Читать книгу Guilt: The Sunday Times best selling psychological thriller that you need to read in 2018 - Amanda Robson, Amanda Robson - Страница 12

The doorbell rings. I open the door. You step into our box of a hallway holding his hand, eyes stuck to his like plaster. Reluctantly your eyes separate and you introduce him to me. Sebastian.

‘Hi,’ he says and fixes his eyes into mine for a second too long.

‘Hi.’

I think he needs a shave. He is wearing designer jeans: pale blue, with carefully placed rips. Well-worn brown suede boots. Black cashmere round-neck sweater. He has a black stud in his left ear – subtle but quirky. I feel his almost-designer stubble as he leans forward to kiss me. He smells of mint. He must have just cleaned his teeth. We move two steps into our sitting room-cum-kitchen.

‘Good to meet you, Sis,’ he says.

‘Please call me Miranda,’ I reply with a smile.

‘Of course, Miranda. Far more glamorous than Sis.’

‘Not as glamorous as Sebastian.’

He grins. His grin is a major weapon in the artillery of his attractiveness.

‘I suppose my name is a little flowery.’ He pauses. ‘Not as compact as Jude.’

‘What’s Jude got to do with it?’ I ask.

‘Nothing.’ He grins again. ‘Just the name of someone I once knew.’

Zara, you and your lover follow me towards the sofa, wrapped together like a pair of climbing plants. I pour you a glass of wine each, which you untangle yourselves to accept, and then we all sit in a row: Sebastian in the middle on our large brown sofa, my left thigh pressed against his right. I shift away a little. He turns to me and gives me another shot of his grin. I hold steady, lowering my eyes. I don’t grin back.

He takes a sip of wine and asks, ‘How’s your job going?’

‘Hard work. Heavy hours but it’s rewarding all the same.’

‘Did Zara tell you I had an interview with Harrison Goddard?’

I try to suppress a grin. ‘She might have mentioned it; she does sometimes talk about you,’ I say.

‘They’ve just offered. Today.’ There is a pause. ‘I’ve already accepted.’

My stomach tightens. So. My sister’s boyfriend is coming to work in my office. A man with dangerous eyes and an over-exuberant grin.

‘When do you start?’ I ask.

‘Next week.’

‘Be prepared. They like to take their pound of flesh.’

‘That’s why I love photography,’ you chip in. ‘It gives me freedom and range.’

My stomach curdles as you say that. It sounds so pseudy. But it’s true, you have always loved photography, ever since you were a young girl.

‘I’m used to it. The firm I came from in London were just the same,’ Sebastian continues.

‘What made you leave London?’ I ask for the sake of something to say. ‘Isn’t London the Metropolis? The place to be?’

‘I was brought up here in Bristol. My parents still live here. I just wanted to move back to where I grew up. It’s so much smaller, so much more charming than London.’

Sebastian suddenly loses interest in conversation with me. He leans across and kisses you. You melt together on the sofa like an octopus. When you have finished exploring each other’s mouths, Sebastian retrieves his wine glass from the floor. He looks straight at me, wanting to talk to me once again.

‘Any chance of coming to mine for a drink some time, to give me a run-down on the organisation before I start?’ he asks with a smile and a flash of his eyes.

A few days later, walking to work, pulling my way up Park Street with a heavy file in my bag, I feel my phone vibrate in my pocket. I pick up.

‘Miranda.’ His voice is in my ear.

‘Sebastian.’

I hear him breathing down the phone.

‘Can you come to mine tonight, like you promised? I really could do with a Harrison Goddard run-down.’

Promised? Did I? I don’t remember saying that exactly. But he must have got my mobile number from you, Zara, so how can I refuse?

‘Tonight OK?’

‘I suppose so, yes.’

‘No need to sound so enthusiastic.’

‘No, I mean it’s fine. I’ll look forward to seeing you.’

So, after a long day at work, I am visiting his Edwardian house in Clifton. He answers the door, treating me to a swashbuckling grin. There is something maverick about him. Modern-day pirate. Modern-day Errol Flynn.

‘Come in,’ he says, welcoming me into a bland magnolia entrance hall, containing nothing but an umbrella stand and a mirror.

‘Follow me,’ he commands.

Out of the entrance hall, into the sitting room of this fine house. A room with patio doors onto the perfectly kept garden. But the room is spiky and cold. No photographs of people. No clutter. No trinkets.

‘How long have your family lived here?’

‘My mother grew up in this house.’

Silence for a while. Then: ‘Can I get you a drink? A glass of wine? Whisky? G&T?’

Leaning towards me, a smile in his eyes. The corner of his mouth curling, as though he is about to laugh.

