I should have slept soundly with Leon by my side, but my night was punctuated by nightmares that had me calling out in fear. The vivid intensity of how real they felt is already fading, but I can still remember my relief at seeing my father in a prison cell in my dreams, dispelling the rumor that he’d been released. I’d walked toward him, full of bravado and satisfaction that he would never see the light of day for what he’d done. But as I drew nearer, he’d put his head through the bars, looking like Jack Nicholson in The Shining, and prised them apart with his bare hands.
I’d turned and run—straight into my sister, who stood there with a demonic look on her face, blocking my escape. Her eyes were black, devoid of emotion, and as she parted her lips a swarm of wasps flew out of her mouth.
I’d woken myself up with a scream and vaguely remember a hand on my shoulder, gently reassuring me, though in my warped slumber I thought it was Jacob lying beside me.
Now, I instinctively reach out across the bed, willing Leon to be there, even if just to assuage the guilt and shame coursing through my veins, making me feel as if I’ve done something terribly wrong. But the sheets are empty and cold.
Blinking at the sun streaming brightly through the curtains, I rub the sleep from my eyes, as I try to remember who my first client is. But I can’t even work out what day it is yet, let alone who’s coming to see me. I’m normally so organized and always check what I’m doing the day before, just in case I need to prepare anything, but yesterday was … well … unexpected.
Despite trying to keep my mind devoid of thought, yesterday’s problems run amok as the hot water from the shower falls onto my head. With each vying for attention, I can’t help but lament how this time yesterday, I had so little to worry about. I was secure in the knowledge that my father was still behind bars, that my sister was no more aware of me than she ever was, and that Jacob saw me as nothing more than his psychotherapist.
As I frenziedly lather up my hair, alternating between feeling relieved that he and I hadn’t crossed the line and regretting that I’d somehow allowed him to think that we might, I can’t help but wonder how he’s feeling this morning. Now that the whiskey has worn off, I imagine he’s woken up mortified, though the evening’s events will be woefully misrepresented in his mind due to the convenience of memory loss designed to save us from ourselves.
I’d half expect the man I met, before the one who downed four whiskies in quick succession, to call today to offer his apologies. Though if he doesn’t do it this morning, he’ll be too embarrassed by this afternoon as his fragmented flashbacks will have begun to piece together a bigger picture.
Perhaps I should call him, so that he doesn’t have to worry about that on top of everything else.
By the time I get downstairs, I’ve resolved to do exactly that, not just to ease his awkwardness but to check he’s actually OK, which should be my primary concern.
“Do you want a coffee?” asks Leon as I walk into the kitchen.
“Oh, I thought you’d already left,” I say, moving toward the dining table where my laptop is. After the fright of yesterday, I wasn’t going to chance leaving it down in the office overnight.
“I just thought I’d give myself a moment’s peace,” he says. “Because I’ve got a feeling the next few days are going to be a bit full-on.”
“Where exactly was that file?” I ask, oblivious to what he’s just said.
“Just on the table,” he says casually, as if it means nothing. I suppose it doesn’t to him.
“But I looked here,” I exclaim. “Again and again.”
“Well, it must have been there.”
“No,” I say resolutely. “No, it wasn’t. I looked high and low, especially on this table.”
“Well, that’s where I found it,” he says. “You must have been looking straight at it.”
I swing around to look at him. “No, you must have had it,” I say, not sure whether my relief is enough to outweigh the frustration I feel that he didn’t check his things properly yesterday, when I asked. It would have saved me a lot of time. And anxiety.
“I haven’t been anywhere near that table since being back.” He comes toward me with a steaming mug of coffee and puts it down on a coaster. “Whose is it anyway?” he says, taking his life into his own hands.
I close my eyes and grit my teeth. It’s not his fault that the missing folder kickstarted a chain of events that had me thinking I was about to get killed.
“Erm, Jacob Mackenzie’s,” I say blithely.
“Ah, the same fella that was here yesterday,” he says, making it sound as if my paranoia is all beginning to make sense.
“Mmm,” is all I can manage.
“I’ve been thinking,” says Leon. “Maybe we should let him have the flat, if he still wants it, of course.”
A breath catches in my throat. It’s as if he knows exactly what I’ve done and is playing some kind of tortuous cat and mouse game to see how far he has to push me to confess.
“Why the sudden change of heart?” I ask, trying to keep the air of suspicion from my voice.
“Well, I think you’re right. The holiday rental market isn’t quite as predictable and it’ll mean we have a guaranteed income, all the while helping out someone in need.”
My pulse quickens as I dare to hope that this might be my lifeline out of the sticky predicament I’ve got myself in.
“OK, great,” I say, as if it doesn’t matter to me one way or another. “I’ll let him know and see what he says.”
“Are you able to call him?” he says. “Or do you not have that kind of relationship?”
“He’s actually coming to see me tomorrow, so I’ll talk to him then.”
“Again?” exclaims Leon. “Do you normally see him twice a week?”
“If that’s what a client feels they need,” I say, keen to make it more generic, “then yes.”
“Hey, why not?” he says, leaning in to give me a kiss. “I suppose it’s all money in the bank at the end of the day.”
“I’ll see you tonight,” I say, eager to remove myself from the pressure cooker I feel I’m in.
I’ve not even opened my office door before my first client calls to say she’s running ten minutes late. That means twenty, which will knock me off kilter for the rest of the day. Leon says the hour should start from their appointment time rather than when they finally manage to turn up, but I can’t tap on my watch after forty minutes and say, “Sorry, your time’s up.” They’d often just be getting started. Though it still irks me, today more than normal, that my time is so carelessly disregarded.
As soon as I’m inside, I call Jacob’s mobile, eager to catch him before his school day starts.
I keep a watchful eye on the house. Not that Leon would normally come down, but I wouldn’t want him to overhear this particular conversation. It’s not one I particularly want to have myself, but the ice needs to be broken and I’d rather just get it over and done with.
It rings four times before clicking to voicemail.
“Hi,” I start, feeling weirdly nervous. “It’s me … Naomi. Erm, listen, about last night, I’m sorry that it ended up like it did. I think the alcohol played a large part.”
I clench my fist and knock my forehead in frustration. That’s not what I meant to say.
“Anyway,” I go on. “I hope we can wipe the slate clean and put it all behind us. I’ll see you tomorrow, but if you hear from Vanessa in the meantime, call me.” Shit. That’s not what I meant to say either.
“So, I’ll see you tomorrow then,” I say, repeating myself. I put the phone down before I make any more of a hash of it. That was a bad idea.
8