He began writing on the whiteboard. With every movement he made, the pen squeaked loudly.
‘Somebody needs to oil Edward,’ Rosie whispered, and she burst out laughing again.
‘I’m sorry, Edward,’ she said, her face reddening. Sometimes her drugs made her emotions feel more extreme. They were certainly doing it at that moment. She hadn’t experienced a sense of naughty fun for a long time, and she was getting carried away with it.
‘I think there’s a mouse in the room,’ James whispered back, as the squeaking continued. The giggling was contagious. Rosie watched as shoulders began to shake at the squeaking sound, but Edward appeared oblivious to its comedy potential. He glared at Rosie.
‘From the employer’s viewpoint, mental illness can be very disruptive to a business,’ he began. ‘As can maternity leave and bereavement. All of these situations place a long-term burden on a company and can create a lot of pressure around a post.’
Rosie’s giggling was stopped dead in its tracks. There was no doubt that he was alluding to her situation, even without mentioning her name. He was threatening her, reminding her that she was a burden on the company.
‘I’ll add one more, then we’ll take your ideas,’ Edward continued. ‘Insubordination.’
‘He’s scapegoating Neil now – this is outrageous,’ James said.
‘Challenging the authority of superiors is time-wasting and counter-productive.’
Rosie expected Neil to chip in with an Aye, but what if your boss is a wanker? comment, then remembered he’d left the room.
If she’d experienced some much-missed joy that morning, Rosie was now back in her dark place, worrying about the future, fearing for Sam’s security and embarrassed at her weakness after Liam died. Edward had put it in a nutshell; she was a burden. All the time she couldn’t get her head straight, she was excess baggage; to her company and her father. And for her son, she was a liability.
‘This is like the Hunger Games,’ James said quietly.
‘More like corporate genocide,’ said a woman who was sitting behind them. Rosie didn’t know her.
‘Fuck this!’ came a man’s voice. ‘Neil Jennings has got this right. I refuse to take part in this process.’
It was a grey-haired man who Rosie knew only vaguely. He was another with long service at the company. Redundancy would deal him a crushing blow at his time of life. He stormed out of the room.
‘And there you have it,’ Edward said, with a smirk. ‘Sometimes, during this process, people self-select. They actually volunteer for redundancy. It looks like we’re moving towards our 25% goal already.’
Chapter Nineteen
Edward’s exercise was every bit as demoralising as the ‘spanners in the works’ title suggested, and Rosie was worn out by the time the day came to a close at five o’clock. If there was one good thing about Edward Logan, it was that he always finished on time.
The day had been an uncomfortable mix of veiled threats, depressing future scenarios and a sense of apprehension about what was going to happen. According to the figures in the redundancy calculator that Edward had shown them on a PowerPoint slide, she could last for three months and just about pay off her outstanding debts. She didn’t think she had the mental resilience to cope with that stress.
‘Are you joining us for food tonight?’ Haylee asked.
‘I feel exhausted by everything. I’m going to check in with my dad and Sam and get an early night, I think,’ Rosie replied.
‘You sure?’ Haylee checked. ‘Only we reckon the best way to cope with this weekend is to get pissed in the bar and try to forget it’s happening.’
Rosie was in full agreement with this summary, but an evening fuelled by alcohol was out the question for her. She couldn’t risk the medication and alcohol cocktail, much as getting drunk would allow her to forget the whole sorry situation for a while. The noise was unpleasant too, the chat and laughter assaulting her ears. She needed some silence and stillness.
As people split off into groups and went their separate ways, Rosie saw that James was chatting to a group of friends from his office and took the opportunity to escape back to her room. She called her father, had a brief, monosyllabic chat with Sam, then switched off her phone, lay down on the bed and went to sleep in the dusky half-light.
She was shaken out of sleep by a tap at the door, gentle and unsure. Although her curtains were still open, it was dark and disorienting. She reached for her phone. It was past eight o’clock. She’d been out for almost three hours – no wonder she was hungry.
