Читать книгу Mhairi McFarlane 3-Book Collection: You Had Me at Hello, Here’s Looking at You and It’s Not Me, It’s You - Mhairi McFarlane, Mhairi McFarlane - Страница 61

After a morning of taking notes in shorthand so shaky and fractured it looks as if I’m recovering from a stroke, I dodge Gretton and edge my way out of the court and into the fresh air. I head towards St Ann’s Square with my stomach on spin cycle.

Every step I take, my apprehension mounts. Now Simon’s at the top of my in-tray, as it were, I have more time to consider his feelings, and my conclusions aren’t good. Belatedly, I’m remembering how wary he was of journalists, how badly this must have blown up in his face as well as mine. I start to wonder whether the urbane, unruffled Simon persona will remain intact, as I’d hoped. I got scant clues from our exchange on the phone.

I have my answer as soon as I spot Simon pacing up and down by the fountain, craning to see me in the crowd. His homicidal intentions are plain.

‘Hi.’ My attempt at a confident tone quavers and Simon almost bares his teeth at me. It’s only then I see Ben next to him, frowning. This is too much. In fact, Simon’s more than enough by himself. I can’t deal with Ben lambasting me as well. I couldn’t deal with that on its own.

‘Are you here to hold his coat?’ I blurt.

‘I’m here to make sure he doesn’t go over the top,’ Ben says, looking wounded. ‘How are you?’

I’m so surprised at him asking the question that’s been on the tip of nobody’s tongue, I don’t know what to say.

‘Is it true that one of the people involved in the Mail story is a colleague of yours in court?’ Simon says.

‘Yes. Zoe. Was a colleague, she’s at the Mail now.’

‘What happened?’

‘I don’t know, Simon. Honestly, I’m as shocked as you are.’

‘That’s the best you can do? What’s that, your Out of Office Autodenial? Rachel’s taken annual leave of her senses?’

I try to look like I’m coping. Panic rises up through my chest and throat.

‘It’s not an excuse, it’s the truth. This has ruined our interview …’

‘Oh, you reckon?’

‘… Why would I destroy my own story?’

‘A bluff. You probably gave her the tip-off and you’re splitting the money while you keep your job here and your hands clean. How am I doing, eh? Bit more like it?’

An elderly couple sitting nearby eating messy egg mayonnaise sandwiches start listening in.

‘I wouldn’t do that,’ I say. ‘Does this seem anything like a plan going as planned to you? How brazen do you think I am?’

‘You don’t want me to answer that. How did your colleague know about this affair?’

I squirm.

‘I don’t know.’ Pause. ‘Did you know about it?’

Simon’s face twists. ‘That’s irrelevant.’

‘If it was a rumour, lots of people could’ve passed it to Zoe.’

‘Do you honestly think I’m a big enough spazz to believe you had nothing to do with this?’

I appeal for mercy, knowing it’s pointless. ‘Simon, I’m as upset as you are and I’m in a heap of shit at work.’

‘You’re in shit?!’

Egg sandwich couple are dropping cress all over themselves, eyes wide. Ben shushes Simon, which is like trying to put out a house fire with handfuls of mist.

‘… Jonathan Grant has been suspended. I’m being blamed for the bright idea of getting the media involved and, guess what, I’m not going to be made partner any time soon. The appeal could be fucked. Natalie Shale and her kids are in hiding because of the scumbags camped on her drive. Tell me, who gives a shit what kind of day you’re having?’

‘This looks terrible, I can see that, but I can’t control what my colleagues do.’

‘I had doubts about you from the start. Ben vouched for you,’ he casts an accusing look at Ben, ‘but I should’ve trusted my instincts.’

If Simon’s pulling no punches, I have to stand up for myself. I look from him to Ben and back.

‘Such misgivings that you asked me out on a date?’

Simon looks as if he wants to grab me by the throat. ‘And what was that about on your side, I wonder? It was research, mentioning Jonathan to see if I’d bite. Then it was job done, all batting eyelashes and “I’m not over my fiancé …”’

‘Simon, come on,’ Ben interjects, embarrassed on my behalf.

‘Strange that when I called you on the Friday, when the story was in the bag, you couldn’t get me off the phone fast enough,’ Simon continues.

‘What do you mean? We talked.’

‘For a few minutes, before you said you were home.’

‘Yes.’

‘Were you?’

‘Yes.’

‘I called your landline and let it ring for a minute to say goodnight and check you got in OK. Thought you’d appreciate the gesture. You never answered.’

Simon’s nostrils flare, he’s triumphant.

‘Oh my God, what is this?’ I splutter. ‘The only reason I mentioned Jonathan was because he’s the showy lawyer everyone fancies. It was a coincidence. We talked about loads of people from work that night. And the only reason I remember mentioning him at all is because you went funny. And I said I was home because I was nearly at my block of flats. I hadn’t got the lift and literally put my key in the door and I had no idea you’d care either way.’

‘Billy Bullshit. I thought you had some kind of ulterior motive in getting involved with me and, again, I ignored my instincts. Good to see you prove that you can tell a barefaced lie when it’s expedient, though.’

I make a ‘I give up’ gesture. ‘I don’t know what you want from me or what I can say.’

My righteous exasperation is entirely play-acting. If Natalie and Jonathan figure out I was there when he sent that text she never received, this is all over. Job, home, professional respect … friendship with Ben. And it’d remove the very small margin of doubt that’s stopping Simon tearing me limb from limb. I’m practically shaking.

‘What I want is the truth about what you’ve done, but that’s too much to ask from you, isn’t it?’

