Читать книгу You, Me and Other People - Fionnuala Kearney - Страница 11

I’m sitting in my office, my head in my hands, my elbows rested on the scarred walnut antique desk that Beth sourced somewhere in rural Brittany. My wristwatch claims its ten thirty, which means I’ve been here two hours. Despite the two large screens on the wall opposite, with Bloomberg blinking red downward arrows at me, all I’ve done since I got in is paper-shuffle. Outside my door, the plaque six feet away in the reception area says HALL & FRY. The name is well known in the City. It tells people that we are a respected wealth-management firm, a highly regarded family office. If your family has money, come to us; we’ll look after it, help it grow. You want art? You want to invest in property? The markets? We are specialist consultants. Offering advice. I wish to hell someone would offer me some.

As if on cue, Matt – my business partner for almost twenty years – enters without knocking.

‘You look like shit,’ is his opening line.

I rub my two-day-old facial hair. ‘We’re not seeing clients,’ is my only offer of defence.

‘I still have to look at you.’ He throws a couple of files on my desk. ‘Can you have these back by four and we do have to see clients tomorrow, the Granger brothers? So a shave might be in order?’

I ignore the client reference, ignore Matt’s worried face looking at the screens, lean back and put my feet up on my desk. ‘You pissed off at me for some reason?’

‘Now what would make you think that?’ Matt turns back to me, peers at me above his glasses, then reconsiders and removes them completely. It gives him something to wave at me. ‘Why in the world would anyone be pissed off at the wonderful Adam Hall?’

‘Yeah well, join the queue,’ I mutter, removing my feet.

Matt sits in the chair opposite, runs a hand through his scant hair.

‘What is it you’re doing, Adam? Do you even know? I mean, do you love this girl?’

I stand and look out of the window, try to lose myself in the urban sounds below. The loud hum of traffic, the odd siren, riverboat horns … My office overlooks Tower Bridge and there isn’t a day goes by where I don’t look down from my sixth-floor room and pinch myself. I’m a lucky guy. At least I was a lucky guy. Now I’m a lucky bastard. Lucky dastard. A lucky dastardly bastard. I feel Matt’s eyes bore holes in my back.

‘Adam?’

‘That’s three questions. Which one would you like me to answer first?’

‘Whichever.’

I turn to face him. ‘The truth is, I don’t know what I’m doing. I don’t think I’m in love, but I’m drawn to this woman—’

Matt makes a ‘haruuumph’-type sound. ‘It’s called lust,’ he says, matter-of-factly.

I feel my head shake in defence.

‘If it’s not lust and it’s not love, what is it? Do you have anything in common with her?’

‘Her name is Emma.’

‘Emma then.’ Matt shrugs as he stands, replaces his glasses. ‘What is it you have in common with Emma?’

‘She’s …’ I hesitate for just a moment too long.

‘She is gorgeous,’ he offers. I think in a strange way, he’s trying to help.

She’s ten years younger than me. She comes from money, while my DNA originated in Bethnal Green. She doesn’t even know who The Eagles are and I’ve been to every concert they’ve played in the UK. She couldn’t sing along to Bruce Springsteen with me. She lives in a clutter-free, white, sterile house, whereas I’m – I mean Beth’s – a hoarder.

‘She is gorgeous,’ I agree. ‘And, frankly, the sex is phenomenal.’

I stare at his suited back as he exits the room.

‘Lust.’ He looks back over his shoulder. ‘Told you so … Speaking of which,’ he says grinning, ‘you have a lunch appointment with the subject of my dreams.’

My eyes squeeze shut as the door closes.

Bloody hell. Karen. I have a lunch appointment with the woman Matt has been lusting after for years. Karen, our outsourced IT specialist and Beth’s best friend in the world.

As she approaches, I notice men staring. Karen is stunning: a tall, willowy redhead with a slim figure. Straight, short, spiky hair; wide brown eyes flanked by long lashes; a pert nose and full lips. She’s wearing a fitted jacket and loose flared trousers. Karen refuses my air kiss, turns her head away and slowly begins to fold her long legs into the booth I’ve reserved for lunch. I hand her an envelope.

‘I’m sorry,’ I say. ‘I could’ve just sent it by BACS, but I wanted to apologize in person. That brings us all up to date.’

She nods, doesn’t look at me and immediately begins to remove her limbs from the booth again.

‘What? That’s it?’ I hear my voice sound as if I’m fourteen and it’s about to break.

