by Celia Hayes
“In this delicate phase, the contribution of each of you is vital. Your participation will determine in part the success of the new administrative and financial choices. If you really are concerned about your positions, then you must be the first to defend them. I expect punctuality, professionalism and discipline, and from tomorrow we will restore the usual working hours.” The news elicits murmurs of discontent. “And please note,” I add, “that I predict a lot of overtime. If you think you can’t deal with the stress, I would prefer to know right away.”
In my eyes there is no room for any ‘ifs’ or ‘buts’.
“So? Anyone want to pull out?”
They all shake their head, accepting my terms. Not that I expected anything different. I doubt, given their average age, that they can afford to lose their jobs. Unfortunately, however, that doesn’t concern me. I represent the interests of the bank, not them. I’m not being paid by them. I’m just doing my job and I am sure that they can understand that.
So why are they all looking at me as if I was Satan himself?
“Can I ask you a question?”
Catherine comes forward.
“Please,” I say, sitting on the edge of the desk.
“What figures are we speaking about? It’s all very vague.”
“I am not allowed to disclose information of this nature.”
She doesn’t seem satisfied with my answer, but I can’t do anything except try to soothe her even further.
“Miss Hunt, don’t think I can’t imagine how you’re feeling right now, but please believe me when I say that, although I’m relatively young, I have the skills needed to address the issue. I am confident I’ll be able to identify the errors of the previous management and I’m more than certain I’ll be able to achieve the goals on time.”
All, without exception, widen their eyes and exchange meaningful looks.
“May I know what is going on?” I ask in exasperation.
“Errors? What kind of errors?” Exclaims Curtis.
“I mean bad choices. Inappropriate concessions. Reckless investment.”
“Are you suggesting that the branch is closing because of our manager?”
“Mr Bailey?”
“It’s not possible!”
“I don’t believe it.”
“Oh, my God!”
“Such a competent person. There must be another explanation!”
They’re all muttering in turn, gesticulating and shrugging.
“Ladies and gentlemen, this attitude, forgive my frankness, is ridiculous! I have just arrived and I haven’t the foggiest idea of what might have happened. I can only make assumptions based on my past experience. I assure you that it isn’t uncommon to make silly mistakes. I’m not saying that there is any bad faith involved. More likely, it is just the result of too many optimistic forecasts, which proved to be blunders. I’m sure the ex-manager, Mr Bailey…” and I stress this part, wanting to remind them all that now I’m the manager, “certainly did his best, but it wasn’t enough – and it’s not me saying that, it’s the balance sheets. Now, if you don’t have any more questions…”
I try to shut down the conversation in order to send everyone home and plunge back into the accounting records, but they still seem to want to defend their old boss, as if I’d accused him of mass murder.
“If it wasn’t for him, we couldn’t have restored the town hall,” recalls Mr Ward.
“It would kill him if he knew,” says Miss Hunt in a whisper.
“If he knew what?” asks a hoarse voice from the back of the room. Not recognizing him, I lift my head and, like everyone else, watch an old white-haired man with a large moustache and a jovial appearance enter, holding a large bunch of red roses in his hands.
“Who are you, please?” I ask, annoyed. “How did you get in?”
“Allow me to introduce myself,” he replies, holding out a hand. “I’m Mr Bailey, but you can call me George.” And he gives me the flowers. “These are for you. I know…” he justifies, scratching his head. “I shouldn’t have come in without asking for permission, but I thought I’d bring you a little surprise. I promise, it won’t happen again.”
“Ah… I didn’t… I didn’t imagine.” I accept the flowers with some embarrassment. “If only someone had warned me…” And while I stammer excuses, I glare at the rest of them, and they all look away, avoiding my eyes.
“Don’t worry. But it looks like I interrupted something important. I’d better go. I am sure we will have the opportunity to meet again in the future. Turriff is a small town, we all know each other, and we often end up bumping into one another for a few hours down at the pub.”
