Hidden Hours

by Sara Foster

  Will seems to be making a conscious effort to regain composure. ‘Do you know the police have talked to me already?’ he whispers, leaning forward. ‘I chased after her, remember, when she left The Atlantic for the final time. I caught up with her and she brushed me off – if there’s any footage from CCTV or witnesses or whatever, it might have looked like an argument.’ He puts his head in his hands. ‘I was one of the last people to see her alive – and that makes me a prime suspect. Shit,’ he clenches his fists. ‘Shit!’

  ‘I’m sorry, Will, I really am.’ Eleanor leans closer. ‘Are you going to tell the police?’

  For a moment, even though she is terrified, she wants him to say yes, to take this whole nightmare out of her hands. She waits as Will blows out a long breath, then his gaze focuses on her. She tries not to shy away, to keep her eyes on his, to show him she’s genuinely remorseful. ‘For god’s sake, Eleanor, I don’t know. You’ve just – you’ve completely thrown me.’ He gets up. ‘I’ve got to get back to the exhibition, and I need some time to think.’ He grips the back of the chair, and looks at her as though he’s seeing something unbearable, making her flinch. ‘I’ll talk to you later, Eleanor,’ he says, and then he is gone.

  14

  parker & lane

  ‘More flowers,’ Tilly announces, her arms full of bouquets as she walks into the kitchen.

  June closes her eyes. She’s coming to hate the sickly, pungent smell of them – the living scents that will forever represent the horrific, unendurable hours that followed the death of her youngest child. She vows she will never again buy flowers for anyone in mourning.

  Eleanor wakes early on Monday morning and checks her phone straightaway, hoping for something from Will. She has sent him three texts, apologising, but he hasn’t responded to any of them.

  But she does have one message: Come to my office this morning when you get to work. DO NOT go near Nathan’s desk. Susan.

  Since her boss tried to strangle her less than twenty-four hours ago, she’s not sure she can face work today. Eleanor debates disobeying, and just climbing back under the covers, but she doesn’t want to push Susan any further. She checks the time on her phone – seven-thirty. There are three messages from her mother asking for updates, and she sends a hasty reply. I’m fine – late for work, more later. Then she swings her legs out of bed and slowly gets dressed. Before leaving the room she checks the ring is safely stowed under the mattress. When she goes downstairs the house is quiet. It looks like everyone has already gone for the day.

  As Eleanor heads for the Tube she can’t stop thinking about Will’s reaction to the ring. What will he do now he knows? She keeps re-living the expression on his face, the shock and disgust. She takes every step as though in a trance, half-expecting to find the police waiting for her when she gets to work.

  The carriage is quiet, and every commuter except Eleanor seems to be reading the Metro this morning. WHAT HAPPENED TO ARABELLA LANE? shouts the front-page headline, above a small headshot of a smiling Arabella in the summer sun, her hair blowing in the breeze. It seems to be everywhere Eleanor looks, and each time she sees it she experiences a new frisson of fear. After a while, she keeps her head down.

  An hour later, she is walking through the double doors of Parker & Lane. No police are in evidence, but she hastens past the mound of flowers by the front entrance trying to make herself inconspicuous. After signing in she goes across to the lift, stepping inside and pressing the button for the top floor.

  She knows the layout of the first two floors well, because she has regularly run errands between the admin and editorial staff. However, Susan’s office takes up a good portion of the third floor, alongside HR and Legal. When the lift pings open, she sees the layout is quite different up here. On the lower floors the management are arranged along the edges, soldiers guarding the battlements, secreted away from the open-plan melee in their offices of polished white and chrome. A few frosted-glass panels reveal small vignettes of the working day: a hand tossed in exasperation as figures are analysed, a quick jump to the feet signalling the end of an awkward meeting, a pencil twirled between fingers as the artistic merits of book covers are debated. Eleanor has often glanced through these smoke screens on her way to the kitchen or the bathrooms, and has learned a few things about people. She knows that Michael Alton, financial director, keeps a small transistor radio in his top drawer, and his computer is often logged on to one of the gamblers.com sites. Jenny Malone, senior editor, likes to pick her nose when she thinks no one is looking. Malcolm O’Halloran, publisher for Young Adult fiction, is usually staring out of his window, his door shut. Apparently he recently split up with his wife.

