‘I saw you the morning after, remember?’ Rachel scoffed. ‘You looked pretty happy being pestered from where I was standing – which was in a fucking hedge, by the way. And I lied, as you put it, to everyone at uni except Anna. You were only the second person in the world I chose to tell about the worst thing that’s ever happened to me.’
Hot, angry tears made tracks down Rachel’s face. She wiped them away, not bothering to try to preserve the integrity of her eye make-up.
‘If I could take it all back and change it, I would,’ Jack said. ‘In a heartbeat.’
He reached for her hand and she tried to pull away, but his palm closed around her fingers like a vice. He refused to let go.
‘I’m devastated that you still think so badly of me. I swear to you, I didn’t engineer this. But I have to ask … If Isaac is oblivious to your family situation, I’m assuming nobody else here knows either?’
Rachel shook her head.
‘Not even Greg?’
‘No one. I mean, it’s not something you bring up by the coffee machine, is it? “My sister died when I was fifteen, my parents were destroyed and nothing was ever the same again.”’
She flipped her body 180 degrees so she was standing next to him, her back against the bin.
‘It’s not that I’m in denial,’ she said, her voice cracking. ‘It’s not like I think refusing to talk about it means she’ll reappear, like I’ll wake up and find it was all a terrible dream. But I was almost defined by losing Lizzy from the second she was gone. At home I had to be careful, calm and sensible. The last thing my mum and dad needed was to worry about me going off the rails. At school people felt sorry for me, or uncomfortable around me, or they ignored me – or they insisted I must want to talk about it. I wasn’t the ginger girl any more, I was the girl with the dead sister. And maybe this makes me an awful, selfish person, but I hated that. I didn’t want to be that girl at uni. I didn’t want to go back to being that person after graduation. And I don’t want to be her now either.’
Jack nodded. ‘I don’t think that makes you selfish. And you could never be awful.’
Rachel sighed, feeling like she was slowly deflating. ‘Maybe I should just tell Isaac I can’t do this – explain that he’ll need to break up his dream duo for this job.’
‘He won’t,’ Jack said. He was still holding on to Rachel’s hand. She realised that as her resistance to his grip had slackened, he’d laced his fingers through hers. ‘We’re a team,’ he told her. ‘If you feel like you can’t work on Lighthouse, I completely understand – but I don’t want to do it without you. If you want me to, I’ll talk to Isaac and ask him to put us on something else.’
‘You will?’
‘Just say the word.’
‘But … how would you justify that? What would you tell him?’
‘Some version of the truth, probably,’ Jack admitted. ‘I think I’d have to. Awful as it is, I think the only way to avoid talking about your own loss is to do the project: focus on other people’s situations instead.’
Rachel sighed again. She couldn’t deny there was a certain logic to this.
‘And what about you?’ she asked. ‘I mean, asking to switch assignments won’t do you any favours in terms of your position here. This is a huge account and we both know you can bring it in – it would cement your celebrity status for good.’
Jack ignored her sarcasm. ‘I’m good at what I do. There’ll be plenty more chances for me to get this agency coveted, lucrative clients.’
Rachel pulled her hand out of his and crossed her arms. He was infuriatingly confident.
‘On the other hand …’ Jack said, ‘if we go ahead with Lighthouse, I’ll be with you, supporting you – and I’ll know the truth. And at least it sounds as if the content side of things won’t require too much soul-searching. It seems pretty clear Olivia Mason already knows what’s best when it comes to writing material for her new website.’
‘True.’
Rachel stood up straighter and pulled her shoulders back a little. Jack was right: refusing to work on this account was guaranteed to raise questions about her past, not to mention her emotional stability. What kind of person was still this churned up about a bereavement – even a close one – after almost sixteen years? A loss they never breathed a word about, even to good friends? She decided to put those questions away for examination at some future, unspecified time.
Then there was the risk that she’d mark herself out as difficult or unprofessional by refusing to do the work she’d been given. All things considered, it might be better to put her head down and get on with this. It would be a difficult few weeks, but ploughing on was probably preferable to publicly dredging up past pain.
