by Nicci French
So I found myself being told by Laurence Joiner what I needed. It was all very awkward. On the spur of the moment I decided not to launch into a detailed account of my recent medical and psychiatric history. It was obvious that my last days at Jay and Joiner's hadn't been brilliant, and if there was going to be any prospect of my coming back, I ought to try not to make things worse.
"Good idea," I said. "In fact, I'm trying to get as much rest as I possibly can."
"I don't need to tell you, Abbie, how important you are to us."
"You do," I said. "It's always good to hear that."
Laurence Joiner had forty-two suits. There had once been a party at his house and one of the girls in the office had wandered into his bedroom and counted them. They had taken up three cupboards. And that had been a year earlier so there were probably more by now. And they were beautiful. As he talked, he stroked the knee of the lovely dark green one he was wearing today, as if it were a pet lying in his lap.
"We've all been worried about you," he said.
"I've been a bit worried about myself."
"First, we have .. . well, I needn't go over it again."
Oh, please, go over it again, I said silently. If the apple wouldn't fall, I'd have to give the tree a little shake.
"One of the things I wanted to make sure," I said desperately, 'was that everything was still all right from your point of view."
"We're all on the same side," Laurence said.
It was all so polite.
"Yes, but I want to know, explicitly, how you saw it. I mean my taking time off. I want to hear your view of it." '
Laurence frowned. "I'm not sure if it's healthy to rake over it again. I'm not angry any more, I promise. It's clear to me now that you had been overworking for some time. It's my fault. You were so productive, and so effective, I just overloaded you. I think if we hadn't had the row over the Avalanche job we would have had it over something else."
"Is that all?"
"If you mean, have I forgiven you for badmouthing the company to clients after you had taken time off, for going round London encouraging them to complain, the answer is yes. Just about. Now look, Abbie, I don't want to sound like someone out of The Godfather but I really don't think you ought to take sides with clients against the company. If you feel they've been badly advised or overcharged, you take it up with me, rather than informing them behind my back and in your own time. But I think we're all agreed on that."
"When, um -just for my own records, I mean when did I make these complaints?" I didn't need to ask what the complaints had been: I had a clear enough memory of the Avalanche project to know that.
"You're not going to start raking over everything again, are you, just when we've smoothed it all out?"
"No, no. But I'm a bit unclear about chronology, that's all. My diary's here and ..." I stopped because I couldn't think how to finish the sentence.
"Shall we just draw a veil over the sorry affair?" said Laurence.
"I left on Friday, didn't I? Friday the eleventh."
"Right."
"And I complained to people, um .. ." I waited for him to fill in the gap.
"After the weekend. I don't know the dates myself. I just heard gradually, on two occasions by solicitors' letters. You can imagine how let down I felt."
"Quite," I said. "Could I have a look through the Avalanche file?"
"What on earth for? That's all behind us. Let sleeping dogs lie."
"Laurence, I absolutely promise I'm not going to make any trouble for you. But I want to talk to a couple of the people involved with it."
"You must have the numbers."
"I'm in a bit of chaos, I'm afraid. I've moved."
"Do you mean moved out?"
"Yes."
"I'm sorry to hear that. You can get any information you need from Carol." Now he looked even more concerned. "I don't want to butt in. But as I said, we've been worried. I mean, your problems here, you've split up with Terry, and then there were the police coming round. Can we do anything? Would you like us to arrange for you to go somewhere?"
I was puzzled for a moment then couldn't help laughing.
"You think it's drink or drugs?" I said. "I wish." I leant over and kissed Laurence's forehead. "Thank you. Laurence, I've got one or two things to sort out and I'll be in touch."
I opened the door of his office.
"Listen," he said, 'if there's anything at all we can do .. ."
I shook my head. "Just listening to you has made me think of how much you've already done. I hope I haven't been too much of a handful." A thought came to me. "I'd say that I was a different person then, but that might sound as if I wasn't taking proper responsibility."
Laurence looked deeply puzzled, and no wonder.
On the way out I asked Carol for the Avalanche file.
"Are you serious?" she said.