“I’m sure the opportunity will present itself,” I reply vaguely, not wishing to commit to promises I don’t intend to keep. “Since we don’t have much to add, I think we can call it a day. I am sure that your former colleagues can show you out. I, unfortunately, still have a few things to do before leaving the office.”
“You don’t need to excuse yourself, I understand very well. My best wishes, Miss Watts.” He holds out his hand, a gesture that I reciprocate while forcing myself to smile. “See you soon,” and at that moment Catherine appears beside him, ready to escort him out.
“Mr Bailey…” I stop him while he’s leaving. “I’ll certainly need to talk to you. Do you think you’ll have five minutes for me one of these mornings?”
“I’m at your disposal,” he replies gently. And with this promise, he finally goes away and behind him, all the others leave in single file with long faces, some afraid of being fired, some enraged over losing a few hours free time, some upset by my insinuations about Mr Bailey’s work.
So basically, I’ve managed to upset everyone in less than ten minutes and with only the help of three or four phrases. I was expecting to shake them up a bit, but not this much.
God, what a pain in the arse!
Discouraged, I walk round my desk and collapse into an armchair, hoping to find a little bit of solace in the squeak of the backrest. However, the door opens again, forcing me to sit up straight.
“Who is it?”
“Excuse me…” One of the employees peeps in, a guy that had gone unnoticed. In fact, I struggle to remember his name.
“Please Mr… Mr—” I stammer, rubbing my index against my thumb while trying to remember his surname, which just will not… Wait, what did he say he was called? Brown? Butler? I didn’t even notice him during the meeting.
“Mills,” he interjects, adjusting a lock of hair on his forehead.
“That’s right, Mr Mills. What can I do for you?”
He must be a few years older than me. He’s thin, almost skinny, with big blue eyes and a sincere expression. Short hair. Ordinary clothing, clean and impeccable, but very dull colours.
“Nothing, except that I still have to check these. I was thinking of taking them home and emailing everything.”
He passes me the parcel, which I check summarily and reply, “No, there’s no need, you can do them tomorrow. I think we’ve all had enough for one day. Go home. We’ll have plenty of time to go through the accounts.”
And I hide my face in my hands and don’t watch him move away, I only know that at some point I hear the creak of the door and, shortly afterwards, his voice whispering, “Welcome to the bank, Miss Watts. If there’s anything you need, please know that you can always count on me.”
I lift my face from my sleeves and look at him as though he were the Messiah in the Holy Land.
I hadn’t been expecting that.
I nod, and wave goodnight, actually feeling noticeably refreshed.
Chapter 11
Nausea. Vomit. Death.
“When will you understand that everything I did, I did because I love you?”
“Tell you what – next time, just write me a nice, blank cheque…”
Three weeks have passed without me noticing. I work like crazy. I start at eight, I spend the entire day in the office looking at papers an
d documents and, once back home, I continue with as much as I can on the PC, sometimes going to bed at two, or even three in the morning. Morgan hasn’t managed to find me an apartment yet. Not one that meets my needs, at least. He says I’m too particular, I maintain that mould, mice and cockroaches can’t just be regarded bits of local colour. Luckily for me, Ethan didn’t have any objection to putting me up until I find something better, so, I took what I had left in the flooded two room apartment and brought it here, placing it in empty closets and dressers. For the rent we had to come to an agreement. He didn’t want to be paid, but as I was no longer staying for just one night, we agreed on a reasonable fee for my stay. I didn’t think I would have to be the one to insist, but I would never have agreed to sleep under the same roof without first having determined that ours is a normal tenant-landlord relationship. A condition that allows me to avoid him and to fight off each of his attempts to approach me with sarcastic comments.