‘Okay,’ Rachel said, subdued but certain.
‘Okay?’
‘Yeah. I don’t think I have much choice here, do I? Sticking with the account seems like the lesser of two evils.’
‘It’s going to be fine,’ Jack said bracingly. ‘And it’ll be over within a few weeks, just like the BHGH pitch. Once we get this done, we’ll be on to the next big thing – other people will be manning the account – and we never have to talk about any of this again if you don’t want to.’
Rachel nodded. Jack reached for her hand again, squeezing it and then letting go as they turned to walk back into the building.
‘Will you be all right?’ he asked as she headed towards the ladies.
‘I think so,’ she said. ‘And … I’m sorry I had a go at you before.’
She leaned on the door to the women’s toilets and looked at the floor.
‘Forget it,’ Jack said before she could go in. ‘But … do you think we could actually try being friends now? It seems like you might need one, and you never did give me a straight answer to that question.’
Rachel looked back at him, drained and weary, wondering how long it would take to fix her puffy, mascara-streaked face.
‘I think you already know it,’ she said, turning away from Jack as she entered the bathroom. ‘You always bloody did.’
20
That evening Rachel arrived home from work to find Anna clattering around the kitchen in a tiny pink dress. It was brilliant cerise with a structured bodice, covered in a feather-light tulle that flared from her waist to fall in layer upon layer of soft, delicate waves.
On anyone else it would have been garish, but Anna’s short hair and the black studded belt she was wearing offset its sugary sweetness. She had a pair of black strappy sandals on her feet, their heels so high that Rachel felt dizzy just looking at them.
She dropped her bags on the kitchen table and stared. ‘If I’d thought you’d be this dressed up for dinner I’d have at least thrown on some lip gloss before I came home.’
‘Funny,’ Anna said, smiling. ‘I’m out with Will tonight. It’s our four-year anniversary, remember?’
‘Ahhh. Yes, you did mention it. You look ace. But, er – what are you doing?’
Anna was still opening cupboards and drawers indiscriminately, picking up magazines, books and envelopes, then huffing and putting them back down again.
‘Looking for my phone,’ she said. ‘Bloody thing. I’m late. Will should be here any second.’
‘I’ll find it,’ Rachel told her. ‘You finish getting ready. You’ll break your neck racing around in those shoes.’
Anna retreated to her bedroom, re-emerging a few minutes later wearing a tiny black leather jacket and carrying a clutch bag.
‘Here,’ Rachel said, handing over Anna’s battered old iPhone. ‘It was in the fruit bowl …?’
Anna was known for putting her phone down in odd places, then blithely walking away. Rachel had been baffled but not surprised to find it nestled next to a bunch of browning bananas.
‘Huh. Thanks,’ said Anna. ‘Are you sure I look okay?’
‘Nope, not okay – stunning. Where are you off to?’
‘I’ve no idea, but Will said to dress up – so I hope for his sake it is
n’t pizza and a pint at the pub.’
Rachel laughed. ‘I’m sure it won’t be. Will you be back tonight?’
‘Yeah. An overnight bag doesn’t really go with this outfit, and I have an early meeting tomorrow. The head wants to go over our plans for engaging Year 11 with extra revision sessions – plans that currently consist of “arrange a few tutorials, then hope the kids show up”. Unless she’s willing to offer cash incentives in exchange for attendance, I’m not sure what else she expects us to do.’ Anna rolled her eyes.
‘Ugh, don’t think about it tonight. Have a brilliant time. I won’t wait up.’ Rachel winked.
‘Thanks.’ Anna gave her a quick, fierce hug just as the doorbell rang. ‘See you later,’ she called over her shoulder, shouting to make herself heard over the click-clacking of her heels on the hardwood floor.
Annoyed with herself for not remembering she’d have to cook tonight, Rachel opened the fridge and began assessing her dinner options. They could best be described as limited.
