Читать книгу One Little Lie: From the best selling author comes a new crime thriller book for 2018 - Sam Carrington, Sam Carrington - Страница 19

‘Deborah.’ I hear the voice, but somehow it sounds far away, like a distant echo, rather than directly behind me.

I carry on walking, entering the building.

‘Hey, Deb!’ It’s more insistent. She knows I hate being called Deb. I guess I can’t really ignore her now. It’ll be obvious I’ve heard that harsh yell.

My muscles are all tense. What does she want?

I slow and, reluctantly, turn to face Marcie. My boss.

Her face is flushed, but otherwise she’s the usual picture of perfection. She’s half my age, practically, and runs the marketing business with her brother.

‘Didn’t think you were going to stop,’ she says, her breathing rapid.

‘Miles away, sorry. Just keen to get to work, you know me,’ I say with a smile I know is disingenuous.

‘I wanted to catch you before we reached the office. Have a quick chat.’

My pulse dips. This can’t be good. This’ll be a ‘you’re not pulling your weight’ kind of chat. My mind has been preoccupied of late; I’m here in body, but my head has been AWOL. I’ve been in this job for seventeen years – I was here at the beginning, when her father, George, ran the place. I’d secured and managed some of the company’s biggest client accounts. George had often told me I was indispensable. I’d loved the job back then – and although I can’t say that with conviction now, I still need it; it’s my home from home.

Before I realise what’s happening, Marcie’s arm is looped through mine and she’s gently steering me back to the door, against the throng of people entering the foyer. I catch sight of Andrew and Marcus; they stare questioningly at us as we exit the building. This will set the office gossips going. They will be thinking I’m about to get the sack.

Oh, bloody hell. Am I about to get the sack?

I need this job. I can’t do without it. Not only the money, but the time outside of my own head – when I can focus. It’s what keeps me going.

I swallow the rising panic. Take a steadying breath.

‘What’s this all about, Marcie?’ I say as she guides me into the Costa a few feet away.

‘Coffee and a heart-to-heart.’ She grins. Her teeth are a perfect line of white squares. She gets them whitened. Everything on this woman is falsely enhanced: teeth, eyelashes, eyebrows, hair, boobs, the lot. I suddenly feel old and ugly in her presence.

But at least I’m real.

And a cosy heart-to-heart with this young, business-driven woman is really not what I need right now. I still remember her prior attempts to get me to open up. I easily brushed aside her offers to chat. But now – almost four years later – she’s actually managed to ‘trap’ me. It’s futile, though. This chat. How is she likely to understand what I went through? What I’m still going through? Every single day is a struggle. A struggle to stay in this life.

I sit at a table at the back of the coffee house, waiting for her to bring the drink I don’t want. I used to love people-watching. It was one of my favourite pastimes. Not any longer. I don’t care enough about them to watch. Their lives are of no interest to me.

I watch as Marcie heads towards me with two lattes on a tray. I don’t even like coffee.

I can hear my own heartbeat.

I lean my elbows on the table, clasping my hands together to stop them shaking.

‘Thank you,’ I say as she places the drink in front of me.

‘Right. So, Deborah, how are things for you at the moment?’

‘Great,’ I hear myself saying.

‘Really?’ she says. Her head tilts to one side.

Christ. She’s giving me a sympathetic smile to boot. How condescending.

How can I veer the conversation in a different direction?

‘Yes, really, Marcie. I’m good. Getting stuck into work helps, but you know that. After your dad died you did the same, didn’t you?’

I see the flinch in her face, the flicker of her eyes as I bring the conversation back to her. See how she likes it.

Over to you.

‘I guess so.’ She takes a sip of her drink. ‘But I had little choice. Me and Alexander had to get stuck in, keep the business Dad had built afloat. We owed it to him. Not to mention that we had to ensure everyone, like you, kept their jobs.’ She smiles.

Back to me.

‘That must have been a challenging time. No opportunity to grieve for your father.’ Now I put my head to one side.

Over to you.

‘It was challenging at times, yes. But I mourned in private. And I tried to keep my private life separate from work, you know? I think that’s important.’ Her eyes are fully on mine as she places her cup down and props her elbows on the table.

Back to me.

Now I’m aware of where this ‘chat’ is going, I drop the pretence – the personal game I’m playing – and get to the point.

‘You’re trying, in your roundabout fashion, to tell me I’m not keeping my private life separate from my work life.’ My irritation oozes out in my tone.

She exhales dramatically and looks away from me for a moment. Then faces me and begins to deliver her speech, the one she’d probably rehearsed all night.

‘I’m … we’re … worried about you, Deborah. It’s been four years, yet you still appear to be in mourning. It was a shocking, terrible, event—’

‘Event!’ My shrillness pierces the room, other people stop their conversations to look at me. ‘Event, Marcie?’ I lower my voice to a harsh whisper. ‘My son was murdered. I lost my only child.’ The tears are escaping my stinging eyes. I didn’t want to show my emotion in this way. It’s not helping my cause.

‘I know, and I’m so sorry – I can’t even begin to imagine …’

‘No. Of course you can’t.’ I look down at my lap. Wait for her next shot.

‘You didn’t take a lot of time off work when it happened. I thought that was a mistake at the time, now I definitely do. Take some time right now, Deborah.’

I look up sharply. ‘No. No, I don’t need to take time off. I need to be in work, with other people.’

‘But, Deborah, you don’t even speak to your colleagues. I mean, unless you absolutely have to for your role. You are falling behind on your workload, and most of the time you don’t appear to be with us at all. Things are getting missed, others are having to carry you.’ She leans forwards, takes my hands.

This is it. She’s letting me go.

‘You’ve been part of this company since its birth. I want you to continue to be part of it. But I’m seriously concerned for your welfare, and with that in mind, I’m telling you to take some time – with full pay to start with, of course. Two months, maybe three, that’s all. To get your head together.’

I’m defeated. I can’t even think of an argument to strengthen my case to stay. The words ‘to start with’ echo in my ears. It won’t be just two or three months – she’ll keep stretching it out, make sure I don’t return at all.

‘What will I do, Marcie?’ I hate the sound of my own desperation.

‘That’s the problem, isn’t it? Outside of work you have nothing. Maybe you need a hobby.’

And we’re back to being condescending. Even more so.

I do have a husband – has she forgotten that?

‘Fine.’

I push my chair back, the loud screech hurting my ears. I don’t look at her again. I take my bag and walk, head down, out of Costa. Out of my job.

What the hell am I going to tell Nathan?

Marcie demanding I take time off work is a mistake.

Me, alone with my thoughts, is going to be an even bigger one.