‘How about “What do you think of that Mussolini guy?” What kind of question do you think, Ben? Maybe ask her on another date?’
He turned pale. ‘I can’t. It’s too much! I can’t bear the humiliation.’
‘You texted a woman “Hey” and freaked out about it for two days. If you can withstand that humiliation, you can withstand the humiliation of asking her out on a date like a normal person.’
He took a deep breath and steadied himself. ‘Okay. What do I say?’
‘Well, first we need a plan for a date. A good one. Not just a trip to the pub followed by a shared carton of chips. A proper date, like cocktails and dinner.’
‘Oh God …’
‘Wait, I have an idea.’ I scanned through my deleted items and fished out the latest Urban Junkies round-up. I’d signed up when I first moved here, but soon became intimidated by the club nights held by bingo-playing drag queens and immersive theatre experiences that involved the audience undressing and rolling around on a canvas swimming in blue paint. I still read the round-ups every week, though my interest had become more anthropological than practical. ‘Observe the DJ/Model/Coder in her natural habitat …’ ‘Okay,’ I said, scanning through the listings. ‘There’s a really cute Portuguese tapas bar that’s opened up in Borough. You could take her there?’
He pulled a face. ‘And fend my way through swarms of hen-dos cycling the streets on those pedi-bars? No thanks.’
‘Fine. What about this? “Speakeasy cocktail bar hidden down a back alley in Chinatown …” That sounds pretty good.’
‘Ugh. Chinatown is always mobbed with tourists.’
‘French bistro in Spitalfields?’
‘Filled with Wanker Bankers.’
‘American-style diner in Notting Hill?’
‘Every man in there will be wearing at least three polo shirts with all the collars popped.’
I looked at his current ensemble and bit my tongue. ‘What about this? Cocktail bar at the top of a car park in Peckham.’
He stirred. ‘Peckham’s not totally shit yet.’
‘Ooh, and they’re doing an outdoor screening of Casablanca on Saturday night! With blankets!’ I felt a frisson of jealousy. I’d always wanted to go to a bar where they gave you a blanket.
He twirled his phone idly in his hand before nodding reluctantly. ‘Fine. God, it all sounds so – so—’
‘So much like a date?’
He looked as if I’d invited him on a tour of a fish cannery. ‘Exactly!’
I rolled my eyes. ‘That is exactly the point. Right, are you ready to send this text?’
‘I don’t know … are you sure I won’t seem like a desperate loser?’
‘You might, but better to be a desperate loser than the guy that just says “Hey”.’
He groaned. ‘Fine, fine. Just tell me what to say and I’ll say it. I’m ceding total text control to you.’
‘Excellent.’ I rubbed my hands together with glee. There was nothing I liked better than being given total control over something. It didn’t matter what.
‘Ah,’ he said, raising a finger in the air pontifically, ‘Remember what the great Winston Churchill once said: “With great power comes great responsibility.”’
‘That was Spiderman.’ I snatched the phone out of his hands and my fingers flew across the screen.
I combed through Mr Bryant’s audited accounts while trying to ignore the near-constant barrage of Ben’s moans and sighs. ‘Two hours and thirteen minutes,’ he updated me, ‘still no reply.’ Then, twenty minutes later, ‘Two hours and thirty-three minutes. Radio silence.’ I eventually put my headphones on and blasted Death Cab for Cutie so I could concentrate.
The rest of the morning flew by, though not with any great revelations about the Bryant case. The cobbler shop brought in a modest income every year – not much, but enough to keep the lights on – and he paid himself an even more modest salary out of the company earnings. There was an anomaly with his wife’s insurance pay-out – I couldn’t find any trace of it in his bank account – but maybe he’d invested it, or given it to his children as an inheritance. He seemed like a man who led a frugal existence. I pictured him standing in front of the discount section in Tesco, selecting a nearly off shepherd’s pie and a tin of rice pudding for dinner, and had to force the image from my head when my eyes started to well up. Rule number one of insurance investigation: don’t let your sympathies sway you. The guy could still be running an underground gambling ring out of the back of his shop, or have a bathtub full of ice and Estonian kidneys in his upstairs bathroom. You just never knew.
