When I Find You

by Emma Curtis

  I sigh and get up, check the coast is clear and see David and Rebecca coming in. My heart almost bolts out of my mouth. There is nothing I can do. I sit down on her leather sofa and take out my phone, then look up from my messages as she comes in. She stops short and lifts her eyebrows.

  ‘What are you doing in here?’

  ‘I’m so sorry,’ I say, jumping up. ‘I needed to make a private call.’

  I have a feeling about Finn. He’s in and out of our office all the time, poring over the briefs and advising on how we can tweak to give an ad the best chance of being shared online, but he hasn’t been in as much since the New Year. For him not to show his face is unusual.

  Was it him? And if it was, why would he do that to me?

  Finn’s desk is on the end row, next to Graham. I imagine myself confronting him, but I don’t move. I need to slow down. Be sure.

  Finn Broadbent shares a flat with friends from university. This is information gleaned from Bettina, who knows something about everyone. She talks to people, finding out about their roles; the perfect intern, always interested, always keen to learn. Finn doesn’t have a girlfriend currently.

  Unfortunately, my oblique queries had the wrong effect and her eyes narrowed.

  ‘Why are you so interested in Finn?’

  ‘No reason. Just gossiping.’

  ‘Well, I wouldn’t touch him if I was you. He’s bad news.’

  There was a look on her face I didn’t like; part arch, part hostile. ‘I have no intention of touching him, Bettina.’

  I lean back in my chair, tapping my fingers on the surface of my desk. Eddie glances at me.

  ‘What’s up with you?’ he says.

  I shrug and carry on drawing. ‘I’m fine.’

  ‘I’ve known you for three years, so don’t tell me there’s nothing wrong.’

  I don’t respond. The tension in my shoulders grows, I put my pencil down and massage the painful muscles. My fingers start to itch like crazy.

  ‘Normally you’d be on this,’ he says. ‘You’d be messaging me all hours of the night with daft ideas, but you haven’t been doing that and it feels like you’ve backed off. I want this job, Laura. Don’t mess it up.’

  ‘I’m sorry. I’ve had a lot on my mind but it’s not fair on you. And I do have an idea, as it happens.’

  He waits, possibly wondering what I’ve had on my mind, since my life is outwardly so uneventful.

  ‘Fire away.’

  I crumple up the sheet of paper I’ve been doodling on and aim it at the wastepaper basket. I miss.

  ‘OK, listen. The client wants to attract British youth, but British youth comes in all sorts of shapes and sizes; you’ve got Street; there’s Essex and Chelsea; there’s the underprivileged and the privileged, the disabled, the content and the angry and the kids in between. You have Jews and Muslims, Christians; dog lovers and cat lovers. LGBTQ. Some non-stereotypes thrown in for good measure. There is no umbrella that’s going to cover them all, but that’s where the inspiration is. You give them something to unite them.’

  He raises his eyebrows. ‘And what better than an over-sweetened alcoholic beverage?’

  ‘Don’t be cynical.’

  ‘Only in this room,’ he quips. ‘Actually, I think you may have something there. We just need an original take on an old story.’

  I grin at him. ‘Now you need to find the words, my friend. Or we’re buggered.’

  We are meeting the American clients tomorrow. Before we’ve taken their measure, before they’ve outlined their vision, it’s hard to pull ideas out of thin air. I like to watch a client’s body language. I can learn as much from that as Eddie can from a face. We can both tell if they really mean it; if they have real passion for what they are selling or if it’s merely about the money.

  I have the slender bottle of GZ in front of me and the January sun that streams through our blinds makes it look like maple syrup. I run my finger down the smooth glass. Since the assault, I’m afraid that I’m losing it. One of the few advantages of being face-blind is that your powers of concentration are ludicrously high. I spend my life terrified of missing clues and screwing up, hence, I focus. Or I used to.

  ‘OK.’ Eddie stands up and grabs his coat. ‘I’m going out on the terrace for a think. Want to come?’

  When he says a think, he means a fag. Esther thinks he’s given up. I shake my head. ‘It’s too cold. I’ll keep drawing and see what comes out of this. Let me know if you have a brainwave.’

