Last Night Page 4

  ‘When was the last time you saw him?’ I ask.

  She sighs and her entire body slumps. ‘Saturday night.’

  Her eyes narrow momentarily and then she turns back to her phone. There was an accusation in that stare but I’m really trying not to argue.

  ‘How’s the café?’ I ask.

  ‘It’s work. What do you think?’

  ‘I don’t know. Rahul seemed pleased with you the last time I saw him.’

  ‘Yeah.’

  Olivia is all elbows and knees as she hugs her legs to her chest, peering around her legs to continue using her phone.

  I try a different approach: ‘What about the accountancy lessons with Ellie?’

  She rolls her eyes. ‘They’re fine.’

  The worst thing about my relationship with Olivia is that I know it’s not that different from the one I had with my mother when I was the same age.

  ‘What are your plans for today…?’

  A shrug. ‘Try to find Ty.’

  I leave it a moment, not wanting to jump on her. ‘He has done this before, though…’

  She looks up, frowns, looks down.

  I suspect that, deep down, this is the fact that’s annoying Olivia the most. Her boyfriend has done this before. It’s fair to say his relationship with his father isn’t the best and he’s disappeared for days at a time on at least two occasions that I know of. Then there’s Olivia and Tyler’s relationship in itself. They’re one of those couples. Everybody knows one, especially at that age. They break up and make up incessantly, falling out and arguing over petty things and then getting back together days later.

  When they first broke up, I was stupid and naïve in assuring her it was all for the best; that she could do better, and so on. Three days later and they were back together. I know she told him what I said because he was brazen enough to tell me to my face that he was definitely good enough for my daughter.

  Even though they’ve broken up at least three times since, I’ve not made the same mistake.

  There’s a part of me, that I’d like to think is small, which hopes he doesn’t come back. The truth is he’s not good enough for her.

  ‘Have you heard from him at all since Saturday?’ I ask.

  ‘I already said.’

  ‘You said you’d not seen him since Saturday…’ I tail off, immediately regretting firing straight back.

  She spins to face me, knocking her phone onto the floor in the process.

  Olivia’s top lip has curled in fury. ‘And whose fault is that?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘You’re the one that argued with him. You made him run away.’

  ‘I really didn’t.’

  ‘I was right here, Mum! I heard you.’

  ‘All I said was that I wasn’t going to lend you money if you were going to give it straight to him.’

  She bends to scoop her phone from the floor, checking the already cracked screen as she shakes her head. Her hair is baby pink at the moment, having gone through the full rainbow in recent rimes. She tugs at the short curl that’s come from tucking it behind her ears. Dan always says she’s her mother’s daughter – and there’s a certain amount of truth to that. As much as Tyler and Olivia antagonise one another, the same is true of me and her. When it comes to looks, however, Olivia is her father’s daughter. They share the same high, angled cheekbones that are topped off by big brown eyes. Though I’d like to pretend it isn’t true, there are times when I’m jealous of how little she looks like me.

  Olivia is on a roll now: ‘You called him a scrounger.’

  ‘No I didn’t.’

  ‘Last week you did.’

  ‘I thought we were talking about Saturday?’

  ‘We were – but it’s the whole thing, Mum. You’re always having a go. No wonder he’s run off.’

  ‘All I did was ask him how the job-hunting was going…’

  I tail off because I know she sees straight through it. Anyone would. I might have been annoyed at Dan’s passive aggression but I can hold my own as well.

  Olivia throws her hands up. ‘You know he’s got a bad knee.’

  I bite my lip because we’ve been over this numerous times. Whether or not Tyler has a bad knee – and I have my doubts – the fact is that he’s five years older than Olivia and has never had a job. She works evenings in a café to earn her own money and, from what I can tell, much of it is spent by him or on him. Olivia doesn’t see it, of course. She’s in love and, for her, this is what that means.

