by Alison Bruce
MONDAY, 28 MARCH 2011
On the edge of Cambridge city centre another girl, older than Kaye, bent her head into the wind. It gusted round her face, tugging at strands of her hair and whipping them against her fleshless cheeks. It rushed past the traffic queuing at the lights by the war memorial, snatching up a crisp packet and sending it dancing in spirals between the cars, to land eventually in the gutter below the bronze soldier on his plinth. He was clearly returning from war, helmet in hand and his belongings slung over one shoulder, striding out and portrayed as hopeful and victorious.
Unscarred by violence.
Lucky him.
The statue stood in the centre of the T-junction where Station Road met Hills Road. The three converging routes originated from the railway station, the city centre and the main commuter route from London and the M11.
A row of shops, cafés and wine bars occupied one corner while the other two were overlooked by low-rise offices. In the past she’d tried each of the eateries. All but one she immediately knew were wrong, they’d been too small, too open to the road, with tables exposed to every other customer.
The clientele of the Great Northern bothered her: they all seemed neat, corporate types and made her feel conspicuous. But the view from the window was ideal so she tried the bar in any case and then spent an uncomfortable hour with the feeling that the staff viewed her business as inadequate.
Every day since she’d gone to one of the two pubs located on the London side of the junction.
Now the only other pedestrians had their heads down and hurried on, it wasn’t the day for hanging round, or eye contact. She noticed that even when people walked together nobody spoke.
‘Too cold to be outside,’ she mumbled, then pursed her lips and pinched them between her teeth. Stupid, stupid thing to say.
She pushed open the street door and hurried into the Flying Pig.
She needed to eat and studied the menu card on the bar. She already knew it by heart and on the occasions she ordered food she always chose a cheese and tomato baguette. She pretended to look at the list of sandwiches and used the time to focus on looking and sounding in control.
She stared at the words on the menu until they blurred and her cheeks puckered with queasiness.
Concentrate, she scolded herself, and scowled at the card for a few seconds more.
At the Flying Pig, Justine had spent fourteen years cultivating and maintaining an atmosphere that was a cocktail of traditional pub, bohemian hang-out and eccentric front room. She had a loyal clientele and simultaneously managed to make anyone else feel welcome, from their first visit. She still looked up when the door opened, smiled warmly as she chatted, and her enthusiasm for the business still outshone the trials of running it. As long as customers respected her pub, who they were, how they behaved and what they looked like was irrelevant.
But, of course, once in a while there had to be an exception.
Justine was sitting just outside the door that led from the bar to the stockroom. She’d been halfway through a pre-lunch break, and was using the free time to phone through to her bank. She’d been on hold now for ten minutes, and apparently her call was still ‘important’. She was also ‘next in line’ but she hung up when she saw the woman arrive.
Justine didn’t hurry to serve her but busied herself with sorting the condiment sets while the young woman picked up a menu, holding it artificially high in front of her face and looking like someone trying too hard to appear to be actually reading it.
Justine produced one of her best glowing smiles. ‘Coffee or tea today?’ she asked.
‘Coffee, please.’
‘Mug, isn’t it?’
‘Yes, thanks.’ The woman’s voice sounded dull and no hint of recognition showed in those hollow eyes. After paying, she sat down by the window, just cupping her mug of coffee as though warming her hands, not drinking it.
Justine continued to rearrange the condiments sets, hoping this made her look as if she was preparing for the lunchtime rush, but really watching and pondering on the lone woman. When she’d first started coming to the café, Justine had silently bet herself ten quid that she could make her smile. Now she couldn’t even remember exactly when that was, but it had to be at least two years ago – maybe three.
Justine had since nicknamed her Greta, and the customer seldom missed a day, hardly ate and rarely spoke. But her routine was always the same. She would come in at a quarter to twelve, buy a drink – usually coffee – and sometimes a baguette, and then sit by the window.
And, in all that time, Justine had never seen her smile.