  As soon as he’s gone I start to scratch my fingers and the relief is so intense I groan.

  I log back on to Facebook. There’s one picture I keep revisiting. It’s of Finn. He is standing at the edge of the dance floor, his eyes glued to one person. Me. I’m beckoning to him, in an embarrassingly overt come-hither way.

  Is he the one who called me a dark horse?

  Jamie is behind me, leaning to shout something in someone’s ear. I have no memory of this, and at the time would have had no idea who it was I was encouraging. Only now do I realize what a dangerous game I was playing.

  Was it Finn? My body is trembling. I try to block out the mental image of him in my bed. I examine his picture and then stand up and peer through the window in my door. He’s hunched forward, staring at his monitor, but then he clasps his hands behind his neck, forces his shoulders back and turns his head and there’s something about his body language, the way he stretches, his shirt coming untucked to show a triangle of flat stomach, that makes my own stomach clench. I leap backwards, my thigh connecting painfully with the corner of my desk. Tears spring to my eyes and I dash them away.

  13

  Laura

  THAT EVENING MY ride home takes me north along Fortress Road, past the grocer’s, the barber’s, the boarded-up shops and then right, to dog-leg through the residential streets. The area is edgy, expensive renovations butting up against deprivation. When I get home, my street is empty, no one lying in wait, no one watching, but I imagine danger in every shadow. I take my bag out of the basket, but while I’m rummaging for my keys I sense a movement. I spin round as a man crosses the road towards me, moving with purpose. My hands tighten around the handlebars; I’m ready to jump back on if I need to, but he only nods his thanks as I pull my bike out of his way.

  There’s something about him, something familiar, but I’m not sure. It may just be paranoia. I’m good on body language, and that nod was impersonal. It didn’t signal that we knew each other. Disconcerted, I push the bike through the wrought-iron gate and over the cracked tessellated tiles. The Hills are in; the light is on in the downstairs flat, the blue flicker of the television set glowing behind lacy net curtains.

  I shove the key into the lock and accidentally throw the door open so violently that it bounces against the wall and leaves a nick in the paint. I wince and wait for my neighbour to appear, but nothing happens. There is one letter lying on the little table, addressed to me, and the first thing I notice about it is that it has been hand-delivered. Unsettled, I lean my bike against the wall and open the door again. The cold air kisses my cheek as I look up and down the road, scrutinizing shadows. There’s no one there, but I can’t help thinking about the man who passed me just now. Did he really need to cross the road at that precise point? Did he have to come so close? Chilled, I shut the door and take the stairs two at a time.

  Once safely in my flat, with the door double-locked and bolted, I check behind the sitting-room curtains before closing them. They are heavy, inter-lined brocade, and ten inches too long. I bought them from a second-hand curtain shop and didn’t bother to raise the hem. I like the way they pool on the floor. I move to the bedroom and throw open the wardrobe. Nothing. It’s cold and I shiver as I remove my coat and pull my grandfather’s enormous old sweater on over my thin merino V-neck then change into sweatpants and sheepskin slippers.

  Curled up on the sofa under a woollen throw, the TV control in one hand, the letter resting against the hill of my thighs, I settle o
n a repeat of a property programme so many years out of date that it has no relevance. I lift the envelope to my nose, but it only smells of the glue that keeps it closed. I open it and pull out a sheet of A4 white copy paper, folded in three. The words have been typed. I put my glasses on.

  Dear Laura

  This is a weird situation, don’t you think? I expect you want me to feel guilty, but I don’t see why I should. You made it clear you were up for it and didn’t care who I was. I knew you wouldn’t recognize me – I know all about your little problem

  My hand drops to my thigh, the letter slipping to the floor. The only person I’ve told is Rebecca. Unless they’ve worked it out for themselves, no one else has a clue. But someone obviously does. I feel twitchy, hunted, even here, in my flat. This changes everything, because if he knows the truth about me, then that means what he did wasn’t a stupid mistake, but something thought about, planned, fantasized over. Malicious. I reach for the letter and smooth it on to my knee.