  The one thing I do know is that I’ve heard more than enough about Tyler’s alleged bad knee. In his own words, he ‘totally ballsed it up’ playing football when he was fifteen. Quite why that’s stopped him doing any work whatsoever is unclear. What’s also unclear is the lack of a doctor’s note reinforcing his own rigorous medical opinion. Given Tyler’s lack of qualifications, job, or experience, I’m not convinced he’s qualified to practise medicine. Pointing out that sitting around playing Xbox all day means he could sit around an office all day didn’t go down well with either him or Olivia on Saturday.

  Dan told me I should lay off and I know he’s right – but watching a daughter repeat your own mistakes isn’t easy.

  ‘Have you seen my work pass?’ I ask, getting to my feet.

  Olivia doesn’t look up. ‘No.’

  ‘I thought I’d left it—’

  She launches herself to her feet, grabbing the charger from the socket and hauling the bag to her chest. ‘I said I hadn’t seen it. You’re not bothered about Ty, why should I care about your pass?’

  There’s no time to reply because, in a few strides, she’s already across the room.

  ‘Liv,’ I call, but it’s too late. Her Doc Martens stomp across the floor, the front door slams into the wall and then back into the frame. Her abrupt departure echoes through the house, booming and bouncing to emphasise my failure as a parent.

  I breathe in deeply through my nose, holding it and then slowly letting it out. My eyes are closed and I know I’m talking to the empty house but I need to get the words out.

  ‘Your father and I need to talk to you,’ I say. ‘It’s important.’

  Chapter Six

  I know Natasha can see me through the glass. I’m knocking on the door of my work and she’s across the office, half-turned in her seat, aware I’m here but doing nothing to let me in.

  After a third knock, I give a chummy wave that kills a tiny bit of my soul. I mouth the word ‘hi’ and smile, hoping she’ll get off her sodding arse and let me into the damn building. This time, she spins fully around in her seat, offering the dampest of watery smiles; the type of expression that has a big fat middle finger directly behind it. She motions towards the door with her hand, pointing at me, then at her own chest. I nod, maintaining my smile.

  Yes, I do need letting in, you massive cow.

  Natasha is barefoot, her skyscraper overpriced Italian heels placed neatly under her desk. She only ever wears them from her car to the office and back each day – unless she has a meeting with Graham, of course.

  She takes her time drifting across the office, showing off her shiny, waxed legs in case any of the lads are looking in her direction. When she gets to the door, she points to the scanner to the side.

  ‘Forgot your pass?’ she asks, the forced sweetness of her voice muffled by the door.

  What do you think?

  I nod and she finally presses the release button on the inside to unlock the door. I thank her and she gives me a look as if she’s just donated me a bloody kidney.

  She starts off back to her desk. ‘You’re late today,’ she says over her shoulder.

  ‘Graham approved it,’ I reply.

  ‘That’s nice. Did you have a lie-in?’

  ‘I was working away.’

  The smirkiest of smirks: ‘Right.’

  Natasha and I are both IT sales reps. The thing with telling people my job title is that their eyes instantly glaze over. It sounds bori
ng and, in all honesty, it is boring. It’s one of those careers a person falls into. No child dreams of growing up to sell computer networks from one company to another.

  If the other person does show any degree of interest in my job title, the next question is along the lines of, ‘You must know plenty about computers?’ – and that’s when any explanation really does become a chore. I know an awful lot about one specific network system and how it integrates into a company’s framework. Even that sounds dull. When it comes to that one and only system, I can tell other people about its intricacies, what it can and can’t do, how it can help a company with its business, how users can be trained. And so on. It’s like being a butcher and knowing one hell of a lot about pork sausages but very little about beef.

  What it does do is pay the bills. It also gave me something to do after Olivia was old enough to start school. I’ve been doing it for nearly thirteen years and I know I’ll almost certainly be doing something similar until I can afford not to.