I make a silent pact that at some point I’m going to tell Ben, at least, the truth about this.

‘I swear I had nothing to do with Zoe selling this story.’

‘Nothing to do with her selling it, or nothing to do with it?’

Lawyers. I hesitate.

‘Nothing to do with it whatsoever.’

‘Alright, she’s answered you,’ Ben says. ‘Let’s call a truce and get back to the office.’

‘Stay out of this,’ he barks, rudely.

‘No,’ Ben says, and I watch two men fighting over me in a way that’s considerably less enjoyable than it’s made to appear onscreen. ‘Stop using her as a punch bag. It’s not her fault this woman and Jon got involved, and it’s not her fault someone’s written about it.’

‘What is it with you two?’ Simon says, looking from Ben to me, feigning amazement. ‘Did she keep the negatives after you broke up, or what?’

Ben ignores this. ‘I know Rachel well enough to know she wouldn’t stitch you up. If she’d turned you over and didn’t give a shit she wouldn’t be here right now, would she?’

‘Maybe it’s for your benefit?’ Simon says, with a very unpleasant curl of the lip.

‘When she didn’t know I’d be here?’ Ben says. Thank you, Ben. ‘When you’ve calmed down you might realise she doesn’t deserve this much abuse.’

The attack-dog glint in Simon’s eyes finally starts to fade. I allow myself to breathe and Simon senses this, drawing himself up to his full height and going in for the kill.

‘You’re a liar. A despicable, miserable, weak little liar who’s sold everyone out and doesn’t even have the guts to admit it.’

‘Jesus, enough!’ Ben cries.

Unperturbed, Simon continues: ‘I’d think more of you if you stood here and said you’d done it and you didn’t care. If I ever see you again it will be a lifetime too soon.’

My shoulders drop, and I know now I couldn’t make many intelligible noises even if I wanted to. I fight the liquid back from my eyes, concentrate on keeping my breathing steady, clench my jaw.

‘OK,’ Ben says, possibly seeing this imminent loss of control and stepping between us. ‘Enough, Simon.’

When he’s satisfied Simon’s verbal onslaught is at an end, he steps out of the way again.

‘Come on.’ He puts a hand on Simon’s arm. ‘Let’s go.’

Simon shakes him off.

I make a last attempt to steady my voice and gasp out: ‘Tell me if there’s anything I can do to help put this right …’

‘Are you joking?’ Simon spits. ‘Because it’s about as funny as being told the cancer’s spread to the bones.’

‘No.’

‘You’re actually trying to make more for yourself out of this?’

‘That’s not what I—’

Simon looks towards Ben. ‘Whatever she’s got on you, I’d cut her loose.’

He strides off. I definitely can’t speak. I blink at Ben. He stares back.

‘He’s taken this very personally,’ Ben says. ‘As you might’ve picked up.’

‘Ben, this has been a total nightmare, I never meant …’ I try to swallow what’s rising up. My next attempt at speech breaks into speaking-sobbing; it could also be described as a kind of adenoidal howling. ‘I never knew this was going to happen. I worked with Zoe and she was my friend, I never thought she’d do something like this …’

Ben glances left and right, as if we’re in the middle of a drugs deal, and to my total surprise gathers me into a hug. As unexpected as it is, it’s also incredibly welcome, not least as it stops St Ann’s Square’s curious population staring at me. Foremost among them are egg and cress couple, who think they’ve stumbled on some modern guerilla street theatre, a kind of am-dram ‘pop up’. And I’d rather Ben hugged me than looked at me, too; I’m not doing soft-focus Julia-Roberts-esque ‘startled nymph’ crying.

‘I know you didn’t mean this to happen,’ he says, shushing me.

‘You’re the only one who does,’ I say snottily, into the thick material of his coat.

‘Don’t take Simon’s biblical fury too seriously. He’s had a torrid weekend. Journalists called Natalie on Saturday to see if she wanted to “put her side of it” and she completely lost it, rang Simon screaming and crying, a neighbour had to take the kids …’

Bridie, I think. It would’ve been nice hippy-dippy Bridie with the runaway cat. I feel like utter shit.

‘Did he call you?’ I ask, looking up. I don’t know why I want to know.

‘He did, actually. I assured him you wouldn’t have had anything to do with it. I was forbidden to call you. I thought it was easier if we didn’t talk so he couldn’t catch us out on it. He doesn’t need more fuel for his conspiracy theories. How bad’s it been at work?’

‘As bad as it can be without being sacked.’

I wipe at my face with my coat sleeve and my head drops onto Ben’s shoulder again. He puts his hand on the back of my head.

‘Hush, come on, it’ll be forgotten soon enough …’

He moves his hand a fraction and I think he’s moving it away. No. Wait. He’s – stroking my hair? I go tense, hold my breath. Perhaps he feels this as, simultaneously, we break apart.

‘Sorry, sorry, I’m such a mess,’ I mumble, scouring at my running mascara again with the hem of my sleeve.

‘I’m sorry, Rachel. Here I was thinking I was being helpful putting you and Simon in touch,’ Ben says, a notch louder than necessary, returning us to more formality.

‘You were!’ I protest. ‘I’m the one who should apologise.’

‘I’d suggest a stiff drink,’ Ben says. ‘But I don’t think being seen going to the pub with you today would be – erm – politically astute. You understand?’

I nod, manage a weak smile.

‘Tomorrow’s chip paper. Today’s, in fact. It’s at the bottom of litter trays already. Chin up.’

I nod again.

‘You were let down by someone you trusted. Happens to us all,’ he says.