Before I knew it, it was lunchtime, and both my phone and Ben’s had remained resolutely silent. He sloped out to the pub—’A pint and a sausage roll are the only things that will sort me out now’ – and I forced myself to go to the gym, if only so I could cross it off my list when I got back. Besides, Body Pump always emptied my brain of unpleasant thoughts (even as it filled my body with unpleasant amounts of pain).
I walked into the chlorine-and-sweat-scented atrium and swiped my card through the turnstile. A tiny blonde woman sporting a tight ponytail and an even tighter smile handed me a stiff cotton towel and advised me that Body Pump – sorry, ‘Reps and Revs’ – was fully booked. So was the spin class. So much for my lunchtime blitz. I changed into pilled leggings and an oversized T-shirt and headed up to the fitness area. The spin class was about to start on the raised platform in the middle of the room, and I looked longingly at the rows of bikes filled with spandexed asses adjusting themselves on their perilously narrow seats. ‘Okay, riders, are we ready to ROCK?’ shouted the instructor, a florid Spanish man wearing a full-80s Sweatin’ to the Oldies ensemble. The opening strains of ‘Let’s Get Physical’ filled the air, and I crammed my earbuds further into my ears.
I spent a desultory fifteen minutes on the elliptical machine, watching incomprehensible music videos on the wall-mounted TV as the calorie counter slowly ticked upwards, all while trying to ignore the sweat flywheeling off the spinners nearby. When I reached 250 calories (the equivalent of a handful of Cadbury’s Mini Eggs and a single piece of hot buttered toast) I took myself off to the steam room (today’s scent: lavender) and lay still on the damp wooden bench as my skin wrinkled up like a scotch bonnet.
When I got back out on the street, I checked my phone. Still nothing. I guess Jackson had accepted what I’d said in my message and wasn’t going to question it. I tried to ignore the mild fug of disappointment that descended, and called Isla instead.
‘So let me get this straight,’ she said over the whir of the staffroom coffee machine, ‘you have a great night out with the guy and then tell him you never want to see him again. What is this, a Danielle Steele novel?’
I was standing in Pret, phone pressed to my ear, dithering over which bread-based mayonnaise conductor I was going to eat for lunch. ‘It was the right thing to do,’ I said, picking up a tuna and cucumber.
‘For who, exactly?’
I tapped my card on the reader and bundled my sandwich into my bag. ‘For me, for Christopher …’
‘For Christopher, I’ll buy. For you, not so much.’
‘Well, I’ve done it now, and Jackson hasn’t exactly put up a fight about it, so maybe it’s best for everyone.’
Isla sighed. ‘It’s just a shame, that’s all.’
I stopped on the edge of the sidewalk to let a cyclist whizz past before crossing. ‘What is?’
‘It sounds like you’ve been having a good time with him. And I know you had a good time with him when we were in Las Vegas, because I saw it with my own eyes.’
‘I was drunk! Really, incredibly, liver-destroyingly drunk!’
‘That doesn’t mean you didn’t have fun.’
‘Isla, in the state I was in, you probably could have left me alone in a room with a pack of chewing gum and a dictionary and I would have had fun.’
‘Not as much fun as you had with Jackson.’
I let
out an exasperated groan. ‘Look, just drop it, okay? Jackson will be gone soon, and I’ll have my life back, and then I can get on with the business of getting married. Speaking of which, I’m going to start looking at bridesmaids’ dresses for you.’
‘Don’t forget that puce is my color,’ Isla deadpanned.
‘I was thinking more of a vomit-orange, but I’ll keep an open mind. How are you doing, anyway? Are you okay?’
‘Oh, fine,’ she said breezily. ‘About to remove a tumor the size of a dill pickle from a guy’s head.’
‘The party never stops with you, does it?’
‘It definitely won’t tonight. I swung by Rick’s on the way to work’ – Rick was the name of her long-time dealer – ‘and once I finish this shift, I don’t plan on being sentient again until Sunday.’
Worry bloomed in my chest. ‘Just be careful.’
‘Caution is my motherfucking watchword.’ I heard a muffled voice in the background. ‘I’ve got to run – the dill pickle will see me now. Just promise me that if Jackson does get in touch again, you won’t completely shut him down. Okay?’
‘Fine. But I’m pretty sure I’m rid of him for good.’
‘We’ll see,’ Isla trilled. ‘If you ask me, he sounds like a guy who doesn’t give up that easily. After all, he did marry you.’
