‘I’ll come to work with you tomorrow.’
‘You’ve got to be in Olympia at half nine.’ Simon has an interview with a trade magazine. He’s absurdly over-qualified for what even I can see is an entry-level journalism job, but it’s a job, nevertheless.
‘I’ll cancel.’
‘You can’t cancel! I’ll be fine. I’ll ring you at Whitechapel before I take the Underground, and again as soon as I’m out. Please, don’t cancel.’
He doesn’t look convinced, and although I hate myself for doing it, I twist the knife a little. ‘You need this job. We need the money.’
The following morning we walk to the station together. I throw a coin in Megan’s guitar case then slip my hand into Simon’s. He insists on putting me on the Overground before taking his train to Clapham, and I watch him looking around us on the platform.
‘What are you looking for?’
‘Them,’ he says grimly. ‘Men.’ There are men in dark suits all around us, like badly lined-up dominoes. None of them are looking at me, and I wonder if it’s because Simon’s here. Sure enough, once Simon has left me and I’m sitting on the Tube alone, I notice one of the suits sitting opposite me. He’s watching me. I catch his eye and he looks away, but seconds later he’s looking at me again.
‘Can I help you?’ I say loudly. The woman next to me shifts in her seat, gathering her skirt so it isn’t touching me any more. The man flushes red and looks down at his feet. Two girls at the end of the carriage giggle to each other. I’ve become one of those mad women on the Tube; the sort you go out of your way to avoid. The man gets off at the next stop and doesn’t look at me again.
At work it’s increasingly hard to concentrate. I start updating the Hallow & Reed website, but find myself listing the same property three times. At five Graham comes out of his office. He sits in the chair on the opposite side of my desk, where clients sit if they’re waiting for property details. Silently he hands me a printout of some particulars I typed out this morning.
These superior serviced offices offer meeting rooms, super-fast internet and a professionally staffed reception.
I stare at it, but don’t see the problem.
‘At ￡900 per calendar month?’
‘Bugger, I missed off a zero. Sorry.’ I start to log on, to correct my mistake, but Graham stops me.
‘It’s not the only mistake you’ve made today, Zoe. And yesterday was just as bad.’
‘It’s been a difficult month, I—’
‘As for the other evening, in the car – I’m sure I don’t have to tell that I found your reaction extremely irrational, not to mention insulting.’
I blush. ‘I misunderstood, that’s all. I woke up and it was dark and—’
‘Let’s not go there again.’ Graham looks almost as embarrassed as I feel. ‘Look, I’m sorry, but I can’t have you here when your mind’s not on the job.’
I look at him in dismay. He can’t fire me. Not now. Not with Simon out of work.
Graham doesn’t look me in the eye. ‘I think you should take some time off.’
‘I’m fine, honestly, I just—’
‘I’ll put it down as stress,’ he says. I wonder if I’ve misheard.
‘You’re not firing me?’
Graham stands up. ‘Should I?’
‘No, it’s just – thank you. I really appreciate it.’ He colours slightly but gives no other acknowledgement of my gratitude. It’s a side of Graham Hallow I’ve never seen before, and I suspect it’s as strange for him as it is for me. Sure enough, moments later business trumps sympathy and he retrieves a pile of receipts and invoices from his office, stuffing them into a carrier bag.
‘You can do this from home. The VAT needs listing separately; give me a call if it doesn’t make sense.’
I thank him again and get my things, putting on my coat and slinging my handbag over my chest before walking to the station. I feel lighter, knowing I have one thing, at least, less to worry about.
I’m turning left from Walbrook Street on to Cannon Street when I get the feeling.
A tingle down my spine; the feeling of being watched.
I turn around but the pavement is busy; there are people all around me. No one stands out. I wait at the crossing and resist the temptation to look behind me, even though the back of my neck burns under the gaze of imaginary eyes. We cross the road like sheep, tightly packed together, and as we reach the other side I can’t help but scan the group for a wolf.
No one is paying me any attention.
I’m imagining the feeling, just like this morning, with the man on the Overground. Just like I assumed the boy in the trainers was running after me, when the truth was, he probably didn’t even notice me. The website is pushing me over the edge.
I need to get a grip.
I walk briskly up the first flight of steps, my hand touching lightly on the metal handrail, keeping pace with the suits. Around me, people are finishing calls.
I’m just going into the station.
I might lose you in a minute.