The tapping at the door continued.
‘Who is it?’ she asked, her throat dry, the words sticking.
‘It’s James. Are you okay? I noticed you didn’t go to the restaurant. Do you need anything?’
‘One moment,’ she replied. Her eyes felt like they were glued together, a strange sensation at that time of day. Rosie lifted herself off the bed and made for the mirror opposite. She wiped her eyes, shuffled her hair so it didn’t look like she’d been dragged through a hedge and then walked to the door. She opened it slowly.
‘Hi,’ James said, smiling.
‘Hi. I fell asleep,’ she replied, dazzled by the lighting in the corridor.
‘Do you want to sneak off somewhere quiet for some food? There’s a small bar on the other side of the conference centre. We’ll be able to get a bar meal there and avoid the riot that’s taking place in the restaurant.’
‘Is it bad?’ Rosie asked.
‘It’s like the last supper. They all think they’re losing their jobs, so they’re doing the only thing possible: getting pissed on the company expense account. Only Edward reminded them all that the allowance under company policy is only £12. I’m not sure that £12 is enough to drown your sorrows without having to subsidise the path to oblivion with your own money. Most of them seem past caring.’
‘It’s that bad, is it?’
‘What’s worse is that Edward Logan is sitting on his own at a single table. If he wasn’t such a complete dickhead, I might feel sorry for him.’
‘Poor old Edward,’ Rosie said, picturing him trying to maintain some dignity while the rest of the staff enjoyed a drink-fuelled riot on an adjacent table. ‘Who’d go into HR as a job? You’re supposed to be a friend, but you’re always the enemy. You’re meant to be caring and touchy-feely, but you’re there to save the company as much money as possible. It’s not a job I’d like.’
‘HR are the cockroaches of the corporate world,’ said James, like it was a subject he’d given some consideration to. ‘They’ll always be the last out of the building to turn off the lights.’
‘I’ll join you for that bar meal,’ Rosie said, her stomach grumbling. ‘I’ll need to stick with Edward’s £12 allowance though. From the sound of today’s presentations, redundancy may be a little closer than I’d like.’
Rosie took ten minutes to freshen up so she didn’t look like a woman who’d been asleep for three hours. Then she joined James out in the corridor at the pre-arranged time. He’d already checked out the second bar, and they managed to get there without being spotted by any of their colleagues. It was just what Rosie needed – a companion to make the evening pass quicker, without the mayhem of a large, drunken group.
Having taken her drugs, she was feeling confident for the evening ahead. Whenever she was with James, her anxiety subsided. She liked that about him.
They ordered bar meals and Rosie decided to risk one small glass of wine. Taken with food, she saw no harm in it. James was easy company, and before long, he’d once again managed to charm her away from her dark thoughts and back to a world of simple pleasures and quiet enjoyment. He never asked her about her past. He seemed content to deal with her in her present. That felt refreshing after so much time spent raking over the dead, grey ashes of what came before.
The conversation was steady and fun, fuelled by the glue of shared office experiences. No corporate stone was left unturned as they demolished their mea
ls and Rosie ventured a second glass of wine. After all, she was having fun; she deserved it, didn’t she?
James did an uncanny impersonation of Annabelle Reece-Norton. He captured her posh voice and haughtiness perfectly. Much as Rosie loved Annabelle, she almost wet herself laughing when James mimicked her talking about her beloved horses, and she had to excuse herself to visit the toilet. James even laughed at her reference to her struggling pelvic floor muscles; most men would have squirmed at the mention of such an indignity.
As Rosie checked herself in the bathroom mirror, she thought about what she was doing. If she ordered a third glass of wine, she was committing to a dangerous course of action. The mixture of alcohol and medication could be explosive. She was as likely to sink back into depression as she was to be buoyed by the move.
Fuck it! she thought. I deserve this.
She re-joined James at the table. He looked pleased to see her, as if he was enjoying the evening as much as she was, almost as if it was a date. She felt like an adult again. It had been a long time coming.
