Chasing Charlie (5 page)

CLAUDIA

I didn't have my usual get-up-and-go today. My fingers were struggling to achieve anything near their usual pitter-patter speed, and had been petering out into far too frequent pauses. I kept finding myself just staring into the middle of the office. It wasn't like I hadn't made an attempt at cheering myself up this morning either. I'd poured myself into my current fave suit – a charcoal pinstripe pencil skirt, teamed with that gorgeous peplum (I loved that word) jacket that cinched in my waist and then flared out in pleats. It was a sort of modern Edwardian number I liked to think. All the accent on the rounded buttocks. But it wasn't working today. I still felt rubbish and I kept shuffling in my seat trying to get comfortable. I was itchy down there. Yuck.

I refused to be ill. Other people may get colds and flu and whatever else and retreat to bed, buried in sodden tissues. But not me. If a tickle dared to form in my throat, I just slugged back some Jägermeister and got on with it. I was sure that self-pity simply made things worse, and good health simply relied on having the right attitude and the appropriate liquor. But this was different. This was all wrong. Whatever this was, it was giving the old Jägermeister the fingers and burying in further. A dull ache that had been niggling inside since before Ed got back hadn't subsided either, and I couldn't bear to think about what was happening to my thirty-quid underwear. Whatever it was wasn't shifting with Persil alone.

Anyway back to the office. At some point I had kind of given up on trying to concentrate and was standing at my window, gazing over Canary Wharf, when a voice at the door startled me.

‘Claudia?' It was John Tightpants, or John Morgan, Head of Marketing, as he was known to everyone who wasn't me (and Sam, and Mara, and Kate – oh and of course that time I was at the pub when I told almost every person I met that night about him).

‘Sorry, is this a good time?' he asked.

‘Yes, it's fine, John, have a seat.' I crossed the room to join him. I wanted to say no, John, it isn't all right at all. But I didn't. I can't say that to the head of marketing, can I?

He sat down and patted the vacant spot on the sofa. I pretended not to notice and sat down in a seat adjacent to him. I asked him what I could do for him.

He sat there, knees apart, his groin straining for attention in those irresistibly tight pants beneath his trousers. Behind his back, people around the office (mostly women) call him Daniel Craig. But, just quietly, I think he's actually more handsome than Mr Bond: his face kinder, his lips more generous. He is, in fact, the best-looking man in the building with a panting following from women and men of all ages, and as he bulged in front of me this morning, I tried very hard to push away the memories of the incredible sex I'd had with him. Because we can't be together – I will never let that happen.

‘I've had a look at your shortlist for the assistant-marketing-director role.' John smiled confidently at me, his eyes twinkling. He, of course, being so confident, had been ignoring the fact that I'd been avoiding him for a month, and at every meeting he still managed to talk shop and scream sex with his eyes.

I took the offered sheaves of A4, the five excellent CVs of two men and three women who'd applied for the role, and flicked through them briefly.

‘So these are the ones you'd like to have back in for a second interview?' I said, risking a quick glance at his face.

‘I think so, the very top five you had on your preference list. You have great judgement, Claudia.'

No, I haven't, I'd thought then. It wasn't good judgement to get over-excited at Hadyn's leaving do and go home with him. It wasn't good judgement at all. The sex was amazing, incandescent, but so stupid. Worse than the sex, I haven't been able to get him out of my mind, which makes me feel exposed somehow.
And
it was against my rules to screw men on the same or higher management level as me. That was an absolute no-go. I was happy to turn on the charm to help me get up the ladder, but no one was going to say I slept my way to the top!

I wished he'd stop looking at me like that. Like he was sure there would be a repeat performance some day.

‘Well then, I'll get Susie to get them back in,' I'd said brightly, standing up as if I was in a huge hurry.

John stood too.

‘Right. Good,' he said.

He paused, and honestly it felt like he was trying to twinkle his way inside me.

‘By the way, Susie's found me a very good PA too. Very professional,' he said.

‘Excellent.' I opened the door for him and stood back to let him out. ‘I'm giving Susie more reign to recruit on her own without me looking over her shoulder, so your PA wasn't under my radar. I hope she works out,' I said.

