The Sunday Girl

by Pip Drysdale

  ‘Okay, love you,’ I said. And then we hung up.

  And as I looked up I saw Kevin weaving his way towards me, his mail trolley full of couriered flowers, red envelopes and packages amid the usual letterbox envelopes. A deep pang in my chest: had Angus really not got me anything?

  A few minutes later Kevin arrived at my desk. He was tall and thin with dark curly hair, and always wore a tie. Today’s was the colour of red wine, diagonal cream stripes running through it.

  ‘Bonjour,’ he said in an Englishman’s French accent; he knew I’d been trying to learn a while back. ‘I have something for you. Just arrived.’

  ‘Oh?’ I said, a wave of relief washing over me.

  He reached into the bottom level of his trolley and pulled out a stark white box. There was a little envelope stuck to the outside and my name written on it.

  ‘Thanks, Kevin,’ I said as he laid it with both hands on my desk. I could feel Val watching as I opened the box and peered inside. Three little chocolate cakes – the patisserie type.

  ‘Damn. Looks like I have some competition,’ he said with a smile.

  I could see Val in my peripheral vision and was so glad she could see that Angus was trying.

  ‘Yes, but it’s not the elevator trick, is it?’ I said to Kevin with an awkward smile as I closed the box again.

  He laughed at our only shared joke, about a trick I’d once seen him perform. We’d been down near the mailroom and it was lunchtime, so every floor was crowded with people too lazy to take the stairs. We were both lacking in patience that day, so as we got into the elevator he reached across and pressed two buttons: doors-closed and the number four, because that’s where we were going. It was an emergency-services trick he’d found on the internet and it meant we skipped every level until we got to the fourth. I’d never actually tried it on my own and couldn’t remember what order to press the buttons in, but it had been a source of conversation – a silence filler – ever since.

  ‘Very true,’ he said, winking and moving on to the next desk.

  I leaned over the cake box, reopened the lid, and smiled: it was a thoughtful gift. Then I reached for the envelope and slid out the message card:

  You never got to eat your cake. How about we do it properly this time – dinner? Happy Valentine’s Day. Call me: 07700900154.

  David x

  I arrived home at about 6.30pm. I’d drawn Angus’s cash as promised and then shared a tense elevator ride with Felicia on my way back to deliver it. But it was tense because of me, not her. She’d smiled at me when I’d stepped in, then ignored me in favour of her phone for the rest of the trip. I, on the other hand, had held my breath the whole way, trying not to blush with shame, wondering whether she was wearing the lingerie, whether it fit, and whether she’d figured out who ‘Love, A xx’ was.

  Chiara was waiting for me, meowing at the front door, when I arrived back at my place. She purred against my legs as I searched for my keys. Then as I pushed the door open she ran inside and I followed. I looked around me then closed the door – occasionally, very occasionally, I remembered that she wasn’t my cat, that somebody might be looking for her, and that always made me feel a bit guilty. But nobody was calling for her, nobody was looking for her, so I dropped my handbag at the front door and closed it behind me. My fingers fumbled with the small plastic buttons on my shirt and I undid them as I walked towards the bed.

  I slipped the shirt off my shoulders, unzipped my skirt, peeled off my pantyhose and then laid them all over the chair by the bathroom. I reached for my pyjama bottoms – shoved underneath my pillow – and dug out Angus’s pink shirt from my second drawer. I put them on, picked up my laptop and left it starting up on my bed.

  Chiara was meowing from the kitchen, staring at the fridge.

  ‘Hello darling,’ I said as I approached her. The meowing escalated. ‘Do you want some milk?’

  I opened the fridge. It was almost empty. But there was milk for Chiara and a bottle of sauvignon blanc lying at the bottom behind a row of nail polish and half a jar of jam. I poured the milk into a saucer and placed it on the floor by my feet, then a big glass of wine for myself. Cold. Tangy. I pulled the stark white box out of my handbag and moved over to the bed. I left the card in my bag.

  The Art of War sat in the pile of books on the bedside table; it was still only half-read. The day Jamie gave it to me felt like months before, but it had only been a week. I put the cake down beside it, crawled beneath the covers and propped myself up with three brightly coloured throw pillows. Then I reached for the box and opened it.

