by Megan Goldin
Sylvie liked to remind me in a myriad of ways that I was at the bottom of the food chain among the senior members of the team. She could walk into Vincent’s office at will; I had to make an appointment with his personal assistant. She and Vincent mixed in similar social circles, attended the same parties. She treated him with a certain familiarity. For me, Vincent was my boss. I was always deferential. We didn’t banter, or hang out. I had no idea who his friends were and I never, not even once, ran into him at a party or at a restaurant. I didn’t move in his milieu.
‘Is there something that you need to talk to him about?’ Sylvie persisted.
‘Nothing in particular,’ I said, quickly. Too quickly. Sylvie’s eyes burned with intense curiosity.
I had fervently hoped that Vincent would be away so that I could first consult with Kevin. But Kevin would only return at the end of the week. By which time, Vincent would be in Europe. His European trips sometimes lasted several weeks.
I decided then and there that I would raise the matter with Vincent that day, before he went away. Vincent had been Lucy’s greatest ally. He’d be as outraged as me. He’d know what to do.
I saw Vincent at various meetings during the course of the day. He passed on his condolences about my father and asked how my mother had settled into her new accommodation, but there was no opportunity for me to privately raise the delicate issue of Lucy’s journal.
I messaged Vincent’s personal assistant twice to ask whether he could squeeze me in for a few minutes between meetings. Each time she told me that Vincent was fully booked. I’d have to wait until he returned from Europe.
At 6 p.m., a message from Vincent popped up on my screen. ‘I heard you want to talk. I have a few minutes spare. Are you free now?’
‘Sure. Coming over,’ I responded.
When I walked into Vincent’s office, he was reading a document. He took off his reading glasses and gestured with them that I should take a seat. I shut the office door behind me. I didn’t want anyone overhearing our conversation.
‘You seem distracted, Sara,’ said Vincent. ‘I’m sure the past few weeks haven’t been easy. Maybe you need more time? I lost my father a few years ago. It was tough.’
‘I definitely don’t want more leave. If anything, I’ve been looking forward to being back at work.’
‘Ok.’ Vincent sighed as if he wasn’t convinced. ‘What’s on your mind, Sara?’
‘There’s something I wanted to talk to you about.’ I took a deep breath and exhaled slowly. The words that I’d rehearsed dozens of times in my mind poured out in a quick garbled flow.
‘Lucy Marshall’s mother, Cathy, died about six months ago,’ I said. ‘It was a hit-and-run.’
‘I didn’t know,’ he said, after a pause. ‘I’m sorry to hear that.’
‘I saw Cathy before she died. It appears that Lucy kept a journal. In it was an account, from two days before she died, that suggests she was sexually assaulted in the office elevator.’
His face turned grim. ‘Does it say who did it?’ he asked.
‘She didn’t know exactly. I gather that she was drugged. However, I suspect that Eric Miles was involved. Earlier that day, he’d threatened Lucy. She made him look bad in a meeting. He’d given incorrect figures and she corrected him publicly.’
‘And how do you know this is true?’ asked Vincent.
‘It was in Lucy’s journal.’
‘Do you have that journal? I’d like to see it.’
‘I don’t have it. But … I’ve seen it,’ I answered, trying to be evasive. It was a stupid lie. I could hardly suggest I go home and get the journal a second after saying that I didn’t have it.
‘Without seeing the journal it’s hearsay at best. Don’t you think?’ Vincent spoke quietly but I could see that he was angry. My face flushed in embarrassment. I didn’t know what to say.
‘You can’t throw around accusations like that without any evidence.’ I couldn’t believe Vincent was making excuses for Eric, of all people. Anyone who worked with Eric knew he was a first-class douche, especially Vincent, who was a good judge of character.
It was because of Eric’s connections to the board. Vincent was politically savvy enough to know that taking on Eric Miles would pose an existential threat to his career.
Vincent leaned forward. His eyes were hard. ‘I can’t do anything, Sara, without any evidence and without any corroboration.’
‘Lucy confided in Sylvie after it happened,’ I said. ‘Sylvie went to Lucy’s apartment to help her calm down. She gave her medicine. Ask Sylvie. She’ll confirm it.’