Justine positioned herself so that she could see Greta’s reflection in the mirror behind the optics. Today, she decided, she looked particularly uptight.
The first time, she’d been the same, and had chosen to sit at the window table in the corner. She’d waited specially for it to be vacated, even though other tables were free and then, after just a few minutes, another couple had attempted to occupy two of its three empty seats.
‘Are these taken?’
Looking them straight in the eyes, she’d replied stonily, ‘I want to be alone.’
That’s when Justine nicknamed her Greta – after Greta Garbo.
Justine finally turned and snatched a direct glimpse at her. Perhaps she’s ill? she wondered.
Greta raised the mug as if to sip coffee but lowered it again immediately then turned to operate the jukebox mounted on the pillar behind her.
Justine answered her own question as Greta’s current favourite track began to play. Nope, same old same old.
Every day Greta selected a record, sometimes playing it several times, but each day she’d choose the same one. Same one every day for weeks, until a different one caught her fancy. This was week three of her current choice.
It had been a long time since any patron had stirred Justine’s curiosity the way Greta did. She would focus her attention on the new customers arriving, but continued to wonder who Greta really was and what had gone so very wrong in her life.
Greta watched the Station Road/Hills Road junction and let the warmth of the coffee and the mellow rhythm and blues soothe her. She didn’t want to throw up again.
She ran her hand along the rounded edge of the dark wood table. Relax. You can cope. Keep calm. Keep calm. She’d been feeling better recently. Thinking about that girl’s face must have caused the upset. That girl who looked like her. Greta hated seeing her own features on someone else.
At exactly noon she checked her watch, then fixed her gaze on the tide of workers leaving Dunwold Insurance. As they flowed from the building, many were wearing only lightweight jackets and so hastened past the others towards the warmth of the wine bars and coffee shops. Her elbows dug into the table as she tilted forward, her head closer to the glass.
At two minutes past twelve she caught sight of him, carrying a folded umbrella but strolling along as if it was summer. He paused for a beat as he waited for a slim girl who lagged behind him, fiddling with the catch on her handbag. So he was still with Paulette. Greta could just pick out her features: milky skin, fair hair and large almond-shaped eyes.
She didn’t know the colour, but guessed blue. Like her own.
Paulette curled her arm through his and they walked in step, heading away from the window and out of sight.
Greta sagged back into her seat and frowned as she mulled things over. Paulette resembles me – and so did the last one. What does Paulette have that I don’t? He obviously wants women that look alike. She gnawed her lip and stared into her coffee. But not me.
She turned her face into the cold as she left the Flying Pig, crossed over to the newsagent’s, and bought the first edition of the Cambridge News. She glanced at the front-page photo but quickly turned her gaze away, clutching the newspaper under her arm and determined not to read it in the street.
She fell into a jog down Hills Road, dodging the shoppers, and ran across Gonville Place, weaving through a muddle of cars and cyclists be
fore scurrying into the nearest cubicle of the female public toilets. There she slumped against the partition wall, resting heavily on one shoulder, and raised the newspaper in both hands.
She scanned the accompanying article, picking out the key phrases and searching for a sign, but her instinct told her, they still have no idea.
Finally she drew a small pair of scissors from her inside pocket, letting the inner pages slide to the floor, as she carefully cut Kaye’s picture from page one, before she folded it neatly and slipped it inside her jacket.
She paused for a moment to stare into the polished stainless steel that served as a mirror. Her reflection stared back at her like the face of a woman she recognized but no longer knew. Helen looked like you, Kaye looks like you. She turned away from her reflected image and whispered, ‘But you’re alive.’
CHAPTER 7
MONDAY, 28 MARCH 2011
Pete Walsh called to Paulette as she again paused to fumble with the catch on her handbag. ‘I know we’ve got an extra half hour for lunch today but can’t you hurry up? It’s freezing out here.’
