Spirit

by Ashe Barker

  “Back in a sec. I just need to collect something from my van.” I wave to Bob as I trot out the back way. His grunt of response sounds amenable enough, as it should be. Those toilets are gleaming.

  I fire up my laptop, which has been charging overnight in the pub kitchen. There’s an email, and it’s from MLR.

  From: Angela Carmichael

  To: Beth Harte

  Date: 16 September 2013

  Subject: Public Art Proposal

  Dear Ms Harte

  Andrew Barnes at Elliott Day solicitors has forwarded your recent correspondence to us. I am afraid that Mrs Kerry is currently on maternity leave, so I will circulate your request among the other members of the Senior Management Team and will be in touch with you immediately if another of our directors is in a position to respond.

  Regards

  Angela Carmichael

  PA to Chief Executive. MLR

  Shit! Fucking shit. Just when I thought I might be getting somewhere. Maternity leave? What ever happened to temporary cover? That firm owns half of bloody Yorkshire as far as I can tell, they must be able to run to a sodding fill in post, some temporary staff, for Christ’s sake. I slam the laptop shut and stomp back inside to help dish out the pork baguettes and pints of real ale. There must be a way to excite some interest among their directors. I only need one of them to glance at my plans and give me a nod. How hard could that be, for heaven’s sake?

  I’m still pondering that question when my mobile buzzes in my back pocket. I pull it out and glance at the unfamiliar number on the screen before I hit the green button.

  “Hello, Beth Harte.”

  “Ah, good afternoon, Ms Harte. I hope this isn’t an inconvenient moment. This is Angela Carmichael, at MLR.” The brisk female voice on the other end of the phone pauses, and my head reels. Not a moment ago I was racking my brain trying to work out how to excite the interest of this woman who seems to hold the key to my plans, and here she is actually ringing me up. I gulp, give myself a quick shake, and answer her.

  “Miss Carmichael, yes, right. Thanks for phoning me. Is there some more information you need?”

  “No, no Ms Harte, I think we have all we need for now. I’ve forwarded your ideas to our directors, and our CEO is keen to talk to you about them. Are you able to come in and meet with him?”

  “Yes, yes of course. I’d be delighted. When would he like…?”

  “I know this is very short notice, but he was wondering if perhaps later today? Are you able to be at our offices by, say, four thirty? He has a half hour or so at that time.”

  “Yes, of course. Yes, I can be there by then.” Just. Allowing for getting parked up and finding the office, it would take me about ninety minutes to get to central Manchester from here. I peer at the wall clock opposite the bar, to see it’s already after two. I need to start preparing right now, and I’ve agreed to the meeting before I even consider checking with Bob.

  It’s too late now, I’m committed. And in any case, this is my priority. I tell myself I paid for my night’s board and lodging by scrubbing out those loos, and return my attention to Miss Carmichael.

  “Yes, that’ll be fine. I’ll be there. Could you just give me a few directions to help find you?”

  “Of course. Do you know Leeds?”

  Leeds? Leeds?

  “Er, I thought you were in Manchester.”

  “No. Our headquarters are in Leeds. We’re just a couple of minutes’ walk from the station, if that helps.”

  “Oh, right.” I’m fast re-adjusting my thinking. Ninety minutes to drive to Manchester, how long would it take to get to Leeds? By train?

  Not that long, probably. I could be at the station in Keighley in perhaps forty minutes, then the journey across to Leeds would be about half an hour. I’ll have no trouble finding the place at the other end—I know Leeds intimately.

  I wish I didn’t. My memories of the city are not exactly happy ones for the most part. But needs must, and at least I do know my way around.

  “Okay. What address is it, please?”

  Miss Carmichael rattles off the details, which I jot down on the order pad next to the till.

  “Just go to reception and ask for me. I’ll come down and meet you.”

  “Right, thanks. I’ll see you later then.” I tear off the top sheet of the pad and drop the directions in the bin. I won’t need them. I know that building. I remember it well. Especially the underground car park.

