False Advertising (40 page)

‘It wasn't the only reason he hired you: there was a much bigger hook than that.'

‘What are you talking about?'

‘He knows about David,' said Gemma coolly. ‘He's known from the start.'

Helen couldn't speak.

‘When I was trying to talk him into the job-sharing idea, he wasn't convinced, till I mentioned you'd lost your husband . . .'

Helen could feel tears pricking behind her eyes. ‘I asked you not to tell anyone about that, Gemma.'

‘I didn't plan to; it just came out,' she said. ‘That's why I asked him not to say anything to you. I knew you'd run a mile if you realised he knew.'

Helen crossed her arms in front of herself, breathing hard. ‘How very manipulative of you.'

Gemma met her gaze. She hadn't done anything wrong: it was an accident, the way it had come out. And it was time Helen was made aware of exactly who was taking advantage of the situation. Myles had said if she wanted things to change, she should go ahead and change them. Okay, he'd asked for it.

‘If you stop for a minute and think about it, Helen, I think you'll find Myles is the one doing the manipulating.'

Helen couldn't stand there any longer. She walked out of the kitchen and straight to her bedroom, closing the door behind her. She was trembling, tears filling her eyes. How could Myles have lied to her all this time? All his crap about honesty . . . it was a joke. Their friendship was a joke. The job was a joke.

And Helen was going to tell him what he could do with it. Right now, tonight, before she lost her nerve.

‘Gemma,' she said a moment later, standing in the doorway to the kitchen. ‘Noah's asleep, I just checked on him. Do you mind if I go out for a while?'

Gemma looked across the table at her. ‘Where are you off to?'

‘Does it matter?' she said. ‘Look, I don't intend to be away long, Noah won't wake up, and I assume you're not going out –'

‘It's fine, Helen, go ahead.'

‘Thank you,' she said, and turned and walked away.

It didn't take long to drive into the city at this time on a Monday night. The roads were almost empty. Helen was even able to park the car out the front of the building. There was a different security man on the door, but he didn't blink when Helen presented her pass.

‘Good evening, ma'am. Are you expecting to stay long in the building tonight?'

‘No, I shouldn't be long at all,' said Helen.

‘No worries, ma'am, take your time. We just like to be aware of the movements in and out of the building after hours.'

‘Okay,' she nodded, walking to the elevator bay. Her heart started to pound harder in her chest as the lift made its ascent to the fifteenth floor and the doors slid open. Helen hesitated for a moment, before she stepped out and started tentatively along the corridor. She knew she was in the right, that this was what she had to do, but that didn't stop her from feeling rattled and upset. Really upset. So upset it hurt. She felt so humiliated and, worse, betrayed. She had thought Myles had become a friend, and had been sure Gemma had. But they'd both been playing games with her, keeping secrets, abusing her trust. Helen felt naive and stupid, wondering how many times the two of them had talked about her in hushed tones, shaking their heads with pity.

As she went around the corner to her workstation, Helen saw that the door to Myles's office was open and the lights were on. She had assumed he would still be here working: he'd told her many times that he never left much before ten. And to think she'd actually worried about him working so hard.

Helen took a deep breath and walked towards his office. She tapped lightly a couple of times on the door as she stepped inside. Myles wasn't at his desk, or over on the couch. Perhaps he was in the bathroom.

‘Helen, what are you –'

The rest was drowned out by her scream as she nearly jumped out of her skin at the sound of Myles's voice right behind her.

‘Hey, hey,' he said, turning her around. ‘It's only me, I'm sorry, I didn't mean to frighten you . . . Helen? Are you okay?'

She couldn't stop shaking, and she could feel tears. The fright had obviously triggered an eruption; she felt like she was a volcano about to blow.

‘Helen,' said Myles, his voice full of compassion as he drew her closer. ‘What is it, what's wrong?'

But she couldn't speak. She could only sob big, tremulous sobs, while Myles held her close, gently stroking her back.

