I collected the pile of papers and carried them over to Phoebe’s old desk.
The phone rang once or twice, and Jo answered, but there were no more customers. Jo and I worked in companionable silence for a while.
‘Is it usually this quiet?’ I asked eventually.
‘Varies.’ Jo shrugged. ‘It’s been busier since Phoebe left.’
I liked to be busy. I’d worked with people before who seemed to get a thrill out of doing as little as possible all day, or by making simple jobs last twice as long. I found time dragged that way; I’d rather have too much on than too little. Less time to brood and overthink things, which was always a bonus in my book.
I slotted the property details in their rightful places in the laminated ring binder and glanced at the wall clock. Evie would have had her lunch and be back in class now. Maybe she’d do some artwork to bring home later. They would probably go through their spelling or handwriting drills, both of which Evie would be confident doing because we’d always spent time doing lots of reading and writing at home, even before she’d started nursery. I couldn’t wait to see her later and hear all about it.
‘Hello, is anybody there?’ Bryony’s hand swept in front of my face. ‘Goodness, Toni. That’s the third time I’ve spoken to you.’
‘I – I’m so sorry,’ I mumbled, feeling heat instantly channel into my cheeks as Mr and Mrs Parnham stared at me. ‘I was miles away.’
‘Weren’t you just!’ Bryony turned and grinned at the Parnhams, but I sensed a concealed threat hanging behind her words. ‘Can you photocopy these details for Mr and Mrs Parnham? They have another appointment in town, so quick as you can, please.’
‘Of course.’ I stood up and took the thin wedge of property brochures from Bryony, who was already distracted again, gushing about Mrs Parnham’s rather vulgar-looking clutch purse that had what looked like a jewelled knuckleduster for a handle. The new Alexander McQueen range, apparently.
I hadn’t been shown where the photocopier was yet but I sensed this was not the time to interrupt Bryony’s charm offensive on her most valued of customers. I walked around them and headed for Jo’s desk to ask her. But the phone rang and Jo began an animated conversation with a builder who, from what I could gather, hadn’t turned up for a customer’s viewing of a brand new apartment near the train station that morning.
I walked into the back hallway and looked around. I’d operated enough photocopiers in my time to know that extracting a few back-to-back copies wasn’t rocket science. I just had to find the damn thing.
I surveyed the available doors. The one to the right was the small boardroom I’d had my interview in. The door at the end bore a sign that read ‘Staff Toilet’. That left two others.
I opened the first one and stepped inside. It was quite a large room and held a sleek blonde wood desk and a beige leather chair. A couple of aesthetically beautiful filing cabinets stood against one wall with tastefully framed secluded-beach prints hanging symmetrically on either side.
I stood for a second and surveyed the longest wall, lined floor to ceiling with shelves that housed what seemed like hundreds of perfectly colour coordinated and immaculately labelled files. Not your regular dull black or grey office binders but those expensive, elaborately coloured designer folders from a specialist supplier. The desk was dotted with other products of the same brand; a complicated post-it holder, a stapler and hole punch, all obviously part of a matching range.
I turned to another door, tucked away in the corner of the room. Often, unsightly copiers were hidden away in walk-in cupboards so I put the stack of brochures down on the desk and tried the handle, but the door was locked.
‘What the hell are you doing, snooping around my office?’ Bryony’s voice cracked like a whip behind me. I jumped and spun around. ‘The Parnhams are still waiting for their details.’
‘I – I was just looking for the copier,’ I stammered. ‘I haven’t been shown where anything is yet.’
‘Well, it’s fairly obvious there’s no copier in here,’ she snapped, her tone acerbic. ‘Try the next office.’
I hurriedly gathered up the papers from Bryony’s desk, at the last second spotting one that had fallen on the floor by her chair.
‘Sorry,’ I mumbled, silently berating myself for failing yet another task on what was promising to be the worst first day ever. I pushed open the door of the tiny room next to Bryony’s office and there it was: an all-singing, all-dancing photocopier that took up most of the floor space.
I braced myself for further problems as I peered at the complicated computerised control panel but breathed a sigh of relief when I saw there was no passcode and straight forward back-to-back copying seemed to be a case of pressing a single button.
A few minutes later, I was back in the shop and I handed the details to Bryony.
She took them without thanks and turned back to Mr and Mrs Parnham, and I found myself as good as dismissed.
29
Present Day
Queen’s Medical Centre
As the daylight dims I begin my routine.
First, I count the ticks of the clock. Thousands and thousands of seconds, stacking up into wedges of lost time.
I can’t see the actual hands, just the round shape of the clock face, but I can hear the tick tock, marking the seconds that turn into minutes. My life ebbing away.
Two hundred and thirteen, two hundred and fourteen, two hundred and fifteen . . .
Precious seconds slipping by, and still Evie is gone.
I am floating inside myself, amongst my frozen cells. I imagine reaching out to touch Evie, wherever she is. Perhaps she is sitting quietly somewhere not too far from here, or maybe she is on the opposite side of the world.
I like to think there is a delicate, unbroken thread that joins us and that she can feel a glimmer of something, she’s just not sure what. A feeling, a memory of me that brings her a sliver of hope, of comfort.
I’m losing track of the clock count now; time to switch to the respirator.
In, out, space. In, out, space.
Pieces of Evie flash through my mind.
Her pale feet and perfect, shiny toenails like new shells on the beach. Small, neat teeth flashing as she laughs. The fine, downy hair on the side of her face.
That freakily warm day when she sat in the garden of the new house, soft toys arranged around her in a tea-party circle. She chattered to them as if they were real, her silvery giggle floating out, over the fence and down the lane. All these tiny pieces are bound together and by some kind of mysterious synergy they all amount to Evie.
The seconds turn into minutes, hours, days, then weeks, and finally the months turn into years that roll steadily on and the image of Evie grows a little dimmer in everyone’s mind.
It’s a long time since her picture appeared in the newspapers. Beautiful, vibrant Evie has somehow become old news. And I find myself wondering, for the millionth time, where is Evie now, this very second?
Will she even remember my face? Part of me hopes not.
I’m not a bad person, I just made some bad mistakes. I got distracted.
I let her down badly. Perhaps I was never meant to have her. She deserves so much better than I could ever give her. I do understand that now.
I begin my diaphragm exercises.
Up, down, up, down. Relax.
And again. Up, down, up, down.
Nothing happens.
The door opens and I hear it close again, softly.
Someone is in the room.
30
Three Years Earlier
Toni