  – but no decent woman would behave like you did. The only thing I’ll apologize for is leaving without saying anything, but if I hadn’t, you would have accused me of something I didn’t do and that would have been wrong – I know what women are like. If you think about it properly, you’ll know it’s true. Just because you felt shit in the morning, doesn’t make me a bad human being. No one likes a tease.

  I jump up, rip it in half and drop it into the kitchen bin, then I sit with my hands clamped between my legs, trembling with anger and disgust. He wants me to believe it was my fault; my fault I got drunk; my fault I invited him back into my flat; my fault I had sex with him. And part of me did believe it. But it’s not my fault that I feel violated; not my fault that he chose to trick me; not my fault that he ran away rather than face me. My eyes sting as I swallow back the bile.

  I’m not hungry, but I force down a few mouthfuls of a microwave tagliatelle. When I open the bin to throw away the remains, the letter is lying there, bright and white amongst the teabags and packaging. I carefully take the two halves out, lay them on the work surface and read what else the prick has to say.

  I’m guessing you haven’t figured out who I am. I’ll tell you when I know that I can trust you not to make a fuss, but if you go to the police about this, I promise you, they are going to hear things you might want kept quiet. It was a great night. Epic. I still think about your hair draped over my face, about winding it round my hand and pulling you against me. You look nice with it up too but wear it down tomorrow. I like it like that.

  By the way, I didn’t steal your pants. I picked them up with my stuff by mistake.

  x

  My body seems to know where to go and what to do. In my kitchen, there’s a drawer and in that drawer, there is a pair of scissors. I take them into the bathroom, pull the light cord and face the woman in the mirror. I grab a hank of hair and cut through it. Then another and another, until my feet are covered with silky strands of dirty gold. I stare at myself. Short hair, chopped clumsily round a stranger’s face. I touch it tentatively, feeling the ends. I try and even them out, but my efforts only make it worse.

  I put the scissors down slowly and turn away, feeling less calm now, more inclined to break something. In the kitchen, I take a mug from the cupboard and drop it on the floor, but it bounces on the linoleum and doesn’t shatter. A second one does. It makes a loud noise and the handle breaks off, but it is still inadequate, still not enough to pop my bubble. I pick up my wine glass and fling it at the tiles with a yell. This time it smashes, the pieces landing in the sink and skittering across the white work surface, shards bouncing off the edge, drops of red wine, like blood, spattered amongst them. Glass crunches under my slippered feet.

  A sharp rap startles me. My immediate thought is that it’s him. But how would he open the street door? Did he ring the downstairs bell? Would the Hills be stupid enough to let a stranger in?

  Maybe, if I keep quiet, he’ll leave.

  Someone shouts. ‘It’s Phoebe, Laura. Is everything OK in there?’

  Dizzy with relief, I lean against the door and slide down.

  ‘Laura? I’m worried about you. Could you let me in?’ She pauses, listening. ‘If you don’t open up, I’ll call the police.’

  ‘I’m all right.’

  ‘I can’t be sure until I see you. Open up. I’ve got my phone in my hand. I’m pressing 999.’

  I get to my feet reluctantly and pull the bolt.

  She has her baby in her arms, and he twists round and stares at me. Phoebe is tall and slender and wears figure-hugging clothes. I don’t know her well; just to say hello. They only moved in last August.

  ‘Oh. My. God,’ she says. She looks horrified and upset. As if I’ve committed a sacrilegious offence.

  I bring my finger and thumb to the tips of my hair and test it gently, rubbing it between them. She reaches towards me and I wince, but she smiles and gently peels a long strand off my shoulder. I don’t know what to say but fortunately Phoebe isn’t the type to be bothered by an awkward situation. She bustles into my flat and I follow her, closing the door behind me.

  ‘Sorry about the mess,’ I mumble. ‘Give me a second while I sweep this lot up.’

  She takes the dustpan and brush out of my hand and puts them down. ‘You’re coming downstairs with me. Where are your keys?’

  ‘I can’t.’

  ‘Yes, you can. It’s just me and Noah and I’m about to put him down for the night.’

  I feel irresolute, embarrassed and miserable. She stretches out a hand.

