‘But she hasn’t really done anything wrong. And she really needs the money. You need to give her a chance; it’s only been a couple of weeks! I’m sure—’
‘Wrong. I’m not required to do anything. I’m not required to give anyone a chance. She should have thought about needing the money a little more, shouldn’t she? Not my problem. Call a different agency, then get rid. Stop making excuses. I sometimes wonder whose side you’re on. Jesus. Stupid woman!’
Me or her? I wondered. What must it be like to be so without conscience, never giving a second thought of repercussions for people? How much lighter and freer must you feel? Freedom or isolation? But then I’d learned: you could never feel isolated, could you? Not with so much ego filling the void. You never lost sleep over such issues, as I would. But then, as you often bragged, ‘Sleep is for the weak. I can survive on a few hours if necessary!’ To be fair, you often did. Were you part robot? A cog for a brain, a casket for a heart?
You were senior partner material in a respected firm of solicitors. You worked ridiculously long hours, demanding the obligatory networking and entertaining at extortionate costs to the clients. There were other things too, though I wasn’t supposed to know about those. And I didn’t initially, leaving my conscience so much lighter then too. But as time bellyached on, I heard things I shouldn’t have. Clumsy speak of clandestine meetings. I heard murmurs; I wished I hadn’t. These changed us for good. I say us, but there never really was an us, was there?
‘Eve? Where are you this morning? You look vacant.’
I bit my tongue. ‘I’m listening.’ How you relished being the centre of attention, exhibiting a burly confidence, fine-tuned into mists of abundant charm. But to me you were becoming a monster, banqueting on compliments and far-reaching praise. This was your fuel, was it not? In so many ways I saw a walking contradiction, a complete enigma, but in others, a straight and concrete operator. You led without followers being aware. A consistent crowd of disciples and hangers-on. Callous motives lay behind those eyes. Nobody else seemed to notice.
You removed your trousers from the overused press. ‘You think too much,’ you said.
I ignored you. ‘Did you sort things with Andy yesterday?’ I asked.
You fished out your belt from the wardrobe. ‘Huh. Of course. I just told him – we’re working late tonight.’ Flashing a smile at yourself in the full-length mirror.
‘He wasn’t amused – “I can’t, I’ve family matters, Gregg.” So I replied, “Okay, fine. But you really should have mentioned your lack of commitment before.” “But, Gregg, I’ve worked late for the last two months. It’s my daughter’s birthday,”’ you mimicked your colleague as you fastened your tie, still smiling.
‘I told him, “As long as we’re both reading from the same sheet, realise where your priorities lie. Of course, join your family. Please do, pass on my very best wishes.”’ You smirked, reaching for your jacket. ‘Sometimes, I can’t resist pulling rank. He’ll learn.’
I bit hard on my lower lip. I wondered at your ability to interchange or amputate your emotions. In the next breath you would send flowers to a senior partner’s wife. A thoughtful anniversary gift. You’d wine and dine and charm your disciples. Deliver compassion, empathy and concerned expressions. Learn of their weaknesses and plot their demise. I take little solace in knowing you deluded even the most astute. Ruthless, spellbinding. You, the sculptor. You didn’t fall at the feet of empathy. You picked it up and stored it. A human emotional jukebox. Selecting and demonstrating appropriate emotions to achieve the required outcome.
‘Don’t worry, he’ll learn. Or lose his job, whichever comes first,’ you said.
Bile threatened my throat. How many people had fallen at your feet? How well you were camouflaged in your professional suit.
‘Don’t wait up.’ You smirked over your shoulder. ‘Oh, and say hi to Jack from his daddy. Tell him I’m going to make us rich.’ You smiled. ‘Very rich.’
A sixth sense forewarned me there was still far worse to come.
Chapter Four
Cornwall 2016
The dashboard clock ticks to 08.02 on a typical autumnal Cornish morning. A low sun hangs between turning leaves. A morning warranting a mindful appreciation. But I’m switching in and out of autopilot as my world attempts to submerge my floating body. I see the beautiful horizon; I don’t feel it. My mind is a stew of rapid bubbling thoughts and images, desperately trying to push back each mutinous ingredient.
Just because I’m a psychologist, people assume I’m so together; if only they knew the half of it. Had some appreciation of my inner turmoil. I’ve even noticed recently, I’ve been afraid of time alone. Too much interfering noise, thumping at my rationale. Ever since the phone call. Not so much a phone call as a silence. A drawn-out silence, with someone listening intently at the other end. The number was withheld but I understood the message. I ended the call – my instincts told me to – gathering a small amount of feigned control.
I see my knuckles pale, so I reduce the grip on the steering wheel. Shaking off the shiver running down my spine. Nothing too strange about receiving withheld calls, wrong numbers. But this wasn’t one of those; this was a message. Glancing at the dashboard clock, I see I’ve seven minutes before you call again. You’ve called every day since that first call, at 08.10 sharp.
There’s something else pushing the adrenaline button, a horrible nagging feeling. Jack missed his school bus this morning, so I was chasing him around the house like a sergeant major, his ability to interpret the notion of moving quickly being non-existent. I’ve been rerunning through the events since, over and over, but I can’t quite remember.
I waved the Geography book in front of Jack’s face, having spent the previous ten minutes hunting for it. ‘For God’s sake, Jack! Why didn’t you look for this last night instead of messing about on that stupid game? We’re going to be late. I’m going to be late for clinic. Again!’
He was sitting on the sofa, squashing the back down on his shoes, rather than undo them, to slide his feet in easily. ‘Because… I didn’t think about it last night, did I?’ He rolled his eyes.
‘Exactly! You didn’t think about it!’
‘Yeah. Exactly, how could I have looked for it, then, if I didn’t even think about it?’
‘Again, this conversation is going nowhere. This attitude of “only think about it when I have to” has to change. Jack. Are you even listening to me?’
He frowned. ‘What?’
‘Just hurry up. I’ll see you in the car.’ I reached for my mobile and keys, then opened the front door. ‘One day it would be nice to leave the house without my blood pressure reaching for the sky.’
‘Yeah, sure, Mum. Sounds cool.’ He continued lifting cushions and throwing them back down again. ‘Before you go, have you seen my—?’
‘No, I haven’t.’