silence.
‘OK, well anyway,’ he continues, ‘this case looks like a really intense one. I don’t know if you’ve seen the exhibits file yet. It’s –’
‘I’m looking forward to working with you, too, Daniel.’
There’s another pause. A baby pause.
‘Thanks, Jen.’ His voice is softer now. Less manic. ‘I’m glad.’
‘We’ll speak soon, OK? On the case.’
‘Yes, on the case.’
I want to say: ‘And on more “stuff” too.’ But I don’t.
‘Bye, then,’ I say instead.
‘Bye.’
We hang up.
I take a deep breath and close my eyes. It’s times like this I wish it wasn’t so tricky being me. That I could simply have ended the call by suggesting a drink. It’s not just the childcare angle. It’s the caring for my child. The guard goes down slowly, slowly, slowly. Otherwise how do you know who you can trust?
‘This is for you.’
With a thud, something lands on my desk.
I look up. A file. The cover is blank. Above the file, Tim.
This must be what Daniel was talking about.
I open the file up, and just get to see a sheet saying ‘The Crown v Rhea Stevens. Exhibits’, before Tim closes the cover again.
‘Have a flick through this,’ Tim tells me, his voice quiet, low. There’s no one around my desk (he’s chosen his moment well, if he’s that fussed about secrecy) but he’s still cautious. ‘Good to go in cold, before I’ve given you the background. Then when we chat you can tell me what you make of it. What you think it’s best to do. I’d really value your opinion – fresh pair of eyes, and all that.’
‘Sure, thanks,’ I say. I stroke the cover. Daniel is reading this too.
Snap out if it, you daft girl. You’ve not even kissed him; you can’t go soppy for him. Focus on the professional side. Someone giving a damn about my opinion for a change, not just looking at me with a sad face like Bill – give the girl a chance, but no proper work.
‘Watch out for the photo at page 5,’ he mutters. ‘It’s a shocker. Don’t say I didn’t warn you.’
He walks off.
I can’t not open the file now.
And there it is. Straight away.
The old world.
A single wrap of cocaine on a dusty floor.
I slam the file shut.
I close my eyes.
I try to dispel the image.
But I can’t. Because that’s all it took, that time. Well, almost all. That and another nineteen wraps like it.
And the promise of more.
I need some, oh what do I need – air. That’s it. Some air.
I push back my chair and head for the door.
I walk straight into Bill.
‘Oh, good. You’re ready for the meeting,’ he says.
Meeting? Oh. Of course. Note-taking. I dart back to my desk and grab my notebook.
‘Forgot this!’ I say, holding up my notebook. ‘Silly!’
I don’t think I can manage any more words without cracking in two.
Bill looks at me closely.
‘You all right, Jen? You’re a little pale.’
‘New face powder,’ I say. An old line, like they used to use. When it wasn’t the wraps.
‘Ah, fine – well, maybe back to the old one, hey? Golden Jen works best!’ He does an embarrassed laugh. Maybe he thinks I’m going to start talking about feminine hygiene products next.
We go into the meeting room. I slip into a seat next to Bill. He is nice and big and comforting. Like a dad. Not my dad, obviously. Even when he was alive. But Mr Typical Dad. A sturdy shoulder to cry on. To fly you up into the air in his strong arms and make you feel like you can defy gravity.
Perhaps I should just tell him. Perhaps I should have a quiet word and say: look, I can’t get involved in Tim’s case. I don’t know what it’s about but I looked at one picture and now it’s all I can do to stop my brain flashing back there. Back to her. Back to him.
But then, even Bill wouldn’t understand the reaction to that single wrap. Nobody could. Except me and my conscience. Not that I did anything wrong. You’d have done the same in my situation. Or at least, you should have done, if you didn’t want to end up dead.
So, no. We don’t tell Bill. We hold our pen nicely and we mechanically take some notes. And we – from the corner of one eye – look at the clock while it ticks all the way round to when I can go collect Josh. He’ll make everything better. He always does.
The clock is ticking too fast, though. They’re still in mid-meeting flow, and it’s already 3.30. I have to leave 3.40 to get there for 4 if I want a parking space, 3.45 if I just want to double-park and grab. Later than that, and he’s hanging around the school gates, thinking something is more important to me than him. Or ready for someone else to grab.
I start shifting around in my seat. Then a flick of the wrist to look at my watch: 3.31. If only I were more important to these men. Then I could say, ‘OK, let’s be wrapping up now.’
Oh. Unfortunate language.
Come on, Bill.
Still they drone on. Bank transfer, signature, guarantor. Yadda yadda yadda. I need to pick up my son. Is this what it’s like for every mother, or is it just me, with my special considerations?
Can I just go? Can I simply duck out of the room and hope Bill will remember why? That he’ll start to write his own notes? He knows why I have to be at those gates. He knows why I can’t leave Josh waiting. He knows there’s a just in case to end all just in cases. All the fear: Chloe fear; Mick fear; unnamed accomplice fear.
Then, rescue.
In the form of Lucy. Bizarrely.
She’s sticking her head round the door of the meeting room.
‘Sorry to interrupt, Bill. May I borrow Jen? It’s rather urgent.’
Is it? Has she shown sudden compassion
