by Carrie Elks
“How's Max?” I ask, hearing my nephew squawking in the background. “No more chest problems?”
“No, thank God.” Alex sounds genuinely relieved. After being hospitalized for bronchiolitis, my baby nephew has managed to make a full recovery. Which is good, because we don’t want to go through that again. “He's right as rain. Got a good set of lungs on him, as you can probably hear.”
I start to laugh. As deadpan as Alex sounds, I know he loves Max to the moon and back. “He’s as full of it as his dad.”
“Careful...”
“Anyway, I wanted to ask you something.” I reach out and grab the bottle of water that's resting on my side table. “Is Mum having money troubles again?”
There's silence for a moment, and all I can hear is Alex's breathing, and the distant echo of Max's cries. Then my brother speaks, his voice uncharacteristically quiet. “What's she done this time?”
Hastily, I backtrack. “Nothing, at least not as far as I know. It's just there was some weird guy hanging around asking for her.”
“A weird guy?” Alex echoes. “What kind of weirdo? Did you see him?”
“Yeah, he was standing on our doorstep when I got home from yoga. Asked me where she was.”
Alex's voice deepens. “Did you tell him?”
“I'm not stupid,” I reply, exasperated. “But the odd thing was, he knew my name.”
“What the hell? Tell me what he said?” For the first time I detect a note of panic in my brother's voice. Alex doesn't rile easily. I don't like it.
“He asked me if Tina Cartwright lived here. Then he said my name.”
“He might have heard someone else talking to you...”
I bite my lip before taking in a deep breath. “He knew my real name Alex.”
“Fuck.”
The only way to know my real name is to go through my official documents. Look in the electoral register, or at my birth certificate. Absolutely nothing online—especially not my Facebook account—is under the name Amethyst.
“What did you say to him?” Alex asks. Then I hear him mutter something. I'm hoping he's talking to Lara rather than to himself.
“I said I wasn't Amethyst. Then I asked him who he was.”
“And?”
“He didn't really say. Just said something about digging something up.”
“Digging something up?” I can almost hear Alex running his hand through his hair. He used to do that all the time when we were kids. “What does that mean?”
I frown. “No, I don't think he meant digging. He said his name was Digger.”
Silence. This time I don't hear Alex breathe. His lack of response makes my heart start to hammer, as if there's something I should be afraid of.
“Alex?” I finally prompt.
“He said he was called Digger?”
“He told me to tell Mum he said 'hi'.”
“Shit.” This time his voice raises an octave. “Did you lock the door behind you?”
“Of course I did, I'm not stupid.”
“Where's Mum?” he barks. I blink in alarm.
“She had a shift at the shop I think. She'll be home by eleven.”
“What room are you in?”
“Alex,” I say, “You're really starting to freak me out. What's going on?”
“Amy, just tell me where you are in the house.”
“I'm in my bedroom.”
“I want you to go to the window and look out at the street. Tell me if you see anybody there, okay?” His voice wobbles.
“Okay.” I swing my legs around until they hit the carpet, and step out of bed. The autumn chill hits me. I walk half a dozen steps to my window and pull back the corner of my curtain. Though it's dark, the streetlights illuminate the concrete paving slabs. There's not a soul to be seen, not even the she-fox who seems to delight in wailing like a baby most nights.
“There's nobody there,” I say.
“Okay, good. You definitely locked the door, right?”
“Yes,” I reply, patiently. “I locked the door and I saw him walk away. He's gone, Al.”
“For now,” he replies, dully.
It's like a light flicking on in my brain. “Do you know this Digger guy?”
“I'm... I'm not sure. But if it's who I think it is, he's a nasty piece of work.”
“Who do you think it is?” I persist.
“Look, Ames, I don't want to scare you unnecessarily, and I don't want to say anything until I've talked with Mum. But if this guy comes up to you again, you scream and run, okay? Then you call me and I'll be over like a shot. In fact, I should come over now.”
