My phone is on silent but it vibrates with a text. I take it out of my bag and read the message. It’s from Will: ‘I miss you. Can we sort this out?’ Perhaps there really is something to David’s magical thinking, his thoughts crossing the ether to conjure people up. I hold up the phone, scanning the text and trying to read layers of meaning into Will’s few words before I have to delete them, when I accidentally click on the camera option. In frame is a perfect shot of David sitting behind the clutter of his habit. He goes in for another line. I take several silent shots.
David cleans the mirror with his finger and licks the powder, rubbing what’s left on his red gums, then he puts all the equipment back in the drawer before locking it again. He looks at me and pinches his nose clean, sniffing a couple of times. There must have been some coke left on his fingers as he’s wiped a strip of white up his cheek, and has left a small rim of dust around one nostril.
‘For God’s sake,’ he says, ‘get yourself cleaned up.’
I go to reach for a tissue from the box on his desk, then stop myself and stand staring at him instead.
‘Rachel,’ he says. ‘Get a move on. I need to prepare.’ He shuffles through his papers. ‘What’s the matter with you? Take a shower or something.’
I wonder if he’ll notice what’s on his face before the meeting, and decide to leave it to fate.
In the bathroom, I wash my face and brush my hair. The strands fall in thick curls down my back. I’ve worn this same style – loose and long – ever since I was a girl and it never lets me down; every man I’ve ever met has fallen in love with my hair. The reality of the real woman underneath is a more complicated proposition. There’s been little point to make-up recently, but no one is used to me looking undone, so if only to stop the cautious stares I put on mascara and lipstick, and dot some red circles on my cheeks. Before I spread the rouge up my cheekbone, in the mirror I see a little girl who’s raided her mum’s make-up bag.
Through the wall comes the noise of the clients filing into the meeting room, and Kelly chatting as she pours coffee from the big silver pot which sits at the centre of the table. No one drinks tea any more. I open the door from the bathroom into David’s office and he stands facing me, holding out his folder, his eyebrows raised and the white powder gone from his cheek but still on his nose.
‘What the fuck is this?’ he says in a low voice so as not to be heard through the walls. He wafts the papers up and down. ‘This is a mess, Rachel. You’ve left me totally unprepared for this meeting. Since you’ve failed at being a wife, the least you could do is live up to being my partner.’ And he turns and walks out the door.
We enter the meeting room together and shake hands, making pleasantries about the weather, the pastries, David’s squash match he played in which Ian James, the MD of Great Willow Films, was the victor.
‘Hey, guys, Ian, it’s so great to see you,’ David says as he holds Mr James’s hand for longer than the others’ and guides him to his seat. ‘Cassandra, Tanish. Thanks so much for coming in. We really appreciate you squeezing us into your busy schedule.’
Ian James sits down, smoothing both sides of his thick, greying hair with flat palms. Unusual, I think, for a man of his age to have so much hair. His colleagues sit on either side of him and across the table from us, their eyebrows raised. Then they look down. The younger man inadvertently pinches and rubs his nose, and repeats the action with a handkerchief. I watch David stroking down his shirt front and opening his folder, keeping his panic over my lack of preparation well hidden. He shuffles through the papers to find the relevant document, all the time relying on his presence to fill the room, but I can tell he’s ruffled.
‘So, guys.’ David relaxes back in the chair and uses his arms to emphasize his words, sweeping his hand through his hair and smiling, everything but touch his face which would demonstrate weakness or fear. ‘I think you know how excited we are to have you on board, and I’m more than confident that we can fulfil your existing commitments.’ His smile is reassuring and warm. ‘After the merger, we can start the process of combining your talent with our own company brand. You will of course retain autonomy over your productions, but we hope over time to unify our vision. In the meantime, you’ll be under the safe umbrella of our name.’
The clients won’t hold eye contact, their voices are low and rushed, and they gulp their coffee. In some circles of the film industry we would probably be chopping out the coke on the table between us, but we’re not at the groovy end, we are suburbia. Ian James is known for being corporate and conservative, and for many years it’s served him well, until recently when his fustiness has rubbed off on Great Willow’s output. Even though his company desperately needs an update, David’s 8.00 a.m. habit is clearly too radical. David fidgets in his chair, recalibrating his posture, aware of something chipping at the atmosphere. He widens the span of his arms, shows more of his teeth through his smile, and employs the best of his techniques to draw in the clients. I watch the theatre of his body, which I’ve seen so many times; David’s talent for feigning greater ease and confidence in an accelerating crisis. This deal could mean a lot to us and the closer David gets, the more he wants to win, especially as he’s under the impression that we’re doing Great Willow a favour by taking on their ailing business. A light shine breaks out above David’s top lip.
‘All we need now is for you to sign off on the initial agreement and we can proceed with the first stage of the union.’ He swivels the paper round to face the clients and places a pen on top, then sees he’s put the wrong document forward. He shuffles through to find the correct one, puts it back in place for the clients, and reaches to pour himself a coffee.
A few stretched seconds pass where no one speaks. Great Willow look at one another. Mr James leans forward on his elbows and clasps his hands together in front of him, forming a V-shape with his arms on the table. His head is bowed at first, then he lifts it to David and looks at him properly for the first time.
