Rebound (25 page)

It took me ages to calm down and get back to sleep and when I woke up at 6 a.m. my head felt as if it was about to explode and splash my brains all over the Farrow & Ball Lulworth Blue walls
of my bedroom. A hot shower, two Paracodol tablets and three Arpeggio coffees from the Nespresso machine brought some comfort to my sore body and soul and by 8 a.m. I was brave enough to sit behind
the wheel of my BMW without the fear of ruining the upholstery.

It’s 8.37 a.m. and I’m driving into the work car park, buzzing with the mixture of caffeine and codeine. The office greets me with a strange sight. A handful of men in suits are
walking about, looking at walls and desks, and marking things on sheets attached to their clipboards. Claire is on hand to provide an explanation. They are assessors from Utispatial, a company
hired by Cadenca Global to introduce a new, highly organized workspace run by space-management software. In other words, hot-desking. I hide my extreme annoyance and ask Claire to call whoever is
in charge from Utispatial to my office. After some delay, one of the clipboard minions knocks on my door. From his demeanour I can tell he’s quite low rank, but dying to impress and get
promoted. I know talking to him is going to be a waste of time, but I indulge my curiosity. I ask him to explain the logistics of the workspace transformation and for the next twenty minutes he
draws a vision of the brave new world of space allocation and management. He goes on about the simplification of the work flow, swift management of employee moves, reduction of costs and a new
level of efficiency. When he tries to dazzle me with the idea of a centralized repository of office-space information, I interrupt his monologue.

‘So, how many desks are there on this floor at present?’

‘One hundred and seventy,’ he replies without hesitation.

‘And how many are you going to cut it down to?’

‘A hundred.’

‘That leaves seventy people without workspace, right?’

‘Yes, but they are mostly non-desk-owners.’

‘Non-desk-owners?’

‘They are either home-workers or mobile-workers.’

‘Do you actually know what we do here in this office?’

He twitches nervously, shuffling papers on his clipboard. ‘You make television programmes?’ Without his specialized workspace-related vocabulary he seems rather lost.

‘Do you know what it actually entails?’ I don’t feel like explaining it to him.

‘Erm, filming, editing . . .’ He clearly has no idea.

‘Do you see that empty desk there?’ I point through the glass wall of my office and he follows my finger like a puppy waiting for a ball. ‘It belongs to Gary, who, I believe,
is on a shoot today. Shoots don’t happen very often and Gary spends a lot of time at his desk.’ Too much time in fact, I think, and continue. ‘Next to him sits Caroline. As you
can see, she’s not at her desk because she’s in edit, two floors below. But she will be back later, to prepare scripts for an audio session tomorrow. And look who’s there!’
I go on in the most patronizing tone I can muster. ‘It’s Linda! She will stay at her desk for a while, filling in music details and finishing paperwork that accompanies every promo, but
she may be gone this afternoon, to a meeting with a graphics company. We don’t know when she’ll be back . . .’ I look at the guy. ‘Can you see where I’m going with
this? This office is not a call centre in Staines. It is not an accountancy firm. It’s an evolving, creative environment. It’s difficult to predict “employee moves” as you
put it. It’s impossible to implement any computerized space-management system. So why don’t you kindly gather all your colleagues, tell them to pack their clipboards and leave this
office right now. And when you get back to your own no doubt highly organized workspace, you can tell whoever is in charge to put their centralized repository where a suppository normally goes.
Have I made myself clear?’

The guy nods and backs out of my office. I can see him talking to the other suits, then they all pack their clipboards and leave. A result. I sigh with relief, pick up my phone and ask Claire to
bring me a double skinny latte from the canteen downstairs. My head is pounding and my bladder is bursting from all the coffee I drank at home. I dash to the toilet, where I catch sight of myself
in the merciless bathroom-light-special mirror. My eyes are bloodshot, my face puffed up, and my hands are shaking. The blouse I put on this morning is the wrong shade of hangover green. It’s
going to be a tough day.

I spend the rest of the morning catching up on emails that seem to be multiplying like germs in a toilet bowl. At midday Claire comes into my office and tells me Julian wants to see me.
Immediately. A bad taste in my mouth after too many coffees gets instantly complemented by a bad feeling in my stomach. In the lift I feel the weight of my phone in the pocket of my trousers. I
take it out, put it on silent and slide it back into my pocket. There is nothing Julian hates more than being interrupted by someone else’s phone.