Vincent pressed the intercom button of his phone to speak to his PA. ‘Ask Sylvie to come into my office. Immediately.’
My heart thumped as I sat under Vincent’s icy gaze. We waited in silence for Sylvie to arrive, and she walked straight into Vincent’s office with her usual self-assurance. She wore a cream suit with her hair pinned up and a pink silk shirt, open at the neck to display a set of pearls. She sat down on the chair next to me and casually crossed her legs.
‘Do you remember the days before Lucy Marshall died?’ Vincent asked her.
‘It was a while ago,’ she answered, noncommittally.
‘Did Lucy tell you that she’d been sexually assaulted by Eric Miles, or other men in the office elevator, late one night? Days before her death?’
‘Lucy?’ said Sylvie, incredulous. ‘Assaulted in this office? That’s ridiculous. Where on earth did you hear that?’ She turned to look at me. Her eyes burned with accusation.
‘Just to be clear, Sylvie, so there are no misunderstandings. You’re saying that Lucy never mentioned to you that she had been assaulted?’ Vincent said.
‘If that had happened I would have told you, or the police,’ Sylvie insisted. Liar, I thought.
‘Did you visit Lucy’s apartment the day before she died? Did you give her sedatives, or any other medication?’
‘I never visited Lucy’s apartment. I don’t know where she lived. We were hardly friends. You know that, Vincent. Why would I give Lucy medication without a script? Who does that?’ She looked at him in bewilderment. ‘To be honest, Vincent, I’m a little offended that you’d even ask.’
‘Thank you, Sylvie. You can go,’ said Vincent. He waited until Sylvie left his office.
‘What’s your angle, Sara?’ His voice was cold. ‘Why make up a story like that? It demeans Lucy’s memory and damages Eric Miles’s reputation. Not to mention undermining Sylvie by implying she covered up a crime.’
‘I didn’t make it up,’ I gasped.
‘Sylvie just confirmed that it’s not true. Lucy never turned to her for help. She’s never heard of this supposed incident,’ said Vincent. ‘It never happened. It’s fiction.’
‘It’s not,’ I insisted. ‘It happened two days before Lucy died – it’s somehow connected with her death.’
‘Sara, I can only presume this is some kind of power play,’ he went on. ‘To undermine Sylvie and get back at Eric, I don’t know, for excluding you from the Bishop deal? I never thought you had it in you to be so manipulative. I don’t want to hear of this again.’
I swallowed hard, tears of frustration in my eyes. I felt utterly humiliated by his accusations.
‘That will be all, Sara’ he said, dismissively.
I stood up. Trembling, I stumbled towards his office door.
‘I’m going to do you the biggest favour of your career, Sara. I’m going to forget you ever raised this. If you like working at Stanhope then I suggest you be very careful about making unfounded accusations like that in the future.’ With that I left his office.
When I arrived home that night, I went through Lucy’s other papers to find evidence to convince Vincent that I’d been speaking the truth. Perhaps Lucy talked to someone else after the assault, someone other than Sylvie who could corroborate her story. I was sure the answers were in the papers that Cathy sent me. I was determined to show Vincent that what I said was true and that Sylvie
was lying through her teeth.
I went through all of Lucy’s sketchpads. Towards the end of the largest sketchbook, I came to a stunning series of sketches from Coney Island, which took up several pages. I turned the pages expecting to see more of Lucy’s street scenes when I saw something that made me gasp, just as Cathy had. This was the drawing she’d seen when we were packing up Lucy’s apartment. Cathy hadn’t let me see it then. I wish she had. It would have saved an awful lot of grief. Who knows how things would have played out if I’d seen it then. Cathy might still be alive.
In style and substance, the picture was completely different from the other sketches. The other drawings captured life in the city and its shifting moods. The sketch in front of me was a black ink vignette of life at the firm. Drawn with sharp, angry lines. It looked like a panel from a deeply disturbing graphic novel.
