‘I’m joking, little one,’ Lizzy said, touching my shoulder.
‘I know.’ I swallowed. ‘But you’re still right. You and Kate. It’s not great.’
Lizzy tucked my hair behind my ear. ‘You’re doing fine,’ she said gently. ‘Just fine.’
I nodded.
‘And anyway,’ she turned to Tim, perhaps to take the spotlight off me, ‘even if Annie’s not getting any, we can at least be grateful that Tim is, eh, Timmy?’ She cackled with deep Chaucerian filthiness as all eyes turned on him.
‘Thanks,’ Tim said, in his lovely soft Derbyshire accent. ‘I assume you’ve been online stalking me?’
‘Yes! Tell us everything!’
‘It’s early days,’ he said. ‘We’ve been on maybe half a dozen dates.’
Lizzy crowed and Claudine muttered choice French words. ‘She’s called Mel,’ he said.
I picked at a bobble on my jumper.
‘She’s twenty-nine,’ he continued, ‘and she does yoga with my sister-in-law, Miranda. Miranda thought I’d like her.’ Lizzy leaned in, waiting for his verdict. ‘And I do.’
‘Get in!’ Lizzy shouted. ‘Tim’s back in the saddle!’ When Lizzy got drunk she forgot to speak like a dandy.
Tim stared at Lizzy, perhaps in disgust, then smiled. ‘I like her a lot, actually. But, as I said, it’s early days.’
‘Fantastique, my little koala,’ Claudine muttered. ‘I ’ope that you show your relationship the respect it deserves.’ She scowled at Lizzy, who took no notice whatsoever.
Meanwhile I was having strong words with myself, because – as it always did when Tim met a girl – my heart had sunk ever so slightly at this news.
Tim and I were not meant to be: we’d tried it once, many years ago, and it had been horrible. A hot fumbly month ‘together’, beginning with the one and a half sexings and concluding in three months without contact, which was unheard of for us. When we did finally meet up and agree that it was not something we would ever try again, the relief was thundering.
But there was always a little astringent pain when he started going out with someone. A scratching sadness that it wasn’t me; that we had never quite managed to solve the problem of our incompatibility. Tim would make a brilliant boyfriend, if only we fancied each other. I’d be safe with him.
‘That’s great news, Tim,’ I said, smiling at my tall, handsome, preppy friend, who wore nice ironed shirts and had lemony armpits. ‘Well done, you.’
Lizzy ordered another bottle of wine. ‘Time to celebrate,’ she shouted, far too loudly. ‘Our Timmy is stepping out with a nubile yogi!’
Tim agreed to the bottle of Bordeaux that Lizzy couldn’t afford and winked at me. ‘But Annie has some news too,’ he said.
‘You’re not seeing someone, are you?’ Claudine whispered, horrified.
I couldn’t help but laugh. ‘No. But if I were, I’d have been very touched by your reaction.’
‘Désolée, my little Jerusalem artichoke.’ She grinned. ‘I am ’orrible. Uneasy in the happiness of others, no? Tell us your news!’
‘Um, well, I’ve got a new job!’ I announced, happy again. Of course it would be okay if Tim fell madly in love. Everything was going to be fine because I had a sparkly new job and a glorious new boss with whom I could fall in safe, unreciprocated love.
‘You sly dog!’ Lizzy was scandalized. ‘Tell us everything!’
It had all happened quite quickly. My private practice as a masseuse and reiki healer had dive-bombed during the recession, because most people had decided – quite sensibly, I had to admit – that healing was not top priority when they were at risk of losing their home. I’d been unable to keep my practice in London Fields and had had to start renting rooms by the hour at a host of complementary health centres across the city, only two of which were near my house in east London.
I practised in Balham, Marylebone, Farringdon and Dalston during the week, with fortnightly clinics in Bethnal Green and Wandsworth. At the weekend I worked in Kent and sometimes even Surrey. Three years into this punishing cross-town schedule I was exhausted and almost beaten, more useless than ever at maintaining my supposedly healthy lifestyle and looking increasingly like a fat old buffalo, as opposed to a sparkling and vital alternative practitioner.
