by Jane Holland
I laugh, feeling better already. ‘Yes, you were right.’
Now all I need to do is grab my briefcase and give the best bloody presentation of my life…
‘I wonder where Giorgios is,’ Mum says as we head back to the house, echoing my thought. She sounds troubled.
‘I know… It’s all very strange. And inconvenient.’ I try to sound cheerful though. ‘But no doubt when Giorgios gets back from holiday, he’ll explain the whole thing, and we’ll have a good laugh about it.’
CHAPTER SIX
Mark strolls out of his glass-walled office as I stride through reception a few minutes before two o’clock en route to my desk in the open-plan area overlooking the city.
Habitually dressed like some fey nineteenth-century artist, today Mark is wearing a cream and plum waistcoat with a burgundy shirt and hideously clashing green corduroy trousers. The shirt is open-necked, but a silk scarf knotted about his neck hides his hairy chest – and for this relief, much thanks! Dark-haired and rather heavy-set, he has a goatee beard that he often strokes in an annoying way while speaking, and he has a tendency towards barbed comments and sarcasm that make office life a little uncomfortable. For me, at least. He seems much friendlier to some of the other editors, especially the females, who make up the majority here.
No beard-stroking today though. With both hands sunk into his pockets, jiggling his loose change thoughtfully, Mark positions himself in the gap beside two low bookcases that act as a space divider between editors and lowly editorial assistants, and through which I’ll have to pass on my way to the meeting. It’s an aggressive move that I deliberately ignore, pretending not to have even noticed his arrival.
Clearly irritated, he watches in silence as I sling my jacket over the back of my chair, open my briefcase and drag out various colour-coded folders I’ll need for the presentation.
‘Glad you could join us, Kate,’ he drawls.
‘Yeah, sorry for cutting it so fine…’ Still breathless from my mad dash up the escalator, I log into my work computer and transfer my presentation files onto the office network so I’ll be able to access them in the meeting. ‘Like I said earlier, I had real difficulty finding someone to sit with my mother.’
I don’t know why I think this excuse may soften his mood; Mark is never interested in our domestic arrangements, only in results. Which basically means book sales.
That’s why he hasn’t managed to get me sacked yet; I’m still handling a few of our long-term top sellers in non-fiction, and the company directors are worried one of them at least might jump ship with me if I were given the boot. Things are always on a knife-edge financially, so that’s probably a risk they would only take as a last resort.
But I can’t guarantee they won’t sack me if I start failing to turn up on time. There are limits, after all. And Mark hates anyone who doesn’t kiss his bottom on a daily basis. Which means me, basically.
Sure enough, when I glance at my boss, his gaze has risen to the wall clock. ‘I wouldn’t call this cutting it fine. You’re late.’
‘Only by about thirty seconds.’
‘Even thirty seconds is too late as far as I’m concerned. I’m not psychic, Kate; I couldn’t be sure you were even going to turn up. In fact, I was just about to cancel the meeting.’ He jerks a thumb over his shoulder at the meeting room, where I can see the other senior editors and our marketing team already gathered. ‘For the second time in one day.’
His ironic tone is not lost on me.
‘This morning was a one-off problem, I promise.’ I have an urge to cross my fingers in a superstitious gesture, as this isn’t strictly true. But he’s watching me, sharp-eyed and unpleasant, and I don’t quite dare. ‘I’ve got it sorted now.’
‘I’ve forgotten, what exactly did you say the issue was?’ Mark asks me impatiently, though he’s famous for not caring about such things. I explain again about Giorgios’s odd disappearance, and he shrugs dismissively. ‘Sounds like a problem with a simple solution. Put your mother in a home. She’s been ill a while now, hasn’t she? It must be about time.’
I see two of the editorial assistants, Joan and Harry, glance up from their work, clearly shocked by this careless attitude, and know how they feel. I’m struggling not to snap back at the bastard myself.
But Mark only says things like that to bait me.
