Rebound (30 page)

‘The jugular?’

‘When did you learn about your redundancy?’

‘Two days ago.’

‘And you had no inkling it was going to happen? No warning? No one had talked to you about it?’

‘No, never.’

‘Fabulous.’ Gillian takes a sip of her tea. ‘We are going to get them for the lack of consultation.’

‘Consultation?’

‘Employers should always consult with you before making you redundant. They have clearly failed to do that. I’m really surprised such a huge corporation would trip over something so
basic. We are going to wave unfair dismissal at them and see what happens. We have them by the short and curlies, Anna.’

I leave Ms Foster’s office with this image in my head.

My guests arrive just as I’m putting my Parmigiana di Melanzane into the oven. They have all brought little treats for Wispa to welcome her home and I have to heartlessly
hide them from her, as I know she’d eat them all at once. Michael’s new man is called Giorgio. He’s tall and lean, with the youthful energy of someone who wants to do too much at
once. He’s brought an exquisite bottle of Barolo, which will go nicely with my aubergine dish. I like him instantly. Michael goes straight to my Bose sound system and chooses Max Richter as
our background music. As we nibble on olives, bocconcini and Italian bread, I tell them about my visit to Gillian Foster and my redundancy.

‘Here’s to Ms Foster having them by the short and curlies.’ Michael raises his glass.

‘And that Julian character, he deserves the wrath of a thousand harpies,’ adds Giorgio.

I haven’t mentioned walking in on Julian and Gary, but the image I’ve painted of the man is enough for anyone to dislike him.

‘I’m sure she’s capable of that.’ Sue clinks her glass with mine. ‘You’ll see, even though it feels devastating now, it’ll turn out to be one of the
best turns in your career. You’ve been in that golden cage for too long.’

‘You’re probably right. But it’s the sudden loss of power that feels humiliating right now. One moment I’m fine and the next I feel this cold fist tightening in my
stomach.’

‘Fear.’ Michael nods his head. ‘I know the feeling. It’s one of the paradoxes of our lives. Having a permanent job gives us a totally false sense of security. We believe
the job is going to last forever, and of course it never does. But take away this fickle safety net and we suddenly crumble to the ground, paralysed with fear.’

‘It takes a lot of guts to go freelance,’ says Sue.

‘Yes, but at least you know what to expect from freelance life.’

‘Permanent insecurity?’ Giorgio smiles at Michael.

‘Well, it doesn’t come as a shock when the work’s suddenly not there.’

‘I think it’s always a shock. We’re only adapting to the increasing voltage.’

‘What do you do, Giorgio?’

‘I’m a light rebel.’

‘And you happen to be a very talented architect,’ throws in Michael.

‘Oh, that,’ Giorgio dismisses it with a wave of his hand, ‘that’s just a day job. Light rebellion is my passion.’

‘Light rebellion?’

‘It’s a form of street art. I use light to reclaim the streets, to introduce colour and life into the dullness of urban landscape.’

‘It’s quite fascinating.’ It’s Michael again, unable to hide his awe of Giorgio. ‘He has this van, equipped with state of the art lighting gear, all computerized
and motion controlled. Thousands of lumens on wheels.’

‘How do you do it?’

‘It’s a bit like architectural lighting, but with an added dimension. I started with simple shapes that I’d colour with spotlights. I’d go out at night, looking for
derelict buildings, shabby exteriors, black and white street art pieces, then I’d fill them with colour, photograph them and scram.’

‘Tell them about your 3D video projection mapping,’ Michael chips in again.

Giorgio smiles shyly. ‘I have to warn you, once I start talking about it I won’t be able to stop.’

‘Oh, go on, give it to us in a nutshell.’

‘All right, but I think I need a smoke first.’

‘Go out to the garden through the kitchen back door. The ashtray’s on the windowsill,’ instructs Michael, well versed in the rules of my house. Once Giorgio is out of the room,
Michael continues. ‘He creates 3D animation on his computer and then maps the visual onto the chosen building. He’s shown me a video of the projection he did in Shoreditch a couple of
weeks ago, it’s absolutely amazing.’

‘It looks like you’ve fallen for him, hook, line and sinker.’ Sue sounds just like my aunt Janet, the scourge of my teenage years.

‘I think I have, darling . . . Isn’t he the cutest thing?’

‘He is,’ both Sue and I agree.

Suddenly there is a shout outside, followed by the sound of something falling and breaking. Wispa barks sharply and runs out of the room.

‘In the garden!’ shouts Michael, jumping to his feet.

