Unspeakable

by Marturano, Tony

  “Then just tell me I’m wrong.”

  She said nothing, for she was suddenly overwhelmed by a fluttering sensation in her belly, and in her heart. It made her feel giddy.

  She turned away from him and found an unusual fascination with the slit of London by night that, like a modern canvas, could be seen through the gap between the parapet of this level and the next.

  “Are you using this as an excuse to sabotage us, Ash?” Rupert pressed.

  Tears pricked her eyes and she wanted to speak, but she couldn’t.

  “Ash?”

  He was holding both her arms now, and she could feel his eyes on her. His big brown eyes, that she dare not look into because she knew that she would not be able to lie.

  He was right.

  Rupert continued, “You know this, us, it means everything to me and you know that I’ve been ready to commit for some time now, but if you’re going to try and wreck this before it’s even started then let’s…”

  “…I don’t want that,” she whispered quickly, and finally looked at him.

  There were tears sliding down her cheeks and she was trembling.

  He slid his hands up from her arms to cradle her face, and slowly wiped the tears with his thumbs.

  “Then, what do you want?” he asked.

  “I don’t want to get hurt,” she whispered, the words barely audible above the din of London and the gale that was funnelling through the building.

  In fact, the pixie nose that he loved so much had turned red from the cold, and he bent his head to kiss and nuzzle it, tenderly.

  “Me neither. But I’m willing to give it a try, but only if you are.”

  She nodded like a blubbering schoolgirl and he pulled her to his chest with a big smile.

  “You know, next time it’d be easier if you just say you love me, okay?”

  He felt her muffled chuckle against him, and it felt good.

  Eventually, she emerged from his embrace, sniffing and forcing a laugh.

  “I must look a mess,” she said.

  “Well, I wasn’t going to mention it...”

  …She play thumped him while fishing a tissue from her bag.

  “I’m not giving up on this book,” she said, dabbing her eyes. “I can’t and I don’t want to, Rupert. I gave her my word. And, before you ask, it isn’t just about that. I’m not naïve. I know this is a business. In fact, it’s because this is a business that I feel this strongly about it. It’s an excellent book, and I believe that it makes commercial sense for us.”

  “Are you sure that’s all it is?”

  She hesitated and then nodded, “Yes, I’m sure. I mean, I’d be lying if I said I didn’t want to stick it to these people too, of course I do, but that’s because they’re a bunch of institutional bullies, and they need to be held accountable. Oh, and before you say it, I know I can’t do that at the expense of the company.”

  “Good. I’m glad you said that,” he said, stepping in closer and framing her face with his hands once more, “because if you want to get this book published, you’ll need to make sure it gets passed by Martin.”

  There was seriousness in his tone. Ashley was under no illusion that if it came to supporting her or safeguarding the family business, she’d lose.

  And she was sanguine about that.

  She put her arms around him and squeezed him tightly as she considered this.

  He smelt good and his embrace was warm, strong and exactly what she needed.

  They remained that way for a while until he said, “Shall we go home?”

  “Yes,” she nodded, emerging from the embrace. “As long as we can stop by mine first, because there’s no way I’m having another morning like this one.”

  “Why? What happened?”

  “Oh, you don’t want to know. Let’s just say, it started strangely and then went downhill from there. You can drive,” she said, holding up her car keys.

  Within minutes, Rupert was steering the Mercedes out of the car park and home.

  15 Night & Day

  It took Rachel a couple of elevator rides to work out that apartment B1 did not exist or, more precisely, it wasn’t any of the luxury apartments situated on one of the ten floors that made up Heron Heights, but that the “B” in B1 actually stood for Basement.

  That’s how she now found herself walking down a long, dimly lit corridor passing, to her right; a lonely looking, but well equipped gym, and to her left; a mini laundrette, equally deserted.

  Beyond these, the gloom of the corridor appeared to thicken like dirty dishwater, it was as if the building’s designers did not care about the riff raff who dared to venture into this uncharted part of the building, and Rachel found herself wondering if she should.

  The walls here were coarse and appeared unfinished, as if skimmed by an unenthusiastic plasterer and then abandoned.

  At the end of the corridor, she found three doors. The one directly ahead was marked Private, the one to her left Storage. The other seemed to have lost its plaque, the discoloured glue outline now the only clue to its existence.

  Is this it?

  She leaned forward and listened carefully for noises beyond the door; nothing, just the distant hum of electricity and the whirring sound of a boiler.

  Suddenly, a muffled door slam ricocheted down the corridor to her, making her jump. She spun to track the sound’s origin; the laundrette, but there was nothing there.

  She waited, and listened carefully for any other clues as to whether or not she was alone down there, but none came.

  Eventually, she turned back to the door in front of her, but not before a final glance back down the corridor; nothing.

  This place, this dungeon, was giving her the creeps. She wondered if she wanted, or could even work in a place like this, and considered retracing her steps back towards the light.

  But then she had a word with herself. A job here would be perfect. No commuting, no nothing.

  Get a grip!

  Another slam scraped its fingernails down her spine, and she snapped her head back to the corridor.

  Now, she was scared.