This was not the way it was supposed to go! She had to pull
herself together, stop crying and find her rage again. But disengaging herself from Myles was proving difficult, like turning off the hot shower on a cold morning. She hadn't been held like this in so long. Helen had almost forgotten the warm comfort of being folded in someone's arms.

Get a grip! Remember what he knows about you, imagine the pity he's feeling right this minute . . .

That did it. She shrugged him off, stepping back to put some distance between them.

‘Are you okay?' he asked, passing her a handkerchief, but she didn't take it, didn't dare meet his eyes, because she knew exactly how they were going to look. He had ‘caring concern' down to a fine art in those velvety brown eyes of his. How did she know his eyes were brown? Much less velvety.

‘Helen,' he said, ducking his head to get into her line of vision, ‘are you all right? Did something happen? Is Noah okay?'

That made a lump rise in her throat again, but she forced it down. She shook her head. ‘It's nothing like that,' she managed to say, hearing him sigh with relief.

‘Do you want to use the bathroom, splash some water on your face?'

She shook her head, wiping her eyes with her sleeves. God, it just occurred to her how she must look. She'd been home all day, so she was wearing her housework clothes – old tracksuit pants and an ancient, frayed T-shirt, and an even older worn-out sloppy joe with bleach stains splattered across it. She looked like something the cat had dragged in.

‘Um, I came straight from home,' Helen muttered, by way of explanation for her appearance.

‘Yeah, I realise,' he dismissed. ‘Why don't you take a seat? I'll get you a drink. Do you want water, or something stronger?'

‘No . . . um, yes, okay,' she stammered.

‘Something stronger?'

She nodded. ‘Just a small one.'

As he went to get it Helen walked tentatively over to the sitting area. This was
really
not turning out the way she'd planned. Not that she'd had a plan, which was likely the problem. Okay, she had to get back in control. She looked at the couches,
considering her options, before taking a seat in one of the armchairs. That would keep him at a distance. Distance was good. Distance was, in fact, essential. She would tell him that she knew he'd been lying to her, and that made their working relationship untenable. That's it, that's all she had to say, really. He certainly had no defence.

Myles walked over to her and handed her the drink, then he perched himself on the edge of the coffee table smack in front of her, gazing intently into her eyes. They were so close their knees were almost touching. Helen threw back one mouthful and swallowed. It was Scotch. She wasn't accustomed to drinking spirits, but it was very smooth – heinously expensive, no doubt. She took another mouthful and swallowed it down, feeling the warmth flood her chest.

‘Better?' he asked.

She nodded.

‘So what's going on, Helen?'

She looked briefly into his eyes; they were brown, and velvety, and they were gazing earnestly back into hers. Don't be swayed. He's a liar. Everything he's done for you was out of pity; your relationship, such as it is, was founded on it. Helen put her glass on the table and stood abruptly. She couldn't be this close to him.

‘What's the matter?' he said, swivelling around as she moved away.

‘I have to stand while I say this.' She took a few steps back. Stay focused. Stick to the point. Keep it simple. That was the direction given to the supermarket actors. It had worked for them.

‘Helen?' Myles was watching her expectantly. ‘What did you want to say?'

‘You've been lying to me,' she blurted.

‘What? No, I haven't –'

‘Don't make it worse, Myles,' she said, regaining her confidence. ‘You have been lying to me – I have the facts.'

‘Then please share them with me. Because I have no idea what you're talking about.'

She took a breath. ‘You've known about . . . what happened to my husband, the whole time.'

He sighed, but for some reason he didn't look guilty, or even
contrite. ‘That's what this is about,' he said, apparently relieved. ‘Thank God it's finally out in the open.'

Helen was momentarily taken aback. ‘Don't brush me off like that. This is serious.'

‘I wouldn't brush you off, Helen. In fact, I wish you'd come to me sooner. I hated not being able to talk to you about it.'

This was confusing. He was double-talking her.

‘Myles, you have been lying to me this whole time,' she restated.

‘No, I haven't,' he insisted.

‘You knew and you never said anything.'