‘My bag keeps coming open.’ Paulette scowled as she strained to twist the clasp shut.
‘Why didn’t you fix it when we were still inside?’ He stopped and waited for her to catch up.
‘For God’s sake, Pete, be patient.’ She managed to persuade it to stay in place this time. ‘There we go … And you don’t look that cold anyway.’
He turned towards the town again as she fell into step and slipped her arm through his. ‘Everybody’s cold. It’s winter.’
‘No it’s spring, and I’m not cold,’ she began, and Pete dragged in a deep breath before expelling it as a weighty sigh. ‘You keep me warm,’ she continued, and wrapped her fingers around his sleeve, tilting her head to rest against his shoulder.
He gave her the flash of a smile. ‘Where do you want to go?’
‘I don’t mind.’ She shrugged. ‘There’s a new pizza place up on the corner.’
‘Really?’ He sounded surprised.
‘Well, no – not if you don’t want to.’ She shrugged again.
‘I don’t think it looks much, but if that’s where you fancy …’
‘No, I really don’t mind. That was just the first place I thought of. We can go somewhere else.’ But Paulette couldn’t think of anywhere. ‘You choose.’
‘Prêt à Manger maybe? Then I can check out the CDs in HMV.’
‘That’s, like, a mile and a half.’
‘No, it actually is a mile and a half.’
‘Right.’ Paulette withdrew her hand from his arm and sank it into her pocket. ‘I get really bored in there.’
‘Oh, come on, we’ll have a brisk walk and I’ll spend ten minutes maximum.’ He grinned again and gave her a sudden hug. ‘Is just ten minutes OK?’
Her mood evaporated. ‘Charmer!’
‘Great, we’ll go there first, then we’ve got the rest of lunchtime to ourselves.’
Paulette checked her watch as Pete began flicking through the CDs. It was now 12.26 p.m. She hung close beside him for the first few minutes, waiting for him to chat to her. Eventually he paused to inspect a Corrs disc.
‘They’re not your type,’ she joked.
He didn’t even reply.
She pulled the case from his hand. ‘OK, then, which one do you fancy most?’
He held out his hand for it, but she kept it out of reach. ‘Oh, I don’t know,’ he conceded.
He turned back to carry on looking through some other CDs, and Paulette dropped it back into its slot.
Pete lifted it back out. ‘The singer’s attractive, very sultry.’
‘Would it suit me to have my hair done that colour?’
‘I don’t know. I think you’d look ill. Anyway she’s a celebrity.’
‘And what’s that supposed to mean?’
‘Nothing, except she’s going to look more glamorous.’
‘I can look glamorous.’
‘I never said you couldn’t. What is your problem, anyway? She’s attractive but I don’t fancy her. And so what if I did – do you really feel threatened by someone’s photo?’
‘No, of course not.’
‘You’re getting jealous again.’
‘No, I’m not.’ Paulette checked her watch again:12.30 p.m. ‘Can we go?’
‘In a minute.’ He again turned his back on her and began browsing the next section.
‘Well, I’ll be over by the magazines,’ she snapped. ‘I don’t need to waste my lunch hour like this.’
The magazine rack was loaded with music and fashion titles, and Paulette picked up the latest issue of Red and turned to the article she’d already noticed in her own copy. She held the magazine as though she were reading it, but kept it tilted so that anyone nearby could see the bold title Single and Loving It!
She watched him go over to pay the cashier, but then, instead of coming across to her, he waited at the door. ‘Shit,’ she said, and a teenager looked up at her from the rack of games. She sauntered across to the cash desk and paid for the magazine.
‘Don’t worry about a bag.’
She rejoined Pete, who didn’t appear to notice the magazine rolled up in her hand, but began heading back towards Dunwold Insurance.
‘What about lunch?’ Paulette called after him, and then ran to catch up with him.
He kept on walking. ‘I’ve had a busy morning, and I was really looking forward to seeing you, but I didn’t need all of this hassle.’