In reality, he has proved much less insistent than I’d imagined, and apart from a couple of digs on one or two occasions when, by chance, we’ve met in the street, I haven’t seen him or heard from him. If he’s not in the pub he’s down in the living room doing God knows what with the stereo at full volume. Sometimes I hear him playing electric guitar, others watching detective series. Whatever keeps him busy, however, ends at one. The time at which the doorbell invariably rings. From that moment on no more stereo, no more movie sounds. No. He turns off the TV and you end up being catapulted into Youporn for the next two or, depending on the mood of the actors, three hours. Night after night. I’ve got used to the routine by now: first you hear ha ha ha, then hee hee hee, then silence. Slam. Scrash. Stump. Boing.
Then oooh, then ahaah and from there oh yes, oh God! You’re driving me crazy! which then turns into screams that make me seriously doubt the sincerity of his partners’ reactions.
Another couple of sounds.
Incessant mattress squeaking, then bass drums and finally everything falls back into silence.
Interval.
The popcorn comes out, the lights in the theatre go down and the ha ha ha and hee hee hee return.
If I’m lucky, the cycle is repeated a couple of times, then she goes home. On other occasions, however, it can go on until five in the morning. Those are the worst. That’s when I put in the earplugs I bought in the chemist’s in a moment of desperation, hide my head under the pillow and pray that he has a stroke.
Let’s be serious, what the hell else can I do?
Every night – I mean, every one?
Don’t they ever go out?
Doesn’t he have a mother?
Or just get flu? Or a stomach ache?
What is certain is that we can’t go on like this. I’m already good enough at ruining my own life; I can’t allow him to deprive me of those few hours I have left to sleep.
This urgently needs a solution.
What if I secretly had a PlayStation delivered?
A nice anonymous package. With a red bow.
With two or three games included…
I stare disconsolately at the lines of figures on my laptop screen and let myself give a liberating sigh. It’s Saturday, it’s nine o’clock in the evening and I’ve been analysing charts all day. A little break won’t kill me. I have to go out and get a little fresh air or I’ll seriously risk going crazy.
I check my emails one last time, then I get up and go towards the kitchen, where I light a cigarette from a squashed pack while I continue towards my bedroom. My phone is dozing on the mattress but my footsteps seem to suddenly awaken it. As if to underline its disappointment at being disturbed, it starts vibrating convulsively, urging me to answer it as though it’s having some kind of fit.
I hate things that vibrate. They make me uncomfortable.
“Hello,” I answer, blowing a puff of smoke.
“Tell me you’ve missed me.”
“Horace—”
“I’ve missed you.”
I slump on the edge of the bed. Hearing his voice is a shock.
“I thought I was clear. I don’t want to hear from you again. At least not until I get back.”
“What are you doing? Working?”
“No, I was about to go out.”
“With who?”
His voice sounds strange.
“Are you jealous?”
“Shouldn’t I be?”
“You have no right.”
“Maybe it’s true, but the fact is that I love you. I want you. Now, Trudy, right now.”
I can hear him breathing on the other end of the line. His scratchy breath.
“Horace, stop it,” I cut him off, my body turning to quivering jelly.
“No. Don’t say that. Ever since you left, I haven’t thought about anything else. I know you still want me. Do you remember that time at your mother’s house? When we hid in the cellar, pretending to look for a couple of bottles of wine?” I hear him laugh. “It was raining so hard—”
“There’s no point in all of this,” I say in a strangled voice, as the memories assail me.
“You were so relaxed, so happy. I’ve never seen you so happy. You pulled me into that closet, barefoot, your cheeks red from the cold. It was December, and it was so damp down there. Do you remember, Trudy?”
“Yes, I remember.” I nod, knowing that he can’t see me.
“You wore a red dress. I don’t know how many times I’ve dreamed of it. What happened to it? You never wore it again.”
Why am I allowing him to do this? I don’t know. Whenever I think of him… It’s as if a part of me belongs to him and returns to the surface at his call.
“I think I still have it somewhere,” I grumble, putting out the cigarette in an ashtray on the bedside table.