He greets me with a warm handshake and leads me to his leather sofa. He seems very much at home at his London office; I wonder how much time he has been spending here lately. He kindly enquires
how I feel, asks about the funeral. I tell him a little about the ceremony and the trip to the coast, skipping the incident with Helen, and feel a surprising relief while talking about it. Julian
is a good listener and acts as if he really cares. They don’t pay him a six-figure salary for nothing, after all. Then the pleasantries are over and he gets down to business.

‘I hear you had a little contretemps with our guys from Utispatial this morning.’

Ah, so they are ‘our guys’ now.

‘I told them to stop what they were doing and leave.’

‘That’s rather unfortunate.’ He plays with his Breitling watch as he speaks. Strange, I’d expect him to be more of a Rolex man.

‘Is that so? I’ve made it clear to Cadenca Global, time and time again, that hot-desking is not appropriate for our work environment. Whoever made the decision now—’

He raises his hand to stop me.

‘I made the decision, Anna.’

This silences me.

‘Implementing a new system of space allocation and management goes hand in hand with our restructuring vision and it’s fully supported by Cadenca Global. It’s not only about
saving money, Anna, lots of money, but also about optimizing employee efficiency, eliminating time and resource wastage. Utispatial is going to help us with creating a new production village
downstairs, a brand-new infrastructure of facilities, editing pods, audio studios, a graphics suite. We are fully entering the twenty- first century at this juncture, Anna. It’ll make us
proud. And Utispatial are instrumental in making it happen.’

I don’t know what to say. It appears I’ve put my foot right into Julian’s pet project. Should I admit I’ve made a terrible mistake?

‘Of course, Julian. I’ll see that the Utispatial guys are re-invited to assess our floor.’

Julian waves his hand dismissively. ‘It’s already been taken care of. They are coming back after their coffee break. Why don’t you take some time to drill down, so you’re
in the loop on all aspects of restructuring?’

In a patronizing gesture, he reaches for my hand and pats it gently.

‘As a very wise man said, hold on to the old just as long as it’s good, and grab the new as soon as it becomes better.’

I’m being dismissed. Drill down, I think as the lift door closes behind me. Have I been away from the office for too long?

I spend the rest of the afternoon drilling down to the very last word of every memo I’ve received in the past few weeks. By the end of play, as Julian would put it, I feel I’ve
regained at least some understanding of what’s going on in the company ‘at this juncture’. It’s almost 9 p.m. It’s time to go home to Wispa. As I pack my bag I realize
I can’t find my phone. Then I remember feeling it vibrate in my pocket as I was sitting on Julian’s sofa. It must’ve slipped out. I grab my things, close the door to my office and
take the lift up to the executive floor. It’s dark there, but the ceiling lights come on as I walk down the corridor towards Julian’s office. I push the glass door, hoping it
isn’t locked. Triggered by the movement, the light comes on and I turn towards Julian’s leather sofa. I gasp in surprise when I see someone sitting on it. In fact, it’s two
people, one of them kneeling awkwardly in front of the other. They must be as surprised as I am, jump apart and face me. It’s Julian. And Gary. Not knowing what to do, I turn back towards the
door.

‘Anna.’ I hear Julian’s voice and I stop.

He comes towards me, blocking my view of Gary, who is still sitting on the sofa.

‘My phone . . .’ I mumble.

‘Yes, you left it here,’ he says, sounding totally in control. ‘I meant to ask Laura to take it back to you. But it slipped my mind.’ He has the audacity to smile, then
reaches towards his desk and gives me my phone back.

‘Thank you,’ I say quietly.

‘You’re welcome,’ he says, his voice relaxed and friendly. ‘And goodnight.’ As I back towards the door he adds, ‘Have a safe drive home.’