‘I'm sure she will,' John said, and slowly walked past me to the door. ‘See you soon then.'

He was gone. I leant against the door. I'd held my breath in an effort not to smell him as he walked past me but it was no use. His scent lingered on in my office for the rest of the day, teasing me.

ED

I watched Mara set off to work on her bike. She'd just picked up speed when some idiot stepped out onto the road without looking a few yards ahead of her. There was plenty of time for her to brake but in the end she had to swerve to avoid them.

‘Whoa!' I shouted into the silent room. What was up with her? Did she have so much on her mind she didn't see that guy? Or were her brakes too soft? I waited until she'd completely disappeared from view, imagining she was surrounded by a protective shell. If only she was. The reality was so different. She always seemed so tough but she was just as fragile as everyone else inside and who other than me could really look after her? Mum was off in her new life, Dad was too sad and Kate had the kids to look after.

After a bit I went and stood in Sam's doorway again. I had started doing this whenever both the girls were out. I didn't ever go in – that would feel too pervy. It was sad enough standing and looking into her room. Sam's bed was unmade and I could just make out the impression her body had left behind, indicating she either got out of bed in a hurry or was a lazy so-and-so. The clothes lying across the end of her bed, all over her floor and disappearing under her desk like children trying to hide, pointed to the latter. On her desk was a framed family photograph, peeking out from behind a tower of magazines. I guessed that Sam must have been about ten when the photo was taken. She was standing with her family in front of a tent: Richard in shorts, his beard just starting to grey; Alison in a lemon dress, peering out from under a Lady Di fringe; the girls both brown-limbed and grinning. They looked untidy and relaxed, with no sign of the polished Rebecca that existed now. Sam looked as if she was enjoying a good joke.

I stood at her door and wished I was a less principled person. I wished I was the sort of person who could march right in and start rifling through her stuff. But I just couldn't. I wandered back to the sitting room and stood there for a moment, lost in one of those all too frequent moments, not knowing what on earth to do with myself. I stared absently at the bookshelves. Novel after novel by extremely clever women: Margaret Atwood, A. S. Byatt, Barbara Kingsolver, Toni Morrison, Joyce Carol Oates. All Mara's obviously. I tried to picture a time I've seen Sam holding a book. Nope. Nothing doing. There was a whole shelf of DVDs. Then there were Mara's photo albums. I paused. If Mara's photo albums were there, then maybe . . . I moved closer to the shelves. There, shoved on top of Mara's photo albums, was a tatty cardboard box with ‘random photos' written on the side in Sam's writing. Of course Sam wouldn't have her photos all neatly displayed in albums like Mara. I couldn't believe my luck! I took them out, my heart racing. This wasn't snooping, I told my conscience. The sitting room is communal. No it isn't. Yes it is! Oh shut up.

I sat down on the futon and took the lid off. They were Sam's all right – loads of them. I took a stack out. The first one was of Claudia, Sam and Mara raising their glasses to the camera in front of a eucalyptus. That must be Melbourne, where they met each other originally. Sam and Claudia had obviously drunk enough wine to look all loose around the eyes. Mara was smiling her closed-lipped little smile, her eyes unreadable, not letting herself go. Who took the photo? Mara's expression would point to Mark – her one-time shit of a boyfriend.

I kept flicking. There were endearing photos of a badly dressed Sam as a child, photos of her as a teenager with too much hair and awkward posture, all muddled up with photos of her as an adult, her arms flung around this person or that. There were a lot of photos of her travels. Lush rice paddies in Thailand. Long, empty beaches in Australia. That glacier she visited in New Zealand. Then I came across a photo of me and the girls, taken three or four years ago. Sam was in-between Mara and I, with only half of Mara's face in the frame. She had an arm around both of our necks, pulling us in, squashing our faces against hers. My glasses were askew, making me look goofy, and my smile almost took up the whole of my face. I placed my thumb over Mara so it was just Sam and me. I felt an ache in my chest. I remembered that time well. It was around the time I started admitting to myself I was in love with her.

The doorbell jangled me out of my dream and I looked up sharply. I shoved the other photos back into the box, returned it to the shelf and hurried to the intercom with the photo still in my hand.