I desperately missed my private treatment space, a beautiful old room on the easternmost tip of London Fields, a five-minute cycle from my house. I’d set up the practice with Claudine, who was an osteopath, and another girl called Tessa, who was a nutritional therapist. Our rooms overlooked vast lime trees which spread their rustling fingers far across the park, and I never had to deal with the tube or the centre of London, both of which roused anxiety in me that had become harder and harder to contain.
My workplace had been the Garden of Eden. There had even been a receptionist.
Now it was the fiery pit of Hell, a dismal tangle of tubes, trains and buses, packed with unsettlingly furious people and limitless opportunities for me to lose Oyster cards and train tickets. I hated it. It took all I had to force myself on to the tube each day; all of those people I neither knew nor trusted, all those smells and germs, possible terrorist attacks and cramped spaces.
These days, I could barely remember the steady determination to improve the lives of others that had driven me to train in the first place. It all just felt like a trauma.
Tim, Lizzy and Claudine all had other friends, of course; Le Cloob meetings were just a part of their calendar. And once upon a time I’d been the same. But these days Le Cloob was the sum total of my social life because I had lost the confidence and energy to reach further.
There had been discussions about my work situation. Lizzy counselled me to borrow from the bank and brave it out in private practice until the recession ended, but she had no real understanding of money. She had a freak scientific brain – the only one in our family – and spent her days designing crazily complicated algorithms that somehow translated themselves into smartphone software. The money was good but she lived as if she were the chief executive of Apple, rather than a tiny, tiny bite of its operations. Dad and I had bailed her out more than once.
Claudine usually went quiet when the subject came up because she’d had no trouble finding a new clinic and was now making buckets of money. She was excellent at shouty advice but poor at hand-holding. And Tim was great with suggestions for finding peace amid the madness but he was a bit stumped on the subject of how to get me a new job.
I’d written a rambly blog for a while – as if that was going to help anything – but had stopped because I felt uncomfortable putting myself out there into the world. The world knew too much about me already.
So, the dent of unhappiness and frustration in me had deepened, and with that had come a low-level rumbling of fear. I had by no means forgotten what I was capable of when I was really low.
Then the day before yesterday the end of the tunnel had appeared, seemingly out of nowhere. An angel called Stephen Flint had walked into my Farringdon clinic and everything had changed, for ever.
As my penultimate massage had come to an end I’d been dimly aware of some sort of rumpus in the reception area. It had taken me quite a while to calm myself – I had initially decided we were being robbed, of course – but eventually I made it out to Reception where my next client, who appeared to be at the centre of the commotion – was waiting. Somehow he had reduced Dorota, our usually mute and evasive receptionist, to shrieking giggles.
Amazed, I turned back to look at him. He was a typical City client – moneyed, extremely well dressed, attractive. But the almost-palpable charm of the man, the powerful electrical field around him, was not so typical. Dorota was as shiny as a bauble.
‘Oh dear.’ He smiled. ‘We’ve distracted you. It was her fault,’ he said, in Dorota’s direction.
Dorota screamed.
I took in the client’s long legs in expensive tapered trousers and his pale, piercing blue eyes. Sandy hair styled neatly, and a cardboard
espresso cup, even though it was nearly eight p.m. I wished I could go home now, rather than having to massage a caffeinated businessman who flirted with Slovakian receptionists while his wife was probably putting the kids to bed.
In time I would remember that moment. The moment before Stephen Flint meant anything to me. I was barefoot, my hair in a raggedy plait. I was wearing a long skirt I’d bought in India and I smelt of geranium oil. I was still Annie Mulholland. I was still in the driving seat of my own life.
‘Sorry,’ he said, with a subversive grin. ‘Best behaviour now.’
‘No problem. Stephen Flint, yes? Come on through.’
‘Thanks.’ He was up already – surprisingly tall – and shaking my hand. ‘And you must be Annabel. How are you?’ He asked it as if he’d known me for years.
‘Er, take a seat. Can I get you a glass of water?’