  I think that’s probably why I don’t like Natasha. For a start, she has almost two decades on me. This is a beginning for her, a first job after college. This will be the finish for me. It wouldn’t be so bad if she wasn’t so bloody obvious about knowing that. She’s the sort who puts every aspect of her life on Facebook or Instagram. It’s all ‘post-run selfie’ or ‘night in with my baby’, accompanied by a picture of her with her handbag dog. I know all this not because we’re friends online or anything like that, but because I’m something of a stalker. It’s hard not to look and I dread the day she ups her privacy settings. I’m living vicariously through her.

  My desk is opposite Natasha’s and we’re separated by a cloth-covered piece of plywood. Natasha sits next to Claire, who’s nice enough – if a little quiet – and then there are three men who spend more time out of the office than in it.

  When I get to my desk, there’s a Post-it note pinned to the monitor with ‘See Graham’ scrawled in felt-tip.

  ‘Oh, yeah,’ Natasha says. She’s twirling a strand from her blonde fringe. ‘You’ve got to see Graham.’

  I’m not even sitting and pluck the note from the screen, holding it up.

  ‘Thanks,’ I tell her.

  ‘You’re welcome.’

  There are times when I wonder how many of the interactions I have with people are false. My entire job is about talking up the functions of an IT system to try to make money. I fudge the awkward questions and overplay benefits. I’m frequently on eggshells with Dan and Olivia at home, pretending all is well – and then, even in the office, I never tell Natasha what I think of her. It’d mean too much of admitting what I think of myself. Most of what I do involves being fake-nice to people.

  Graham’s office is a little down the hall, separated from the rest of us. I knock on the door and wait a few seconds until he calls for me to enter. He always leaves it a few seconds; perhaps making whoever’s outside worry a little more, perhaps clearing whatever’s on his monitor. I know which of the two I think is true.

  He’s a very sweaty man, always has been, and – probably because of that – the air-conditioning in his office is always cranked up to levels that would have Greenpeace up in arms. On top of his stocky shoulders is a big bald egg and I’ve never been sure it’s through choice or premature hair loss. He’s forty-three, two years older than me, but a person would never guess it from looking at him. He’s got that red-faced fifty-going-on-sixty-thing going for him.

  Graham nods at the seat opposite his own and the chair squeaks noisily as I slide onto it.

  ‘How was the meeting?’ he asks gruffly.

  ‘The client didn’t show.’

  He tilts his head sideways, examining me with closed lips as if wondering if I’m lying. ‘He didn’t show?’

  ‘I got a couple of texts through the evening. He was running late, then said he was stuck in traffic, then he said he couldn’t make it.’

  I get my phone out to show him, but Graham bats the evidence away without looking at it.

  ‘So I’ve got to pay for your night in a hotel and there’s not even a sale to show for it?’

  ‘I’m trying to rearrange.’

  ‘What was his name again?’

  ‘Luke.’

  Graham taps the mouse on his desk and stares at his screen, scrolling and clicking until he’s found what I presume is the email I forwarded him for the hotel booking.

  ‘Remind me again why I’m paying for a hotel stay?’

  ‘Luke suggested meeting in the middle. He was coming up from Cheltenham but said he was too busy during the day. I said I’d go to him but had something in Birmingham last night. It was a compromise.’

  I don’t add, ‘It was your idea to put it on expenses’.

  Graham hmms as if this is somehow suspicious when it’s actually the norm. Our office is in Lincolnshire, which is, to say the least, out of the way. Few clients come here, so us reps go to them.

  He presses back into his luxurious leather chair and purses his lips, glancing towards the certificates on the wall. His office is a shrine to himself. There are diplomas showing off his qualifications, which, from what I can gather, involved attending various weekend conferences. Those type of events in which everyone gets a prize – as long as they pre-pay for it. There are enlarged photos of him with clients that have been framed and mounted, as if they contain someone who’s actually famous.

  ‘I’ll try calling him,’ I say.

  ‘You do that. In the meantime, I’ve set you up an appointment for later.’

  ‘Oh.’