“Don't be stupid, I'm in bed. There's nothing to see here.” I say it lightly, as if I'm joking. “I'm pretty sure he won't bother me again, but if he does, I promise to let you know.”
“And run,” Alex repeats.
“And run,” I confirm. “Or at least kick him in the arse.”
“I'm not kidding, Amy. Don't do anything to antagonise him.”
“I'm not stupid, Alex.” Nor am I a baby, I remind him silently. Sometimes I think he and Andie forget I'm twenty-three years old.
“I know you're not, kid. But this guy—if he is who I think he is—he's not right in the head. And I don't want you to get hurt.” His voice breaks on the last word, and in that split second I go from exasperated to emotional.
“I won't let him hurt me, I promise. I love you, big brother.”
“I love you, too, Ames.” That's something great about Alex, he's never afraid to wear his heart on his sleeve. Where some men might shy away from their feelings, he positively embraces them. “And you take care of yourself, okay?”
“I will.”
When I hang up, there's a smile on my face. Not because I feel safe, and definitely not because I feel happy. My lips curl up because I feel loved and taken care of, and that's good enough for now.
* * *
When I wake up the next morning my body feels as though it's been through ten rounds in a boxing ring. My back aches, my muscles throb and there's a shooting pain on the left side of my brain that makes me wince. Somehow I drag my sorry self out of bed and into the shower, leaning against the cold tiles as the water cascades down.
In the kitchen, Mum is sitting at our old oak table, a half-drunk mug of coffee in front of her and a cigarette balanced between her finger and thumb. The ashtray is filled with smoked-to-the-stub fag ends, as if she's been chaining them all night.
“I thought you'd given up.” I take the milk from the fridge, splashing it across a bowl of muesli.
“I did.” She takes another drag. Blue-grey smoke curls from between her lips. “I'm just having a few. I've not started again.”
She's wearing her pink, tatty bathrobe, belted tightly around her waist. Her hair is falling out of a bun that probably looked neat last night. I'm not sure if she's been to bed, or if she's been sitting here all night, which is strange, because unlike me she's usually a good sleeper.
“It's not good for you.” I scoop a spoonful of cereal into my mouth. “Remember what the doctor said?”
She presses the cigarette into the glass ashtray. The dying smoke dissipates into nothing. “How was your first day at work?” she asks. There's a brightness to her voice that sounds false.
“It was fine.” For a minute I think about confiding in her, telling her how everything went wrong. But she can't understand why I feel the need to get a degree, and I don't want to hand her any ammunition. “When I got home there was a guy looking for you.”
She doesn't meet my eyes. “I know, Alex called me at work.”
My head snaps up. “He did? Why?”
Mum sighs. “Oh I don't know, Amy. Who knows what goes through your brother's head? But I'll tell you what I told him, there's nothing to worry about, he's just an old friend. I'll ask him not to bother you again.”
“How much do you owe him? I've got some savings...” I can't believe I'm saying this, but she's my mum, and I'm not going to leave
her to flounder.
She reaches out and grabs my hand. “I don't owe him anything.” Another curl of bleached blonde hair escapes from her bun. “He's just somebody I used to know.”
“He knew my name,” I say. “My real name. And he looked a bit menacing.”
“He won't come here again,” she promises. “I won't let him. I'm sorry he scared you, sweetheart, but he won't do you any harm. You're safe here, you know that.” For the first time she smiles. Her lips are dry, her teeth stained with nicotine, but it's still genuine. I have no reason to disbelieve her, but I’m still not wholly convinced.
I pick up my now-empty bowl and rinse it under the tap. The kitchen window is dappled with rain, obscuring the view of the street. “You'd tell me if you were in trouble, wouldn't you?” I ask. “Because I could help, or Alex and Andie could. You don't need to be seeing people like that. Not any more.”
Mum laughs, and it quickly turns into a cough. I wince at the way her chest wheezes. This is precisely why she shouldn't be smoking.
“I don't need your help,” she says when the paroxysms die down. “Sometimes I think you forget who the parent is around here.”