  David’s voice rang in my head: Did you plan on using that cake for something specific later? And I could feel his warmth. See his naked chest as he danced in his bathrobe. And I almost emailed him, just to say thank you. But then his voice echoed in my mind again: We have an understanding. And that’s the sort of thing I could have imagined my father saying. And so even if I hadn’t been back together with Angus, I would have been cautious: I didn’t want to be the scalpel that sliced open another woman’s heart.

  I reached for my computer, pulled up Netflix and took a sugary bite of cake.

  And that was the last time I recall feeling entirely safe.

  wednesday

  Master Sun said: ‘If trees move, he is coming.’

  15 FEBRUARY

  Like most things, in hindsight I think I knew.

  The air felt different: thicker, quieter, heavier. The newspaper headlines on the Tube looked bolder, as though trying to attract my eye. Trying to show me. The escalators at Green Park station were more packed than usual. The smell of urine on the stairs that led outside was stronger. And the London bus that passed as I emerged onto Piccadilly seemed redder, brighter, more dazzling. Something just felt off: I’d burned my tongue on my coffee, I’d almost choked trying to swallow my magnesium tablet, my airways felt blocked and my lungs felt tight. All the signs were there. Yes. Even the carpet leading the way towards my desk seemed to resemble bars in a way I’d never noticed before. And Val; well, Val was certifiably grey. Even greyer than usual.

  She was sitting at my desk when I arrived, her eyes pinned to a newspaper in front of her.

  ‘Oh honey, what have you done?’ she asked quietly as I approached, not looking up.

  I placed my bag on the floor and tried to catch my breath: ‘Huh?’

  She pushed the paper towards me: gracing the cover was a large photograph of a man with jowls, walking out of a building. The caption underneath it read: Nicolai Stepanovich. The headline read ‘Russian tycoon’s money laundering exposed’ and it went on:

  Nicolai Stepanovich (pictured above), the primary of Citexel International, has been linked to an elaborate property-based money laundering scheme, an investigation by the Guardian reveals. Leaked data shows that Stepanovich used a sophisticated web of shell companies to funnel over £500 million of illegal money into British circulation over the last eight years. The majority of these funds were moved through The Town Square regeneration in Oxfordshire; however, a duplicate scheme in Eastbourne is currently in the pipeline, with large swathes of land already purchased using illegal funds.

  I gulped and the air got stuck in my throat.

  Planning permissions to transform the seaside town into a high-value retirement mecca over the next fifteen years have already been passed, with finance and multiple investors secured.

  My eyes skipped a couple of paragraphs – quotes from experts, some journalistic speculation – then stopped. Dead.

  Inside sources report that local parties currently in conversation with Citexel include: KR Property International, Jenson and The Turner Group. These revelations highlight yet again how easily the light regulations of the British corporate landscape can be manipulated by those looking to launder money through the UK’s property market.

  ‘Fuck,’ I said, looking up. ‘How is this possible?’

  Val just looked at me. Then she said: ‘Where did you hear about Eastbourne needing an inve
stor?’

  I swallowed hard and my mind swirled. I couldn’t tell her about Angus – not then, not as a reflex action without thinking through all of my options and talking to him first. What he’d told me was confidential – I couldn’t risk it somehow getting back to his work and biting his friend on the arse. Not after all the trouble I’d caused him by ordering the prostitutes. Not when he’d been trying to help me.

  So instead I lied. ‘Someone mentioned it at the pub. I think he was from the trade press,’ I said, vaguely. ‘It was time sensitive so I brought it straight to you.’ The trade press were renowned for knowing, but not printing, secrets so as not to spoil a deal. Yet as I listened to the lie spill out of my mouth, even I didn’t believe me. And from the look in her eyes, neither did she.

  ‘David Turner has been on the phone with Nigel this morning,’ she said. ‘He’s really angry.’

  I swallowed hard. ‘But we only told him about it two days ago,’ I said, louder than I’d planned.

  ‘Yes. And then I put in a meeting for him at Citexel, Taylor. And then they named him in the newspaper.’

  ‘But I didn’t know Stepanovich was a criminal,’ I said softly. My head was hot.