  His eyebrows raise at the surprise in my voice. It’s rare that Graham sets up anyone other than Natasha with appointments. He’s her favourite, for what I assume are two very good pushed-up reasons. ‘I’m throwing you a bone here,’ he adds.

  ‘I know. I didn’t mean it like that. Thank you.’

  He passes me a Post-it note, with the name ‘DECLAN IRONS’ and a phone number. That’s followed by a second note with an address. Graham likes his Post-it notes. If I ever went to his house, I wouldn’t be surprised to see the living room wallpapered with sticky yellow squares of paper.

  The ‘bone’ he’s throwing is that Natasha picked up a massive new contract last week. Before that, her sales figures weren’t that impressive. The blokes always do okay and Claire ticks by. It’s not quite official, but it might as well be – I am the weakest salesperson in the office. I console myself by imagining Natasha picking up that contract while on her knees, but I know it’s not true. Her success is hers and my failure is all my own.

  Graham tells me he’ll forward the rest of the details in an email and then I stand, assuming that’s it. I feel like a naughty schoolgirl waiting to be dismissed from the headmaster’s office. Graham is looking at his screen, apparently oblivious.

  ‘Shall I go…?’ I ask.

  He tuts. ‘How many years have we worked together now, Rose?’

  I make a point of counting on my fingers, as if the number isn’t imprinted on my mind. ‘Nearly thirteen.’

  ‘Right. You’re my longest-serving rep. Others have come and gone. Rats deserting a state-of-the-art cruise liner. I appreciate your loyalty, but that is something that has to work both ways…’

  He stares me directly in the eyes and there’s a moment in which I wonder if he’s trying it on. His neck bulges against his tie, the top button of his shirt clinging on for dear life. He isn’t my type at all – and never has been. He divorced a couple of years ago and there were always rumours that he was having an affair with his PA. She left and wasn’t replaced – but I don’t know for certain. There are always rumours like that in places like this. Offices run on tea, biscuits and gossip about who’s shagging who.

  What I do know is that Graham tried it on with me four or five years ago when he was married. We were away at a weekend conference and he’d been drinking for eight straight hours. He bought me a drink and then put a hand on my knee, saying he’d always found me ‘intoxicating’ �
�� whatever that meant. He was unquestionably intoxicated. I turned him down politely and, ever since, he’s acted like it never happened. Or, almost. Before that, any small workplace failures on my part were accepted and not spoken of. Ever since, I’ve been questioned on every hiccup.

  It’s when he jabs at his screen that I realise I’ve completely misread him.

  ‘I’m getting CVs every day,’ he says.

  There’s nothing cryptic about it: he could replace me with someone younger who’ll work for less money. Our salaries are bumped up with performance-related bonuses – but I’m likely on the highest base rate, simply because of how long I’ve worked in the office. I also get more holidays than anyone other than Graham. He’s happy for all that to continue – as long as I keep selling.

  ‘I’m trying,’ I reply.

  There’s a moment where I think he’ll offer a sarcastic ‘try harder’ – but he doesn’t. Instead, he nods at the Post-it note in my hand. ‘That Declan sounds keen.’

  Perhaps I’m expecting it because of my own insincerity around people, but there’s no punchline. It takes me a second to realise he’s being nice.

  ‘Thank you. I appreciate it.’

  He’s expressionless as he turns back to his monitor. I think – perhaps hope – that he wants me to do well.

  After closing his door, I wait in the hallway for a moment. I’m not ready to face Natasha and the others yet, so I try calling Luke. There’s a gap of a few seconds, a plip, and then nothing. It doesn’t even ring, let alone go to voicemail. I can’t remember if this is what happens when a phone is turned off, or if someone has no reception. Either way, I tap out another text message.

  Hi. Me again. Hope everything is well with you. Did you want to reschedule? I can call if you prefer?

  I read it through twice and then press send.

  Back in the main office and I skim through the emails Luke sent last week. We never spoke on the phone, let alone met. Everything was set up through emails and texts. When I did try to call, there was no answer and he texted a minute or so later to say he was in a meeting.