21
Torn
No one else was within a hundred metres of us. It was just me and Marcie, standing with her back to me a few precious steps away.
I closed my eyes, in the vague hope that I could magic her away. If either she or I weren’t here, then I wouldn’t have to make this horrible choice. Because, however angry I had been at Mike’s suggestion, now that she was in front of me, I couldn’t just walk away while there was a chance, however small, that all my professional troubles could be solved by one short conversation. All I would be asking for was sixty minutes, at a place and time of her choosing. Was it really so wrong to approach her?
I took a step forward, then stopped. She was grieving. I couldn’t intrude.
But I might never get this opportunity again and I’d kick myself if I didn’t try.
I took two more steps, but she must have heard me because she spun round like a startled cat, her green eyes narrowing.
I froze. I couldn’t move forward, but I couldn’t back away.
She broke the silence first. ‘What are you doing here?’
Her voice sounded raspier than last time, and the words I was about to say died on my tongue.
She raised her eyebrows, waiting for me to speak. The sun had come out now, and it caught a tear that was halfway down her cheek.
‘I, um, thought I’d left my umbrella here, that’s all.’
Marcie frowned, but I didn’t wait for her to respond. Instead, I started walking in the direction I’d come from, my fists in my coat pockets and my heart thumping against my ribcage.
I went back to the office, not caring that I was still wearing my black skirt and blouse, or that my heels were pinching my feet. It was lunchtime and most people were out – including Mike. I hadn’t decided yet whether I’d tell him I’d seen Marcie or not. I wouldn’t bring it up myself, but if he asked me directly, was I prepared to lie?
The afternoon passed slowly, but the others could tell I didn’t want to talk and they left me in peace. Ayisha popped out at one point and came back with a Mars Bar which she quietly slipped onto my desk. Someone from the trade press phoned to ask me to write an obit for Patrick, but I let it go to voicemail.
By six I was the only one left on the floor. It was just me and the hum of sleeping computers.
The ping of the lift meant the cleaners were arriving – my cue to leave. But to go where? I didn’t want to sit in an empty flat. My head felt numb, but my body felt electrified, like the two were disconnected.
There was a tap. The door between us and the corridor was always open – why would anyone knock?
I looked up. Nick was leaning against the doorframe, wearing a black suit and tie – funeral attire.
Shit. He had been there too.
Was he here to give me an earful for daring to address Marcie?
He didn’t look annoyed, but he rarely wore his emotions on his face. The professional side of him was always in control – never a speck on his shirt or a wrinkle in his suit. A man with his life in order, while mine was in chaos. I wasn’t sure I had the energy to deal with him.
He walked over and pointed to Gavin’s empty chair. ‘May I?’
I nodded – what else could I do? But instead of sitting behind Gavin’s desk, he slid the chair round until it was level with my desk. And it was only as he sat down that I noticed he was holding a bottle of Gordon’s gin.
‘That’s Patrick’s favourite,’ I whispered, my throat tight.
‘I thought we could pay our respects to him.’ He reached into his inside pocket and pulled out two plastic cups. ‘It’s all I could muster at short notice. I don’t suppose you have any crystal glasses lying around?’
‘All the crystal’s being polished, I’m afraid.’
He smiled. ‘Then we’ll just have to rough it.’
He placed the cups on the edge of my desk, next to a proof of ‘Shit Lyrics’. The gaudy headline made me wince; it suddenly felt disrespectful. Had Nick noticed? He hadn’t appeared to; his eyes were on what he was doing: unscrewing the bottle and pouring us both a generous measure.
He handed me a cup. ‘To Patrick.’