‘Hello?' I answered, my heart pounding.

‘Ed? I was about to give up.'

It was Rebecca. What the hell was she doing here at ten o'clock on a weekday?

‘Erm . . . hi,' I said.

‘Can you let me in? I think I've left something there.'

And curses, I couldn't think of a good reason to say no.

I checked the sitting room, scanning it quickly to check I hadn't left any photos lying around. And then Rebecca was there, about to knock on the front door. I reached for the lock, remembering just before I opened it to stuff the photo into my pocket.

‘Hi!' Rebecca said brightly.

‘Come in, come in, it's freezing out there.' I motioned to her to come inside. Nervousness always makes me talk about the weather and I despised myself for it.

‘Horrible day,' Rebecca said gaily as she walked towards the kitchen, turning her head to look into Sam's room as she passed, and I got this horrible feeling she knew I'd been standing there only a few minutes before.

‘Yes, it does look awful. I haven't been out yet,' I continued. Pathetic.

‘Been catching up on your beauty sleep then have you?' She stood next to the radiator in the kitchen and warmed her hands. I laughed uncertainly.

‘So . . . how's the job-hunting going?' she asked me.

‘Ah, OK. My friend has some hours next week. I don't really feel like I've arrived yet,' I answered.

‘I know how you feel.'

Somehow I doubted that. I put the kettle on, and turned and leant against the worktop.

‘What have you left behind?' I asked her, wondering how long I would have to make this painful small talk before she would leave again.

‘My address book – I'll check her room in a minute. Thought it would be nice to see you while I was here.'

‘Right.'

The kettle growled in the awkward silence. I was suddenly hyper aware of the photo in my back pocket and I moved away from the worktop slightly so I wouldn't crush it.

‘Have you seen James this week?' I asked her.

Rebecca's face darkened for a moment and then cleared, as if she was pushing away any negative feelings by force.

‘No. I'm not chasing him either. A bit of distance is probably the best thing.'

I nodded. Now I was all out of questions.

‘Kettle's boiled.' Rebecca pointed behind me.

‘Ah, yes.' I busied myself with making her tea.

‘Are you not having one?' she asked.

‘I've just had a coffee.'

‘Ooooh, would you make me one of your coffees? I've heard they're amazing!' Rebecca's gushing chafed my nerves but I found myself obediently lowering the kettle and moving to the coffee machine instead.

‘I'll have a quick look then. While you make that,' she said.

‘Right.'

After a bit, she came out of Sam's room holding the photo of them camping and my stomach lurched when I saw it in her hand. For a crazy moment I thought she was going to ask me why I had been looking at it myself.

‘It's not in there, so that's a mystery,' she prattled away. ‘Found this though. Didn't notice it the other night – it must have been hiding.'

I really hoped I looked surprised.

‘Look how skinny we were!' she said, her eyes wide.

‘You're still thin!'

‘I am.' Rebecca smiled coyly.

‘So is Sam.'

‘In a size twelve sort of way,' she said, looking at the photo again with her head to the side and then turning to me, a conspiratorial look on her face.

I looked at the photo again, too cross to answer her. Sam's got a gorgeous body, a damn sight more attractive than the head on sticks standing in the kitchen next to me. I am constantly amazed at how two sisters can be so different from each other. What was it that Sam told me about her? Something about Rebecca pretending when she was little that she was actually a royal living with the Moriarty family in Petersfield, placed there to give her a normal upbringing. When she turned eighteen, a Rolls-Royce would come and collect her, to take her to the life she was always destined to lead. She must have had quite a shock when the Rolls didn't turn up.

‘So . . .' Rebecca looked mischievously at me. ‘Have you found out who she was with the other night?'

‘No, and it's none of my business!' I said, too quickly to be very convincing.

‘Whatever! She'll spill the beans before too long, she can never keep anything to herself.' Rebecca laughed a hard little laugh that didn't match her carefully groomed exterior then stared into her coffee. For a moment, she seemed to have forgotten that I was sitting there in front of her. But then she shook her head, clearing the thoughts from her mind and looked up.

‘Not like you, Ed. You're quite the dark horse,' she said.

‘I am?' I squirmed under her steady gaze, my mouth dry with dread.