  “I’m looking forward to it, Ms Harte. Goodbye.”

  I press the end call button, and head off in search of Bob.

  * * *

  An hour and a half after speaking to Angela Carmichael I am on the platform at Keighley as the three thirty eight to Leeds rolls into the station. Bob wasn’t best pleased at my sudden change of plan but agreed to let me have the rest of the day off provided I put in a full afternoon and evening tomorrow. I agreed to those terms and rushed back to Alice to grab my cleanest pair of jeans and second best top. At least I was fresh from the shower so it didn’t take me long to slap on a bit of foundation and some mascara, check that my sketches and laptop were in my rucksack, and head for the station. I got to Keighley with time to spare so had time to go over my ideas as I waited for the train. All I need to do now is dazzle the chief executive at MLR, and I’m in business. Maybe.

  Twenty past four sees me slinking through the front entrance at Bridgewater House. The enormous plate glass frontage parts with silent, stately dignity to beckon me forward, a world apart from my previous visit when I hurled myself under the rolling shutter guarding the basement car park. I wouldn’t exactly call mine the success story of the decade, but today’s arrival is a far cry from that pathetic night almost six years ago. My stomach clenches at the memory of that evening, the fateful meeting which took place then, and the unexpected friendship I struck up with a total stranger whose generosity saved my life. Literally.

  I stand inside the plush chrome, steel and glass of the huge atrium lobby, gazing across what seems to me to be acres of pearl grey carpeting. The reception desk is at the far end, close to the lifts. I hoist my backpack on my shoulder and make my way across.

  A haughty looking individual decked out rather like a traditional butler tips up his chin as I approach the desk. I swear he’s inspecting the shag pile behind me for footprints, as though I trod in something not very nice.

  Snooty git. I march up to his pristine desk and in an uncommon display of belligerence I park my elbows on it.

  “I’m here to see the chief executive at MLR. Miss Carmichael’s expecting me.”

  “I see. And your name is, miss…?”

  “Harte. Beth Harte. I have an appointment.”

  “An appointment? Quite.” The butler-cum-receptionist produces a list from beneath his desk and consults it. “What name was it again?”

  “Beth Harte. To see Miss Carmichael.”

  “I can’t see you on my list.”

  “Would it surprise you greatly to learn I’m not at all interested in your list? I have an appointment. Please call Miss Carmichael, or perhaps I should…” My tone is sharp, deliberately so. This man is an arsehole. I produce my mobile from my pocket and prepare to return Miss Carmichael’s call from earlier this afternoon. She can do battle with Mr Snooty if she wants to. Me, I’m not going there.

  “Ah yes, I see you now.”

  Indeed? How convenient. At his words I slip my phone back into my pocket. The concierge picks up the telephone receiver on his desk.

  “I have a Miss Harte at the front desk to see you, Miss Carmichael.” A pause, then, “Very well. Thank you.” He replaces the receiver and studies me down the length of his nose again. “You need to be on the third floor. Miss Carmichael will meet you from the lift.” He gestures towards the bank of lifts a few yards to his right, then returns his attention to the computer screen angled behind his desk. I take that as a dismissal and, my tone dripping with sarcasm, I mak
e a point of thanking the man for his helpfulness as I pick up my bag.

  The lift is constructed of glass on all four sides and affords fabulous views of the atrium, then of the two open plan floors it passes through before gliding to a halt on the third floor. I spot the middle aged woman waiting for me in the corridor before the doors even open. She steps forward, hand outstretched and a warm smile on her face.

  “Miss Harte?” I nod and smile back before taking her hand and shaking it.

  “It’s so very nice to meet you. And thank you for being so accommodating and coming in at such short notice. I hope we didn’t ruin your day.”

  “Not at all. It’s good of your chief executive to see me so quickly.”

  “He was very interested when he read your proposal, most keen to meet you. So, did you find us alright?”

  “Yes, yes, I know Leeds fairly well actually.” Keen to meet me? Sounds promising.

  “Oh, are you from Leeds then?” She uses a card suspended from a lanyard around her neck to open a door into another corridor.