‘Hey, who’s this?’ James asked. ‘Whatevva! I’m just an intern. It don’t matter to me! You oldies are mingin’, talk to the hand, why don’t you?’
‘Let me guess,’ Rosie smiled. ‘That’s Mackenzie, isn’t it?’
The laughter and conversation continued and before she knew it, the conference centre staff were closing up the bar. James and Rosie got up from the table and began to walk back to their rooms. Encouraged by the evening, Rosie even took out her phone and re-installed Facebook, anxious to see what everybody else had been up to in the main restaurant.
‘There’s bound to be some gossip. There always is when everybody gets together.’
She placed her phone back in her bag, leaving it to install in its own time. There could be no distractions; she had plans for James that night, encouraged by the third glass of wine and a craving for close, physical contact.
As they arrived at the doors to their rooms, Rosie made her move.
‘I’ve enjoyed this evening,’ she said, nervous and out of practice at making an advance. ‘Would you like to come in for coffee or something?’
She knew she must be blushing as she blundered through her words, but she was certain James liked her and even if they just kissed, that would be fine; it was a start.
James’ face blanched, he looked immediately uncomfortable.
‘Oh, Rosie, I wasn’t after that. I enjoy your company…’
‘Oh no, I meant to come in for a coffee, really, that’s all I was suggesting.’
‘I’m sorry Rosie, I’m tired, I think we’re probably best calling it a night.’
‘Yes, of course, more boring nonsense from Edward tomorrow. Thanks for this evening.’
‘Yes, thanks. I enjoyed it, really I did.’
They entered their respective rooms in synchronised awkwardness. How could she have got it so wrong? Rosie was sure that James was flirting with her. Was she so out of practice that she’d lost her ability to read the situation?
She felt drunk and emotional. It was probably the medication. She’d been prepared to go all the way with James that night. How could she have been so clumsy?
Rosie pulled her phone out, anxious for a distraction. The Facebook app had completed its installation process, and she felt bold enough to risk it again and take a look. Besides, there was bound to be some work-related chit-chat on there to take her mind off what just happened out in the corridor.
She logged in and waited for the notifications to appear, anxious in case there were any more disturbing images. The moment she saw that she had five new notifications, she knew she should have stopped. But like a fly heading towards a UV light in a kitchen, she couldn’t help herself.
Uninstalling Facebook on her phone hadn’t stopped the messages coming; it only meant she hadn’t seen them. There were four more dickpics, sent on different days during the past week. And there was a new image too, sent only ten minutes previously. It showed her and James sitting at a table in the bar, laughing.
Someone had been there, watching them – presumably the same person that had photographed them in the bar of the pub and sent the Chucky doll and the pornographic images. They were there at the conference centre – Rosie had probably spoken to them that very day.
Chapter Twenty
The light was fading, but Rosie made it back in time to pay her weekly visit to Liam’s grave. It helped her to feel that the weekend hadn’t totally been written off on work-related activities - it was a little oasis of personal time snatched at the end of a Sunday afternoon.
Iain and Sam were away walking in the park. They’d all travelled together on the tube, and Rosie had agreed to meet them at the park’s tea room half an hour before closing time. She’d got back home just after one o’clock.
The working weekend had finished early after events took a turn and things became rebellious. Neil Jennings had consulted David Willis from his hospital bed. There was a strong feeling that there was a potential legal case in the offing, with Silverline Supply Chains having breached some of the terms of the buying-out contract. Rosie didn’t quite catch the detail of it all, but the upshot was, the staff were mobilising, and there was a possibility that the fat lady might not yet have sung.
Rosie looked around the cemetery and made sure there was nobody about. She liked to speak aloud to Liam – like they used to chat in the kitchen – but she didn’t want anybody hearing her and thinking she was crazy. It had occurred to her once while sitting on the tube that if she just plugged some earphones in, most people would assume she was chatting to somebody on the phone, rather than sharing her thoughts with a man who’d been dead for two years. If only she could shake off her irrational paranoia that the social workers were following her, making sure she was capable of looking after her child.
