‘What?’
‘One of your tenants at Granny Aggie’s has been found dead in the doorway of your offices.’
The colour drains from my face.
‘I’ve been fielding calls from journalists for the last hour. Daddy’s just had to shut the door in the face of some chap who says he’s from theDaily Tribune. Heturned up at our house, Victoria. Our house!’ Her voice is shrill.
‘I’m sorry, I?—’
‘What are we supposed to do? Your father is about to lose the plot! The children are asking what on earth is going on. As for the neighbours, God only knows what they’re thinking.’
‘Give me ten minutes and I’ll call you back. In the meantime, don’t say anything to anyone.’
‘But what about?—’
I gulp air, injecting breeziness into my voice. ‘Don’t worry, Mummy. I’m sure it’s all a storm in a teacup.’ I end the call and stare at my phone. In the space of a few minutes, there are five more missed calls from Dee and half a dozen from numbers I don’t recognise.
I sink onto the bed and cradle my head in my hands. Whatever this is, it’s clearly less of a storm in a teacup and more of a complete fucking shitstorm.
28
AMBER
Two Months Before
I tried to erase Rob’s assault from my memory, to pretend it never happened. I had no reason to doubt his threats and I couldn’t afford to lose my job. My CV was sketchy and jobs, even lowly telesales roles at sausage-factory outfits like Cavity Wall Solutions, were hard to come by. But when I closed my eyes at night, I would relive every sickening, terrifying second of it. His hand circling my wrists, his breath in my face, his eyes staring into mine, cold and blank. Almost inhuman.
I didn’t tell Dom. I had a horrible feeling that if I did, he would turn up at work, barge into Rob’s office and beat the living daylights out of him. So when we made love, I locked the memories in a box and forced myself to stay in the moment, to enjoy the sensation of Dom’s lips on mine, Dom’s hands pulling me close, the warm weight of Dom’s body pressing down on me.
Nessa guessed something was wrong, but every time she tried to probe, however gently, I shut her down. If I admitted what happened, even to her, it would make it real. There would be decisions to make. Scary decisions with far-reaching consequences, like whether to report Rob to HR, to the police. Iwould have to admit to Dom that I’d lied to him, even if it was just by omission. He might see it as a betrayal, and could I blame him if he did?
It seemed inconceivable in this day and age, after #MeToo and the fall from grace of so many high-profile sexual predators, that there were still men like Rob, men who didn’t care about consent, who were happy to abuse their positions of power without a second thought. And that was the scariest thing of all: knowing there were more like him in offices and homes the world over; men who saw women as a challenge. No, more than a challenge. A right.
We’re told over and over it’s our responsibility to stay safe, to choose the well-lit paths, to swap the short skirts for trousers, to keep our eyes on the ground when we pass a building site. So I suffered in silence, consumed by shame and guilt. Shame that I’d let it happen in the first place and guilt that by not reporting Rob I was giving him permission to continue with his appalling behaviour. The effortless way he trapped me in that stuffy photocopying room made me pretty sure I wasn’t his first victim and that it was only a matter of time before another girl was subjected to a similar attack.
I hid it well. At work I kept my head down, did my job and went home. Rob acted like nothing had happened, and his sheer effrontery took my breath away. If he could hide it with such ease, one thing was for sure: no one would ever believe me.
Then two things happened. A new girl started at work. Daisy was only nineteen and fresh out of college. Plump, with a halo of blonde curls, she looked like a farmer’s daughter, all apple-cheeked innocence. Rob couldn’t keep his eyes off her. I tried to look out for her but it was hard when our shifts didn’t always align. Then, one Friday night a couple of weeks after Daisy started, Nessa dragged me to happy hour at the wine bar roundthe corner from work and, ignoring my protests, ordered me a margarita.
‘It’s OK. I know you don’t normally drink. But I’m going to force-feed you alcohol until you tell me what’s wrong.’ She slid the glass across the table to me. I took a tiny sip – there was never much point arguing with Nessa – and grimaced as the tequila hit the back of my throat.
‘Has something happened with Dom?’
I wiped my mouth with the back of my hand. ‘Nope.’
‘Then have I done something to upset you? I know I can be a bit of a gobshite at times but?—’
‘No,’ I reassured her. ‘I mean, you are a gobshite, but you haven’t done anything to upset me.’
‘So what’s wrong, Amber? You’ve had a face like a wet weekend for the last month. Something must’ve happened.’
I chewed my lip. What if my worst fears came true, that Nessa downplayed the assault, or told me I shouldn’t report it because I’d only be dragged through the mud, and for what? To be labelled a troublemaker for the rest of my life? I took another long sip of my margarita hoping it might lend me some Dutch courage, locked eyes with her and said, ‘Rob Harvey sexually assaulted me.’
‘OMG. Are you all right?’
‘Yes,’ I said automatically, then dropped my gaze. ‘No. Not really.’
‘Iknewsomething was up. That jumped-up, pervy little prick.’ Her face was thunderous, indignation on my behalf fizzing from her like electricity. ‘When?’