‘Oh, go on, then. If I must.’ He sat down, grinning at me with ice-bright eyes as I handed him the water and closed the door. It was lucky, I thought, that I could so comfortably welcome male clients into a treatment room when I hated being alone with men in any other situation. A little reminder that I really did love my job, in spite of all the trouble that was attached to it these days.
‘So, is this your first time having massage therapy?’ I began, noticing a hangnail on my thumb. The room smelt of massage oils and tiredness; I was relieved to be going home in an hour.
‘It is,’ Stephen said. ‘I was ordered to get some massages by one of the wellbeing coaches we have at work. Fearsome woman. I can’t say no to her, even though I pay her.’
I started to take notes. Stephen Flint was a founding director of FlintSpark, a massive global media agency. Whatever that was. As he rocketed on I remembered that one of their employees had visited me for some massages last year, a sweet Australian girl who’d been so distressed about her line manager that she’d ended up going back Down Under.
Stephen Flint looked like the sort of man who’d be devastated to learn that something like that had gone on in his company. ‘The happiness of my workforce is an embarrassing obsession,’ he explained eagerly. He had supplemented his award-winning workspace with every imaginable employee benefit, including – more recently – a wellbeing team. ‘Everyone has to see a wellbeing coach once a month, whether they want to or not. If someone’s not happy, the coach will find out. They’ll send them for counselling, business coaching, a nutritionist, whatever, and we pay the first six sessions. All totally confidential, we never know who’s been referred where. You’re my coach’s latest attempt at reducing my stress levels.’ He giggled like a naughty schoolboy. ‘She says my body is in peril. She wants me to eat kale, get massages and start yoga. Yoga!’
Stephen had founded FlintSpark in 2001 and now his company was one of the most successful in the industry, with offices popping up around the world. He worked a crazy schedule, under a great deal of pressure (‘Entirely self-imposed,’ he said cheerfully. ‘But God never takes a day off so neither do I. I’m the Leader of the People, you see.’) Nonetheless he had agreed to an occasional massage, given that this clinic was only a few doors down from his company’s state-of-the-art glass headquarters in Farringdon.
‘I’m only here to get the coach off my back,’ he admitted. ‘And that’s no slight on you and your work – but, let’s be honest, people like me are a total waste of your talents. I arrived with a double espresso, for starters.’
In spite of myself, I smiled. I felt little connection with men like Stephen Flint but at least he was honest. ‘Massage is wasted on nobody,’ I said. ‘Even if your investment in self-care only extends to one massage a week, it’s a start. There’s all sorts of research papers about the benefits of just thirty minutes.’
‘Really?’ Stephen rested his chin on his hands, watching me intently. He wore a fashionable narrow tie. ‘Do you agree with that? Do you think massage really makes a difference?’
‘Of course! I wouldn’t do this job otherwise. Helping people feel good … relax … find a bit of peace … it’s …’ I blushed for no reason. ‘It’s everything to me,’ I said, surprised by my honesty. It was everything to me. If I couldn’t help myself find peace, I could at least help others.
‘So.’ Stephen seemed fascinated. ‘This is your job simply because you want to help people?’
‘Yes.’
He broke into a brilliant smile. ‘How refreshing,’ he said, after a long pause. ‘How very refreshing to hear something like that. We need generous people like you in the world. I knew as soon as I found you that you’d be right.’
My face was red. I didn’t know why. ‘Well, I’m metres away from your office,’ I mumbled.
‘There is that too.’ He chuckled. ‘Well, Annabel, do your best. Feel free to crack out a mallet when you get to the knotty bits.’