It was a sketch of the meeting room where we often worked, the one people referred to as ‘Vincent’s meeting room’. I recognised it because Lucy accurately drew the view of the city skyline from the windows. She drew four people around a table. They were quite clearly caricatures of Vincent, Sam, Sylvie and Jules. The table wasn’t the usual rectangular table in that room. It was round and Lucy had written ‘The Circle Inc.’ in the middle. I had no idea what that meant.
Sam with his handsome square face sat back in his chair with the thoughtful expression that he projected during meetings to show that he was engaged in the conversation. Jules’s black hair flopped over his dark, cryptic eyes. And of course Sylvie. Her facial profile was perfectly symmetrical. Her hair was in a chignon and her elongated frame was in the upright posture of a model. Her intelligent eyes cynically mocked them all.
Vincent was the only one who sat with his back to the foreground. I could tell it was him from the shape of the back of his head and his distinctive broad shoulders.
When I looked closely, I realised that in fact Vincent’s face was in the sketch. It was reflected in the window. Except instead of drawing Vincent’s face, Lucy had drawn the face of the devil.
Vincent woke hours later, roused by a sense that something was wrong. He was so exhausted and disoriented that it took a few seconds for him to remember that he was in the elevator. He’d woken because of a scratching noise that he’d heard through thick layers of sleep.
As he became more alert, Vincent realised the scratching sound was someone trying to pick the lock of his briefcase.
‘What’re you doing, Jules?’
Jules hesitated. ‘Getting water,’ he said.
‘By breaking into my briefcase?’
‘It’s been twenty-four hours. I’m thirsty.’
‘We all are, Jules. You can’t just help yourself,’ said Vincent.
‘You were asleep and I didn’t want to wake you.’ His tone was defensive.
‘It’s still my locked briefcase that you’re trying to break into.’
‘Desperate times call for desperate measures,’ Jules answered glibly.
Sylvie had woken up and scrambled into a sitting position.
Vincent had already taken stock of their food and water supply. He had under half a litre of water in his briefcase. It was barely enough for one person, let alone four. He had a couple of energy bars as well, but they could survive for a week without food. With no water, they might last two days. Three tops.
‘Let’s be clear. I’m in charge of the water and the food. If you want something, you ask me.’
Jules’s face reddened in anger. He was tired of having to ask Vincent for every little thing. This wasn’t the office, Vincent had no right to talk to him like that. From what he’d seen, Vincent had done fuck all to get them out.
Vincent opened the briefcase and removed the water bottle. With the help of the television monitor, which was still flashing the latest unsolved clue, he carefully poured water into the plastic cap of the bottle. He gave Sylvie her share first. Three caps of water, one after the other. Jules was next. When Jules was done, Vincent poured a lid full of water into Sam’s lips which had parted slightly in his sleep.
‘What are you doing?’ Jules asked abruptly.
‘What does it look like I’m doing? I’m giving Sam his share.’
‘But Sam’s asleep,’ said Jules. ‘He’ll never know he missed out.’
‘Plus he had some earlier,’ Sylvie chimed. ‘We should all get the same amount.’
‘Sam needs more than the rest of us,’ Vincent said. ‘He’s running a high fever.’
‘That’s his problem,’ said Jules.
‘I’ll tell you what,’ Vincent’s voice was weary, ‘I’ll give Sam my share of water. Alright?’
‘That’s your prerogative.’ Jules shrugged. ‘As long as you don’t give him my water, I don’t really give a damn.’
Vincent resisted the urge to point out that he was the one who was sharing his water with them all. He didn’t have the energy to get into the intricacies of ownership of their only water supply. He closed the bottle tightly and put it back into his briefcase. He locked his briefcase and put it underneath his head as a pillow. He couldn’t leave it unguarded again.
Jules tucked himself back into the corner and returned to sleep.
Sylvie stretched out and pretended to be sleeping as well. After some time, when she knew that Jules was asleep by the change in his breathing, she wiggled closer to Vincent until she felt the warmth of his body. She allowed their skin to touch. A brief, flirting touch.
‘Vincent, can I have another sip?’
‘Not now. We need to ration it.’
‘Please, Vincent.’ She moved closer until the tips of her nipples under the thin fabric of her camisole touched his bare chest.