  ‘It doesn’t matter,’ Val replied evenly. ‘David is fuming.’ She let out a heavy sigh. ‘Shit.’

  ‘I’m going to get sacked, aren’t I?’ I said, my eyes burning and my pulse quick.

  She sighed heavily. She was trying to calm herself down. ‘You should probably go home for the rest of the day,’ she said, her voice icy and her jaw tight. ‘I’m going to have to somehow explain all this to Nigel.’

  ‘I’m so sorry, Val,’ I said. The walls were moving towards me and my head was light. ‘I just don’t get how this happened.’

  ‘I’ll give you a call later on,’ said Val quietly.

  My thoughts quickly moved to David. I would call David. Sort this all out. My hands were clammy as I picked up my handbag and headed back towards the front door, searching through my bag for David’s Valentine’s Day card.

  I found it. And as soon as I got out of the building I dialled his number, ducking into the small dark doorway of the building next door to muffle the sounds from the street.

  It went to voicemail.

  ‘David, look, I’m so sorry about everything. I have no idea what happened with Eastbourne. I didn’t know. Of course I didn’t know. I would never have suggested it if I did. Anyway, please call me back.’

  Two long minutes later he still hadn’t called back. So I dialled again.

  This time he answered.

  ‘David?’ I asked. ‘It’s Taylor.’

  ‘Hi,’ he said. His voice was flat and hard.

  ‘I’m so sorry, I have no idea how this happened.’

  ‘I wish I could believe that,’ he said.

  It felt like I’d been punched. ‘David,’ my voice was high and shrill. I needed him to understand. ‘Why would I do something like this on purpose? That would be career suicide.’

  ‘I have no idea why women do what they do,’ he said. ‘Maybe some ridiculous attempt at revenge?’ His voice raised in anger at the beginning of that sentence, but lowered again by the end. As though somebody in his office was listening.

  ‘That’s unfair!’ I said quickly. ‘I would nev–’

  ‘Is it?’ he interrupted. ‘You could barely look me in the eye on Monday. Wouldn’t even shake my hand. You don’t think it seems a bit far-fetched to expect me to believe this is all a big coincidence? Jesus, Taylor. How could you do this to me? I championed it to my fucking board!’

  I struggled to hold back tears and my voice shook as I spoke, ‘David, I –’

  ‘Do you have any idea how long it has taken me to build my reputation?’ he asked. ‘Or how difficult it was?’

  ‘I’m so sorry, but I promise it wasn’t inten–’

  ‘Taylor, I have to go.’

  And then he hung up.

  Oh God.

  By 9.07am I was weaving my way through the grey-suited stragglers and motorbike couriers. Thick, dark clouds hung heavy in the sky and the air was damp. My heart was still fast, but I felt calmer to be out in the open as I moved through Mayfair.

  Green Park station had emptied by the time I made my way back down the grimy stairs that smelled of urine. Past the dry-cleaner. And as I hurried past the kiosk and glanced inside, I saw Nicolai’s face staring back at me from the pile of newspapers stacked beside the Mars Bars and brightly coloured sweet wrappers all cheerfully reflecting the light.

  I focused on the ground and moved towards the escalator and down to the platforms. There were only a handful of us waiting, watching as the lit-up board clicked down from three minutes to two to one. And when the train came, I took a seat near the doorway, exhaling as the doors beeped and closed. But then the man across from me opened up his newspaper and once again I was faced with the front page …

  The French have a phrase for what my life had become – I’d noted it in my purple notebook when it was still my French phrase book: à la débandade.

  A chaotic mess.

  I called Angus when I got home. My face was puffy from tears and my nose blocked. I was lying in bed and my ears were thick with dread.

  ‘Don’t be silly, darling, of course you haven’t been fired,’ Angus said.

  ‘I have. Well, basically I have,’ I said. ‘I will be, at least.’

  He was silent on the other end of the phone, and I didn’t have the energy to fill the void.

  ‘Why, what for?’ he asked.

  And I paused before I told him: I didn’t know how to say it without it coming out as an accusation.

  ‘Eastbourne,’ I said, my voice hoarse.