‘Goodbye, Isla!’ I hung up the phone and walked into the office, bag swinging. I was ready for the afternoon, whatever it brought.
Turns out, the afternoon brought very little. The minutes stretched on into hours. I did my expenses. I added a few more things to my to-do list and then crossed them off, but the satisfaction this usually brought proved elusive.
At four-thirty, there was a ‘Knock knock!’ at the door of our cubicle, and Jeremy appeared clutching a mug that said ‘Da Man’. Ben and I had, at that moment, both been cradling our iPhones like troublesome newborns, but at the sight of him we both dropped them on our desks as though touching them might trigger a nuclear launch.
Still, Jeremy shook his finger at us. ‘I hope you two aren’t Snapchatting or sexting.’ He made the air quotes gesture around sexting, which made me wonder if he knew what it was, and, if he did, if he thought it didn’t exist in real life. Although, I suppose, in my life it didn’t exist, and I doubted very much that it existed in Jeremy’s life, either. At least I hoped for the sake of humanity it didn’t. From the deep beetroot shade Ben’s face had now taken on, it looked like it definitely did exist in his.
‘How’s the Bryant case coming along?’ Jeremy perched his left buttock on the edge of my desk and loomed over me. I tried not to flinch.
‘Good,’ I said, reaching out and patting the Manila case file. ‘I’ve been going through his accounts today, and there’s nothing suspicious so far, but I’ll keep digging.’
‘Yes, keep digging, Sparrow! I’m sure that old shark has got a trick or two up his sleeve, and I’m relying on you to flush him out.’
I disentangled myself from the mixed metaphor and plastered a confident grin across my face. ‘I’ll do my best!’
‘I’m sure you will, I’m sure you will. You’re our ace in the hole! If anyone can reel in this fish, it’s you.’
Right … ‘I thought I’d maybe go down there in person tomorrow,’ I said. ‘Talk to a few of his neighbors, see if they know anything?’ I hadn’t realized I’d been planning on doing this until the words came out of my mouth, but judging by the look on Jeremy’s face, it was a good thing.
‘Excellent plan! Go undercover, grease some palms, smoke him out of his hole.’
‘Uh, sure,’ I said uncertainly. I imagined the look of incredulity on Ben’s face at that moment and was careful not to catch his eye in case we both lost it. ‘I’ll let you know what I find.’
He took a sip from his mug and nodded approvingly. ‘Good work, Sparrow. I look forward to hearing what skeletons you unearth from the old bobcat’s closet.’ With that, he raised two fingers to his forehead in salute and sauntered out of the cubicle. ‘Markson!’ I heard him call to one of the poor unsuspecting client account managers down the hall. ‘What’s the low-down on those invoices? Have you shaken them down for the dough?’
Ben turned around slowly in his chair. ‘Bobcat?’ he whispered incredulously.
I shook my head. Jeremy had shot so many random words at me at once, I’d almost missed the bobcat comment. ‘Honestly, who knows where he gets these things.’
‘Your idea about going on site tomorrow was genius. Jeremy lapped it up.’
I grimaced. ‘Can we please not talk about Jeremy lapping things?’
‘Fair enough. Seriously, though, do you think you’ll be able to get anything out of his neighbors?’
I shrugged. ‘Who knows? Maybe he said something to one of them about his plans, or one of them saw something on the night of the fire.’ I considered this for a minute. ‘Or maybe it’ll be a huge waste of time, but at least it’ll get me out of the office.’
‘I knew it!’ Ben crowed. ‘You’re totally just using it as an excuse to bunk off work for the afternoon.’
‘I am not!’ At least, not entirely. Though the idea of a Friday afternoon wandering around Columbia Road rather than staring bleary-eyed at spreadsheets and being berated by Ben about substandard cups of tea did have a certain appeal.
I was about to defend myself further when the trill of an incoming text cut through the cubicle. We both scrambled to our mobiles. ‘It’s me!’ I cried, a little too triumphantly. Ben’s face sank. I swiped the screen and opened the message. It was from Christopher.
