The Importance of Being Married (6 page)

To do

1. Panic

I woke up in the middle of the night to find myself sitting bolt upright. I was totally freaked out. I’d dreamed about Grace—although it was more of a memory, really. I was in her room and we were watching some cheesy film, I can’t remember which one, and Grace turned to me and said that I should get my hair cut like the girl in the film—I think it was Drew Barrymore. And I rolled my eyes because I thought I had far more important things to think about than haircuts, and then Grace passed me a hairbrush and asked if I’d brush her hair. So I did, and she was smiling and telling me that her husband used to brush her hair, that some of her favorite moments were leaning back in his arms as he brought the brush down gently over her head. And she said that she hoped one day I’d find someone who’d brush my hair, and I don’t know why but I found a little tear pricking at my eye, which was ridiculous, I knew, but when I wiped it away, another one came up straightaway to take its place. Of course, I stopped the tears in their tracks; told myself off for being so utterly pathetic. In reality, I mean. When it actually happened. In the dream I didn’t have time to wipe my eyes or give myself a stern talking-to, because the door suddenly opened and Mr. Taylor walked in and pointed his finger at me and looked at Grace and said, “She’s the one. She’s the one who’s been lying to you.” And I jumped up off the bed and Grace was looking at me, wide-eyed, and then she was crying, shaking her head and whispering that I’d let her down, that I was a big disappointment, and then suddenly she wasn’t Grace anymore, she was Grandma, and now she wasn’t whispering, she was screaming, shouting, telling me that I was a waste of space, that she wished she’d never set eyes on me, that the sooner I learned to fend for myself the better because she’d had enough, she was sick of looking after me.

That’s when I’d woken up to find my sheets drenched with sweat, and I was staring at the wall in front of me. I took a few deep breaths, got a drink of water, went back to bed, and had a little think. I didn’t want to go back to sleep, didn’t want to reenter the nightmares that waited for me. And that’s when it hit me—the nightmare wasn’t in my head; it was here, in the real world, and of my own making. Four million pounds was more than I’d ever dreamed of having. It was incredible, tantalizing. But I couldn’t claim it. Whatever I did would be wrong.

I mean, I wanted to come clean. That was the right thing to do—to admit my mistake, to tell Mr. Taylor that I wasn’t who Grace thought I was. But what if it meant I couldn’t claim the money? Grace’s beautiful house would go to the government, or developers, or something, and I’d probably get arrested for impersonation.

But the alternative was…well, there wasn’t an alternative. Not unless I could come up with a certificate proving that I was married to Anthony Milton. If only I hadn’t told Grace I’d married Anthony. If only…Then I frowned. If I hadn’t told her I was married, perhaps she wouldn’t even have left the house to me. Didn’t she want a family in her house, not Helen and me rattling around and watching DVDs?

My mind raced until early the next morning, which was why, as dawn broke over London that Monday, I got out of bed tentatively, heavy bags under my eyes, a despondent stoop to my shoulders; why I barely managed a good-bye to Helen as I slowly left our flat to go to work and mooched my way to the tube station; why I flinched every few seconds as thoughts and memories flooded my brain, of opportunities I’d had to correct my mistake, to tell Grace the truth, to avoid this living nightmare. Opportunities that I’d failed to take. Perhaps work would provide some solace, I found myself hoping as I approached the office. And then I rolled my eyes at my stupidity. Work meant Anthony Milton, a constant reminder of my stupid, stupid little fairy tale. Solace wasn’t going to be an option.

Milton Advertising was situated in Clerkenwell, a part of London that had somehow morphed from a fairly dull area that was close to, but cheaper than, the city’s financial district into a not-so-dull area that was close to, but cheaper than, Hoxton, the center of New Cool in London. Under both guises the area was filled largely with city types and media people (pronounced
meedja
by those who worked in the field), but whereas before they walked around in pseudo Savile Row suits, they now walked around in pseudo punky-art-student garb, sporting hairstyles that were, in my humble opinion, best left to the twenty-something artist, and really rather ill advised for slightly overweight men in their thirties and forties.

The company itself was situated in a squat two-story building nestled between two higher-rise blocks, making it look both defenseless and defiant at once. Inside, both floors were open-plan with a large sweeping staircase in the middle leading from the first floor to the second. On the ground floor were the private offices (Anthony Milton’s large one and Max’s smaller one), along with the “account” people (that was the account directors, who were responsible for managing and “nurturing” accounts—otherwise known as “persuading clients to give the firm more business”) and the account executives, of which I was one, who were responsible for doing all the work, meeting all the deadlines, running up and down the stairs to talk to the “creatives,” and getting blamed whenever anything went wrong. It wasn’t the best job in the world, but it had prospects—I could, Max told me at my interview, make account director within three years, if I worked hard enough, if I made an impression. I had no idea if I was making an impression or not—no one really seemed to have time to notice whether I was making one or not—but I certainly worked hard. Evenings, weekends, you name it. Account directors made serious money and had an expense account. The hard work was really a no-brainer.

The “creatives” did the design work; they had the upper floor to themselves, and Mac computers on which they would design logos and argue among themselves over whether a particular shade of red said
vivacious
more or less than one that looked exactly the same to me.

My desk was situated about fifteen feet to the left of Anthony’s office and ten feet to the left of Max’s; more significantly, it was right opposite Marcia’s desk. Marcia, who had joined the company several months after me and who had already been given more accounts to lead, even though she was an account executive like me.

Slowly, I made my way through the lobby to my desk, where I sat down heavily, put the bottle of water I’d bought at the tube station down in front of me, and turned on my computer. If I could lose myself in work, I told myself, the answer to the whole will issue would just come to me out of nowhere. The trick was not to focus on it.