"Why shouldn't I be?"
She looked doubtful. "I'm not sure," she said.
"The job's done with."
"Yes, but-'
"It'll just be a few days," I said. "I'll be very careful."
She started to yield. Maybe the idea that I would go away if she gave it to me was just too tempting.
"Do you want the drawings as well?"
"Just the correspondence will be fine."
She fetched a bulky file and gave me a Marks & Spencer plastic carrier bag to put it in.
"One more thing," I said. "Has anybody called me here in the last couple of days?"
Carol rummaged around on her desk and gave me two sheets of paper covered with names and numbers. "Only fifty or sixty people. Mostly the usual suspects. Do you want to give me a number I can give them?"
"No. This is important. Don't give anyone my numbers. Nobody."
"Fine," she said, looking rather startled by my urgent tone.
"I'll just take these numbers with me, I think. You don't need them, do you?" I folded up the sheets of paper and put them into my back pocket. "I'll call you every so often. And one last thing."
"What?"
"What do you think of my hairstyle?"
"Amazing," she said. "A bit extreme maybe, but amazing."
"Does it make me look different?" I said.
"I didn't recognize you. Well, not at first."
"Great," I said, and she looked worried all over again.
I sat in the car and tried to clarify my thoughts. Avalanche. I felt like I'd been dropped on to a new planet. A foggy new planet. What did I actually know? The people at Jay and Joiner's saw me as a traumatized crazy. I'd left my job temporarily, at least after a row. And I'd left my boyfriend. At some point in the next few days I'd gone around visiting people who'd been involved in the project, apparently encouraging them to make complaints about the way our company had dealt with them. And I had met someone mad and murderous. Or could it possibly have been someone I already knew? It couldn't, could it?
An image came into my mind of an animal out in the open. I wanted to run for cover, but I didn't know which direction to run in. There were people who didn't know what had happened to me and there were other people who didn't believe what had happened to me. But there was one person who knew I was telling the truth.
Where was he? I looked around reflexively and shuddered. Maybe I could escape somewhere very far away and never come back. Australia. The North Pole. No, it was hopeless. What was I going to do, initiate the process of emigration? What did that involve? Or should I just go on holiday to Australia and refuse to leave? It didn't sound very feasible.
I took the take away receipt from the glove compartment: nb Maynard Street, NWi. It meant nothing to me. At one end of the spectrum, it might have been left there by someone else and have nothing important to do with me at all. Or it might be where he lived. But as soon as the thought came to me I knew I had to go there.
This was turning into the longest day of my life. I looked in the A-Z. It wasn't so far away. And I look completely different. I could pretend I had the
wrong place. It would probably amount to nothing.
The flat was on the first floor of a smart stuccoed house just off Camden high street. I found a parking meter and crammed change into it to give me thirty-six minutes. It had its own entrance down the side. I stood in front of it and took a deep breath. I reached into the glove compartment and found the sunglasses. The cold winter evening was now as dark as the grave but it would complete my disguise. If a woman answered, I would have a proper conversation. If a man answered, I would play it safe. I would just say, "Sorry, I must have the wrong address," and start walking decisively away. There were enough people in the street for me to be safe.
But nobody answered. I pressed the bell again. And again. I could hear the bell ring, far inside. Somehow you can tell when a doorbell is ringing inside somewhere empty. I took my car keys out of my pocket and juggled them in my hand. I could go to one of the other flats in the building. But what would I ask? I walked back to the car. The meter showed that I had thirty-one minutes left. What a waste. I opened the glove compartment to replace the take away bill. There among the other stuff, the log book, a brochure, an
RAC membership card, was that key, the key that wasn't the key to my old flat.
Feeling ridiculous, I took the key and walked back to the flat. With a sense of utter unreality, I pushed it gently into the lock and opened the door. As I pushed it wider, I saw a pile of mail. I picked up a letter. Josephine Hooper. I'd never heard of her. She was obviously away. There were stairs and I climbed them slowly. It could hardly have felt stranger if I had walked through the wall. I looked inside. I saw stripped pine, pictures, photographs pinned to the wall in the entrance hall, photographs I didn't recognize. Rich colours. I pushed the door shut. Yes, I could smell the mustiness of absence. Something had gone off somewhere.