  On the top floor, the boardroom runs all the way along one side of the square building, and adjacent to that, a set of grand white double doors mark the entrance to Susan’s office. Eleanor walks across to them and knocks. When there is no answer, she slowly opens one of the doors, and pokes her head around.

  The enormous outer office belongs to Susan’s personal assistant, Priscilla. Her workstation is on one side, while on the other are two huge sofas set against a backdrop of bookshelves on which Parker & Lane’s current titles are proudly displayed. Priscilla is sitting at her desk, opposite a woman Eleanor doesn’t recognise until she turns around.

  ‘Eleanor, come in,’ Priscilla says when she sees her. ‘You know Marisa?’

  Of course, Arabella’s PA. When Marisa turns around, Eleanor expects to see the grief writ large on her face, but Marisa looks remarkably composed and unaffected.

  ‘Sit down, Eleanor,’ Priscilla says.

  Eleanor obeys.

  ‘We are in uncharted waters here,’ Priscilla begins. Her face is plastered in make-up today, and a garish necklace of large multi-coloured stones draws the eye away from her black blouse. ‘Susan thinks it is best if I look after Nathan’s admin for the next few days. She would like you both to help her. Okay?’ She ploughs on without waiting for an answer. ‘Eleanor. You’re to answer the phone and take messages – and do whatever else she asks. If journalists call, you just say Susan is unavailable and ask them to leave their contact details. You don’t comment on anything else. Marisa, you’ll do Susan’s dictation and meeting minutes and suchlike.’

  Eleanor sees Marisa grimace. Priscilla notices too, and frowns at her. ‘It’s important we all pull together until things calm down a bit. Susan won’t be in until this afternoon, so we’re to hold the fort until then.’

  Eleanor relaxes. All she has to do is answer the phone. Susan won’t be in until later. This day isn’t going to be as bad as she thought.

  ‘The police have cordoned off Arabella’s office for now, so you will both have to sit up here. Marisa, I’ll get you an extra seat. Susan has asked that you go through Arabella’s online diary and cancel everything you need to. I realise it will mean some difficult conversations. Are you up to it?’

  ‘Yes.’ Marisa nods. ‘It’s got to be done.’

  ‘Right then,’ Priscilla says. ‘Oh, Eleanor,’ she turns to Eleanor and frowns, and Eleanor immediately feels uncomfortable. ‘Susan has asked that you do not leave this floor for the time being. Until she has had a chance to talk to you. All right?’

  Eleanor sees the curiosity in Priscilla’s glance. ‘Fine.’ She’s actually grateful for the instruction – she doesn’t want to run into people today, knowing how she behaved on Thursday night. She doesn’t want to feel the force of the gossip that must be swirling.

  Once Priscilla leaves, Eleanor sits behind the desk. Answering the phone doesn’t seem like much of a task, and she wonders if the time is going to drag – but once the day gets going there are a stream of calls to Susan, mostly about Arabella. Eleanor scribbles messages for most, but the journalists are harder. They are reluctant to leave details, but keen to press for information.

  ‘When will Susan be available?’

  ‘Did you know Arabella Lane?’

  ‘Tell me about what happened on Thursday night.’<
br />
  Eleanor replies ‘No comment’ time and time again, but after a while the questions ring in her ears even in the gaps between calls. They are pushing too close to everything that frightens her. When the next one calls, Eleanor shouts ‘No comment!’ down the phone, and finds she is shaking. Marisa takes the receiver from her, and puts it back on the handle without even checking if the caller is still there.

  ‘Would you like me to take over for a while?’ she asks.

  Eleanor balks, immediately embarrassed: she has been given one task, and she can’t even do that. But Marisa doesn’t wait for her reply, and moves the phone over to the middle of the desk. On the next ring, she picks it up and transcribes a message for Susan.

  ‘It’s okay,’ she says, turning back to Eleanor once she’s finished. ‘It’s a lot to take in.’

  ‘You seem to be dealing with it well.’

