When I Find You

by Emma Curtis

She makes a face: part guilty, part mischievous. ‘Well, I was. The USB was on the little table in her hall. But I’d only just finished my coffee and Rebecca didn’t even give me a chance to go to the loo. I was absolutely bursting by the time I got there. So, anyway, I was having a pee, my eyes possibly wandering around the room. Her bathroom is gorgeous by the way. She has one of those roll-top baths …’

  ‘I don’t need a description of her interiors.’ I am on tenterhooks, my mind racing, trying to gauge what this means.

  ‘I saw a man’s wash bag and I had a peek inside. There was a set of toiletries in there. Razor, shampoo, underarm stuff.’

  I release a long breath and stand up, stepping awkwardly over the bench. ‘That’s hardly proof it’s David. She’s probably got a boyfriend.’

  ‘No,’ she hisses. She looks up, grimacing. ‘There’s more. There was a packet of pills with his name on it.’

  I look back through the windows. Beyond the desks and their hive of activity, I can see the closed doors to David and Rebecca’s offices. My mouth gapes.

  ‘When you think about it, it’s not that surprising,’ she says. ‘They practically live in each other’s pockets.’

  ‘You mustn’t tell anyone else, Bettina.’ I don’t have time to think this through, and it’s only an instinctive reaction, but it might be more useful to me if it doesn’t become public knowledge. It will eventually, but I’m hoping Bettina will resist the temptation at least until I’ve gone. ‘If it gets back to either of them that you’ve been spreading rumours, you’ll be out.’

  She looks hurt and we walk back to our desks in silence. I turn and say, so that the others can hear, ‘Which bands did you have in mind?’

  ‘Milo are possible,’ she says grudgingly. ‘If you want that lived-in sound. Or maybe Red Wing. They’re upbeat and fun. There’s a couple of others I want to try.’

  I came in on the tube because my back tyre was flat and, that evening, I squeeze on to a packed train. I have nothing to hold on to as the doors close and, as the train moves, I stumble. Someone puts a steadying hand on my arm and I whip my head round to find a man smiling at me.

  ‘Fancy meeting you here,’ he says.

  He is holding on to the bar, his arm outstretched across the curve of my shoulder. I have nothing to hold on to and keep my balance by standing with my feet apart. I break into a sweat, scanning his hair, checking his ears and his neck, his clothes, but I don’t have a clue.

  ‘Sorry, I was miles away.’

  ‘No worries. How’s your day been?’

  ‘I’ve had better. What about you?’

  This is hideous. I start to pray that he’ll get out before it becomes obvious that I have no idea who I’m talking to. I rack my brains for something to say, but he saves me the trouble.

  ‘I’m shattered, to be honest. I didn’t have five minutes to walk away from my desk, so my brain is fried.’ His mouth pulls into a smile as we shriek into King’s Cross.

  ‘I know what you mean. I have to get some air at lunchtime or I start feeling sick.’

  IT? One of the Media guys? I try and fix on something, but my eyes skitter around his face.

  ‘So, I hear you’re coming to ours tomorrow night.’

  Jesus. It’s Elliot. I hope my relief doesn’t show on my face. Thank Christ I didn’t start blathering on about colleagues or campaigns.

  ‘It’s nice of you both to have me.’

  ‘It’s a pleasure,’ he says.

  If I believe that, I’ll believe anything, but full marks for trying. I hope Phoebe hasn’t told him it’s my birthday tomorrow. I don’t want to look pathetic.

  ‘So, where do you work?’ I say.

  ‘You won’t have heard of it. It’s a company called IdTech Solutions. A couple of minutes from the station. What about you?’

  ‘An advertising agency, just off Curtain Road. Hoxton really.’

  ‘Very trendy.’ He smiles. ‘We’ll have to keep an eye out for each other.’

  ‘Yes,’ I say, thinking the exact opposite.

  The train breaks and I almost topple, and, once again, Elliot puts a hand out to steady me. It’s an involuntary action, but I don’t like it. This new piece of knowledge, that I work a few hundred yards from him, is acutely disconcerting. How many times have I ignored him in the street, on the tube, or in one of the local sandwich bars? I steer the subject towards Noah, knowing, from spending time with my siblings, that it’s the easiest way to distract them from a topic that’s making me anxious. I start to dread the walk from Kentish Town to the flat, but he lets me off the hook, stopping outside our local, the Spanish Arms, for a quick half because he needs to wind down so that he doesn’t inflict his stress on Phoebe.