  I follow her along the thickly carpeted hallway. “No, but I lived here for a while. A few years ago.” Accurate enough, I suppose.

  Miss Carmichael leads me through large double doors marked simply ‘MLR’ and past several banks of desks. She nods to several of the occupants of the desks as we make our brisk way towards the executive offices at the far end.

  She stops before one of the doors, knocks twice and opens it. I barely have time to register the name on the polished wood before she’s ushering me inside.

  “Miss Harte is here, Mr Logan. Can I get you both some coffee?”

  “Thank you, Angela. That will be very welcome. Unless Miss Harte would prefer tea?”

  I stand, a couple of feet inside the spacious office, aghast. The same building, yes, but it never, ever occurred to me, not once, that he might still be here. Not after all these years. That I might hear that same voice, rich and warm, caressing me from across the room. Those same eyes, older, maybe even slightly wiser, set in that still oh-so handsome face.

  Matt. Matt Logan.

  He leans back in his chair and regards me from behind his desk. After a few moments he stands and walks around to where I still stand transfixed. Miss Carmichael, too, remains framed in the doorway, awaiting hospitality instructions.

  “So, Beth, do you prefer tea? I recall you were fond of it?”

  “I, no, no… Coffee is fine. Thank you.”

  “Do you two know each other?” Miss Carmichael is looking from one to the other of us, somewhat perplexed.

  “We do. Coffee for two then, please Angela. Oh, and if you have any scones left?”

  “Yes, I think we do. Coming right up.” She ducks back through the door and closes it behind her.

  Matt unfolds his long, lean body from behind his desk and stands, totally relaxed, looking down at me. It occurs to me that I could still turn and run. I could just follow Miss Carmichael back through that door and make a dash for it. Then Matt moves between me and the door and that thought evaporates. I’d forgotten how tall he was, how he could fill a room.

  “It’s been a while, Beth. A long while. You look well.” He pauses, his expression wry. “I’m relieved.”

  “I, you too.” And it’s true, he does look well. Very well, and extremely fine. He was always so good-looking, an attractive, sexy man. The six years since I last saw him have been kind. He was stunning then, but he’s quite devastating now. He would be in his mid-thirties, thirty six?—and maturity suits him. His hair is still a deep shade of dark brown, not so much as a hint of grey. His gorgeous blue eyes have lost none of their piercing quality and they are now fixed on me, his gaze hard, steely, assessing.

  “You’ve filled out. Looks good on you, Beth.”

  “Thank you. I…”

  “Sit down, please. We have some catching up to do.” He indicates a leather couch across the room, a low table in front of it. Lost for something to say, I take a seat and haul my rucksack onto my knees. I resist the urge to hug it, but only just.

  Matt sits next to me. He leans back, his eyes never leaving me. He catches sight of my bag and his eyebrows lift.

  “Is that the same one? Your bag? Is it the one you had back then?”

  “Yes. It’s a good bag. I like it.” A tad defensive perhaps, but I’m struggling.

  “I see. But I’m guessing this time it doesn’t contain all you own.”

  “No. No, I have some other stuff. At home.”

  “At home?” He loads that word with a wealth of meaning. “And where is home these days, Beth?”

  “I’m living in Oldfield at the moment.” I blurt out the first thing that enters my head, but it’s true enough, I suppose. At his puzzled frown I rush on, keen to elaborate as well as seizing an opportunity to direct the conversation toward my reason for being here. “That’s close to where I want to construct my piece. I told you about it, in my proposal…”

  “Ah yes, your landscape artwork. I admit that took me by surprise rather.”

  “I’m very good. I brought my portfolio.” I open my bag and reach in, intending to show him a selection of my previous work. My career thus far has not been extensive, but the stuff I’ve done is competent enough. Impressive, I like to think.

  Matt stops me with an impatient gesture. “Later, perhaps. First, I want some answers.”