  A few seconds later, an insect silhouette of an unhealthily thin woman appeared in the corridor. She was wearing an apron and her thin wispy hair hung, untidily, around her shoulders. She coughed a rattling smoker’s cough, as if to make her presence known.

  Someone’s housekeeper?

  The figure stopped suddenly and looked down the corridor, and although she could barely discern the woman’s features, Rachel could feel eyes on her.

  Without even thinking, she knocked on the door.

  No reply.

  She glanced down the corridor; Spindolina was still watching her.

  Way too creepy!

  She tried the doorknob; it was unlocked. She entered the room and quickly closed the door behind her.

  The room was steeped in shadows. The only light was stingily provided by a dirt spattered strip of window that ran the length of the opposite wall.

  The spacious yet cluttered place was in no way similar to the world above. It was more like the land that time forgot. It reminded Rachel of the set of a dated American detective series. It featured battered wooden desks laden with documents, old typewriters and general antiquated office paraphernalia, smothered in a layers of dust.

  The wooden desk in front of her had seen better days, but it actually carried what appeared to be a modern day computer monitor, and desk lamp that contributed little to lifting the gloom.

  Behind it, sat a woman with curly black hair. She wore a large headset like a hairband. She had her back to Rachel and appeared to be looking out of the slither of glass above her head, and the bland grey sky beyond it.

  She was talking on the phone in a subtle northern accent, that Rachel placed somewhere in Yorkshire.

  “…I am afraid she isn’t in right now, but may I take a message?”

  Rachel advanced into the room and noticed a bank of filing cabinets lined up on one side,
and yet another pair of desks. It seemed that a whole team of people worked out of this place although none but one appeared to be on duty right now.

  “…It would be my pleasure,” the woman continued, “I shall ask her to contact you the moment she returns to her apartment. Thank you so much for calling. Goodbye.”

  The woman swivelled on her chair, scribbled something on her pad and then looked up.

  If Rachel’s presence surprised her, she didn’t show it. Instead, in a business-like manner, she asked, “May I help you?”

  The woman was in her late fifties, although her demeanour exuded ten times that. She had a well-worn complexion and a pair of owl-like eyes that sat behind thick lenses.

  “Oh yes. I’m sorry to trouble you, but I’m looking for the manager,” Rachel said.

  “You’ve found her. What can I do for you?”

  “Oh hello, I’m Rachel Harper. You don’t know me, but I’ve just moved into one of the apartments upstairs and just stopped by on the chance that you may have an opening.”

  “Are you from Manchester?”

  Rachel was temporarily speechless, for she didn’t even know she had a Mancunian accent.

  “It’s okay, love. I can tell you probably weren’t born there, but it seems you lived there long enough to pick up an inflection.”

  “Wow,” Rachel said with a big smile. “That’s incredible.”

  “Yes, for my next party trick, I’ll make my husband disappear. Oh, no, I’ve already done that.”

  “That’s really impressive.”

  “No, I’ve just been working here too long. So, you’re looking for a job, are you?”

  “Yes.”

  “Here?”

  “I was hoping you might need some help.”

  An antiquated buzzing sound, like an old alarm clock, interrupted their conversation.

  The woman turned to what looked like a giant mixer desk of switches and slides. A red light, labelled Line one, in black, felt tip scrawl was flashing.

  “Oh be a love and grab us some coffee, it’s over there,” she said, pointing to the coffee machine on one of the desks across the room, before spinning on her chair and pressing a switch, “Douglas Residence, how may I help?”

  Pause.

  Then, “I am sorry Mr Douglas is not available right now. May I take a message?”

  The coffee machine was a big, cumbersome brown thing that, like everything else so far, appeared to have been manufactured a couple of decades ago. She poured filtered coffee into blue mugs with black painted ducks.

  Okay, so it is a bit grim and stuck in some kind of time warp, but I can help with that. And she seems down to earth.

  Rachel returned to the switchboard desk, where the woman was still talking on the phone, and noticed that the computer wasn’t switched on. In fact, it looked like it wasn’t even plugged in.

  “…okay. I will make sure he gets the message. Thank you for calling. Goodbye.”

  Rachel handed the woman the mug. “Ooh, thanks love.”

  “I wasn’t sure if you took it with sugar or not,” Rachel said, looking over at the coffee machine.

  “Oh, I am afraid I do, got a bit of a sweet tooth. As you can well see,” she added, patting a relatively slim tummy. Rachel returned to the coffee machine table and grabbed the bowl of sugar cubes, along with some milk capsules, and handed them to the woman.

  “Thanks,” she said, plopping six cubes into her mug and three capsules of milk.

  Rachel made a conscious effort not to flinch since she appeared to put on weight just at the thought of anything sugary.

  “Please, sit down,” the woman said, “I’m Lilly by the way.” Rachel shook her hand and then sat down. “So, what makes you want to work at night and day, Melissa?”

  “Umm, actually it’s Rachel.”

  “Oh Rachel, I’m sorry, love. Not very good with names,” she smiled, “that’s why I have to write everything down.”