I shake my head. “How could I forget you're my mum?” Leaning down I kiss the top of her head. “I've got to go to work now, I'll see you tonight, okay?”
She squeezes my hand. “Have a good day. And remember what I said, there's nothing to worry about.”
Oh sure, I think, as I leave the house, nothing to worry about at all. Unless you count a boyfriend who should be an ex, a weird man hanging around the house, and a back that feels as though it’s been beaten with a mallet.
With worries like that, it's almost a relief to be heading to work.
5
At 7:30 a.m. I walk into the office with two steaming Styrofoam cups of coffee. I bolster myself with the determination to make this a better day, to create a better impression. Maybe I can become indispensable to Mr Callum Ferguson.
My resolution lasts for less than two minutes. Long enough for me to hang my damp coat on the stand that rests in the corner and toe my handbag under my desk. That's when I carry Callum's coffee into his room, where of course he's already on the phone, and find a three-inch space on his cluttered desk to put it down.
Turning to me, Callum covers the mouthpiece with his hand. “What's that?”
“It's a monkey.” My voice is as tart as a lemon.
He rolls his eyes. “I don't drink coffee before nine.”
Stupid, ungrateful bastard of a boss. “You're welcome.”
Three vertical furrows form between his brows as he stares at me. “Are we having the same conversation here?”
I sigh. There doesn't seem to be any way for the two of us to be civil with each other. Which is fine for him, because he's in charge, but for me it's a few steps away from queuing up at the unemployment office. Or at my tutor's door.
“I don't know. Is it the conversation where I buy my boss a coffee and he's grateful I've spent my hard-earned wages on him?” I want to take back my sarcastic words as soon as I say them, but it's too late. He hangs up on his call without saying goodbye. Someone, somewhere in the world, is talking down an empty telephone line. I know how they feel.
Callum rubs his eyes, and I can see the skin around them wrinkling. There are shadows beneath them, blue-black as bruises. “Thank you for buying me a coffee, Amy. It was kind of you to think of me.”
He brings his gaze around and any sharp retort dies on my lips. He really does look tired. I feel regret for walking in and immediately having a go at him when he's obviously not sleeping well.
“You're welcome.” I say again, but this time my voice is small. Picking up his cup, I turn to leave his office. “I'll get rid of this.”
“You may as well leave it.” He reaches across the desk and covers my hand with his. His palm is warm and big and completely envelopes mine. I stare for a minute—at the taut tendons and the pale skin—and wonder what it would feel like if he just slid his fingers between mine. “A bit of caffeine would do me good, anyway. I didn't sleep well last night.”
No kidding, I want to say, but I swallow it down. He's made an effort to actually be civil to me; the least I can do is try to be the same. “Tomorrow I'll wait until nine to get our drinks.”
He smiles and my stomach does that stupid lurch again. He’s both annoying and horribly attractive. It's in the way his lips curl and his eyes crinkle as if he knows everything I'm thinking. “Thank you.”
When I pull out my leather swivel seat, I'm feeling hopeful again. As if I might have a chance to make a difference before he decides to call up Diana in HR and have me shipped out.
I have no idea why I'm always so rude to Callum whenever I see him. My mouth opens up and insults fly out. I don't behave like this around anybody else—and I certainly shouldn't with my boss
As soon as I log into the network, a message pops up on my screen.
Simpson, C: Good morning, camper. Half an hour down, another seven and a half to go. Is it lunchtime yet?
I smile at his words. It’s reassuring to know I'm not alone in the building, and that I've managed to make at least one friend.
Cartwright, A: And even better, there's only 31.5 hours until the weekend.
Simpson, C: Way to put a downer on things, Essex girl. Are you trying to kill my mojo?
I smirk.
Cartwright, A: Your mojo? Try having a boss who doesn't drink coffee before nine. Plus he’s the most miserable git in the building. Then you can complain about your mojo.
Simpson, C: He can't be that bad. Caro says he's a fox.