In the end Rachel decided to go for a run on the well-lit roads of Stroud Green, then immediately offset the calories she’d burned with a takeaway. She had a halloumi and falafel feast Deliveroo’d to the flat and ate it flopped on the sofa, watching a comfortingly awful straight-to-Netflix film as she sipped her still lemonade. It was tart but just the right side of bitter, with fresh mint leaves swirling on its surface.
Sometime later she heard the scrape of a key in the flat door and heaved herself up into a sitting position. She realised she’d nodded off on the sofa, and the left side of her neck was tight and stiff. She kneaded it vigorously as she tried to acclimatise to being awake again.
Rachel looked at the clock on the stereo. 10.56 p.m. This was an early finish for a special dinner date, even by Anna’s school-night standards. Eek … She hoped nothing weird had happened.
Anna wandered into the sitting room and eyed what was left of Rachel’s meal, still in an array of foil containers on the coffee table. ‘Dude, you really need to learn how to cook.’
Rachel wrinkled her nose and shrugged. ‘I forgot you were out tonight, so it was takeaway or a trip to Tesco. You’re home early, though. Did you have a good night? Where did you go?’
‘Le Gavroche,’ Anna said, her eyes sparkling and her cheeks glowing so red they clashed with her dress. ‘I’ve never been anywhere so posh. It was amazing … I’m totally stuffed, though. Every time I thought I couldn’t manage another bite, the waiter reappeared with something else smothered in cream.’
She sank down onto the couch cushion next to Rachel’s, patting her stomach through the bright-pink corset that constricted it.
‘Wow,’ Rachel said, impressed. ‘Definitely not your standard pub scran, then. Will must have been planning this for months – I think it’s really hard to get a table there.’
Anna nodded, her face still scarlet. Her eyes were blazing and liquid; she had the sort of look people get on thrill rides at theme parks, or (Rachel assumed) when they’re about to launch into a bungee jump or skydive. It was an expression that bridged the gap between excitement and fear. Rachel also noticed that Anna was squeezing her left hand with her right, her knuckles turning white under the pressure.
‘Anna … is something wrong?’
‘No, no, no, nothing’s wrong,’ she said, oddly shrill. She looked down at her hands. ‘Everything’s fine. Wonderful, even. But there is something I need to tell you. Something important.’
‘Okaaaaay?’
Rachel stretched out the second syllable of the word, intending for it to sound playful and puzzled – trying to undercut Anna’s deep-and-meaningful tone. Even as she heard herself say it, something inside her sank. Anna was serious; something important had happened, and no amount of arsing around could make light of it.
Add it up, Rachel told herself. You don’t need a PhD in maths to work this out.
Anna and Will had been together for longer than Rachel could imagine being with anyone. They adored one another, utterly and unambiguously. And he’d taken her to a Michelin-starred restaurant for their anniversary …
‘You guys have decided to move in together,’ Rachel said. It wasn’t a question. She didn’t need to ask.
Inside her own head, Rachel’s voice sounded flat and colourless. She was going to have to do better than this. She couldn’t make Anna feel bad for moving on with her life, regardless of what that meant for her personally.
Anna made a face that Rachel couldn’t read. She rubbed her temples, and as she lifted her left arm Rachel caught a flash of something shiny and substantial. Something adorning her left hand.
‘Oh my God …’ Rachel said. ‘Will proposed? He’s asked you to marry him?!’
She prayed that Anna would mistake her shock for excitement.
‘He did! I just can’t believe it … It was a total surprise. Honestly … I didn’t know he had it in him!’
Anna was doing her best not to gush, and failing – though Rachel didn’t blame her. She caught her best friend’s fingers and stilled her animated gesturing so she could study the ring up close. It was lovely: a large, clear diamond cut in a square and set on a fine band that Rachel guessed was probably platinum. It was solid and unfussy – elegant and beautiful, but somehow strong in its simplicity. Perfectly, unmistakably Anna.