He wants to get a rise out of me; that’s the simple truth. To make me lose my temper and lash out at him. Anything to give the man an excuse to get rid of me…
‘She’s fine with me for now,’ I say as calmly as possible. ‘Your message said there was something you wanted to say to me. Some kind of proposal?’
‘Let’s wait for a better time to discuss it. Over lunch, I believe I suggested. Maybe Thursday?’ He crooks an ironic eyebrow. ‘Assuming you can manage to be here on time, that is.’
‘I’ll be here, don’t worry.’ Gathering my folders, I tuck them under one arm, my chin raised. ‘Shall we go through?’
*
My presentation on the true crime market goes surprisingly smoothly, given all the angst and drama that led up to it. But maybe the stress of getting to the office on time had driven all the fidgets out of my system, so I was free to give my presentation without looking too nervous. I know so much about true crime now, I really ought to try my hand at writing a thriller.
Afterwards, I grab a coffee and head back to my desk, sagging with relief. There’s some mail waiting for me, which I hadn’t had time to check before, so I sit down and work through the small stack of envelopes and parcels. Most people send work via email these days, which makes the snail-mail post easier to navigate. But a few die-hard wannabes still bombard us with paper submissions. These tend to get tossed straight into the slush pile. Today, one short sample catches my eye and goes into my bag to be read on the train home. The rest get shoved aside while I settle down to check my emails and internal memos.
‘Here, you dropped one,’ Harry says helpfully, stooping as he passes to pick up a small white envelope and hand it to me. ‘Sorry about your mum, by the way. That sounds like a difficult situation.’
I give him a grateful smile and discuss my mother’s care for a few minutes. I like Harry; he’s an intern and a cheerful soul, always smiling, and the way he flicks back his shoulder-length curly brown hair while chatting is so endearing.
When he’s gone, I break open the envelope he handed me.
It’s marked with my name – handwritten in capitals, so presumably internal mail – and seems to contain only a single sheet.
With my gaze on my computer monitor, which is displaying a graph of last month’s sales figures for one of my newest authors, I unfold the sheet and glance down at it absentmindedly.
I draw in my breath sharply and blink, shocked by the simple message printed in all capitals in a bold sans serif font.
YOU’RE SUCH A STONE-COLD BITCH. NO WONDER I KILLED MYSELF.
Beneath these words, the signature – also printed in capitals – reads DAVID.
Though, of course, it can’t be from my boyfriend, David.
David’s dead, as the message itself implies.
So this is some sick person in the office trying to upset me.
And it’s working.
‘What the hell…?’
There’s a prickling sensation on the back of my neck as though someone’s staring at me. Or is it just my guilty conscience? I’ve always feared that I could have done more to prevent David’s death, despite everyone’s reassurances that I wasn’t to blame. Now it seems somebody else agrees with me. But who?
I glance swiftly around the office; nobody is looking my way.
Harry and Mark are deep in conversation by the coffee machine, and one of the design team, Abigail, is leaning over Joan’s computer screen as the two women discuss a cover mock-up for our latest self-help book. Everyone else seems absorbed in their work.
Who could have sent me this? And why?
My hands are shaky as I fol
d the sheet over double and stuff it hurriedly back into its envelope, then drop it into my handbag. I’ll examine it later, when I’m back home and feeling calmer. Or maybe I’ll just rip it up and throw it into a bin, which is where it belongs.
I click on the screen graphics to see more detail on the sales stats. But I’m just reading the same figures again and again, not really taking them in, my mind still blank after the horror of receiving such a vile anonymous message. It’s all I can think about.
Should I tell someone? Mark, perhaps?
I glance across and find his gaze on me. Harry has strolled away, coffee mug in hand, but Mark is still there in the tea and coffee-making area. He’s stroking his goatee, dark eyes narrowed thoughtfully on my face, but looks away as soon as he realises I’ve spotted him.
No, not Mark.
I ponder for a moment whether he could be behind the note. But then dismiss it as improbable. My boss may be unpleasant, but he’s upfront about it. He wouldn’t bother hiding behind a poison pen letter.
