Declan’s office is on a rank of five single-storey glass-fronted offices. Of the five, four have a ‘To Let’ sign – and it’s only the one on the end that has lights illuminating the inside. When I pull into the parking space outside, a man is standing on the kerb, talking into his phone. After clocking the car, he hangs up, waiting for me to get out, and then introduces himself as ‘Call Me Declan’.
He’s in his early twenties, wearing a tight-fitting suit with spiky dark hair. He’s fit and his face is a little shiny; one of those blokes who spend a good hour in front of the mirror each morning. We exchange the usual niceties, ‘How was the traffic?’ ‘Aren’t those roadworks a nightmare?’ ‘Did you hear it’s likely to rain later in the week?’ – that sort of thing. It’s more autopilot stuff. Almost everyone has this meaningless drivel nailed down that it’s strange when this isn’t the pattern.
The office is a wide, open space that is filled with two desks and computers at the front, and piles of boxes at the back. The floor is bare concrete and there’s a loose electrical wire hanging from a switch off to the side. It makes our office look luxurious.
Declan explains he and a business partner have only just moved in. Previously, they were working out of bedrooms and garages. The company sells nutrition and fitness products via the internet. Things are starting to pick up, but to such a degree that they’re becoming overwhelmed. They need IT infrastructure and then more employees. It all sounds very familiar.
He’s one of those people that forces eye contact a little too much. It isn’t simply a friendly thing; it goes beyond that. Every sentence feels as if it’s being vehemently shoved into my brain. His handshake was firm and needlessly forceful. I suspect he’s been on one of those weekend courses about management and assertiveness. The type of thing Graham loves that gives a certificate to everyone at the end.
‘This is just the start,’ Declan says, turning in a half-circle to show off the barren space.
I tell him about our services and he seems keen, though he doesn’t interrupt to ask any follow-up questions. He’s a bit like a nodding dog, enthusiastically bobbing along with everything I say, still holding my gaze. It’s hard to read him and I’m unsure if this means he’s not that interested, or if he doesn’t understand everything I’m saying.
I ask if he has any questions and he does that horrific finger-point gun thing: ‘We do need everything to work twenty-four-seven,’ he says.
‘We offer full round-the-clock service,’ I reply. ‘Everything is guaranteed to work all day, every day. If there are any issues, we have twenty-four-hour off-site support, or remote engineers who can be on-site within ninety minutes. It’s usually quicker than that.’
His eyes narrow. He has really long, dark eyelashes and it’s hard to figure out if they’re natural or if he wears some sort of mascara. ‘You do know what twenty-four-seven means, don’t you?’ he adds.
I stare back at him, wondering if I’ve missed a joke. I haven’t: He’s serious.
‘I understand,’ I tell him. ‘Our services are twenty-four-seven.’
Declan eyes me for a moment longer, apparently unconvinced, and then turns away, nodding. He walks himself in a circle, his shiny shoes clip-clopping on the hard floor.
‘What about the price?’ he asks – this time not looking at me.
I tell him about our standard package, as well as the first-month discount, or a bulk support package where he could pay for a full year up front. All the while, he continues pacing and I’m not sure if he’s listening. He picks at his fingernail and brushes away non-existent strands of hair from his face.
After a standard start, it’s all gone a bit odd and I’m not sure what I’m missing. Potential customers usually haggle over price but he doesn’t seem too bothered. There are always follow-up questions as well, mainly to do with how our service can be tailored specifically for their company. It’s expected and perfectly normal – except there’s none of that here.
There’s an awkward silence when I finish talking, with Declan standing and staring through the glass front to the nearly empty car park beyond.
‘How does that sound?’ I ask.
He spins and reaches into an inside pocket, removing a light-grey business card which he passes across. I exchange it for one of my own, slipping his into the pocket of my jacket. He examines mine to such a degree that I wonder if there’s an errant spelling mistake. I’ve had them for years and never noticed anything before but he’s staring unwaveringly at the card in his palm.
‘Rose Denton,’ he says. ‘Is that short for Rosemary?’
‘No,’ I reply, slightly surprised given that he’d shown no interest in me until now. ‘It was only ever Rose on my birth certificate.’
‘It’s a nice name.’
‘Thank you.’
He’s staring me up and down once more.
‘I’ll have to talk to my partner and then I’ll be in contact,’ Declan adds. ‘Should I touch base directly with you, or that Graham bloke?’
I force myself not to cringe at ‘touch base’. He’ll be ‘reaching out’ next.
‘Either,’ I reply. ‘But I’ll probably be able to get back to you quicker.’
Declan stretches out his hand and we shake. His grip is once again overly firm, but this time, when I motion to pull away, he holds onto me. It’s only a fraction of a second, but there’s steel in his eyes when he does so. I’ve been meeting men and women in various corners of the country for years. It’s often one-on-one, away from the public’s glare, but this is the first time in a long time that I’ve felt genuinely vulnerable.
And then, as quickly as the panic arrives, it’s gone again when Declan releases me.
‘I’ll be in contact,’ he says.
I instinctively pull my jacket tighter, unable to hide that he’s flustered me. He smirks, knowing what he’s done – and then I head for the door.
Chapter Eight
As I start my car, I can sense Declan watching me through the glass of his office. The glare is too intense and I can’t actually see him – but I can feel his stare. I pull out of the car park as quickly as I can, keeping an eye on the rear-view mirror as I head off the estate. Nobody is following and I make a quick decision, turning off a roundabout without indicating and rolling to a stop behind a giant skip.
I’m out of view from the road and switch the engine off, taking a few breaths to try to compose myself. It’s hard to square precisely what happened. Was Declan being weird, or is it me? Did I read things the wrong way?
After a couple of minutes, I check my phone – no messages – and then text Graham to say that Declan sounded keen and should be in contact soon. It’s a bit of a stretch. I wait for the ‘sent’ notice and then continue holding the device in case Graham fires back. He does sometimes, but it’s hard to read his habits. Sometimes I’ll wake up to find that he’s sent a series of texts at three in the morning; other times he’ll go a day or more without acknowledging an email.
A minute or two passes without reply, so I switch to maps. I’m about to set the destination for home – there’s little point in returning to the office – when I have another idea instead. There are still a few more hours of daylight, so I follow the directions, weaving my way off the trading estate, through a run-down town centre, onto a dual carriageway.