‘Hi Liam, sorry I’m late,’ she began, once she was confident she was alone. His picture had been re-attached to the front of his headstone. Thank goodness her dad had managed to get it sorted out with the stonemason while she’d been at work. She sat on the wooden bench just beneath the cherry tree to the side of her husband’s grave. It would bloom again soon, leaving a spectacular blizzard of pink blossom across the peaked earth beneath which Liam was buried.
Rosie liked to imagine that he was still there with her. He’d have loved the blossom.
She thought through the events of the weekend, especially how she’d embarrassed herself in front of James, even though he’d been terrific about it afterwards, reassuring her that he liked her a lot, but he wasn’t ready for that kind of relationship again just yet.
It was a good thing that he’d knocked her back in the cold light of day; nothing good was likely to come from sleeping with a work colleague who she barely knew. She’d drunk too much, letting her loneliness get the better of her. Since Liam’s death, she craved the familiar company of her husband. She could talk to her father, to Vera, even to Sam and Leonie. But none of them gave her the intimate adult companionship that Liam had done. She missed it desperately.
‘I think I’m ready to start a new relationship,’ she said aloud as if trying on the idea for size. ‘You know you’ll always be my number one guy, but you buggered off, Liam, you left me. I think it’s time now.’
She waited as if he were going to reply. They used to talk about what they would do if one of them died. They’d joke about it, assuming they had the luxury of a lifetime ahead of them.
‘Just throw me in the wheelie bin,’ he’d said to her. ‘Now I think about it, don’t do that – the council workers won’t take me away, as I don’t qualify as domestic waste. It’ll require a special collection for a dead body.’
‘Well, make sure you spend a decent period in mourning for me,’ Rosie had said with a laugh, ‘then get yourself another woman and go and have some fun with the life insurance money.’
They’d been organised and sorted out the life insurance; if only they’d taken as much care with car i
nsurance. If Liam had drunk a few mouthfuls less, she wouldn’t have been left high and dry.
‘Of course, I’ll be careful,’ she continued. ‘I’ll make sure whoever it is cares for Sam as much as we… as much as I do, and I’ll make sure he’s safe. But it’s time now, I think. It’s been two years, that’s long enough. I’m lonely, Liam, I’m just so lonely.’
Rosie began to cry, the tears dripping onto her shoes. She stood up, cross with herself for getting upset. She’d wanted to be strong; this conversation with her husband’s ghost was all about moving on.
She walked over to the tap at the end of Liam’s row of graves, picked up the metal bucket that had been left there by the council, and filled it with water. She’d brought an old rag with her. Liam’s grave was showing signs of weathering, and she was keen to wash it down, to remove the lichen that had begun to form on it.
She knelt and ran her fingers over the engraving.
Liam Gary Taylor, beloved husband of Rosie, caring father of Sam and Phoebe (deceased).
The irony was that Liam had never known his children; he never got to meet them. When he was alive, he’d been desperate for them to be born, but he never got to witness that pleasure.
Rosie dipped the rag into the water, squeezed it out and wiped the front of the stone. The lichen had not yet grabbed a proper hold; thankfully it came off quickly. She checked that the plate holding her husband’s photograph had been securely re-attached. Yes, it was firmly in place now.
Rosie looked around again, unable to shake the feeling that she was being watched, still unsettled by the photograph of her and James eating food together at the conference centre. If she didn’t control her thoughts, they would spiral out of control. It was bad enough thinking the social care department had people tailing her, but the photos were real.
‘Who’s doing this?’ Rosie asked, as if Liam had the answer. ‘Why would someone be trying to freak me out like this? Every time I try to pull myself out of a hole, something comes to knock me back in again. I don’t think I can take much more, Liam.’
Two Years After ; Friends Who Lie ; No More Secrets Page 11