Would he?
I stare back at the screen, clicking the mouse automatically, but in truth, I can’t see a thing. My vision has blurred with sudden, unexpected tears. I blink them away, horribly embarrassed and afraid someone will spot me crying at my desk and think I’m losing it.
NO WONDER I KILLED MYSELF.
My stomach clenches in fresh agony at an old memory. Getting that late night call, the disbelief and guilt churning inside me, my terrified and erratic drive through a rainstorm to find blue lights flashing outside his place…
Thankfully, before my mind can go too far down that horrifying route, the mobile on my desk vibrates, and I snatch it up.
It’s Logan.
I’m so relieved at the distraction that I don’t register who it is at first. Logan hasn’t been in touch since our dinner date on Friday night, and I’d started to worry that my issues with Mum’s care had put him off seeing me again. He’d been polite and sympathetic at the time, of course. But how else could he have reacted?
‘Hello? Kate?’
‘Hi, yes…’ Trying not to sound breathless, I get up and wander across to the external glass wall overlooking the city; it’s such a fabulous view, and somehow super-calming right now. We’re fifteen storeys up here and the glass walls make the office feel light and airy. ‘How are you?’
‘Great, thanks, and hoping you and I can meet up again this week,’ Logan says crisply, wasting little time on small talk. No doubt he’s at work too. ‘There’s a film on at the arthouse place – French with subtitles. No idea what it’s about. But I thought…’ He hesitates. ‘Well, since you work in the arts, maybe that’s something that would interest you.’
‘I’d hardly call publishing “the arts”, but you’re right, I am interested.’ More in seeing him again than in watching a French film, but I keep that part to myself. ‘I haven’t been to the cinema in ages. I’m at work, but maybe you could text me the details when you get a minute?’
He agrees to this at once. ‘And how’s your mother? Did you ever hear back from that Greek guy?’
‘Giorgios? No, I’m afraid not.’ I guess he’s asking in case I back out at the last minute, having failed to find a sitter for Mum. ‘But it looks like I may have found someone to take his place, so it shouldn’t be an issue. Ruby, in fact. The woman you met.’
‘That’s excellent news. I’m so pleased.’ Logan pauses. ‘You were clearly upset about it on Friday. A difficult situation for you.’
I swallow, a wave of emotion rising inside me, and hurriedly change the subject before my eyes can get misty again.
He rings off a few minutes later, and I turn to find Mark standing behind me, his eyes slitty and dangerous, like a cat watching a bird.
‘Was that a personal call, by any chance?’ he demands.
I feel a tide of panic rising inside me, and wish again that I am not such a mess where his bullying and intimidating tactics are concerned.
‘Yes, I’m sorry,’ I say swiftly, ‘but I was only on for a few minutes.’
‘It doesn’t matter how long the call was. You’re not being paid to chat, Kate. You only come into the office a few days every month now. I feel that I’ve been very understanding of your situation. Is it so much to ask in return that you give the job one hundred per cent of your attention while you’re actually at work?’
People are staring. My cheeks are hot. Couldn’t he have called me into the relative privacy of his office to give me this reprimand?
I begin to stammer something, but he’s already turned away…
Putting away my mobile, I sit down at the desk and stare in a futile manner at my computer screen. I have no idea what I’m looking at. My heart is thumping; my palms are sweating. I hate confrontation so much. But I can’t let him intimidate me. Or I’m finished. Not just in my career at this company but as a person.
I have always suffered with my mental health. As a teenager, I was particularly fragile, especially around relationships. Yet I somehow held it together until my father and brother died. That tragedy hit me hard. But, by focusing on my mother and her needs, I’d pushed aside my own pain and made it through our long bereavement. But then David killed himself. For a while after that, I tumbled into a bottomless emotional hell, and could barely get out of bed in the mornings. Thankfully, the publisher where I’d been working at the time had been very understanding and allowed me time off to recover from that second terrible blow. But this publishing company, and that awful man… I’m not in a safe space anymore, and that’s the truth of the matter.