I follow him to the kitchen. The back door is wide open, the whole garden flooded by the cold light of a security lamp. There are two men swaying in a clinching hold on the lawn. Wispa jumps
around them, barking fiercely, her sickness long forgotten. I recognize Giorgio, who is just swinging a punch at the other man’s chin. The other man staggers backwards and Giorgio moves
swiftly forward and catches him in a shoulder lock. I call Wispa, who comes to me wagging her tail excitedly, and I grab her by the collar.

‘A burglar! I caught him red-handed!’ Giorgio shouts triumphantly, turning towards us. The other man is clearly in pain in his tight lock, blood streaming from his nose.

‘Tom?’ I look at him in disbelief.

‘What the hell are you doing here?’ Michael takes a step forward as Tom tries to pull out of Giorgio’s grip.

‘You know him?’ Giorgio doesn’t seem willing to release his shoulder lock. ‘He was trying to climb either in or out of your first-floor window.’ He points at my
bedroom window with his head. ‘I caught him by the ankles. I think part of the guttering came down with him.’ Indeed, there are some broken bits of black plastic guttering lying on the
ground.

‘Tom! What the fuck is going on?!’ I shout, anger building inside me.

‘I’m calling the police.’ Michael pulls out his mobile.

‘Wait!’ I grab his hand. ‘Tom! Answer me!’

Tom tries to pull out of Giorgio’s grip again, his face contorted with rage and smeared with blood.

‘Maybe call an ambulance as well.’ I hear Sue’s voice behind me.

Michael doesn’t answer, dialling a number.

I stare at the two men on my lawn, unable to comprehend the situation.

‘Anna, you’re all shaking, come inside.’ I feel Sue’s hand on my shoulder.

‘But . . .’ I point at Giorgio and Tom.

‘It’s all right, I’ve got it under control.’ Giorgio flashes a smile at me.

‘He’s a black belt,’ whispers Michael, interrupting for a moment his conversation with the 999 operator.

Sue and I go inside, followed by Wispa, who carries her rawhide bone around excitedly.

‘Who is that guy?’ asks Sue as I reach for Giorgio’s bottle of Barolo.

‘Want some?’

She nods.

‘He’s my neighbour.’ I pour wine for both of us.

‘Your neighbour? What was he doing out there?’

‘I’ve no idea.’ I sit heavily at the kitchen table.

‘Maybe he’s locked himself out and was climbing over the fence to get—’

‘No, Sue, he doesn’t live next door. He doesn’t even live in my street.’

‘Oh . . .’ Sue takes a gulp of her wine.

‘I have no idea what’s going on.’ I start sobbing uncontrollably.

Sue comes over and puts her arm round me. She hushes me like a mother would her baby. We sit at the kitchen table until the shrill sound of the doorbell breaks the silence. Sue rushes to the
front door and lets two policemen in. One of them is the Gary Sinise sound-alike who came to my house a few days ago. He seems nicer now, almost friendly. The other policeman looks shockingly
young, with a clean baby face and blond, almost white, short hair. They stop briefly in the kitchen, then Sue leads them to the garden. I can hear raised voices and sounds of struggle. Then
everything goes quiet, the silence interrupted by the squawking of the police radios. After what seems like an eternity Michael and Giorgio appear at the back door, followed by the two policemen
who lead Tom between them. He is wearing handcuffs.

‘He’s refusing to say anything,’ says Gary Sinise.

‘Even to confirm his name,’ adds Michael.

‘His name is Tom Collins. And I can give you his address—’

‘No!’ Tom interrupts me and tries to pull himself free.

‘Easy, mate.’ The baby-faced policeman holds him tightly.

‘You know him?’

‘He lives a few streets down from here. He found my dog once in the street and brought her home. I’ve met him casually a few times since then. And I’ve been to his house for a
party and met his wife Samantha—’

‘Shut up!’ shouts Tom.

‘Oi, move it.’ Baby Face pushes him out of the kitchen and into the hallway.

‘Do you know what he was doing in your garden?’

‘I’ve no idea.’ I’m beginning to sound like a broken record.

‘You haven’t invited him over?’

‘No.’ I shake my head. ‘He definitely hasn’t been invited.’

‘OK.’ Gary Sinise smiles at me reassuringly. ‘We’ll take him to the station and process him. You are pressing charges, aren’t you?’

‘Yes,’ Michael says firmly. ‘The guy was trying to get into her house.’

He looks at me and I nod.

‘How long will you keep him in custody? I mean . . . he’s not going to come back here tonight?’

‘Oh, no,’ he laughs. ‘No need to worry about that, madam. He won’t be coming back.’