‘We have one other production company to speak to,’ Mr James says. ‘They’re still preparing their proposal and should have it with us by next week. We’d like to wait until then. I hope you understand. We need to make sure our unique formula is competently handled.’
David leans forward and mimics the other man’s shape on the table. Their eyes are centimetres apart.
‘Right,’ says David, ‘I’d been under the impression this was a single bid. Of course, we’re perfectly comfortable as we are with our existing output.’ Another pause. He relaxes back into his chair for a final change of tactic. ‘But with friends who share our vision, joining forces would make both our brands market leaders.’
David shuts his mouth and breathes a short snort. A speck of white falls from his face and on to his dark trouser leg. His eyes rest on the powder.
‘As I said,’ Ian leans back and begins to pack away his papers, ‘we need to look at all of our options. We want to know we are in reliable hands.’
Great Willow get up, stretching across the table for more handshakes, then leave the room, closing the door softly behind them. We hear rapid breathy whispers through the door panel, followed by the speedy tap of shoes on metal as they descend the staircase. David remains in position, eyes staring straight ahead. He turns to me as I move the wheels of my chair away from him.
‘That was a done deal,’ David says. ‘They were going to sign off today. You should have had the paperwork in order.’ His voice is soft and slow but his nostrils are flared. He gets a tissue and wipes his nose gently.
I let out a small incredulous laugh. ‘Their decision was nothing to do with the paperwork, David.’
He stares at me in silence for a few seconds, his body motionless and his eyes unwavering from mine. ‘I have no idea what you’re talking about.’
In a few years, the time we’ve been together will make up more than half my life, and our familiarity is like that of conjoined twins fighting over shared organs. I know David so well that I unde
rstand it’s easier for us both to blame me than for David to accept his own culpability. And the bigger problem isn’t the loss of business or the damage to his integrity, it’s that someone has seen beyond the sheen of business and peered into his personal world. They may as well have tiptoed round him while he was sleeping, sipped the water at his bedside and lifted the covers.
He slides a hand along my thigh to above my hemline and takes a chunk of my flesh in his grip. He squeezes. Hard. I take the pain with a sharp gasp. Twisted at an angle to him, I don’t dare move further away but stare instead at the grey textured wall. David releases his hand.
‘Again,’ I whisper without looking at him.
‘What did you say?’
I turn but my eyes won’t lift past his feet. ‘I want you to do that again.’
‘You’re losing your fucking mind, Rachel,’ he says. He stands and strides from the room, closing the door behind him.
On the table is a pen holder with several ballpoints and pencils stacked inside. The writing tools have our company logo printed along their sides. I take one of the freshly sharpened pencils and lift my skirt to expose my upper thigh. With the pointed lead, I poke the end of the pencil into my flesh. A bubble of fresh blood leaps out and runs down on to the chair. I grab a tissue to mop up the spill then hold the paper against my skin until the flow stops.
In front of me the surface of the wall is like washed-out tarmac. I place my palm on the rough finish. It’s the only thing holding me down.
11
HUNGRY DOGS
‘I’m sure it’s in here somewhere,’ I tell the man behind the counter at the petrol station. He sighs. A queue is forming at my back as I go through my handbag one more time, the gritty bits of dead biscuits gathering under my nails. So many old receipts and tissues. My wallet is in my bag, but the slots where the credit cards used to be are empty. In the coin section is 23p. Finally I give up. ‘I’m really sorry, I don’t have any cash or cards on me. I’ll have to leave you my address or something. What’s the procedure?’
Behind me a man holding a large bottle of Coke says in a loud voice, ‘Bloody hell.’ A woman tuts and her toddler screeches as she pulls him away from the oasis of sweets displayed at child height.
The assistant takes a breath. He stares at me and breathes out slowly through his nose. ‘You’ll have to stand to one side while I clear the queue. I’ll get the manager.’ He rings a loud buzzer and speaks into an intercom. ‘Manager assistance required at the till.’ The tannoy beams across the shop and forecourt. I wait to one side as each customer reaches the till. Only the harassed mother tweaks me a smile.
This public shaming is the latest lesson from David. He doesn’t know where or when the event will happen, and he won’t be able to be a witness, but the thought of my humiliation will give him immense pleasure; a tit for his tat in front of Great Willow.
In the couple of days since that meeting at the office, a bright rage has flared between us.
‘You’d be no one without me,’ David says. ‘You have no friends, no family. And I’d make sure you got nothing if you left.’
I know there are other jobs but David and our partnership is all I’ve ever known; without him I’d go back to being lost. I’d rather walk away with nothing than face the weeks of wrangling in front of his wall of lawyers, but then nothing is all I’d ever have.
At home we scuttle round each other, choosing alternate time zones, inhabiting separate beds and bathrooms, passing occasionally in the hall as one goes out and the other comes home, tag-teaming our baton of hate. Yesterday as I unbuttoned my jacket I caught David’s eye in the mirror and watched the judgement slide over his features. He watched my reflection, not wanting to infect himself with direct eye contact, the world of opposites more tolerable, and my composure fractured momentarily. I imagined he could see through my skin to where my body is liquid, and to the rot which I know started long before the accident or before David came on the scene.