I had no memory of the house, the street. I had barely even been to the area before. But I had had the key to the door in my car, so maybe I shouldn't have been surprised when I walked into the living room and turned on the lights and there, along with Josephine Hooper's pictures, table, rug, sofa, was my stereo, my television, my books. I felt as if I was going to faint. I sank back into a chair. My chair.
Eight
I wandered round the main room, finding traces of myself everywhere. At first I just looked at them, maybe touched them with one finger, as if they might dissolve and disappear. My small television set on the floor. My stereo and my CDs. My laptop on the coffee table. I lifted the lid and pressed the shift bar, at which it emitted a bleep and sprang to life. My green glass vase on the table, with three dead yellow roses rotting over its side and a scatter of black petals at its base. My leather jacket lying on the sofa, as if I'd just popped out for some milk. And there, stuck into the mirror over the fireplace, was a photograph of me. Two, to be precise: passport photos in which I was trying to suppress a smile. I looked happy.
But this was someone else's flat, full of unfamiliar furniture -apart from my chair and books that I'd never read or even heard of, except the book of recipes that lay on the surface near the hob. Here was all the foreign clutter of someone else's life. There was a framed photograph on one of the shelves and I picked it up and examined it: a young woman with curly windswept hair, hands thrust into the pockets of her padded jacket, grinning widely, and hills spread out behind her. It was a lovely, carefree image, but I had never seen the face before. At least, I couldn't remember seeing it. I gathered up the mail that was lying on the floor and leafed through it. All the letters were to Jo Hooper, or Josephine Hooper, or Ms J Hooper. I put them in a neat pile on the kitchen table. She could open them later. But when I looked at the dead flowers on the table, or the amount of mail that had stacked up on the floor, I wondered when she was last here herself.
I opened the "Mail' file on my laptop, clicked on the 'send and receive' button and waited while a little clock shimmered on the screen. There was a melodic bleep and I saw I had thirty-two new messages. I scrolled down them quickly. Nothing but messages from organizations I'd never heard of, alerting me to things I didn't want to know about.
I hesitated in the quiet room. Then I went across the hall and pushed open the first of the doors. It swung open and I was in a bedroom, with open curtains and a radiator that was warm. I turned on the light. The double bed was made, three velvet cushions scattered at the base and a pair of red checked pyjamas on the pillow. There was a lavender-coloured dressing-gown hanging on a hook on the door, and some moccasin slippers on the floor. On the top of the chest of drawers there was an ancient, balding teddy, a bottle of perfume, a little pot of lip balm, a silver locket, and another photograph this time a close-up of a man's stubbly face. He had an Italian look to him, dark with absurdly long eyelashes. There were fine lines around his eyes and he was smiling. I opened the wardrobe. That black dress, that soft woollen shirt, this thin grey cardigan were someone else's. I lifted the lid of the laundry basket. It was empty, except for a pair of white knickers and some socks.
The next door opened on to the bathroom. It was clean, warm, white-tiled. My blue-and-white toothbrush was in a glass beaker, next to her black one; my toothpaste, with the lid off, was next to hers, with the lid on. There was my deodorant, my moisturizing cream, my makeup case. My green towel was on the radiator, next to her multi-coloured one. I washed my hands, dried them on my own towel, stared at my unaccustomed face in the mirror. I half expected to see her standing behind me, with that smile. Josephine Hooper. Jo.
When I went into the third room I knew at once it was mine -not, at first, because of individual objects that I recognized, but because of the peculiar, powerful sense I had of coming home. Perhaps it had something to do with the smell, or the vague, controlled mess of the room. Shoes on the floor. My suitcase lying open underneath the sash window, with shirts and jerseys and underwear still packed inside. A thick deep-pink jersey thrown across the chair. A small pile of dirty washing in the corner. A tangle of jewellery on the bedside table. The long rugby shirt I wear at night hung over the bed head. I pulled open the cupboard door and there were my two smart suits, my winter dresses and skirts. And there was the blue coat I'd heard about from Robin, and the brown, crushed-velvet dress. I leant forward and sniffed its soft folds, wondering if I had ever got round to wearing it.
