‘Strategize. We’re not at a conference,’ I say, but actually all I am thinking is, Led away.
Will I be led away? I can’t handle it. He thinks I might be, like an animal to the slaughterhouse, and what’s the difference, really? I am still staring down at the counter, not looking at him. I miss his arms around me and the way we used to list our favourite things about the other in bed. I miss the way Reuben’s face would curve into a reluctant smile as I got him chatting. I miss it all. I miss our movie nights. That time we watched Kind Hearts and Coronets (number ninety) and Reuben turned to me halfway through and said, ‘I haven’t got a fucking clue what’s going on, have you?’
‘There are articles. Online. Have you seen?’ he says.
‘No,’ I say sharply.
‘Defending you. Feminist articles. You know?’
‘I don’t look,’ I say, and raise my head.
The briefest of expressions flickers across his face like poor reception on an old television. It’s not annoyance, exactly; more recognition. Of course you don’t, it says.
I grab the sponge again and recommence scrubbing.
‘Okay, well, if you want to discuss it, let me know …’ he says.
And it’s a tone I’ve not heard before. Not directed at me, anyway. I have heard it said down the phone, when clients call at weekends. Difficult clients. Clients who are making poor choices.
I glance up at him, and he’s staring at me, like a well-meaning counsellor or head teacher who knows a student’s done something and won’t confess.
I scrub harder, at stains on the work surface that aren’t really there, hoping I can erase them entirely.
19
Conceal
It’s late January before I can get a set of keys with nobody seeing. Somebody left theirs in the kitchen, by the tea machine, and I swipe them, quickly.
After that, it’s easy.
I text Reuben and tell him I’m seeing Laura and, after Ed drops me home, I walk back to the library, the bitter January air hurting my lungs. It’s after eight, and there won’t be anybody there, but I look left and right before letting myself in. I look up, too, checking for CCTV. At least I have learnt something.
I slide the key into the lock. Attached to the set of keys is a pink pompom dirtied on its ends, the fur turned grey.
The alarm goes off but I silence it with the four-digit code I’ve watched Ed put in so often – everyone knows it, even the cleaner – and then it is noiseless, and I am alone inside.
Everything looks eerily different at night. Like an abandoned hospital or jail. The office desks are cast in a strange glow from the street lamps outside and the cupboard creaks as I slide the key in and open it.
The lost property basket is almost full, and I get my items out and add them, right at the bottom. It takes twice as long as it should because of my bad hand.
I can’t bear to put the clothes and shoes in a random skip, in someone else’s rubbish. It may be crazy, but I want to know where they are. And to be able to check that they are still here – that they haven’t been found. That my beautiful shoes are here, and their tread cannot be traced back to me. Nobody I worked with ever saw them. They’ll never know they’re mine.
I leave shortly after, hurrying across the car park, my head bowed just in case.
Reuben appears in the hallway as I arrive through the door in an old trench coat I took out to wear home with me.
‘I’ve lost my coat,’ I say pre-emptively. I am the worst liar in the world.
‘You’ve lost your coat?’ Reuben says.
His tone is a blend of incredulity and judgement. I know it well.
‘Yeah, I …’ I try to think but I can’t. ‘I have no idea. It was here and then it wasn’t.’
‘Did you have it this morning?’
‘No,’ I say. ‘Have you seen it?’ I add, which must seem strange. It should have been the first question I asked.
Oh God. I am an amateur. They are going to find me.
‘Oh – but it’s your thirty coat,’ he says. ‘I’ll check the car.’ He opens the door and strides out on to the street where the car is parked.
I stand at the door, still shivering in the dark, watching him. Our security light has gone on. I look up at it. It is strung with dirty cobwebs, the inside lined with dead flies.
I look at Reuben rooting through the car, picking up Sainsbury’s bags for life, sweet wrappers and my wellington boots. He hardly ever uses the car and so it’s filled with my crap.
He closes the boot, turns to me, and frowns, looking baffled. ‘I don’t understand how you could have lost a coat,’ he says, walking back towards me.
I cringe, not looking at him. This is the sort of thing that drives Reuben mad. Not just my messiness, my disorder, but the illogicality of it. Why didn’t I just say I left it when I was out with Laura? Come home without one? I should have thought more carefully. But there’s no room in my head; not for these things. Getting away with murder is all I can think of.
Reuben looks back into the flat, a puzzled expression on his face. ‘Have you checked the spare room?’ he says. ‘Sometimes you get in and just dump stuff in random places …’
‘I’ve checked everywhere, Reuben,’ I say, my tone short.
‘There’s no need for that,’ he says mildly.
I catch his surprised expression. I have wounded our relationship with the crime I committed, and now the collateral damage is materializing in front of us. ‘Please leave it,’ I say desperately. I’ll tell him if he pushes me. I’ll tell him. I shake my head violently from side to side. I’ve got to get away. My secret is sitting right in the centre of my mouth, ready to leap out if I utter another word.
I have killed.
I have hidden evidence.
I have broken into my place of work.
My crimes are stacking up.
His eyes darken. He doesn’t deserve this. But neither do I. He reaches for me. His right hand trailing upwards, the left instinctively moving towards my waist. It’s a movement we make often, almost like a dance, but I step out of it. I can’t. I can’t be near him, my head on his shoulder, smelling our shared fabric conditioner. I can’t stand with my waist pressed to his, my mouth against his ear. I would tell him. I would tell him where my coat is, and why. It wouldn’t be absolution. It would be a selfish, sordid confession that would ruin his life. I’ve already ruined my own, but it must stop there.
‘I thought you loved that coat,’ he murmurs.
‘I did,’ I say.
‘But you lost it.’
In Reuben’s world, things are simple. If you like your possessions, you take care of them. People are never negligent, or reckless, or unthinkingly careless.
I turn away from him and walk back into the flat. I can feel his hurt gaze on the back of my neck like the warm coat I am missing.
The next day, the Chiswick stop has nobody waiting. Ed parks up, and opens the door, but then gets back into the driver’s seat. He’s wearing a fleece, and he tucks his slim hands in its front pouch, crossing his legs. My trench coat flaps around my waist. It could fit twice around me, now. The weight keeps falling off.
These days are the slowest. I’m never happy, no matter where I am. Not at home and not at work – but in each location, I think I will be happy in the other.
Ed starts making up the library cards for the recent joiners. He sticks their photographs down, then passes them to me to seal with sticky-back plastic. I hate doing it, usually; I mess them up with little air bubbles and misaligned plastic that collects fluff and hairs, but today I quite like the meditative quality of it.
Until he passes me Ayesha’s.
My hands become still, hovering over it, as if they are passing through a force field. My thumb seals the plastic over her face, but then remains there as I stare and stare.
Ed brushes past me as I am turning it over in my hands, looking at her library card number, the barcode, scrutinizing her photograph.
‘Getting a good look at that,’ Ed says, his tone impassive.
I drop the card immediately.
20
Reveal