  Great excuse, I think, liking him a little bit less.

  It’s been a day of surprises, mainly nasty ones. As I walk, I picture David and Rebecca. I turn their affair over in my mind and wonder how it impacts on me. This is a successful man with a wife and children and a mistress. Why would he put all that at risk for a night of passion with a woman who thought he was someone else? It’s hardly flattering to his ego.

  All I can think is that it was arrogance, that he knew about me and thought he’d see how far he could take it. He may not have expected it to go as far as it did, but he should have stopped as soon as he realized how drunk I was. And that’s it. It makes a horrible kind of sense. David Gunner thinks what happened was my fault. Sometimes I weaken and think the same. Things would be so much easier if I just accepted that, and let it go. I lift my hand to my hair and feel the cropped ends and my eyes film over. Unfortunately for David, I can’t. I hurry up to the door, and throw myself in, stopping only to pick up the neat pile of post that Phoebe has left me, before running up to the safety of my flat.

  I have two cards. One is from Isabel; there’s a French stamp and the address is handwritten. The other has a printed label which makes me immediately suspicious. I open it first. It has a picture of a silhouetted couple entwined on the front and inside there’s a folded piece of paper.

  Be careful.

  x

  I refold the note and replace it in the card, in its envelope, and tuck it in beside the torn letter on my bookshelves. I’m not going to let this upset me.

  31

  Laura

  SATURDAY. MY BIRTHDAY. I meet mum outside foyles at Waterloo station and we walk along Southbank to the Tate Modern. Over lunch in the restaurant she gives me a card with fifty quid tucked inside.

  ‘Spend it on something fun,’ she says.

  The last time I had fun was at the work Christmas party. Life has not been fun since. I thank her with a kiss and a hug.

  ‘So how have you been?’ she asks. ‘No relapse?’

  ‘No. I’m fine. Well, perhaps not fine. I’ve chucked in the job.’

  Mum’s reaction to unsettling news from her children is always the same. She silently processes it, looking at it from all angles, searching for the positive. This time she doesn’t find one.

  ‘Was that a good idea? I thought you loved it there.’

  I shrug, picking at a bit of salad. ‘I did.’

  ‘So?’ She waits, her head tilted. ‘Was it the people? The work?’

  ‘The people. A person. I don’t want to talk about it.’

  ‘But, you should—’

  I interrupt. ‘I spoke to Dad this morning.’

  ‘Oh good. I’m glad he remembered his daughter’s birthday. How is he?’

  ‘Fine. No dramas.’

  Mum waits, and then leans back in her chair and looks out of the window. I follow her gaze to the dome of St Paul’s. ‘I’m worried about you, Laura.’

  ‘You needn’t be. I’m OK.’

  ‘Are you getting out at all? Seeing anyone? What are you doing tonight?’

  ‘Yes. Not at the moment. And I’m going to my neighbours’ for supper.’

  She isn’t reassured. ‘I just want you to be happy.’

  I smile. ‘That’s because you’re m
y mum. I’m happy sometimes, and sometimes I’m not, like most people. I’d like to be happier, and maybe once I’ve left Gunner Munro, that will happen.’

  ‘Do you meet any men?’

  ‘Yes! Well, not in the way you’d like.’ I decide to give her something to make her feel better, something to take home. I hate the thought of her picturing me alone in my flat, snacking on cereal, glued to the telly. It’s too accurate. ‘There’s a bloke at work who keeps asking me out, but I haven’t said yes yet.’

  She looks so hopeful, it hurts. ‘You’re going to though, aren’t you? You should give him a chance. Unless he’s really horrible. Is he?’

  ‘You sound like Eddie. There’s nothing wrong with him. He’s nice. It’s just that I don’t have the energy right now.’

  ‘Oh, Laura, for heaven’s sake. You’d better find some, otherwise someone else will get her mitts on him.’

  We talk about other things for a while; about Mark and Isabel and her grandchildren mostly, but, being Mum, she can’t contain herself for long and, as we stand up and gather our belongings, she asks in a laughably nonchalant way:

  ‘So, what’s his name?’