  ‘What do you mean, Eastbourne?’ he asked, his words clipped.

  ‘Have you read the papers today?’

  ‘I don’t have time to read the paper every day and I’m late,’ he said, sounding annoyed. ‘What exactly happened?’

  ‘Read the Guardian.’ I sighed. ‘You’ll see.’

  ‘Can’t you just tell me?’ he snapped.

  ‘Stepanovich is a money launderer, Angus.’ Then I took a deep breath and asked the question I had to ask. ‘Did you know?’

  ‘For fuck’s sake, Taylor,’ he said, ‘are you really asking me that?’ I heard him breathing on the other end of the line. ‘How do you manage to make everything my fault?’ he asked, defensive. ‘I was trying to help you. Do you have any idea how many of these things cross my desk every week? And you want to know why I didn’t know the inner workings of a man’s business from eons ago who I didn’t even end up working with? Have you listened to yourself?’ I could hear traffic behind him and then a deep exhale. ‘Fuck, you didn’t tell them I gave you the idea, did you? I told you that in confidence.’

  ‘No, of course not,’ I replied, and I could feel my voice cracking. My life was falling apart; I needed him to be kind.

  ‘Look, nobody reads the Guardian anyway, and no real damage has been done. It’ll probably all blow over,’ he said, his voice taking on a gentler timbre.

  ‘No, this won’t blow over,’ I replied.

  ‘Look, darling,’ he said, his voice intense and low. ‘I’m so sorry this has happened but I’m running into a meeting. I’ll talk to you tonight, and don’t worry, they’re still pissed with me about those hookers here. Maybe we can go sign on together. It’ll be romantic.’

  My heart sank. How have I fucked everything up to this level? And I let out a loud sigh.

  ‘Why don’t you go over to my place, have a bath, make yourself comfy. I’ll be back later on. Ask Charlotte to come round or something. Tell her to bring you a joint.’

  ‘Okay, love you,’ I said.

  ‘Bye,’ he said and the line clicked dead.

  Charlotte arrived later that afternoon and we sat out on the balcony, looking out over the jagged and glittery London skyline. She was wearing jeans and a pink rope-knit jumper and I was in yoga pants, a black long-sleeved T-shirt and my navy
coat. It had only been a few hours since I’d been sent home from work but I already looked unemployed.

  ‘What the fuck are you going to do?’ she said, coughing. We were getting high while Ed watched through the window from his cage, and we’d been out there for a while by then: me recounting my day and her listening. Our only interruption had been Val calling to suggest I take the next day off too.

  ‘I really don’t know,’ I replied.

  ‘God,’ she said. ‘You can’t get into proper trouble though, right? Like, with the police?’

  ‘No,’ I said. ‘At least I don’t think so.’ I inhaled and handed the joint back before I let a cloud of smoke and then a cough escape my lips. ‘But I might lose my job.’

  ‘How did you even come up with the idea?’

  I took a deep breath.

  ‘Angus,’ I said. ‘But he was trying to help me.’ And then I waited for the avalanche.

  ‘Oh for fuck’s sake, of course he had something to do with it,’ she said. ‘What does he say about it all now?’

  ‘No, it’s not like that,’ I said. ‘I was really stuck for an idea, and he almost worked for Stepanovich a few months back. But he didn’t know about the money laundering – how could he?’ I said. ‘Nobody knew, that’s why it’s news.’

  ‘That’s true. But seriously, he’s always involved when shitty things happen to you – have you noticed that?’ She tapped ash onto the floor. Angus would be pissed about that and I made a mental note to clean it up later.

  ‘Do you want wine?’ I asked as I stood up, my voice raspy from smoke and old tears. I moved towards the doorway.

  Her eyebrows raised. ‘Sure, why not,’ she said, snuffing the joint out on the balcony wall.

  ‘Red or white?’ I called to her from the kitchen. It smelled of green apple cleaning fluid and furniture polish, the way it always did when Elena had been.

  ‘White, definitely,’ she called back. ‘He’s kind of pretty, you know.’ She was looking at Ed.

  I opened the fridge, grabbed a bottle of white and headed back outside to Charlotte with two glasses. London looked small from up there. Manageable.