Paulette tugged at his elbow. ‘I’m sorry.’
‘You’ve spoilt it.’
‘Please, Pete, I’m sorry, really I am. You took it the wrong way. I never meant to turn it into a big deal.’ She had to make him stop and listen to her. They had to sort this out before he got back to work. A lump had risen in her throat but, instead of fighting it, she let it turn to tears. ‘Please,’ she insisted.
He stopped and glared at her, and then his expression softened. ‘Paulette, you’re pretty and you’ve got a great smile, but you’ve also got to stop getting jealous all the time. I can’t cope with it. It isn’t what I want to deal with, and it’s become a big problem.’
‘I know.’ Paulette nodded. ‘I’m sorry.’ She stretched up and planted a soft kiss on his cheek. ‘Forgive me?’
He nodded. ‘OK.’
‘I’ll see you later, then?’
‘OK,’ he repeated. She held his hand tightly until she’d walked back into reception with him.
She trudged back to her own work, trying to identify the precise moment when their lunchtime had turned sour. She wondered why she felt as though she wasn’t good enough. She was more than good enough, and he just needed to realize it. She then tried to devise a plan from the furthest recesses of her mind. Something to make him put her back on a pedestal.
Any plan at all. But it was dark and hopeless, and she returned to work still churning the big question over and over: What if he leaves me?
For the rest of the afternoon, she counted away the minutes. Through the window she watched the traffic, and the school children swarming out of the buses.
School represented the great lie that there was more to life than talking on the phone and filling in forms. This job wasn’t the reason she’d taken Economics and English A-Levels, but Pete made it all worthwhile.
At 3.55 p.m. she swung away from her desk and threw down her telephone headset. She stretched her neck back, and watched the other girls still concentrating on their phone calls and terminals.
‘Drinks anyone?’ she called out.
She then stood at the sink to rinse their lunchtime mugs. Placing the last one on the draining board, she plunged her hands back into the grubby water. Cupping them together, she scooped some water from the washing-up bowl and watched it trickle through her fingers. Everything seemed to be slipping away from her.
Perhaps he’s tired of me. She shuddered. No, he wouldn’t have suggested a joint holiday if he planned to leave me. Or wou
ld he? Would he?
Returning to the desk, her gaze fell on her copy of Red. He himself wasn’t really immune to jealousy; no one was. ‘I’ll show him,’ she muttered, and thumbed quickly through the magazine, crumpling pages as she raced through it.
When she found the Issey Miyake aftershave advertisement, she tore out the scented strip, pulled up her jumper and rubbed it on her bare stomach.
CHAPTER 8
TUESDAY, 29 MARCH 2011
Goodhew lived in a small flat up in the roof of a townhouse facing on to Parker’s Piece. There were three storeys beneath his, plus a basement, and, although it had been almost a year since he’d discovered that he was the owner of the whole building, he had never felt inclined to substantially alter his living arrangements. The biggest change had been to create a study in the second-floor room that had once been his grandfather’s library. The rest of the building stood empty but, as Goodhew walked down the stairs, he still glanced through each open doorway.
He’d reached the first-floor landing just as he heard the letter box rattle. As he descended the final flight, he saw that his only item of mail today was a postcard. From twenty feet away, he could see that most of the picture on it was vivid blue sky.
He read the caption as he took the short walk to Parkside police station: ‘Cairns and The Great Barrier Reef’. He turned the card over and found that the note from his grandmother was typically brief. ‘You and your sister are very different propositions. This will be more work than holiday, and I might not get home till Christmas!’
His sister Debbie had recently turned twenty-five. She’d departed Cambridge with the intention of working her passage around the world, but once she’d made it as far as Australia she seemed to run out of momentum – and, more recently, money. His grandmother had felt this wasn’t the appropriate moment for handing over a large inheritance and, instead of doing so, had set off in an attempt to instil a degree of work ethic into Debbie.
