Читать книгу Guilt: The Sunday Times best selling psychological thriller that you need to read in 2018 - Amanda Robson, Amanda Robson - Страница 14

Sebastian started at Harrison Goddard this morning, already there when I arrived, sitting at the opposite corner to me in our open-plan office. At eleven o’clock I watched him weaving between workstations on the way to the coffee machine. His suit tightly cut. Italian. His shirt made of silk. Highly polished, pointy shoes.

He looked up when I was staring across at him and winked. I didn’t wink back. I just lowered my head and carried on reading the balance sheet I was checking. Later on in the day he came up behind my desk and put his hands on my shoulders. People don’t usually touch me at work. I jumped a mile. I turned around and he was standing looking down at me, brandishing his smile.

‘Oh it’s you,’ I said. ‘Hi.’

He laughed. ‘Didn’t mean to scare you, just thought I ought to make contact.’

He smelt of sandalwood and cigarettes.

‘Welcome to Harrison Goddard,’ I said, trying to sound as if I meant it.

‘Thank you,’ he replied, pushing his eyes into mine. ‘Do you have time for a coffee?’

‘No thanks, I’m trying to get on.’

‘Please, Miranda. It’s important we get on – for Zara’s sake.’

I soften. ‘OK, OK, I’ll make time then.’

I get up from my desk and we walk together to the coffee machine area.

‘How’s it going?’ I ask.

‘Never better.’

His voice seems artificially loud. Bombastic. I know that even if he was finding settling in difficult he wouldn’t admit it. I smile a saccharine smile.

‘Good.’

‘I glanced across the office; I saw you sitting there, looking bored. So I thought you needed a breather. A chance to cheer up.’

‘Coffee with you, the perfect mood enhancer?’

His grin widens. ‘Yep,’ he replies.

‘Thanks.’ I pause. ‘Still not missing London?’ I ask, fumbling for something to say.

‘Not at all. Why would I? Bristol is the perfect city.’

Not the sort of person to concede that there are many different ways to live your life.

‘What can I get you?’ he asks.

‘Espresso please.’

He starts to press buttons on the coffee machine. I sit down. The Harrison Goddard relaxation area. A cross between Costa Coffee and John Lewis. Comfortable but sterile. Too much green. He joins me with our coffee fix in two oversized white porcelain cups. Odd-shaped saucers, a little biscuit to the side. They are overfilled and as he places them down the coffee slops.

I take a sip. The coffee is strong, biting my tongue. It leaves an edge on my teeth.

‘What is it with you, Miranda?’ He pauses. ‘Even though you’ve welcomed me into your flat, I can’t help feel that your attitude to me is a little … abrasive.’

I put my coffee cup on the table. I take a deep breath. He has asked so I will tell him the truth.

‘I’m worried about my sister. She’s vulnerable.’

‘Vulnerable? Why?’

‘Didn’t she tell you?’

He raises his eyebrows a little and shakes his head. ‘No.’

‘Well ask her.’ I pause. ‘But please don’t hurt her. She wouldn’t cope with it.’

He sips his coffee, dark eyes watching me, considering. ‘What makes you think I’d do anything to hurt her?’

Silence. Eye contact held too long.

‘The way you behaved when I came to your house.’

He shrugs. ‘You didn’t really think I was flirting with you, did you?’

I flush with embarrassment. ‘I did wonder. Yes.’

He puts his head back and laughs. A resonant braying laugh. ‘Oh for heaven’s sake, Miranda, I was only playing. Surely you realised that? I was just sounding you out.’

‘Sounding me out? What am I? A pitchfork?’

Another laugh that eventually morphs into a grin. ‘Sounding you out to see whether Zara could trust you.’

‘But,’ I spluttered, ‘she’s been able to trust me all her life.’

His eyes slither into mine, making me feel uncomfortable.

‘You can trust someone all your life and they can still let you down. I needed to push you outside your comfort zone.’

I pull my eyes away from his and deliberately focus on the wall behind. ‘You flatter yourself to think that someone I don’t even find attractive trying to flirt with me will push me outside my comfort zone.’

‘You’re oversensitive. You flatter yourself to think I was flirting with you. Maybe you’re one of those women who imagine all men are flirts. Anyway, is telling each other how much we don’t fancy each other the best way to make friends?’

‘Under the circumstances, it is. We’re laying down boundaries. Important in any meaningful friendship. Our boundary is platonic.’ I pause. ‘Platonic. Platonic. Platonic.’

‘OK,’ he says now using a contrived but searing smile. ‘Platonic it is. You win.’ He pauses. ‘But for the record, platonic was all I ever meant.’

His eyes coagulate into mine again.