  If I tell her, she’ll keep asking about him, and something that is nothing will gather strength and meaning. When I think his name, something happens, something that tells me he has got under my skin.

  ‘You’ll be the first to know.’

  Phoebe and Elliot have extended the table that sits in the window of their front room and pushed the sofa and armchair back. There are candles on the mantelpiece and dotted around the room; a row of tea lights on the mahogany coffee table. We squash on to the sofa and armchair for pre-supper drinks, with Elliot perched on the arm of the sofa and Phoebe arranged on a cushion on the floor, from which she uncurls every few minutes to check on the food. The only other light is from a standard lamp in the corner. It makes the place feel less like a rental and more grown-up. There is no sign of baby paraphernalia; not a single book or toy.

  I hold back, as I always do in these situations, waiting until I’m comfortable with who everyone is, until their hair and clothes become linked in my mind with their names. There are seven of us; our hosts, two couples and me. The couples are called Cathy and Rob, and Louisa and Joe. The three women are dissimilar enough for it to be easy. There’s Phoebe with her straightened brown hair, Cathy wearing hers in a loose chignon from which strands artfully escape, and Louisa wears glasses and has a fringe. Joe has brown hair, brushed back from his face, Elliot is wearing his stripy shirt, and Rob is greying.

  ‘So, what do you do, Laura?’ Cathy asks.

  The talk round the table has been about houses so far; who is buying, who is renting and what their prospects are. I’ve admitted to owning the flat above, with a large mortgage, having been helped with a deposit by my grandmother.

  ‘I work in advertising. I’m an art director.’

  Joe, who is sitting diagonally opposite me, leans forward, holding his glass. ‘We’ve met before,’ he says.

  I rapidly scan his hair and clothes, but, as far as I can tell, I’ve never seen him before in my life. Not that that means anything. I only hope that if we have met, it was so long ago that I can be forgiven for forgetting. A blush creeps up my neck and I give silent thanks to Phoebe for dimming the lights.

  ‘You do seem familiar,’ I say, as my heart sinks. I thought I would be safe tonight. ‘Where did we meet?’

  ‘At Gunner Munro. I work in advertising too.’

  ‘Oh. Right. Yes, Phoebe mentioned that.’ Under the table I scratch my fingers.

  ‘We met when I came for an interview. About four months ago?’

  That would have been the same time Guy and Jamie were applying. But I don’t say that.

  ‘David Gunner brought me into your office to meet you and your partner. Eddie isn’t it?’

  If David likes a job applicant, he’ll give them a tour of the building. It’s a way of drawing them out. People often say things they haven’t planned to when they’re released from the interview environment, especially when David is piling on the charm. I cover up an involuntary grimace by coughing into my napkin.

  Joe persists. ‘We talked about coffee. You were doing drawings for Mocca Smooth.’

  It rings a bell, but I shrug and shake my head. I’m beginning to feel uncomfortable; cornered into becoming defensive. Everyone is watching me.

  ‘You had long hair and you were wearing glasses – that’s why I didn’t recognize you straight away. I didn’t get the job – probably because I’m unmemorable.’

  He laughs to show that he doesn’t mean it, but it leaves an unpleasant taste in the atmosphere. I feel resentful; even without my condition I would be justified in forgetting one job applicant out of the many that pass through our doors.

  ‘Of course you aren’t, darling,’ his wife says, giving me a dirty look.

  ‘We met outside,’ he says. ‘We sat on the tube and talked.’

  Ah. I do remember. It was summer, and he was wearing a paisley shirt, so that when he spoke to me I had no trouble connecting him with the young man David had introduced to me and Eddie.

  ‘I’m with you now,’ I say. ‘Where did you find a job in the end?’

  He name-checks one of the big beasts.

  ‘I’m impressed.’

  He preens at that, and I feel forgiven. And relieved when he turns to talk to Phoebe.

