my arms either side of my body as she smiled at me, passing a spoon into my hand. ‘Change your hair colour with a blink.’ She over-exaggerated a blink, looking disappointed when her hair remained brown. My stomach churns, the bitter lemon only just making it into the toilet bowl.
I push the thoughts of Mum away and distract myself by tidying the house, cleaning the surfaces and throwing out the paperwork, trying to avoid eye contact with the figures and spreadsheets that have made up the last year of my life. I vacuum, polish, scrub the toilet; domestic chores that were once secondary to my life, seemingly now becoming my priority.
I turn on my laptop and place a supermarket delivery, suddenly feeling ravenous. I fill the little cart icon with salads, blue cheeses and meats; I begin to add popcorn, ice cream, rich, creamy pasta sauces, pâtés and wine: lots of wine.
My delivery arrives later in the day. Dusk is already scraping the daylight away and I keep my head down, avoiding all attempts at polite conversation from the delivery man, and close the door behind him, drawing the door-chain across. I carry as much food as I can into my bedroom, scattering the feast on top of my bed. Reaching into the back of my wardrobe, I pull out my collection of old black-and-white films, classics from an era of gallant heroes and women with elegant hats and cigarette holders. A car alarm sends flashes of colour into my room and noise penetrates my silence. I press play on the DVD player and turn up the volume, reach for my wine, grab a handful of popcorn as the flashing lights stop, and retreat into a life of black and white.
Week Four
Samuel
‘What do you mean, you think it’s best that I take some leave?’ I stride back and forth across the office. Bob Golding, the big chief, shifts in his seat; his stomach is pushed as close to the desk as is possible for him to be able to reach the keyboard and his phone. I’m reminded of one of those tubs of slime that you used to play with as a kid, the ones that made a fart sound when you pushed your fingers inside. He shifts again, and I wonder briefly how much food he must have to consume in a day to get that big.
‘Just until the complexities of your contract are checked, and the matter has been investigated.’
‘There is nothing to investigate! Sandwell have confirmed that they had already been outlining their final pitch before I even met Sophie Williams. So, let’s say I had mentioned my idea, it wouldn’t have made any difference anyway.’
‘Well, of course they would say that! We can’t disprove it either way. We are liaising with their head office about the matter, but since Ms Williams has been let go, they are having problems contacting her.’
‘What do you mean, let go?’
He fidgets again, the sleeves of his white shirt straining against the tops of his arms as he pushes his gold-framed glasses further up his hooked nose. ‘Oh, I thought you knew, Samuel. She’s been fired.’ He pats down his oil slick of hair with his left hand, revealing a skin-tight silver bracelet without a jangle. ‘We categorically stated that unless she was taken off the project, we would not entertain the merger. It’s a trust issue, you see. A lot of people believe she – how can I put it? – used you to get information about your idea and—’
‘I don’t see how this has any impact on the issues in my contract. I’m entitled to receive six weeks—’
‘You may not be entitled to anything, Samuel. That is why we need this investigation to take place.’
‘She didn’t steal my idea.’
‘From what I gather from the office gossip, your relationship was short-lived, so how do you know? Can you tell me you are absolutely certain that this woman is not capable of coaxing information out of an employee of this company for her own gain?’
I picture the way she had replied to me when I’d asked her how she could leave me after the time we’d spent with each other: I’m not like you, I need my job – wasn’t that what she’d said?
‘I believe your relationship ended abruptly?’ His thick Deep South drawl coats my memories of the hiccupping origami-girl with poison.
‘With the greatest of respect, Bob, that is nothing to do with my job or this investigation.’
‘Of course, of course. My apologies. I’m sure that her departure from our shores straight after she heard your idea has no connotations whatsoever.’
‘How long?’ I ask, not allowing myself to reply to his comment.
‘A month at least.’ He sneezes, then blows into a tissue from his top drawer, his buttons striving to contain his great mass inside the cotton restraints.
‘Fine,’ I answer, and slam the door behind me.
My eyes hurt as I search through fifty-seven Sophie Williams Facebook profiles. I’m beginning to think that the whole world is becoming insane: profile pictures presenting dogs in outfits; an entire week’s worth of posts from one Sophie, dating and describing each and every time she had eaten, what she had eaten and where she had eaten it; as well as several hundred different types of pouts and eyebrows, all kind of merging into one, singular female in her early twenties.
There is a rhythmical knock on the door, a call and respond beat – the kind that implies the knocker is a friend.
‘What the hell, Sammy boy! Open the goddamn door! I can see your shadow through the curtain.’ I open the door to see Bret – quarterback tall and sun-bleached blond – frowning at me. ‘Well, you took your sweet time about it. You don’t call, you don’t write . . .’
‘Not in the mood, man. I gather you’ve heard about my . . .’ I finger-quote the words, ‘“lea
ve”?’
He follows me back into the lounge and to my desk. ‘Yeah, I’ve heard nothing but that all morning. So, what’s going on, really? The last we spoke you hated the Britch and now I hear from Kat – who by the way has been telling everybody your entire relationship details from start to finish – that you’re head over heels with Ms Williams. She said you were stalking her from behind a plant?’
‘Yeah, well, a lot can happen in a week. How the hell does Kat know all about . . . shite.’ The blurry memory of her at the bar the night I called Sophie reminds me. ‘Never mind.’
‘So? What’s going on?’
‘I love her.’
‘Whoah, hold on there. Rewind. The woman you’ve done nothing but complain about for the last four months? The woman who stole your idea?’
‘She didn’t steal it.’
‘Uh-huh, well, you’ve sure changed your mind. I was with you at the bar that time when you called her. You told me the whole story, remember? Jeez, man, how many Jameson’s did you drink?’
‘A lot has happened since then. She came here, she explained she had no choice last time – they already had the idea, so . . .’ I shrug as if having my heart torn in two wasn’t that big a deal, ‘conflict of interest.’
‘And you buy that? Buddy, I know how crushed you were when she left but—’
‘She stayed. The night.’
‘Right, but does that change the game? Really? It’s not as if you’ve not batted an innings on that pitch before.’
‘Your sports metaphors are getting worse.’
‘I thought holes and balls might be a little crass.’ He flashes his American pearly whites in a grin, perfect dimples forming in his tanned cheeks – a far cry away from my pale complexion and freckles. ‘All right, Sammy boy, what’s the state of play?’