  “I have got to be honest with you, Lilly, I don’t really know much about what you do here. As I said, I just dropped by on the chance that you might be looking for help.”

  “I see. Do you have any secretarial experience? You know, typing, talking on the phone.”

  “Oh absolutely. One of my first jobs was as a call centre customer service representative for a couple of mobile phone and utility companies. I did this for a couple of years before going into the leisure trade. So, I have a lot of experience talking to and dealing with customers, both on the phone and in person. There was also a lot of general administrative work. You know, booking rooms, typing up letters, organising meetings, etc. I also put myself through college to get a business degree which eventually landed me a role in the finance department of a major security firm in Manchester.

  Rachel smiled, “That’s how I met Jason. He was one of the programmers subcontracted to do some work there.”

  “Wow, I heard those boys earn a lot of money.”

  “Well, he did okay. He’s now started his own business and that’s doing really well.”

  “But what about you? You seem to have moved a lot. What about your family?”

  “Well, my parents are from Cambridge but, we kind of lost touch quite a few years ago.”

  “Oh, I see.”

  Rachel waited for some kind of maternal judgement, at least in Lilly’s eyes, but there was none. Instead, she asked, “So why Manchester?”

  Rachel shrugged. “Well, a friend of mine lived there, and it was a good change of scenery.”

  “So, then you met Jason and decided to move to London?”

  “Yes.” She laughed, embarrassed. “Yes, I know, following a boy. Doesn’t sound very sensible does it?”

  “Oh no, I admire your sense of adventure.” Lilly smiled, taking a gulp of her coffee.

  “I’ve known Jay quite a while. The distance was starting to take its toll, and he was keen for me to make the move down here to be with him.”

  “Good decision?”

  Rachel laughed, nervously. “I hope so. I only got here this morning.”

  “Really?”

  “Yes.”

  “So where are you staying?”

  “Here; apartment seven.”

  “Really? Apartment seven. ”

  “Yes.”

  “Well, fancy that. Your boyfriend must really be earning the big bucks to afford a place here.”

  Rachel shrugged, “It certainly seems so. I was just as surprised when I arrived. I actually thought the cab had dropped me off at the wrong address, but I absolutely love this building. It’s amazing.”

  Lilly nodded proudly as if she had personally designed it.

  “Do you know much about its history?”

  “Absolutely. It was actually something we were tested on when I first started working here many, many moons ago. It was part of the sales patter. The owners believed it imperative that we girls be familiar with the building’s history, so that we could share that knowledge with potential tenants.

  It was built way back in the thirties, and was one of London’s most unusual gems, attracting a lot of publicity because of its rather ostentatious design and, of course, the amount of money that was spent both on acquiring the land, and then building on it.

  Heron Heights has ten floors and, as you will have noticed, is almost hexagonal in shape. Now, it has multiple spacious apartments but, back then, they were a series of hotel rooms.

  The inside was fitted with the most opulent décor; velvet curtains, oak panelling, brass light fixtures and satin sheets in the double rooms. It became the talk of the city and the place to stay for anybody who was anybody.

  In its prime, it even gave places like The Ritz a run for its money.

  Some of the most powerful men and women from around the world chose to stay here, when visiting London. In fact, deals that have made many of today’s conglomerates were forged in this very building. Historic events, and product launches have all taken place at here.

  Then, over
time, the business evolved. From a five star place to stay to more of a home from home. With some guests booking extended stays.

  That’s when demand for a different kind of front desk service was born.

  Enter me.

  Within weeks, what was the old laundry room was refitted with desks, kitted out with typewriters and wired up to a then very sophisticated telephone system. This enabled guests to hand out a direct dial telephone number to what was effectively their very own personal secretary.

  Visiting dignitaries and businessmen, no longer had to worry about office space or secretarial staff. From this room, we took care of all of that for them.

  We answered, relayed and replied to hundreds of messages from around the globe. We’d type letters, even prepare presentations and forward these on behalf of our clients.

  It was an exclusive and innovative service offered by Heron Heights, and it went from strength to strength.

  Unfortunately, to use one of today’s vernaculars, we became victims of our own success. Bookings soared, as did staying times, which meant that some guests would monopolise some rooms for months, often booking multiple rooms to accommodate families travelling with them. This meant that other regulars were forced to seek alternative accommodation.

  Before long, Heron Heights began to lose many of its core guests to rival hotels that were now providing similar services.

  So, the owners were forced to diversify; they laid off most of the staff and converted the hotel into a luxury apartment building, and long term bookings were welcomed.

  Fortunately, there was still some need for secretarial and administrative services, but demand was nowhere near the same as back then …”

  Lilly paused here. Her eyes roamed around the room and the empty desks, as if looking for the people who once sat there. “…I lost most of my girls. We were downsized from a ten-strong team to four and were given the responsibility of taking care of the actual building’s administrative services.”

  Lilly sighed. “Over time, demand diminished further, and, with the advent of mobile phones, I had to lose another two of my girls, which left Keri and me. The service has been retained by a handful of tenants but, of course, wealth brings with it the prestige of agents and personal secretaries. Our subscriber list is just a shadow of what it used to be.”