They were so close to each other that their sweat was intermingling. Vincent’s body was tense and his breathing had become audible. Sylvie smiled to herself. She knew that she’d turned him on. She leaned forward towards Vincent’s ear and whispered so softly that nobody could hear anything. Then she lowered her mouth and ran her tongue down the nape of his neck. It set off an electric burst of desire in Vincent. He put his hand out to pull her to him. She’d already moved back and was out of reach.
Against his better judgement, Vincent removed the water bottle from his briefcase and handed it to her. ‘Two sips,’ he said. Sylvie took three.
Sam lay with his head on the folded jacket, watching Sylvie’s interplay with Vincent. He was drowsy, but even through his lethargic daze, he marvelled at her opportunism. It was a typical Sylvie move.
Sam noticed Vincent’s sideways glances towards Sylvie, who was sitting near him on the elevator floor. She leaned back against the wall, her skirt hiked up and legs slightly apart. Drops of sweat ran down the front of her neck and into the crevice between her breasts.
‘I wish we knew why we’re here and what we need to do to get out,’ she said. She fanned herself with her cellphone, which shone filaments of light on the elevator walls.
Sam had already fallen asleep again when Sylvie lay down as close as she could get to Vincent. Within a few minutes, the two of them were curled up in each other’s arms, fast asleep.
That night, I paced restlessly around my apartment, looking out the living-room window into the neon-lit sky as if it would provide me with answers. Lucy’s drawing of Vincent as the devil left me confused and afraid. I always thought Lucy had worshipped Vincent. I’d never imagined that she thought of him as anything other than her guardian angel. Vincent hired her, mentored her, watched her back. Why would she draw him as evil personified? What had Vincent done to frighten her?
I barely slept that night. When I did, it was a restless sleep. I thrashed about in my bedsheets until they were twisted and damp from perspiration. I woke with a start, my heart racing. I vaguely remembered dreaming that I was hiding under an office desk while Vincent searched for me with a hunting knife. The office was dark and empty. It was the middle of the night. Vincent’s face was demonic, just as Lucy had drawn it.
I had forgott
en to set my alarm and woke late. I showered and dressed quickly. There was no time to style my hair so I tied it up. As I grabbed my bag and keys, I saw Lucy’s sketchpads spread across my coffee table. I tossed them straight into the bottom shelf of the cupboard. I didn’t want to see them anymore. I wished I’d never seen them in the first place.
I arrived at work with a strong black coffee in hand. It was all I could stomach, I had no appetite. Vincent’s office door was shut. He was in Europe. It was a relief to know that I wouldn’t be seeing him for a while.
My desk phone was ringing as I approached my desk. I grabbed it before I missed the call, still with my handbag over my shoulder. ‘Hello, Sara.’ It was Vincent’s voice. I swallowed hard and sat down with a stab of anxiety in the pit of my stomach.
It turned out to be a brief call. Completely professional and with no reference to our conversation the previous day. Vincent gave me a list of preparatory work he needed me to do for a meeting he had coming up in Frankfurt.
I was nervous about seeing Sylvie after the confrontation with her the previous day in Vincent’s office. But when she turned up, not long after, she didn’t greet me and spent the day treating me with her usual benign contempt. Everything was back to normal.
Raising Lucy’s journal with Vincent had been a serious miscalculation. I thought he would have been outraged, instead he seemed intent on covering it up. Without Vincent’s support I couldn’t go up against Eric Miles, he would crush me like a cockroach. I couldn’t go to the cops either. There was no way to corroborate what had happened, no evidence. Lucy was dead and Sylvie wasn’t talking.
I rationalised my decision to do nothing by telling myself that Lucy must have been delusional before she died. The allegations in her journal were a fiction that she’d created, just as Sylvie had told Vincent with a straight face and steady eyes. I couldn’t risk ruining my career by going on a personal crusade about something that may or may not have happened to a friend who was long dead.
I worked late all week so that on Friday night I’d be able to get home early for Kevin’s return. I bought steaks and made salad for dinner. I even made tiramisu for dessert. His plane’s departure from San Francisco was delayed by storms. By the time he landed, it was already 9.30 p.m. He texted me to say that he was beat and would go straight home.