Rachel’s eyes were full of tears that she knew wouldn’t be contained, and as they began to fall she smiled and laughed. It was important that they seem like tears of unqualified joy, rather than the happy/sad cocktail she was actually feeling.
‘It’s gorgeous,’ Rachel said, gently bending Anna’s fingers so her engagement ring sparkled in the dim light of the sitting room’s Liberty-print standard lamp. She pulled her into a tight hug, resting her tear-streaked face on Anna’s shoulder. ‘I’m totally thrilled for you both.’
This was true, but Rachel also felt like she was falling – as though she’d stepped off a cliff edge and was loose in the air, flailing out of control and hurtling towards the ground. At some point, she knew, she’d crash into it.
‘You’ll be my maid of honour?’ Anna asked, pulling away to look Rachel in the eye. ‘I promise I won’t make you wear anything awful or force you to help make papier mâché place settings.’
‘Of course I will. And of course you won’t.’ Rachel smiled, gripping the edge of the sofa and, inside her pyjamas, clenching her stomach muscles to try to halt the churning of her falafel-filled belly. ‘Now … Shall we celebrate your big news with a cup of tea and a biscuit before bed?’
‘Yes, please,’ Anna said, ‘but hold the Hobnobs … After tonight I may never eat again.’
21
By Friday evening, Rachel was utterly drained.
She’d spent almost her whole working week smothering the grief that threatened to seize her each time bereaved brothers and sisters were mentioned. The effort was exhausting.
Olivia Mason had sent over a folder full of research findings, plus her preferred list of articles for the new Lighthouse website – guides to the thoughts and feelings that cancer patients’ families might have, plus advice on how to handle their emotions.
In spite of Isaac’s warnings, Rachel had dug through the data and added several subjects to the roll – important things she felt Olivia had missed, but which she knew might matter to the people who applied for the charity’s help.
Outside the office, it was taking every ounce of Rachel’s remaining energy to appear happy and excited for Anna and Will. She was, of course, but she was also anxious and sad. Anna and Will were planning to get married over the August bank holiday weekend on his grandfather’s estate in Gloucestershire. For all their urging that she didn’t need to rush, Rachel intended to be out of the flat by then – she just had no idea where she’d go.
At 6.15 p.m. Rachel trudged to the ladies to change her top, apply a little perfume and touch up her make-up. Tonight was the night of Zack Lanson’s gig, and she was meeting Tom at Highgate Tube at seven.
> ‘Nice top,’ Jack said when she reappeared. He pointed at the forest-green wrap Rachel had put on with her indigo skinnies.
It was a nice top – a Marilyn Monroe-style shirt made of soft matte silk that crossed in a deep V over her chest and then tied at the side, pulling her in at the waist. She’d chosen it deliberately; she always felt good in it, and it was foxy without being too obvious.
‘Thanks.’ Rachel nodded. ‘It’s one of my favourites.’ She checked her emails one last time and then shut the lid of her laptop, leaning down to place it in the lockable cupboard beneath her desk so she didn’t have to lug it with her to the gig.
‘You off somewhere nice this evening? Out with your man, I suppose?’ Jack asked as she turned the key in the door. Rachel deliberately waited a few seconds before standing up to reply.
‘Just to a music thing,’ she said. ‘I’ve no idea whether the guy playing will be any good, though – the tickets were freebies through work.’
‘His work, presumably?’
Rachel noted Jack’s refusal to ask her (pretend) boyfriend’s name.
‘Yeah.’
‘And what does he do?’
Rachel paused. This was starting to feel a little treacherous. It was one thing to delight in Jack’s misunderstanding of her relationship status, but quite another to start embroidering his mistake with half-truths and contorted facts. Her Valentine’s Day flowers had been from Laurence, and tonight she was out with Tom – two different men that, with no plan or forethought, she was now melding into a single fake partner.
‘He’s a graphic designer with a sideline in photography,’ Rachel said, deciding without difficulty that this sounded far cooler than ‘pensions actuary’.
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