‘Because Gemma asked me not to. She told me without thinking, and then she said it really upset you to talk about it and that you were sensitive about being referred to as a widow. I promised not to bring it up unless you did.'

Helen was listening, but her head was beginning to hurt.

‘I tried to give you openings a few times to talk about it,' Myles went on, ‘but you always changed the subject. I figured Gemma was right. It obviously still upset you too much, so I didn't push it. But I never lied to you.'

Helen closed her eyes and shook her head. ‘Stop it,' she said, before looking at him directly. ‘How can you say you've been honest with me when you've known something so personal . . . so private . . . and I had no idea? You had no right to that information without my knowledge or consent, Myles. Maybe you got it by accident, but you should have told me that you knew. Especially once we got to know each other better.'

He was listening intently. ‘You're right,' he nodded. ‘I didn't think about it like that. I just didn't want to upset you. I apologise, Helen.'

He wasn't going to get out of it that easily. ‘Well, fine,' she said, breathing hard. ‘But you do realise I can't work for you any longer.'

‘Why not?' he said, springing to his feet. ‘Helen, that's silly.'

‘I'm not silly.'

‘No you're not, that's not what I said. But there's no reason you can't work for me. I told you I was sorry – I do understand how you must feel. Can't we get past this?'

‘I don't see how,' she said curtly. ‘You said that you wanted me to take the job because you and I could be honest with each other, and that was the most important thing. Well, so much for that. You obviously only offered me the job because you felt sorry for me –'

‘No, I didn't. Why do you assume that?'

‘Come on, Myles,' Helen exclaimed. ‘I had no experience, I sat with an ice pack on my ankle throughout the interview, after I'd slandered you and rubbished the entire industry.' She paused, shaking her head. ‘God, you even gave me a car space. No wonder everyone's saying we're sleeping together.'

‘What?'

‘That's the rumour going around.'

‘Well it isn't true.'

‘Don't you think I know that?' Helen said, flustered. She was getting a mental picture that was very distracting. ‘And don't you see why I can't work here any more? I'm a joke now, Myles. Everyone thinks I'm getting special treatment, and the truth is I am, just not for the reason they're thinking.' There was that mental picture again!

‘Look, I admit, Helen, maybe I was swayed when I heard your story to give you a chance,' said Myles. ‘But you're not getting any special treatment. I genuinely value your input, and I genuinely enjoy working with you. That's the truth, and it has nothing to do with the fact that you lost your husband.'

‘I don't see how you can separate them.'

‘Well you certainly don't seem to have any trouble.'

Helen looked at him blankly. She detected an edge of frustration in his voice that she hadn't heard before.

‘That whole part of your life,' he went on, ‘it's as though it's in a secret compartment no one's even allowed to know exists. Why can't you talk about it?'

‘That's none of your business.'

‘That's a cop-out, Helen. If you don't learn to talk about it, to live with it, you'll never come to terms with it. How can that be healthy, for you or for Noah?'

‘So now you're presuming to tell me you know what's best for my son?'

‘No, I'm not,' he returned. ‘But death is a fact of life, Helen. It's going to happen to everyone sooner or later: it's nothing to be ashamed of.'

‘I'm not ashamed of my husband's death.'

‘Then why won't you talk about it?' he said, raising his voice. ‘What's the big secret?'

Helen glared at him. ‘I talk about it,' she said defiantly. ‘You do?'

‘Yes, I do. I talk about it all the time. I'm even seeing a counsellor.' She had seen a counsellor, a couple of times. But she'd stopped going because she didn't want to talk about it any more.

‘Oh, okay, I didn't realise –'

‘Well, why would you?' she retorted. ‘I don't talk about it at work, because . . . this is work. And you're my boss, Myles. Why would you think I'd want to talk about it with you?'

Myles looked as though she'd slapped him in the face. She was just being mean now, and she knew it. Apparently she had more of her mother in her than she'd realised. But this was the only way to handle things. It was all getting too close, too claustrophobic. Helen had always functioned best when she'd kept to herself. It was clearly time to take a step back, close the door, pull the blinds. Black out the windows, even.