She looks me up and down. ‘Adam, I agreed to meet you when you guys owed me six grand. I thought I’d have to butter you up to be paid. I thought I’d get quoted the fact that times are bad, that we’re all still feeling the pain of recession. That your clients haven’t paid you, so you’re a little slow in paying contractors, but hey …’ She waves an arm dramatically as she swings her designer handbag over her other shoulder. ‘Here we are and you’ve already paid me!’

‘Stay for lunch …’

‘I’d rather starve.’

‘Please.’ I meet her narrowed eyes. ‘I need to talk to you, to someone.’

‘Try Yell.com. Look under “Counselling for fucktards”.’ She is still standing.

‘Please? Beth won’t talk to me.’

She relents a little and sits down, no legs under the table, just seated on the edge, ready for a speedy exit. It’s good enough for me.

‘Drink?’

She shakes her head.

‘Do you mind if I have one?’

More head-shaking. I motion to the waiter by pointing to my empty G&T glass, mouthing ‘another’ to him. Karen is looking at her feet.

‘Where do I start?’ I place both my palms on the table, clutching the edge with my thumbs.

‘Well, you could explain why you’re playing hunt the sausage with some blonde waitress?’

‘She’s not a waitress,’ I begin, ‘she part-owns the restaurant.’ I’ve recently learned this fact and feel eager to share it with Karen.

‘Bully for her. Explain then why you’re playing hunt the sausage with a blonde part-restaurant owner. Again …’

She spits the last word out. For a moment I’m confused. Then I realize. This is Karen; Beth tells her everything. Of course she would know about the last time, but that was different. And it was such a long time ago.

‘That was a long time ago,’ I whisper.

‘What? I can’t hear you,’ she says, raising a palm to her ear. ‘I’m assuming it was an apology for breaking Beth’s heart. Again.’

I almost snatch the G&T from the waiter’s tray as he walks by.

‘I am sorry. Of course, I’m sorry. Every day I’m sorry—’

‘Words, Adam, just words … Thank you for the cheque.’ She stands up, straightens out her tailored trousers and eyeballs me. ‘I do hope that we can continue a working relationship, but when it comes to your behaviour and Beth, don’t ever expect me to take your side.’

‘I don’t, Karen.’ I reach out and grab her arm. ‘Look, I only want to talk to her. Just talk to her, try and explain.’

‘Don’t you get it?’ She pulls away. ‘You’ve hurt her too badly this time. There is no explanation you could possibly offer.’

‘But we’ve been married for—’

Karen tuts loudly, shakes me off her and walks away. Men stare in her wake, then look back at me. It looks like a lovers’ tiff and I’m the baddie. Well. They’re half right.

‘Twenty years,’ I finish my sentence, addressing my G&T. I swallow back the remains of the drink in one gulp, realizing for the first time that this is it, the possible end of my marriage, and I wonder how the hell I ended up being so arrogant. What had I thought? That she’d just take me back again. Yes. That’s exactly what I’d thought. That I could have a bit of fun, admit my mistake and that Beth would take me back. Fuck. Shit. Fuck. The words roll around my head and I hear myself speaking just like her. I’m trying ‘Beth-speak’, potty-mouth stuff. I leave the restaurant, thinking I’m due at Emma’s in five hours for dinner. Fuck. Double plus fuck.

I’m a little drunk. Home-cooked, slow-braised lamb shank is staring up at me from a white plate – on a white table. I’m sitting on a white chair on a white rug. I have a white linen napkin on my lap. I’m in the White House.

‘You’re not perfect, you know.’ I point a fork at the figure sitting opposite me. ‘Not all that …’ I look at my surroundings, searching for the right word. ‘White,’ I add.

‘More wine?’ she offers.

‘You’re not innocent. No way, not at all. You knew I was married. Yes, you knew.’

She sips her wine. ‘I did,’ she agrees.

‘All this white.’ I wave my cutlery around the room, splashing gravy on the white rug below. ‘Oops,’ I place a slightly drunken hand to my mouth, ‘a stain. Emma, you have a stain.’

She stands up, walks to the kitchen and returns with a spray cleaner and a cloth. She lowers herself and tries to rub the blemish away.

‘I have a stain too – on my soul,’ I whisper. ‘No, two actually … two big ugly black marks on my soul.’

She looks up at me, nods and returns to the rug below.

‘But hey, while you’re down there,’ I say, and laugh out loud. I’m fucking hilarious, I am.