False alarm with Jonno’s wife last night – still no baby, so the lads are back on for drinks this eve. Hopefully won’t be too late xxx p.s. don’t forget the salmon this time pls x
I blinked at the words on the screen. So much for a romantic night in. I couldn’t believe I’d spent a whole day fighting the urge to winch a lace G-string out of my cervix for nothing. Well, at least I wouldn’t have to think about what I was going to cook for dinner. I reached over and crossed it off my list. Pasta with jarred pesto for one, please, with a side of Grazia magazine, and a healthy dash of ennui.
I tried to think positively. Normally, I loved an evening in by myself. Unfettered carb consumption, a glass of red wine the size of a beach ball (okay, three) and unlimited reruns of Say Yes to the Dress. What wasn’t to love? But somehow, the idea of a night marooned on the sofa like a beached sea otter didn’t hold the usual appeal. It didn’t feel cosy or indulgent. It felt … lonely.
‘What are you doing tonight?’
Ben looked at me, surprised. ‘I’m out with some of my uni friends. Why?’
‘I just wondered if you wanted to go for a drink, that’s all.’
His eyebrows were nearly lost in his hairline now. ‘But … you never want to go for a drink.’
‘I know,’ I said, ‘I just thought it might be …’ I shook my head. ‘Just forget it.’
‘Why Jenny Sparrow,’ he said coyly, tucking his fists into his ribcage, arms akimbo. ‘Are you asking me on a date?’
‘Oh my God!’ I spluttered.
‘I can’t say I’m not flattered, but you know my position on ladies who are enfianced.’ He waggled his eyebrows suggestively on this last word.
‘Ben, stop!’ I groaned.
‘Look,’ he said, serious now. ‘Come to these drinks tonight, if you fancy it. It’ll be a bunch of blokes in their mid-twenties discussing Arsène Wenger and wanking – separately, that is, not together – but you’re welcome to come along. I’m sure the lads would be delighted to have an older woman in their midst, though I can’t promise one of them won’t ask you to show him your tits.’
I was strangely touched by the offer. Sure, I spent more time with Ben than anyone else, thanks to our close cubicle quarters, and it was clear from the start that we got along, but you never knew if an office friendship expanded outside of the office. It was nice to see that with Ben it might. Still, the idea of being surrounded by a bunch of
his uni mates while they sank pints and argued over Football Focus didn’t exactly appeal, even if it was the best (and by best, I mean only) offer I’d had all day. ‘Thanks,’ I said, ‘but I think I’ll pass.’
He nodded approvingly. ‘I always knew you were a wise woman.’
I turned my attention back to the Bryant case and, before I knew it, Ben was packing up for the evening. ‘You sure you don’t want to come along?’ he asked as he slung his messenger bag over his head.
‘I’m good,’ I said, ‘honest. Have fun tonight. I hope you hear from Lucy.’
‘Don’t!’ he wailed, shoulders sagging theatrically. ‘It’s hopeless!’
‘It’s not hopeless, I promise. Some things just take a little time.’
‘Yeah, like the Ice Age, and look how that worked out for the mastodon.’ I shot him a quizzical look. ‘Discovery Channel,’ he shrugged. ‘Goodnight. Don’t stay too late.’
‘I won’t,’ I said, waving him out the door.
I tried to keep working after he left, but the fight had gone out of me for the day, and I ended up aimlessly refreshing Twitter, hoping someone would say something interesting. The office was quiet now, only the faint clacking of fingers on a keyboard somewhere, and the whir of a vacuum cleaner as it worked its way through the hall.
Eventually, I logged off and started slowly gathering my stuff. I planned my journey home in my head. I could stop by Tesco on the way, pick up some supplies. I glanced at the time: 7.15. The Tube should be quieter by now. It would still be light out, so I could walk through Green Park on the way. Maybe sit and read my book for a few minutes.
I suppressed a sigh. Nothing I’d planned was getting rid of the sinking feeling that filled me when I imagined walking into the empty flat. The truth was, I didn’t want to go home yet. Everyone else was out there living their own lives, surrounded by their people. What about me? Had my life really become this small?
No. I could do better than this, I was sure of it. I thought of Jackson prowling the streets on his own, scouting out all the best places, wringing every drop he could out of life. I could do that, too. I didn’t need him to do it, either. I didn’t need anyone. I was a grown-ass woman in London, and I could do grown-ass things on my own.
Jenny Sparrow Knows the Future Page 17