“We had already made love that night at my house, before going to your parents’, but I still wanted you. I could never get enough of you. I still can’t. I took you gently in my arms, I began to stroke your back, neck, arms, and you covered my face with kisses.”
I sit amongst the pillows, huddling next to the bedhead with the phone pressed on my cheek and my gaze lost beyond the window. A tear slides down my face and I do nothing to stop it.
“Are you still there, my darling?” He asks me in a whisper.
“Don’t call me that.” It’s a plea.
“Don’t you like it?”
“It’s not that—”
“Trudy, my love, I need to touch you. Feel you in my hands like that night. Let me hold you to me. Hold you in my arms.”
“I can’t. You’re not… you’re not even here.”
“That’s not true, I’m right there with you,” he whispers softly. “Close your eyes.”
And like a fool, I actually do.
“Now listen. Can you feel it? It’s my face on your shoulder. I pull back a lock of hair from your lips and I cover them with mine, stroking your cheek…”
Suddenly I no longer hear his voice. Horace stops talking to me and my heart stops. As soon as it starts again, however, it starts beating with such violence it scares me. Why do I feel this way? Is it because I’m not over him?
“I’m holding you, Trudy. I’m on you, between your legs and I’m kissing you. Slowly I feel you open your mouth. I slide my hand onto your breast and slowly I move your bra strap until I can see your pale skin between my fingers. You’re so beautiful…”
At the sound of his voice I slowly relax, stretching out on the bed. Cradled by his words, I let my hand redesign the contours of my lips, which are damp and burning in the absence of his touch.
“Can you feel me, Trudy? Can you feel me there beside you?”
I say his name in a small voice, but he still manages to hear me and starts repeating mine, betraying his growing agitation.
“I want to taste you. Your scent. I seem to feel your breast tickling my face. Do you want me to take it in my mouth?”
“I… Yes, Horace.”
“Then get undressed. Unbutton that blo
use and uncover yourself. Let me look at you.”
I’m wearing a T-shirt. I lift it up to my neck. A breeze blows through the half open window, caressing me. Stunned by the feeling, I bring a hand up to my bra and squeeze urgently, hearing a moan come from my throat.
“Yes, my love. Now open your legs. Slowly. Relax,” almost expecting my gasp. The uncertainty for a moment holds me back. “I’m so excited. You can’t imagine how much I want you. I can hear you gasp and I feel like I’m going crazy. I wish you were here, kneeling between my legs and putting me between your lips…”
Imagining myself completely naked in his arms, I put a hand inside the elastic of my sweatpants and close my eyes. My lewd fingers lasciviously trace the soft fabric of my underwear, with the desire to have him inside me, here, with his strong hands tight on my hips, taking my breath away.
I arch my back, shivering, and my breasts, rising with each breath, press against the edge of the tight T-shirt. Without stopping to touch myself, I free them and hold them tight in my fingers.
“Oh… Trudy, it’s so beautiful,” he murmurs, hearing my breathless sighs. “Keep touching yourself for me. I want to listen to you come. Do you like it?” And his voice is insecure, broken by spasms.
I don’t answer. I can’t.
My caresses became increasingly more intimate and all I can feel is an oppressive weight crushing my chest and the desire to break out of all this. To destroy everything and be finally empty and free.
“Tell me, Trudy,” he keeps repeating, “tell me—”
“Tell me I’m your piggy.”
“Yes, you’re my kinky piggy!”
… and I imagine him standing in front of me.
Sweaty.
Breathless.
He goes deeper and deeper between my legs. But it’s not me, it’s a woman I’ve never seen before, with dark skin and scarlet, kissable lips.
I lie on a mahogany desk, between heavy bookcases rising towards a lofty ceiling. My back rubs on the polished wood and I thrust my nails through my long, dark hair, spread out on the bare surface.
I bow my head with a greedy expression, biting my finger, and I see her.
