Читать книгу The Perfect Widow - A.M. Castle - Страница 12

The first time I ever laid eyes on Patrick was at work. He just sauntered right past me. He didn’t need to tangle with me and Jen, the beautiful bookends sitting on reception. He was already in, shoulders swinging in his sharp suit, security pass wafted at the guard. Not that the fat, middle-aged geezer they’d hired to protect us all would have been able to stop anything other than a rampaging doughnut. Patrick knew where he was going, walked as if he hadn’t a care in the world. He owned everything. The job. The building. And now, suddenly, me.

That confidence. That sense of blithe entitlement. It wasn’t arrogance, he wasn’t really flash. He was just sure, steady, unshakeable. He was in the right place, at the right time. Everything was within his grasp, his for the taking. That definitely included me. Patrick was a living, breathing symbol of everything I’d wanted, my whole life.

I was attracted, an iron filing to a magnet. Stuck forever, just like that.

He gave Jen the ghost of a wink as he passed, shirt like a washing powder ad, glimmer of a smile, then clocked me and something changed in his expression. Too soon, he’d passed us and was at the lifts. On a better day, I might have mustered the boldness to get up, sashay past him, pretend I was on my way to the ladies’. But as it was, I just felt as though I’d been socked in the stomach.

That’s all it takes, sometimes. A look, and your life is sealed.

It was my first day in the job. God, I loved that place, the office building. Looking back on it, it was very ‘new millennium’, as they now say with a sneer. At the time, the shiny glass, chrome and marble seemed breathtaking. A palace to commerce, to possibilities, to a bright, clean future. Smart. Glitzy. Everything I badly wanted to have – and be.

So many things to remember, that morning. Who was who, where everything should go. It was crucial I shouldn’t look as though I was out of my depth. I’d blagged my way onto the temp agency’s books. The middle-aged woman at the dingy office had been deeply sceptical, but – surprise, surprise – the manager, puffing out of his shirt, was dead keen to have me on his books. Probably in all ways, but I just didn’t want to go there, even in my imagination.

This was my second temping gig. The first had been fine; boring. A solicitor’s office. Sitting there, I’d soon felt there was more dust settling on me than on the files they guarded so jealously. I hadn’t expected much from this next booking, as a result. But as soon as I approached the building, I got butterflies. Even the door handles looked like they had more class than I did. Long, chrome rods, running the length of the sheet glass doors. I was reluctant to grasp one, get my smutty prints all over it. But that only lasted a second. They had people who spent their days buffing this stuff. I took a deep breath and strutted in like I wasn’t dirt, like I didn’t come from nothing – as if, contrary to everything I knew in my heart of hearts, I had some sort of a right to try my hand at a better life.

It must have been an Oscar-winning performance, as Jen, the permanent girl, barely raised an eyebrow. They’d taken me on to cover her colleague’s two-week summer break, the idea being that Jen would bring me up to speed, though if I couldn’t hack it, it wouldn’t much matter, as she had everything under control. I couldn’t believe my luck. From the moment I sank into that leather-and-chrome swivel chair, rich and squishy as chocolate mousse, I was determined they’d never drag me out of it. It was beyond me why anyone would want time off from a job like this.

It’s hard work, pretending everything’s fine when it’s not, pretending you know what you’re doing when you really, really don’t. But I’d had practice. Sucking in every possible clue you can glean from your surroundings, your companions, can make the difference between passing unnoticed and getting into, well, let’s just say, a sticky situation. ‘Where are you from?’ Jen’s eyebrows were elegantly arched, but geography wasn’t on her mind. Her eyes travelled up and down as I gave out the mixture of truth and lies I practised every morning. She smiled and returned to her keyboard, shoulders relaxing slightly. She was somewhat reassured. My answers had passed muster. But I’d clocked that my outfit was a catastrophe which needed immediate attention.

As soon as I could, I ran to the loo. This little get-up had cost all the money I had. But it was wrong, wrong, wrong. I looked at myself in the mirror. Shame and disgust blurred my vision and when it cleared, I saw my fancy sheer blouse for what it was. So pretty, when I’d popped it on this morning and slid my feet into my towering scarlet heels. So tarty, now I looked at it coldly, while the shoes would have been better on a street corner. The tiny pucker between Jen’s eyebrows had shown me the terrible error of my ways. Highly polished invisibility was what we were after, as though we’d grown out of our marble reception desk like Greek goddesses.

I was devastated. Humiliated, yet again. A less determined girl might have thrown her hands up at that point, called the agency, asked for something … more suited. But I swallowed hard. Got to work. The desk would shield the shortness of my skirt. I couldn’t do much about the silly shirt, except fasten every single button, right up to the neck. I felt as though I was being strangled, but instantly the look was less … available. Anything else I could do? I scrutinised myself, tried to be dispassionate. The bling. I took off a bangle, then two, and stashed them in my bag. The fewer personal touches, the better. Instead of refreshing my make-up, I scrubbed half of it off, brushed my hair with furious vigour until my scalp burned. I did my best to glide back to my seat with a detached smile, just like Jen’s.

Every morning after that, I pared myself down, shedding hoops and necklaces, dumping outfits I’d saved up for, sloughing off the vibrant shades I’d loved. Working out that they shouted so much that I wanted unsaid. In the space of days, I became a monochrome, sober version of myself. The only ray of light left was my curtain of hair. It hung like the sun in the sky during that long, hot summer. Something told me that blonde would always be the one colour that went with everything.

Sometimes I’d see a hand on my keyboard and wonder who on earth it belonged to. Those tasteful taupe nails, just long enough to show they were high-maintenance, could they be mine? Fire-engine-red had been my favourite since I left school, except when I went for blue or a green or a shrieking neon. But soon I was swiping through my bathroom shelf at home, chucking my little rainbow straight into the bin. That was now definitely in my past. And the mound of jewellery on my bedside table, so beguiling when it was bought? It oxidised almost overnight, showing me who was right. All that glitters is not gold. Lucky I was a quick learner.