  Phoebe clears the plates and brings out the main course: chicken Kiev and mash. We drink and talk, but as the evening wears on and people relax, they slip into the habit of talking about what they have in common. Their babies. They compare photographs on their phones and I play with the idea of telling them that all their babies look exactly the same to me, and that their parents do too. If I cut out their hair and the clothes they’re wearing, those oval spaces with the eyes, noses and mouths have little to distinguish them. Humans without identifying characteristics are like rabbits in a field, fish in the sea. I try to join in but, bar the odd anecdote about my nephews and nieces, I don’t know much about babies. I can’t stop thinking about the card. Yesterday evening, alone in my flat, it scared me. David’s terse message reeked of suppressed anger. In the cold light of day, I told myself not to worry. That if that is how he chooses to lash out, I’m in no danger. Tonight though, right now, the bad feelings are coming back.

  I look round the table, at the flushed faces and sparkling eyes. The wine and conversation flows. Louisa recounts an incident in the playground when her daughter proposed marriage to a little boy with the biggest brown eyes she has ever seen. He burst into tears and ran to his mum.

  ‘The thing is,’ Rob says. ‘Cathy proposed to me, so it’s obviously genetic.’

  ‘I’m sure Darwin said something about that,’ Elliot says. ‘Females want to mate with the alpha male and cut out their rivals.’

  He leans towards me and murmurs, ‘We must be boring the pants off you.’

  I smile although his choice of words couldn’t have been worse. ‘Don’t be silly. I don’t mind at all.’

  ‘Liar. So, how’s work?’

  ‘I’ve resigned.’

  He looks wrong-footed. ‘Is that a good or a bad thing?’

  ‘Ask me in three months’ time and I’ll tell you.’

  ‘Resigned?’ Phoebe must have sharp hearing. ‘Why’ve you done that?’

  ‘I felt it was time for a change,’ I say. ‘I’ve started applying to other agencies. I’ll be fine.’ I glance at Joe. ‘You never know, I might be coming to you for a job.’

  Phoebe opens her eyes wide, as though she’s trying to signal to me that she cares. She just looks pissed.

  ‘My last project is to organize a launch party for a big campaign. It’s going to be my swansong.’

  ‘Well, that sounds positive,’ Joe says. ‘I’m sure you’ll be snapped up.’

  This sentiment is echoed by the others, then they resume their conversations. Only Elliot looks concerned. Perhaps I imagined that he
had a problem with me. Maybe I caught him on a bad day. I don’t want to talk about what happened, so I tell him that I’ve booked a band from round here: Red Wing.

  ‘Really? Fantastic!’

  ‘Have you heard of them then?’

  ‘Yeah. They’ve played at the Fiddler’s Elbow a couple of times. I like their mix of American folk and Street.’ He waves to get Phoebe’s attention. ‘Hey, babes. Laura’s got Red Wing playing at her do.’

  ‘Oh wow. I love them. God, I so miss live music. That’s one of the hardest things about babies. You can’t go out on a whim. It costs fifty quid before we’ve even left the flat. When did we last see a live band?’

  ‘You know I’ll babysit anytime,’ I say, delighted to be able to repay Phoebe in some measure. ‘You only have to ask. I’d love to do it. And, listen, why don’t you come to the party?’

  ‘Wouldn’t people think it was odd?’ Phoebe says.

  ‘It’ll be packed out, so no one will even notice. And anyway, I’m leaving, so I don’t give a shit.’

  ‘Way to go, Laura,’ Elliot whoops.

  I blush.

  ‘Harriet could have Noah for the night,’ Phoebe says, appealing to Elliot. She turns to me. ‘I’m the designated babysitter for when my sister goes into labour, so I reckon she owes me.’ She chews her bottom lip. ‘It’s tempting.’

  ‘I’ll put you on the invitation list, then you can make your minds up. And if anyone wants to know who you are, you are an in-demand hair-and-make-up artist to the stars and Elliot …’ I turn to him. ‘Who shall I say you are?’

  ‘An expert in digital marketing. Which is true.’ He gives me an almost imperceptible nod. ‘This is really good of you, Laura. I had you down wrong.’

  ‘Did you? What did you have me down as?’

  ‘You got me there. I don’t know, maybe a little aloof.’

  ‘Aloof?’

  ‘Good word isn’t it. A-Loof. Not easy to approach.’

  ‘Ah. Well, you know how it is? You have to check the neighbour isn’t a nutter before you get to know them.’

  ‘Touché.’

  I smile. ‘Look, I know that you think I’m off my trolley.’ I realize I’m fingering the ends of my hair and drop my hand to my lap. ‘You’re worried I’m going to be clingy with Phoebe …’