‘Hey, are you okay?’ Harry stops beside my desk, his face concerned. ‘I couldn’t help overhearing all that. Tell me to mind my own business, but I don’t think you should let Mark talk to you like that. He may be our boss but there are limits… You should make a complaint to someone.’
‘Who?’
‘I don’t know. Human resources? Or escalate it upstairs.’
I’m embarrassed but grateful at the same time. Harry means well.
‘Thank you, but I’m fine, honestly.’
I click the mouse without even looking at the screen, pretending to be working, and force my voice to sound less shaky. Harry must think I’m such a flake.
‘Well, if you ever need any advice, or just a shoulder to cry on, you know where I am.’
‘That’s very kind of you, Harry.’ With some difficulty, because I’m feeling a little tearful, I manage a misty smile in a probably futile attempt to reassure him. ‘But I’d better get on with my work, before he catches me chatting again. He’s on my case at the moment. Though I don’t know why.’
‘I can guess,’ Harry replies in a low voice. ‘Your presentation was brilliant, and he couldn’t stand it. I can’t believe you didn’t get that last promotion you went for. You certainly deserved it.’ He glances around warily and then bends over my shoulder, whispering in my ear, ‘If you ask me, it was Mark who made sure you got shafted.’
‘Sorry?’
‘It’s just gossip but… Look, the word is he started sleeping with Debs over the summer, and that’s why Debs got that promotion. So it would have been in his best interests to make you look bad during the selection process. Of course, I’m not saying that’s what happened.’ He makes a face. ‘Only that’s what people have been saying. Just thought you might like to know.’
I say nothing, feeling we’re on dodgy territory with Mark only a few feet away in his office and Debs on the phone to someone at her own desk.
But once he’s gone, I struggle to focus on my work, his words echoing painfully in my head.
Not getting that promotion to managing editor had been a real blow to me. At the time, I put it down to my problems at home and not being able to guarantee being in the office more than a couple of times a week. Working from home is more acceptable these days. But there are some tasks management still expect us to do face-to-face, so I was always going to be at a disadvantage there.
However, it had
been a genuine shock when Debs, despite her lack of experience, bagged the job instead of me. I’d assumed my application must have been weak in some way. But if she really is Mark’s latest squeeze, that would make better sense.
I grit my teeth and go back to the sales stats.
But underneath the embarrassment and turmoil raging in my head is the nagging question that I know will dominate my journey home and destroy my peace of mind for several days to come.
Who in this office could have sent me that poison pen letter? Basically, who hates me enough to do something like that?
CHAPTER SEVEN
It’s getting dark by the time I reach home, a pale half-moon rising above the trees. The house looks lit up and welcoming, and I can hear the faint roar of the heating boiler. My feet are aching and I’m longing to kick off my shoes and collapse onto the sofa with a large glass of gin and tonic.
But of course it’s not Giorgios, who is practically a member of the family these days, with Mum this evening, it’s Ruby. I would feel awkward behaving like that in front of her.
As I put the key into the lock and open the front door, I catch a burst of laughter from inside. Not one woman laughing, but two.
No, not laughing.
Giggling.
I haven’t heard my mother enjoy herself like that in a long time.
Astonished, I walk through to the living room, still shrugging out of my jacket. ‘Hello?’
Mum is in her armchair, a chaotic pile of knitting and balls of wool in her lap. Beside her on the floor, kneeling with both hands held up, is Ruby. Her hands are tied together with long fluffy strands of wool, red, blue and a garish yellow-orange, all wound round in a hopeless tangle.
‘What on earth…?’
‘We’ve been playing a game while we waited for you to come home,’ Ruby tells me, smiling broadly.
‘I’m sorry it’s a little later than I said,’ I say stiffly, checking the clock on the mantel. ‘I’ll cover the extra time, don’t worry.’