The front door closes behind the policemen and Tom. The guests gathered in the kitchen stare at me with concern. I feel suffocated by their attention.

‘Sorry, guys, I just need to go to the bathroom.’ I get up shakily.

‘You all right?’

‘Thanks, Sue, I’m fine. Back in a flick.’ I try to sound as light-hearted as I can.

In the bathroom I stare at my face in the mirror. What the hell is going on? Why would a man who seemed so friendly, so normal, want to break into my house all of a sudden? What was he trying to
do? This is all too much. I can feel another wave of tears welling up inside me and I splash cold water on my face to stop myself from crying. When I look up again my make-up is all smeared,
mascara running down my cheeks. I wipe all the smears off, not bothering to reapply make-up.

As I walk back into the kitchen the smell of burnt cheese hits me. My guests are gathered around the remains of the Parmigiana di Melanzane, which looks charred and inedible.

‘OK, guys,’ says Michael cheerfully. ‘Why don’t I take you all out to dinner at the Spaniards Inn tonight?’

‘Actually, I was just about to suggest the same thing. Can I invite you all to celebrate meeting the lovely friends of this amazing, charming and sexy man?’ Giorgio puts his arm
round Michael, who is radiating happiness.

‘Sounds like a great idea,’ I say with relief, glad no one has mentioned Tom again.

It’s still dark outside when I wake up, my Siberian-duck-down duvet stiflingly heavy, my heart pounding. I’m convinced I’ve been woken up by a noise in the
garden and I lie in bed, petrified and sweating, listening out for any sign of an intruder. But the house is quiet and Wispa is snoring peacefully on her bed by the bedroom door. I look at my
iPhone. It’s five o’clock. I read somewhere that this is the ‘fearful hour’, when our cortisol levels are at their highest and the blood sugar at its lowest. The fight or
flight hormone makes our mind produce anxious and negative thoughts that exacerbate the feeling of restlessness and panic. As the memories of yesterday begin to flood in, the feeling of stress and
anxiety intensifies. I must speak to DCI Jones, try to find out what’s going on. But it’s too early to speak to anyone. I feel painfully lonely and helpless. What has happened to my
usual buoyancy, my fighting spirit that has served me so well all these years? It may have served me well, but look where it has got me, I think bitterly. I’m jobless, unimportant, single and
stalked by a dentist. My ex-boyfriend might be missing, my best friend has been murdered and my illicit Heath lover is dead. And I can’t get rid of the feeling that I am somehow at the very
centre of all these tragedies. But why and how? My bed doesn’t feel like a safe sanctuary any more. I get up and shuffle through the dark house to the kitchen, where I’m greeted by the
burnt remains of the Parmigiana di Melanzane. The baking tray it’s in is beyond salvaging. I wrap the whole thing in a plastic bag and put it in the bin. Then I sit at the kitchen table,
waiting for the coffee to percolate. Why isn’t DCI Jones calling me, I think, staring at my phone. But it’s not even six o’clock and my phone will remain silent for a few more
hours. So this is what it has come down to: I’m waiting for a phone call from a woman I hardly know, a woman who cares about me only in her professional capacity. Is this where I turn for
comfort now? How pitiful and alone I’ve become.

The coffee is ready and I take the first sip of my daily caffeine ration. As it burns my stomach and jerks at my nerves I feel my body slowly waking up. I need to shake off this feeling of
gloom, try to think rationally about my situation. In my present state of mind I consider myself unemployable. Or, at least, unable to find a job that would sustain my present lifestyle. I have to
consider selling my house, moving out to affordable suburbia, somewhere in Finchley or Southgate perhaps, swapping my BMW for something cheaper, a Ford or a Vauxhall. I must, to use the hateful
Americanism, downsize. Moving house may not be such a bad idea; perhaps it’ll break the madness my personal life has become lately. Yes, the anonymity of suburbia is what I need, I decide,
and open my laptop. A quick look at what’s on offer on Zoopla and Rightmove cools my enthusiasm for the move out of Highgate. I remember all the reasons I moved here for three years ago,
taking out a mortgage for a ridiculously high sum of money. Nothing has changed since then. If you’re on a tight budget, you can buy a studio flat in Erith or ‘purchase an exciting
development opportunity’ in Purfleet. I shiver at the thought, then realize I’m frozen to the bone. The heating, set to the later weekend hours, hasn’t kicked in yet and the house
is freezing. I shuffle back to bed and crawl under the duvet. As my body begins to warm up, I fall asleep, dreaming about estate agents and car salesmen from hell.