Stephen was full of knots, of course. Which was a shame because he had a beautifully put-together body, smooth and brown and perfectly proportioned. He fell asleep quite soon into the massage, like so many men of his type, and at the end was like a swaddled baby, encased in towels, all drooping eyelids and soft edges. ‘Oh, my God,’ he groaned. ‘Oh, my God, that was incredible! Annabel, I can’t thank you enough.’ He closed his eyes again, grinning sleepily. ‘You’re amazing …’
I went outside while he got back into his clothes. Rather embarrassingly, I heard my phone go off in my bag, which was still in the treatment room. I had to get better at remembering to turn it off. I’d have looked awful if it had gone off during his session – he could have reported me to the Association of Complementary Therapists, who might strike me off the register. And if I couldn’t practise as a masseuse what else could I do? I had no other skills, I –
Sssh, I told myself. Relax, Annie. You’ll be home soon.
Sometimes I could beat the Bad Shit, as Kate Brady would say. Mostly, though, I could not. I made a mental note to Skype her soon; it had been ages.
Dorota had gone home, leaving a soft lamp on in Reception. I was stunningly exhausted after a full morning in Marylebone, a full afternoon in Farringdon and a rushed lunch eaten on the Circle Line between the two. I popped my feet up on the sofa next to me, rubbing them gently with my still-oily hands, and closed my eyes.
‘I’m afraid I’m going to have to wake you,’ a voice said quietly. I panicked. A man was staring at me in the semi-darkness of a room I didn’t know.
‘I couldn’t quite bring myself to sneak off without paying.’ He smiled.
His eyes were sky-bright, even in the low light. Oh, God. Stephen. Client. Sleep. Silly, silly me. ‘I’m so sorry,’ I began, my face and neck staining red. ‘I must have drifted off while you got dressed.’ I hauled myself up to a sitting position, my heart still racing. Stephen sat down next to me. ‘No, no, take a rest,’ he said, as I tried to get up. My legs were still limp with shock so I did as I was told.
‘Really, no need to apologize.’ Stephen folded some crisp banknotes in his hand, watching me. His face was kindly, amused, almost tender, still marked by the massage table’s face hole. ‘You looked very sweet and peaceful there. Not to mention completely shattered.’
‘I am shattered.’ I didn’t have the energy to lie.
‘Long day?’
I nodded. He sounded so sympathetic that I somehow forgot about my normal client boundaries. ‘Very long day. It’s lovely work, but it’s very physical.’
‘Yes, I’d imagine. You guys must have to do all sorts of exercise to stay strong.’
‘I don’t really have time for exercise,’ I said. ‘Or to eat well! I used to cook everything from scratch.’
I cleared my throat and tried to straighten up a bit but there was something hypnotic about the sofa, the low light and that surprisingly compassionate man. Normally my conversations with clients were one-way affairs: long monologues about them and their problems punctuated by sympathetic comments from my corner. And I quite liked that. I enjoyed the focus being on someone else. Here, though, was someone who
wanted to turn the lamp of kindness on me.
‘It seems a shame,’ Stephen offered, ‘that someone who wants to help others doesn’t have enough time to help herself.’
I’d never thought about that. He was right.
‘Maybe instead of having my next massage I’ll send you off for some yoga and an early night, and pay you anyway.’
I smiled tiredly. ‘In all honesty I think I’d die if I tried to do yoga, these days! I’m so unfit … But it’s a nice idea.’
‘I know how you feel,’ he said, surprising me again. ‘I kind of don’t really allow myself to stop because if I did I think I’d be so broken I’d never start again.’
I looked at him, at those twinkling eyes. Now he came to mention it, I could see the tiredness in them. And a warmth I didn’t expect from his sort. ‘You said it’s all self-imposed, though,’ I said, after a pause.
Stephen yawned and stretched, leaning back into the sofa. He popped his feet up on the coffee-table, just like that, and turned his face to the ceiling. ‘It is entirely self-imposed,’ he reflected. ‘But it’s just how I am. There aren’t many people like me in business, people who can lead so effectively. I hope that doesn’t sound arrogant. I just mean that to be a leader, a role model, a friend to your workforce, you have to sacrifice your own life a bit. Well, a lot. You have to be their mum, their dad, their brother and their annoying bossy old granddad.’
I stared at his monstrously expensive shoes, tickled by the idea of this extremely attractive man being a bossy old granddad. ‘Do you have a private jet?’ I asked, on a whim.
The Day We Disappeared Page 3