Fortunately, Marcia didn’t seem to be interested in giving me any thinking time, either. Marcia didn’t much like working, or, in fact, anything that interfered with her busy schedule of manicures, blow-dries, and facials. As far as I could tell she had gone into advertising in the hope of getting free stuff—she spent most of her time flicking through fashion magazines and only seemed to come to life for clients who were marketing shoes, handbags, clothes, or makeup.

“So do you have the style sheet I gave you on Friday?” she demanded as soon as I sat down. “You know I needed it this morning, so you’d better have…”

I forced a smile. Marcia had a way of talking to me like she was my boss or something. It was Max who had given me the style sheet to finalize, not her. But I told myself that now wasn’t the time to quibble. “It’s here,” I said quickly, pulling it out of my bag. “I’ll send you an electronic copy, too.”

Her eyes narrowed suspiciously. “You did this over the weekend?”

“Yes. I came in yesterday.” Yesterday. I almost felt like taking out a guitar and singing the Beatles song about all my troubles being far away.

Marcia raised an eyebrow. “Really. So, good weekend? Other than working, I mean?”

I shrugged. “It was…fine. How about you?”

“Me?” Marcia smiled. “Oh, it was good, thanks. Dinner out, lunch with some friends, hit the shops. You know, usual sort of thing.”

I raised my eyebrows quizzically. It always amazed me how much effort Marcia put into shopping, how excited she’d be about each new purchase, even though as far I could see each one looked pretty much the same as the ones that had come before. Belts, bags, shoes, sweaters, skirts…for what? Money down the drain, Grandma used to say. Money that could be spent on something useful.

“Aha, I see Anthony’s out and about,” Marcia said suddenly as Anthony Milton’s door flew open and he and Max emerged. Immediately I went slightly red and turned back to my computer screen, while Marcia waved, flashing Anthony a huge, beaming smile, just like she always did. They started walking toward us and I glanced up to see Max staring at me. Anthony was, too. I blanched slightly; Anthony never stared at me. He usually barely seemed to notice me. Had I done something wrong? Had I made a mistake on some major account?

They were just a few feet away. Max’s face was serious; Anthony’s, quizzical. And then, suddenly, I felt my heart sink. Not just sink, but fall like a lead weight to the bottom of my stomach. I’d given Mr. Taylor my business card. He’d probably called the office, asked for Mrs. Milton, been put through to Anthony…I couldn’t believe I’d been so stupid. Couldn’t believe my house of cards was about to come crashing down so quickly.

Getting hotter by the second, I wiped my palms on my trousers and focused on my breathing. I had to think of an excuse. That, or I had to get out of the building before they could say anything.

They stopped at Marcia’s desk, their eyes still on me.

“Hi, Anthony,” Marcia breathed, and he smiled at her. I looked up at Max, caught his eye, then looked down again, quickly. He had blue eyes. Really deep blue. But it was hard to notice them because he covered them up with glasses most of the time. He was slightly shorter than Anthony—which wasn’t hard, bearing in mind that Anthony was well over six feet—and managed to make even expensive suits look somehow crumpled. Most people avoided Max if they could help it; they thought he was an obsessive workaholic who had no sense of humor, but it wasn’t true. When he smiled—which wasn’t that often, admittedly—his whole face lit up, his eyes crinkled up so you could hardly see them, and you couldn’t help grinning back stupidly at him. Not that I liked him or anything. I mean sure, I liked him. But just as a colleague. And anyway, he certainly wasn’t interested in me. Max wasn’t interested in anyone.

I wiped my forehead, which was now perspiring.

“You okay, Jess?” Max asked, coming over. “You look terrible.”

“I do?” My face fell slightly. “I mean, really?” I said quickly. “Because I’m fine, honestly.”

“So how was your weekend?”

I took a deep breath—I could feel my chest constricting. Did he know? Was he playing with me?

“Not so good, actually,” I said, my heart pounding. “Grace…my friend Grace…well, she died, actually.”

Max’s eyes widened in alarm. “Oh, Jess. I’m sorry. Oh, God, that’s awful.”

I looked at him uncertainly, then felt my entire body relax. He didn’t know. If he’d known about the will, he’d have already known Grace was dead. I was safe.

“It’s okay,” I said breathlessly. “Thanks, Max.”

“So, Max,” Anthony said, raising an eyebrow. “Are you going to explain to Jess why we’re over here?” His face was suddenly serious again and I felt my heart thudding in my chest again.

“The…reason?” I gulped.

Max shrugged uncomfortably. “Maybe now’s not a great time,” he muttered.

“Not a great time? Max, business is business.”

I stared at him. “Is there something wrong?”

“Very wrong, I’m afraid,” Anthony said seriously.

My eyes widened. “Really? What? Look, it wasn’t my fault. I didn’t mean to. I…I…” I could feel my chest constricting again.

Anthony arched an eyebrow. “That might be the case. But would you mind telling me what that bottle of Evian is doing on your desk?” he asked me.

“Seriously, Anthony, not the time…” Max said, but Anthony silenced him.

I looked at the bottle anxiously. “The water? It’s…I mean, it’s just for me. I…I…” The room was beginning to spin. I couldn’t see properly. Couldn’t speak properly.

“Better hide it when the Eau Best people come around later, eh?” Anthony’s face broke into a huge smile. “Our new client! Max won the pitch last week. How about that?”

Marcia threw her head back and laughed. “No way! God, that’s great. Really exciting.”

I stared at Max, who rolled his eyes.