  Perhaps? My heart sinks as it occurs to me he hasn’t summoned me here because he was interested in my work at all. My guess now is he recognised my name on the email forwarded by the lawyer. He could have just emailed me back and saved us all some trouble.

  “Mr Logan, I…”

  “Matt. We’re still on first name terms, surely.” A brisk knock at the door heralds the return of Angela Carmichael. She bustles in to arrange a tray of coffee and a plate of sliced fruit scones before us on the low table. A pot of jam and another of clotted cream sits beside the plate. Despite the tension of this encounter my mouth waters.

  “Help yourself.” Matt smiles at me as he hands me a small plate. The expression is familiar, and my heart does an odd little flip as memories flood back. “The catering here is excellent.”

  It never occurs to me to refuse. I take the plate and reach for a scone. My hand is trembling, part tension over the fate of my beloved project given this unexpected turn of events, and part reaction to seeing Matt Logan again. I take my time over buttering the scone and adding a little cream. I never did care for jam much. The respite is enough though, sufficient for me to regroup, to reassemble my scattered wits and decide on my plan.

  I have unfinished business and I will settle that with Matt before I leave, the little matter of the hundred pounds I owe him. Once that’s out of the way I’ll attempt to discuss my proposals for the landscape mosaic, but if it is as I fear and he really has no interest in pursuing that, I’ll make as dignified an exit as I’m able.

  Leaving Matt Logan was hard six years ago. I doubt it will be much easier now, but at least this time I have a place to go.

  I turn to look him fully in the face. “I owe you an apology.”

  “You do indeed, Beth. Do you intend to start with that?”

  I lower my gaze. “Yes, I suppose so. I’m sorry.”

  “For what, exactly? Do we need a pen and paper? Perhaps we should make a list.”

  I choose to ignore his jibe. “I stole some money from you. A hundred pounds. I apologise for that, most sincerely, and I want to repay what I took.”

  “Okay.”

  “I can write you a cheque now.”

  “No need.”

  “But…”

  “Beth, if you’d asked me for it I’d have given you the hundred quid. I’d have given you the whole two grand and more besides if you needed it. I think you knew that or you would never have taken it. Would you? “

  I look up at him again, surprised. “But, I didn’t ask you, did I? I just took it, and…”

&nbs
p; “You had no need to ask. You know it, I know it. So let’s just leave it there shall we. And a serious thief would have taken the lot, not just a few quid. That’s always puzzled me—I’d be interested to know what you did with the money.” His tone is gentle, little more than a murmur. His generosity seems undimmed, and I couldn’t be more ashamed.

  “I am sorry. Truly.”

  “The money was the least of my concerns. Still is. Why did you leave, Beth? Without a word. No warning. Why?”

  I stare at him, searching his face, his eyes for some clue. Anything. He must know. He must have some idea what happened. The room was a mess, Mick’s spilt beer spattered everywhere. I can’t remember where I left the cricket bat, but it sure as hell wasn’t where it ought to be. He must have realised…

  Seemingly not. He waits, one eyebrow raised in that way he always had.

  “Your friend. Mick. Mick Rosen.” I stop there, as though I’ve said enough for him to piece the rest together.

  “Right. Mick. And?” It would seem not.

  “And—he attacked me.” I blurt it out, no frills.

  Matt does at least appear taken aback. “He what?”

  “He attacked me. More precisely, he grabbed me and threw me onto the sofa. Then he held me down and shoved his hands in my jeans. He…” I halt, gulping. This is the first time I’ve ever related what happened that day. I never told anyone else and even after all these years the memory is just as powerful, the violation no less crippling than it was then. I look up, meet Matt’s eyes. “He put his fingers inside me.”

  Matt didn’t know. I can tell by his expression he had no idea. He looks stunned, his face a mask of horror, then outrage.

  “He did… that? To you? In my flat?”

  I nod.

  “But how? I mean, why? Did you report it? Why didn’t you tell me? Fuck, I’d have torn his bastard head off, the dirty little shite. Bastard!” He gets to his feet, paces around the office a couple of circuits, raking his hands through his hair.