Behaving Like Adults (23 page)

‘Holly. Mr and Mrs Stanley Appleton, of course!'

‘I'll be at your office in ten minutes, Stuart,' I said, and beeped off.

I got a taxi. I didn't trust myself to drive. Oh God. My life made
EastEnders
powerless to soothe (usually, it worked like a charm). What my parents had committed to I shudder to think. Stuart worked fast. He was like a virus, worming his way into my life, infecting every area. I struggled to identify his tone on the phone. It wasn't just patronising, it was something else. Amused, flirtatious. Jesus. I tried to think but my head was space dust.

I
was
too defensive. And really, it was time I got a grip on my emotions. That . . . 
time
with Stuart wasn't so bad, it couldn't have been what I'd been thinking it was, because, if, well here's the truth, I'm so ashamed I'm almost too embarrassed to say, but – while he pinned me
down, I held my stomach in. See? That proves it. If a woman is being, you know, she wouldn't have held in her stomach. That makes me feel slightly better, reassures me that over-defensiveness was all it was. Sometimes you can get paranoid about a person, magnify their crimes, turn them into some kind of ogre when they're not.

Another idea drifted in and out of my dandelion head. I should give Stuart a chance. He'd said he liked me, God, he kept going on about it. I should try with Stuart. Imagine, if I let him, no, if I had sex
with
him, again, but this time a proper, two-way thing, and it was nice, enjoyable, if it worked out, why, even though the concept scared the breath out of me, made me want to rip out my own heart, the consequences were everything.

Normal civilised sex with Stuart would erase the nightmares, it would undo the past and make everything fine again, back to the happy simple way it was before.

AS CAMILLE SHOWED
me into Stuart's office, she gave me a strange look. Friendly but anxious. I realised I was shaking. I tried to tense, gain control of my body, but I couldn't. I thought, this must be what it feels like to be old. When Camille shut the door behind her, my legs tried to buckle but I wouldn't let them.
You have to do this. Do it. Only if you do this can you make it right again
. I tottered straight up to Stuart and kissed him, hanging on to the arms of his suit to keep upright.

He stuck his tongue in my mouth and I wanted to vomit, when you think about it another person's tongue has no business in your mouth. I breathed through my nose so as not to taste it.
I can't do this. Oh God, can't do it, so wrong
. My whole body screamed out. I was the one being shot to death by machine gun, the bullets punching into my soft flesh.
Try, though. Ah, God, anything
. Maybe I was a girl in a film, pretending to collaborate with the enemy to save lives. If I was nice enough, he might release my parents. I didn't know if solicitors held clients to a signed contract, but even if they didn't, I knew Mum and Dad would never break a gentleman's agreement.

Panic smothered me hot and fast. I was an impala being pounced on by a panther, the killer claws peeling the hide off my back in smooth red strips, the rippled strength of my predator forcing me down, my twig legs crumpling, all their running done, the great jaws sinking deep into my soft neck, tearing the life out of me, my dying eyes wide with pain, terror, the strength and blood draining from me, as I
scrabble, weak, stupid, useless, in the dust, sinking, fading, despair . . .

I broke away and sat down fast on the nearest object, a brown sofa, shuddering. Can't do it, screamed a voice in my head, too frightened, never, never, never could I touch him again, or let him touch me, even with the tiniest tip of one finger, nothing, nothing in this world could ever make what he did to me normal. Oh, no, no, not better at all, it's all come back. I wanted to sob, deep moaning sobs. I felt an ominous prickling at the corners of my eyes. I'd gouge them out before I cried in front of Stuart. Meanwhile, my heart was in danger of exploding splat all over my ribcage.

I was reminded of a
Bunty Annual
I'd had when I was thirteen. The age where I was desperate for a sniff of romance, and there was bugger all in
Bunty
. Except a cartoon about a kidnapper . . . or was he a smuggler? I can't recall, only that he was drawn very handsome and the action took place on the beach. The heroine wore a sleeveless top which had slipped down over one shoulder, revealing a hint of cleavage. The kidnapper had tied her hands behind her back and was trying to force her onto his boat, but he had to make this move seem unsuspicious. ‘Kiss me,' said his speech bubble, ‘or I will break your arms.'

To the thirteen-year-old me, this atrocity was the height of eroticism. What was wrong with me? What blip in my civilised upbringing could have led me to believe that such behaviour was
sexy?
Safe in my pink carpeted bedroom, I wanted to
be
that heroine! All these years later, clutched by Stuart and feeling a fear so fierce I could hardly see, I realised the extent to which little girls are taught that relinquishing control to a brute is desirable. The truth of this fantasy was so opposite I nearly laughed right there and then.

‘Glass of water,' I said. Although what I wanted was Valium. Cigarettes. Whisky.

Stuart smiled and retrieved a mini-Perrier bottle from a
little white fridge behind his desk. He handed it to me with a glass, still smiling. I was shaking so hard, most of it spilt on his carpet. I didn't even want to know what he was thinking.

‘So,' I said, crossing my legs and cranking my brittle self into a relaxed position. ‘Remind me what it is you're doing for my parents?'

Stuart settled himself in the big oak chair behind his desk and ran his hands through his hair. I wanted to run him through with a spike.

‘I won't confuse you with legal terminology,' he began, ‘but I specialise in probate, and your parents have inherited an extremely complicated estate. There are shares in various companies which need to be realised and—'

‘But they've
got
a lawyer!' As I said this, I wondered if Henry Flaherty, who must have been at least ninety-three years old, had passed away or, at least, emigrated to the Cayman Islands.