Cartwright, A: A fox? As in eats out of the dustbin and shits in your front garden? Yeah, maybe...
“Have you got a moment or are you too busy talking to your boyfriend?” Callum's thick voice emanates from just behind my shoulder. Immediately I press control-alt-delete, but even as my fingers make the movements I know I'm too late. My face flushes red, and it takes all my courage to make me turn around to look at him.
“We were just having a joke,” I reply, wanly.
“So I see.” There isn't a hint of amusement there. I close my eyes, wishing I was somewhere else. I'm such an idiot.
“Can I help you with anything?” I ask, desperate to change the subject. “Coffee, expenses? I can book you a hotel?”
Callum shakes his head. “I'm off to a project meeting. I was going to suggest you join me but I can see you're too busy here. Perhaps you can make yourself useful by doing some filing.” He inclines his head to a box on top of the cabinet on the far side of the room. It's overloaded with paper.
“Of course.” I stand up right away, walking around him and over to the cabinet. In spite of my two-inch heels, he still manages to tower over me, and it makes me feel smaller than I already do. “I'm sorry, Callum.”
He walks over to the door, then turns to look at me one more time. His expression is unreadable, in spite of my best attempts to work it out. “I'll be back after lunch. Try not to break anything.”
After he leaves, I grab hold of the metal filing cabinet and bang my forehead against it three times, but even that fails to make me feel better.
* * *
“You really wrote that about him?” Ellie sounds aghast. I'm sitting at a café a few buildings down from the office, picking at a Brie and cranberry panini while I jam my phone to my ear.
“I know,” I wail. “I'm so stupid. It's like I lose my common sense the minute I step in the lift. He must think I'm such an airhead. I'm going to have to do some serious grovelling this afternoon.”
“Can I recommend you don't buy him a coffee?” she says, dryly.
I can't help it; I let out a bark of laughter. “Thanks for the help, oh wise one. Have you thought about joining the UN? First Canary Wharf, then world peace.”
“Don't knock my advice,” she says. “How many times have I smoothed things over between you and Luke?”
The laughter dies. “Yeah, well yo
u won't need to do that anymore, will you?” I push the plate away from me, rejecting the half-nibbled sandwich. What little I’ve managed to eat feels like lead shot in my stomach. “God, this has been a horrible week. And it's only Tuesday.”
“Three more days until the weekend,” Ellie says. Her cheerful tone makes me want to throttle her. “What are your plans?”
“I have none. I'm a social misfit with no boyfriend and no friends.”
“Charming.”
“I didn't mean you.” I backpedal furiously. “I was talking about work. I heard one of the girls talking about a night out and I'm pretty sure I'm not invited.” Stupid Caro and her sycophantic sidekicks. “I expect it will be champagne all round.”
Ellie's voice softens. “Let's have a girlie night out. I'll call Sophie and we can meet you in town. Who needs work friends when you have us?”
Her offer brings tears to my eyes.
“Sounds good,” I reply, my voice gruff. “I can't think of anything better.”
“I'd better go,” Ellie says, trying to lighten the mood. “The housing committee meets at three and I haven't printed out the agendas yet.” Ellie works as a secretary at the local council. She tells me her job is just as riveting as it sounds. “Think of me when you're standing in your penthouse office and sipping mocha choco lattes won't you?”
“Sure,” I say, “Because that's exactly what it’s like there. It's a dirty job but somebody has to do it.”
“And you're so good at it.” She pauses, and the teasing tone disappears. “Seriously, Amy, you are good at it. I'm proud of you, we all are. You're like a better looking Donald Trump, but without the comb over.”
I blink to get that image out of my head. “Um... thanks, I guess. Though not everybody's proud of me.” I walk out of the café and into the crisp air. My thoughts turn to Luke again. He left another message on my voicemail this morning while I was at work.
“Everybody who matters is,” she says. I hear a scrape of her chair as she stands up. “I'll call you later, okay? And don't do anything more to piss your boss off. Be charming.”