‘A cup of tea please.’

The laugh. Overegged and resonant.

‘Zara said you were a cup of tea kind of girl.’

I bristle. ‘What’s that meant to mean?’

‘Nothing. It was just a joke.’ There is a pause. ‘OK, OK, what would you like? Orange pekoe? Lapsang souchong?’

‘Builder’s please.’

Another laugh. Head back. Raucous. ‘I didn’t have you down as a builder’s girl.’

‘I don’t want you to have me down as anything.’

‘Make yourself at home. I’ll go and get the tea.’

He leaves the room. I sink into one of the creamy leather sofas. Pale and elegant. Colourless. I occupy myself by looking around the room. The painting above the fireplace looks like an imitation Rothko – pale rectangles, no subject. There is an unnervingly tidy bookcase: authors filed alphabetically as in a bookshop or library. Bret Easton Ellis, James Joyce, Franz Kafka, Vladimir Nabokov, John Updike.

Sebastian pads back into the room, carrying a cup of tea for me and a glass of whisky for himself. He hands me the tea and sits next to me on the sofa. I edge away.

‘I hear that Zara tells you everything, so you know I’ve been away at university and working in London?’

‘I know you have a first-class CV.’

‘I understand you do too. Do you think we’re two of a kind?’

He pushes his eyes into mine. I edge a little further away, and sip my tea.

‘What would you like to know about Harrison Goddard?’ I ask.

‘Who to avoid. Who to network with.’

‘I work in Tax; you’re going to be in Acquisitions. Our departments only overlap sometimes.’

‘Pity.’

He moves closer to me and takes a gulp of his whisky. A greedy gulp. More like a slug. He pats my knee. ‘Come on. You must have dirt on someone?’

I bristle. ‘Dirt? Is that what this is about?’

‘Yes please.’

‘Well, I’m afraid I haven’t got any. And even if I had, do you think I’d spill the beans to someone who hasn’t even joined the firm yet?’

‘Maybe.’

‘You don’t know me very well then.’

‘For heaven’s sake, Miranda, you’re so defensive. I’m only being friendly, trying to get to know you better.’

I smile at him and raise my shoulders. ‘So, dirt, or friendship?’

‘Both.’ He pauses. His eyes are trying to play with mine. ‘Or perhaps you could just tell me how come you’re an accountant, and Zara’s an artist?’

‘I’m interested in numbers; she’s interested in photography. What’s odd about that?’

‘Twins usually like the same things.’ He puts his hand on my arm. ‘Don’t you find?’

I remove his hand. ‘Not necessarily.’

His eyes darken. ‘You’re in denial.’

‘What am I in denial about?’ I snap.

‘I don’t know yet. I’d like to find out. You’re a very pretty girl, Miranda. You and your sister cut quite a swathe. But which one of you is the more passionate?’ There is a pause. ‘You are the first-born twin. Tell me, is it you, do you think?’

I put my cup of tea on the glass table in front of me and stand up. ‘I don’t want to get involved in a conversation like this.’

‘What do you want to get involved in?’

‘Nothing.’

A Machiavellian grin. ‘Adventurous, aren’t you?’

How has Zara managed to find this man? I suppose good character judgement was never her strong point. So many boyfriends. Never the right one. I’ve never met the right one either, but I’ve not tried so many in the process. At least the men I have had relationships with have been reliable. And polite.

I leave without saying goodbye. He doesn’t try to stop me. He doesn’t come after me.

Out through the icing-sugar hallway. Out onto a street, once architecturally pretty, now invaded by multi-coloured recycle bins. Pushing my way through light drizzle. Was he hitting on me? Or just being friendly? Like most women, I have a special gift that helps me to look after myself. A gift that deciphers friendly. I’ll be careful with this man from now on.

Back at the flat, Zara, I find you rummaging through your portfolio.

‘How’d you get on?’ you ask, face lighting up as soon as you see me. Golden-brown eyes toasty and warm. ‘His house is nice, isn’t it?’ You pause. ‘Although his parents drive him mad apparently.’

‘I’m going to send him a brochure about the firm,’ I say as pleasantly as possible.

‘I’m just finishing something off for college then I’m off to see him later.’

‘And are you eating with him or with me?’ I ask.

‘What’s on offer?’

‘Superfood salad. There’s enough for you if you want.’

You wrinkle your nose. ‘No thanks.’

The way you disparage my cooking annoys me. But tonight I do not want to eat with you anyway. I want to be alone. I am not in the mood for small talk. I don’t want to let slip my concern that your boyfriend was flirting with me. I leave you sorting out your portfolio, help myself to a portion of superfood, and retire to my bedroom for some peace.