Thankfully, the lift is still there and the door opens immediately. I stab the U button for the car park and lean against the wall as the lift starts descending. I get into my car, close the
door and let out a sigh of relief. As I turn the key in the ignition, my brain is still trying to process the scene I saw upstairs. Julian and Gary. I’ll be damned! I turn the radio on and
turn the music up loud to drown a giggle I feel building up in my chest. I laugh so hard I have to pull over right by the exit from the car park. And then the song fades and the news comes on.
There’s been another murder on the Heath. The police are not releasing any details at present. I switch the engine off and sit behind the wheel, numb, unable to move. When I start driving
again I barely register the traffic around me. My mobile keeps ringing, relentlessly amplified by the car’s audio system. I get home on autopilot, stagger to the front door and let myself in.
Wispa greets me by the door, but without her usual song-and-dance welcome routine. Just a few wags of the tail and she goes back to her bed. Strange. Maybe she’s pissed off with me for
staying so long at work.

There are messages on my answerphone, but I ignore them. I go straight to the sitting room, curl up on the sofa and fall asleep. I wake up in the middle of the night, stumble upstairs, throw
myself on the bed and fall asleep again, my brain escaping reality into a dark and dreamless slumber of nothingness.

I open my eyes and I know something is wrong. The house is eerily quiet. I don’t hear the soft snoring from Wispa that I usually wake up to. She is not by my bedside,
where she normally sleeps.

‘Wispa!’ I call her and my voice echoes in a house that seems empty.

I get up and cautiously walk down to the kitchen. In the dull, morning light I see a dark, unmoving shape on the kitchen floor. I let out a cry and rush in. It’s Wispa. She’s lying
on her side, her eyes closed, blood seeping from her nose. There’s more of it on the tiles, little puddles that look like urine mixed with blood. I kneel down by her and touch her neck. She
doesn’t move but I think she’s alive. Quick, I need to get help for her. I grab my mobile and scroll down to Wispa’s vet, Beaumont Sainsbury Animal Hospital in Camden. To my
relief they answer almost immediately. When I start chaotically describing Wispa’s condition, the receptionist interrupts me and tells me to bring the patient in straight away. I throw my
tracksuit on, grab a blanket and roll Wispa as gently as I can onto it. Then I pull the blanket with Wispa on it to the door. She lets out a little moan but doesn’t open her eyes.

‘It will be all right, puppy, just hang on in there,’ I whisper as I look for my keys.

She is a big dog, much bigger than she should be, but fear for her life gives me Herculean strength. I carry her down the steps, lift her up and lie her down in the boot of the car. Within
seconds I’m on the road. The traffic is bad, I’ve hit the eight o’clock rush hour, but I honk and push aggressively, overtaking slow drivers and breaking the speed limit all the
way to Camden. I park on the double yellow line just outside the hospital and run into the surgery.

‘I have a sick dog, could someone give me a hand?’ I shout and a young, freckled receptionist rushes out with me. We carry Wispa in and the receptionist buzzes us straight into one
of the examination rooms. The doctor is already there, waiting for us. He immediately starts to examine Wispa, then turns to the young receptionist and asks him to take me to the waiting room
outside. When I protest, he gently moves me towards the door and tells me it will be better if I wait outside.

For the next twenty minutes I pace around the three waiting rooms, for dogs, for cats and for little furry animals, unable to sit down. Eventually the freckled receptionist calls me inside. We
go to the same examination room, but Wispa isn’t there any more. I hold my breath, expecting the worst.

‘The vet will be with you in a minute,’ the receptionist tells me and asks me to sit down on one of the blue plastic chairs. Oh no, please don’t tell me she’s dead, I
repeat like a mantra in my head. After what seems like an eternity, but is probably just a couple of minutes, the doctor enters the room.

‘It looks like Wispa may have eaten some rat poison,’ he says quietly.

‘Is she going to be all right?’

‘We don’t know yet, but we are doing everything we can to save her.’

I let out a sob and he puts his hand on my arm.

‘We’re conducting a complete blood profile to determine the severity of poisoning. We know from her history she’s a strong and healthy dog, which obviously works in her favour.
Can you think of when and where she might have got hold of the poison? It usually comes in pellets, blocks or granules of any colour, teal, blue, green or pink. It’s grain- or sugar-based
which makes it irresistible to rodents and dogs, unfortunately.’

I shake my head.

‘My dog walker takes her for a walk in the daytime and they usually go to the park.’ I hesitate. ‘Actually, she didn’t seem well last night . . .’