I sat down on the bed and for a few moments I just sat there, gazing around me. My head buzzed lightly. Then I slipped off my shoes and lay down and closed my eyes and listened to the hum of the central heating. It was quiet in here. Every so often I heard a faint shuffle from the upstairs flat, or a car driving along on an adjacent road. I pulled the rugby shirt towards me, and put my head on it. Somewhere, a car door banged and someone laughed.
I must have dozed off because when I jerked awake, with a strange taste in my mouth, it was raining outside. The street lamps were glowing orange and the tree outside my window shimmered in its orange glow. I was chilly, so I picked up the pink jersey and discovered, underneath it, my bag. There it was, bulging and securely fastened. I fumbled with the zip. On the top there was my wallet. I opened it and found four crisp, twenty-pound notes and quite a bit of change. My credit cards were in there too, and my driving licence, a book of stamps, my National Insurance number written out on a bit of paper, several visiting cards. Nothing seemed to be missing at all.
I wandered back into the kitchen-living room, clutching my bag. I drew the curtains properly, and turned on the standard lamp and the light above the cooker. It was nice here, homely. I'd obviously made a good move. I peered into the fridge. It was full of food: fresh pasta, bags of salad, a cucumber, spring onions, milk, butter, cheese Cheddar, Parmesan and feta individual pots of yoghurt, eggs, half a loaf of seeded brown bread, the remains of a bottle of white wine. No meat or fish perhaps this Jo was a vegetarian. Most things were past their sell-by date; the milk, when I sniffed it, was sour, the bread was stiff, the salad in its bag limp and faded. That wine must need drinking, though, I thought.
Without thinking, I went to a
cupboard and took out a tall wine glass. Then just as I was lifting the bottle, I stopped dead in my tracks: I had known where the glasses were kept. A tiny, buried part of my mind had known. I stood quite still and tried to let that shred of buried memory grow, but it was no use. I poured myself a generous glass of wine after all, maybe I had bought it myself- and put on some music. I was half expecting Jo to walk in through the door, and the thought made me both nervous and excited. Would she be alarmed to see me or happy? Would she greet me casually or with disapproval and shock? Would she raise her eyebrows or give me a hug? But, really, I knew she wouldn't come. She'd gone away somewhere. Nobody had been here for days.
There was a light flashing on the phone and after some hesitation, I pressed the playback button. The first message was from a woman, saying she hoped everything was all right, and that she was going to cook supper, if Jo would wait in. The voice sounded familiar but it took a few moments to realize that she was me. I shivered and rewound, listened once more to my unfamiliar voice in this unfamiliar place. I sounded very cheerful. I drank a gulp of vinegary wine. There was a long, bossy message from a woman about the delivery date of a piece of work, and how it was being brought forward; a man's voice simply saying, "Hi, Jo, it's me, shall we meet soon? Give me a bell." A different woman, saying she'd be in town tomorrow and how about a drink; another woman saying, "Hello? Hello?" until the line went dead. I saved the messages and took another sip of sharp yellow wine.
I didn't quite know what to do with myself. Was I an intruder here, or was this where I lived now? I wanted to stay, to have a hot bath and climb into my rugby shirt and eat pasta and watch TV -my TV curled up on my chair. I didn't want to be staying with friends who were being very kind and polite but who thought I was crazy. I wanted to stay here and meet Jo and find out about the self I'd lost.
Whatever I was going to do later, I had to find out as much as I could now. First things first. I sat down on the chair and tipped the contents of my bag on to the coffee table. The largest item was a thickish brown A5 envelope with my name on it. I shook out the contents: two passports, one old and one brand new. I turned to the back and found my photograph, the replica of the pair stuck into the mirror. An airline ticket: ten days ago I was meant to have flown to Venice, returning the day before yesterday. I've always wanted to go to Venice.