  ‘Hmm, I don’t know about that. I’m just not shocked, if that’s what you mean.’

  Eleanor stills. ‘Why do you say that?’

  Marisa leans closer. ‘Arabella was always a law unto herself.’ Her voice is low, the word always comes out as a quick sigh of frustration. ‘Unfortunately, she had tremendous mood swings, never knew quite what she wanted. Some days she was brilliant to work for, and we had a good laugh. Other days she would make my life hell. When I came in every morning I never knew which Arabella I would get. It was exhausting.’ Marisa turns to Eleanor, and Eleanor sees the guilt in her eyes. ‘I am shocked, but I feel numb too, because I was already emotionally drained. I’ve got two young kids who go to daycare five days a week, and I was constantly late or ringing up apologising because Arabella would drop things on me at the last minute. But we need the money – my husband has been made redundant twice in the past two years. So, what could I do? I’m just exhausted, to be honest.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Eleanor says, not knowing what else to offer.

  ‘Me too,’ Marisa replies. ‘I’m sorry about all of it.’ She turns back to the computer. ‘I think I’ve cancelled most things,’ she says. ‘I’m being a chicken and doing what I can by email. However, Arabella had a meeting with the IT department every Thursday afternoon, where she’d update blogs and websites and all that, but I can’t find the person she was dealing with. I would have thought it would have been Jenna Dixon, but she doesn’t know anything about it.’

  As Marisa stares at the screen, the phone rings again. Her hand shoots out but Eleanor is faster.

  ‘Don’t worry,’ she says, ‘I can do it.’ She’s still feeling bad for Marisa, and instinctively wants to lighten her load.

  ‘Parker & Lane,’ she answers.

  ‘Priscilla, it’s Nathan,’ comes the voice on the other end.

  Eleanor freezes, but Nathan doesn’t even pause for breath.

  ‘Tell Susan the memorial service will be on Wednesday, and I want her to do the eulogy,’ he says, his tone leaving no space for discussion. ‘Two o’clock in the afternoon. I’ll ring back later with the details. Oh, and Priscilla?’

  ‘Yes?’ Eleanor whispers.

  ‘Tell her that I expect her to fire her fucking niece!’ he shouts down the phone, and then there’s a click.

  Shocked, Eleanor fumbles with the handset, dropping it onto the receiver with a clatter. Marisa looks up sharply. ‘What’s wrong?’

  ‘I’m not feeling well,’ Eleanor says, getting quickly to her feet. ‘I think I should go.’ She grabs her coat and hurries for the door before Marisa has a chance to reply.

  As she leaves the office, she is rubbing her neck at the place Nathan had grabbed it. The sound of his voice had brought back memories of him lunging at her, his unyielding grip on her throat. He’d sounded so angry on the phone. She remembers Will’s words, his fears for Arabella. What if Nathan is coming after her next?

  Her thoughts become wild as she sprints along the corridor. When she reaches the lift her fingers hammer the call button. She doesn’t realise there are people in the glass-walled boardroom, all watching her, until she hears a voice.

  ‘Eleanor?’

  Will is hurrying along the balcony towards her. As she sees him she experiences another huge pang of guilt at the impossible situation she’s put him in.

  ‘Eleanor?’ he says as he gets closer. ‘What’s happened?’

  ‘I just answered the phone to Nathan,’ she replies, looking around to make sure no one else is in earshot. ‘He thought I was Priscilla – he told her he wants Susan to fire me. The way he spoke – it’s like he despises me.’

  To her surprise, Will grabs her hand and pulls her through a door, into a nearby stairwell.

  ‘Are you going to tell the police about . . . about—’ she stammers.

  ‘Not yet,’ he says. ‘I’ve had time to think about it now, and I don’t get it. I cannot figure out how you could have ended up with that ring when you were so wasted you could barely stand up.’

  ‘What if someone planted it on me?’ Eleanor says miserably. ‘What if they’re trying to frame me?’

  Will looks thoughtful. ‘It’s possible, but why choose you? No one here knows you very well yet, do they?’

  Eleanor shrugs. ‘Exactly. I’m expendable. I don’t matter.’ She feels the force of her words, and gulps.