The pain in my stomach and back increases as I absorb David’s venom, and with each attack I grow a step closer to the dead man, and the life I took away. Alex clearly wrote the man off as a simpleton, but the shopkeeper said he’d spent most of his life in institutions. Or was it that he’d been a musician? Living in a caravan is a long way to fall if he’d had such a stellar career, but then being incarcerated would explain why he endlessly walked the roads with no obvious destination, as if by the simple act of putting one foot in front of the other he was exercising his liberty. Most of all though I’m intrigued by what he was hiding, or hiding from. Instinctively I sense that by coming to know the real man – aside of all the Chinese whispers – and the place where he lived and died, an answer will be offered for both of us.
I fill out my contact details on a form at the petrol station, and they ask me to leave something of value. In my jacket pocket is the watch. I put it there this morning – not in my bag, thankfully, or David would have found it when he took my cards. Every day since the accident I’ve wound it and changed its hiding place at night, stashing it where David is least likely to look: the fridge, the ironing basket, the cleaner’s box of chemicals. My habitual secrecy also ensured that I didn’t waste any time the other day when I got home from work. David was working late as usual, so on the home computer I created a new email address and sent across all the information I’d downloaded at the office before destroying the disk and my browsing history. The photos of David taking coke went to the same place before I deleted them from my phone. A treasure trove of spite if ever I were daring. And if David one day decides to cash in the hoard he holds on me, at least I’ll have some counter ammunition. I’ve always been careful, but in future I’ll not be able to take chances unless I want to face the consequences.
I clasp the watch tight and leave it in my pocket, deciding instead to give the garage my wedding ring along with David’s mobile number.
I’d left work early today with the intention of driving to Blackthorn Lane, but with the delay at the garage it’s already 4.30 and starting to get dark. Back in my car, I drive fast and turn into a rudimentary car park, the closest point to where I’d spied the caravan which Alex said belonged to the homeless man. The homeless man who it turns out had a home. He was nearly there when he died and for a while lay on familiar ground. To die nameless and unloved is tragic, but to be apart from everything that mattered would be worse. After I read the article at Mum’s house about the discovery of the body, I ordered a new remote for our TV at home, and I pick up local news when I can. I know that the police haven’t yet identified the man or made the connection to the caravan, but it won’t be long before they do. So before all this land is divided up to make way for new homes, I have a brief opportunity to stand in his shoes and experience what he knew, maybe discover something of his past and go some way to settle with him. Perhaps this way he can be rescued from rumour or anonymity.
The car park is empty aside from an unmanned digger in one corner. It waits for the go-ahead on Alex’s development, the plans paused while Forensics conducted their search of the wider area. ‘Terrible business,’ Alex said when I saw him interviewed on the local news. ‘We’ll do everything in our power to assist the police in their inquiries. Of course the project is on hold. You can’t put a value on a man’s life.’
The trees prepare for their winter sleep, unaware of the threats that money and progress will bring, so in a roundabout way I’ve given this land and the activists a brief respite.
My car judders across the car park, over stones and into potholes, and an icy grit spatters the side windows. Soon it will be dark, but I don’t intend to be long, and park on the opposite side from the lone street light in the clearing. There’s no phone signal here so I’ll have a break from the usual assault of texts – David’s preferred mode of communication now that verbal exchanges between us have become so limited.
I know this place as David used to walk the dogs here, and in the past I came too, if we were having a
good day. I’d grab these small holidays from his temper and judgement when they presented themselves, the respite a tantalizing view into what our marriage could have been. David would take down his guard at the end of an extended period of difficulties, usually the point at which I was close to walking out, and he’d offer me the empathetic loving man I’d so long desired. He’d keep it up long enough for me to relax, and the possibility of a loving relationship was enough to make me stay. It’s always easier to stay. I wonder if I could be fooled by his charm again.
Traditionally other factors have kept us going: sex, the house, money. Work. If we separated, David would fight me to the end for control of the business; the empire we’ve built together, which has David’s name stamped on all the legal documentation. I’ve always bent to his reasoning, whatever it was at the time. He knew all about pre-nups before anyone else had even heard of them. Walking away from the house, with its chiselled luxury that sets order in my mind, wouldn’t be easy. But if I lost it all and David relocated me to some festering little one-bed, his bile would continue and probably even grow, enduring out of spite from his failure to keep me in line. So I’d rather be present with a level of control than be the enemy.
The dusk is overcast but dry, the air freezing. A solo bird sings in a leafless tree. I get out of the car and lock the door then find the track into the undergrowth. The path stretches past dilapidated, ivy-clad farm buildings and into the acres of woods. Some of the trees are ancient but many have sprung up since this land was last used. The route branches and disappears, following the thrill of dogs chasing rabbits, and I walk for ten minutes to where I think the caravan will be. There, at a grand horse chestnut with frayed nylon rope-swing, I peer north into the trees and see the home of the man I killed.
The Liar’s Chair Page 11