  ‘Come on.’

  I nod and pick up my keys. I don’t want to be alone.

  ‘Where’s your husband?’ I ask as Phoebe joins me, proffering a glass of wine, Noah having gone off with barely a murmur. She sits down beside me, watching me intently, searching my face, sympathetic. Her calm begins to steal over me, soothing my nerves.

  ‘Elliot’s at his book club. There’s a group of blokes from work. I don’t think they actually read the books though. He doesn’t anyway – I read them for him.’

  There are specific things that my brain has tagged about Phoebe. She has two earrings in each ear. She has a birthmark in the dip where her right shoulder meets her neck. When she stands her left foot points slightly inwards.

  Phoebe nips out of the room and returns with a workman-like black bag. It turns out that she cuts hair for a living. I am so drained I don’t argue when she offers to tidy up the mess I’ve created. I sit quietly while she snips and chatters, and I learn several things about her. She is the eldest of three but is closest to Harriet. She wants another baby. She is besotted with her husband. I feel guilty that I give so little of myself, but she’s too polite to probe.

  And now I am even more of a stranger to myself than ever; the owner of a feathery bob that starts high at the back of my head and flows into peaks at my jaw. The fringe changes the shape of my face. I try to flick it aside, with mixed results.

  ‘Use heavier eyeliner and mascara,’ Phoebe suggests. ‘To balance things out.’

  The main thing is, it looks deliberate, not the pitiful result of a moment’s lunacy.

  We hear the key in the latch and Phoebe immediately stands up. I follow suit, it’s getting late and I don’t want to be in the way. Elliot comes in, smiling as she embraces him. He sees me, and his surprise shows in the way he unwraps his wife’s arms.

  ‘Hi,’ he says. ‘I didn’t recognize you.’ He indicates my hair.

  I nod, and because I can’t think of anything else to do, I walk up to him and hold out my hand. ‘We haven’t met properly yet,’ I say. ‘I’m Laura Maguire.’

  ‘Elliot Hill.’ He takes my hand then looks from me to Phoebe. ‘So, what have I missed?’

  ‘Nothing,’ Phoebe shrugs. ‘Girl talk. I thought it was time Laura and I got to know each other, so I knocked on her door.’

  ‘I’m off,’ I say, as a silence develops. It’s obvious Elliot wants his wife to himself. I edge past them to the door. ‘Thanks
so much for the haircut, Phoebe. Thanks for everything.’

  ‘De nada,’ she says. ‘Anytime. Sleep well.’

  When I get in I see I have several messages from Eddie. I scroll through them, feeling guilty that I haven’t done any work for the meeting tomorrow. I bang out a reply, reassuring him that I’m on it; love his ideas; will get in early and we’ll have a treatment done by nine. He doesn’t reply, so I hope he’s getting an early night like a sensible new dad.

  I tidy up the flat, sweeping up the breakages in the kitchen and the hair from the bathroom, where it’s got into the sink and the tub as well as all over the floor. There’s so much of it.

  I slide the torn-up letter between Patricia Cornwell and Val McDermid on the shelf to the left of the chimneypiece. My one piece of evidence. Then I fall into bed and I sleep.

  14

  Laura

  IT’S POURING WITH rain, but my body refuses to move. It won’t allow me to cross the threshold into work, even though my umbrella is embarrassingly inadequate with its broken spoke and tendency to suddenly invert. The wind is cold on my newly bared neck, a reminder of last night’s madness.

  I wonder if he already knows that I’m out here, barely able to breathe, or if he slept any better than I did last night, anticipating the day ahead. Did he picture me finding his letter, examining the envelope, opening it, reading the words he agonized over? I can guess. In his wildest imaginings, I will walk in with my hair up and then pull out the pins, toss my head and let it tumble around my shoulders. His words will catch in his throat as he rises to greet me … The picture dissipates. Reality intervenes.

  How will he interpret my deliberate act of sabotage? I’m beginning to regret what I’ve done. It’s going to send out the message that he’s got to me, not that I don’t give a toss what he thinks of my hair. People like him don’t rationalize normally. They interpret every act to fit their own narrative.