  ‘Look.’ Will covers her hands with his briefly, and gives them a squeeze. ‘Let’s think about this rationally. What are the options? Number one: Arabella gave it to you. If so, why would she take her engagement ring off, unless she was really mad at Nathan? And we all saw her slap him. Which makes Nathan a prime suspect in whatever happened to her.

  ‘Or you forcibly took it from Arabella. Now, that’s an unlikely possibility. Why would you want to rob her, and how would you overpower her? She’s a good bit taller than you, and she was pretty fit. Would you really take her ring and then stick around – if you wanted to pawn it you’d be gone already, surely?

  ‘So, option three: someone else put it in your bag. If so, then whoever it is has some knowledge of what happened to Arabella and they are willing to involve you. That’s not good. But if you tell the police, surely these are their lines of enquiry too. You’ll have some support, and you can let them investigate which one is the answer. Take it to the police, Eleanor. You might get into trouble but it will look a lot better if you come clean yourself, and don’t wait for someone or something to catch you out.’

  His words make Eleanor think. His perspective is so logical, and it is exactly what she needs. She has been so caught up in thinking about what it means to have the ring that she has forgotten to consider it as an objective piece of evidence. Thank god she hadn’t thrown it in the river – she might have been tossing away a crucial link to the crime. What if having the ring wasn’t just a curse after all? Might it help them figure out exactly what had happened?

  Will is watching her. ‘What are you thinking?’

  ‘I’m thinking you’re making a lot of sense.’

  Will smiles. ‘Well, I have to get back to work,’ he says. When he releases her, he doesn’t step back. His face is still close to hers as he looks into her eyes. ‘You need to go to the police, Eleanor.’ He strokes her hair away from her forehead. ‘Promise me you’ll think about it.’

  His voice is soft, and his touch is so unexpectedly intimate that as she holds his gaze, she hopes he doesn’t notice her shiver. ‘I promise.’

  He opens the door for her. ‘I’ll call you later. Stay strong,’ he says, heading away.

  She presses the lift button and the door opens immediately. She scurries inside, grateful it’s empty, and once she’s downstairs she signs out and leaves the building as fast as she can.

  She is finding it hard to picture herself walking up the steps to the police station and presenting Arabella’s ring to the detectives. She is finding it even harder to imagine what might come afterwards, and that’s the really scary part. But as she sits on the train her upset begins to turn to fury. They have manipulated her, one after the other: first Arabella giving he
r drugs without asking; then Susan bossing her around; and now Nathan taking it all out on her without a scrap of evidence. She will take the ring to the police this afternoon. She will tell them everything she knows. She doesn’t care if they believe her or not; she hardly even cares if she ends up in jail. It will just be a relief to end the struggle, to no longer deal with all this alone.

  The house is still quiet as she races back in. But in the hall a monstrous Christmas tree has appeared from nowhere, its tip almost touching the high ceiling. It looks like it came straight out of the Laura Ashley catalogue, decorated with pure white and silver crystal baubles, although there is already a thin scattering of pine needles on the tiled floor.

  She runs up the stairs and stops abruptly.

  The door to her room is wide open.

  Clothes have been picked up; and her bed is freshly made with new linen.

  Monday is housekeeping day. How could she have forgotten that?

  Heart thudding, she walks slowly across and pulls up her mattress.

  The ring is not there.

  Keep calm, she tells herself, wrenching all the bedclothes off and piling them on the floor, shaking them out and dropping them down, trying to encourage the ring to fall out. She lifts the whole mattress off the bed and searches between the slats. She goes through her drawers and pulls out clothes, at first keeping them folded, later flinging them behind her in a frenzy. She tips out the contents of her bag, just in case, but it’s not there. She takes her room apart, and then puts it back together, piece by piece. And only when she has finished does she sit on her bed with trembling hands.

  The ring has gone.

  15

  home

  November 2004

  The wide open space is a perfect square, its edges delineated by untidy lines of bushland – stumpy grass trees and bent-backed eucalyptus rising amid plants whose tangled tendrils smother the dry ground, thirsty twigs jostling for scraps of water.