‘I believe, in a remarkable show of bad timing, he retired shortly before your grandmother passed away. He was the firm's only probate chap, so the company wrote to your parents with a few recommendations. Anyhow, your parents were chatting to me on Friday and it became plain they required an adviser to the trustees of the will, to oversee the whole procedure. They wanted someone they knew, rather than a list of unfamiliar names, so when they found out I was a friend of yours and this was my forte . . . well! Your mother is an executor and, bless, in a bit of a fluster about it.'

I gave him a cold look.
Bless
. One of the most patronising things you can say about anyone. ‘What exactly needs doing?' I said.

‘Oh, various properties to be sold off, offshore interests, I'll be needing to negotiate with French lawyers, a number of company trust funds, share portfolios. One has to know the best time to realise them for tax reasons and, as I say, it's all highly complex.'

I nodded coolly, as if it wasn't all gobbledegook. I didn't exactly wish I'd studied harder at school – it's not as if they teach you anything applicable – but I wished I didn't find wills and all the pomposity surrounding them too dull to bother with. I hadn't even written my own will. In the event of my death, Emily would probably be carted off by the council.

‘But anyway, enough talking business. How
are
you? Ah, here's your birthday present. Open it now.'

It dawned on me that Stuart gave orders in a casual way that made you feel it was rude to disobey him.

‘I'll open it later,' I said, putting the squashy package in my bag. ‘So, what's the deal with my parents. Have they signed a contract?'

Stuart shot me a puzzled look. ‘They're new clients, Holly. I biked them a client care letter enclosing terms of business, as I'm required to do by the Law Society, detailing the basis on which I charge et cetera et cetera and what I've been asked to do. They signed and returned it this morning. And they verified who they are for money-laundering purposes – in case I was inadvertently being paid in drug money!'

Stuart laughed as if to acknowledge that, yes, it was fairly unlikely that my parents would be paying him in drug money. I felt sick. I
always
felt sick, these days. It was as if my digestive system had ground to a halt and the food just sat there in my stomach, playing cards or something.

‘Tell you what, Hol, forget the bubbly – never looks good, boss chugging champers in the office – tomorrow night I'll take you out for dinner, somewhere nice. I know a great little Italian place. I'll pick you up from home around eight.'

Before I could move or speak, he was on the sofa with me – never mind that it never looks good, boss shagging a visitor in the office – pressing me down with his bully body, his lips, thick and rubbery, contaminating the skin on my face, his hands busy with the zip of my skirt. What was it
Manjit had said? Jab your elbow in his face, neck, stick your fingers in his eyes, and shout,
GET BACK!

I couldn't. I was frozen like an ice-pop, a thousand years of self-defence wouldn't have helped me. In a second, Stuart was off me and straightening his tie. Camille burst in. I coughed, primly, into my hand. The elbow and the command hadn't been necessary. I never knew I could scream so loud.

‘She saw a spider,' exclaimed Stuart, to Camille's startled expression. ‘You women,' – his tone attempted lightheartedness but he couldn't keep the venom from it – ‘scared of the littlest insect.'

I stood up, brushed myself off. ‘Quite,' I said to Stuart, as I strode out.

My bravado lasted exactly forty-five seconds, the time it took me to get out of the building and a good way down the road. My throat felt hot and sore from the scream. I wanted to collapse on the pavement. I could have cried but I felt too sapped. My legs tingled dangerously and my head swam. When I saw a taxi trundling along the road I hailed it and crawled in, burbling like an idiot. Then I picked up Stuart's birthday package out of my bag as if it were a scorpion, and dropped it on the floor of the cab. It clanked. I ripped open the tissue paper with my foot. A pair of pink furry handcuffs. I didn't howl with fear and rage. I bit my lip and drew blood instead. With cold hands, I re-wrapped the ‘gift'. When the cab dropped me off, I threw the parcel into next door's wheelie bin.

I was in such a rush to run myself a bath that I nearly knocked down Gloria, who was dusting a bookcase in the hall.

‘There's nothing for me to do here, Holly,' she said as I sped past in a blur. ‘The place is spotless. You could eat your dinner off the dining-room table. I was reduced to sorting out your kitchen cupboards. You gotta stop doing my job for me.'

I skidded to a halt. ‘Sorry.'

‘And thanks for inviting me on Friday. I liked the geezer I was sat next to – Manjit. His girlfriend had a right face on her, but he was a doll. We had a good natter. I was telling him about my guardian angel, and as it turns out,
he's
had an angelic experience, different from mine. I mostly hear voices, rich deep voices. He was in his sitting room one night, feeling low – I think he'd torn a ligament – and suddenly the room filled with intense light,
solid
light, like sheet gold, and he felt this touch on his shoulder, like feathers, and he felt comforted, a sense of warmth. Did he ever tell you that?'

I hopped from one foot to the next. ‘No,' I said meanly, ‘because he knew I'd have laughed him out of town. Manjit lives on a main road. It was probably the flash of a speed camera.'

Gloria looked crushed. ‘But that's
white
light, this was yellow. And how do you explain the feather touch?'

I clenched my teeth. ‘A breeze. His girlfriend likes the windows open, even in January. Well. I've got to have a bath.' As I spoke I could hear my voice waver. I couldn't bear to look at her hurt face.

‘You okay, Hol?'

‘Bath,' I squeaked. I ran one, and cried into it. After a few minutes I became aware that I was actually
speaking
as I cried. It turned out to be ‘how could it happen how could it happen how could it . . .?' I was too agitated to lean back against the cold porcelain, so I hunched in a ball, pressed the sponge into my face and howled, how could he disgusting how how owwww? Eventually, I stopped crying. I remained hunched over the sponge, though. It was a comfortable position. I stayed that way until I heard Gloria yell, ‘Moff now!'

It was a ridiculous effort, leaving that bath, even though the water was tepid. I didn't have the energy to pull out the plug. I dragged a towel off the door, wrapped myself in it and slumped to the floor. For the first time I had the urge
to tell on Stuart. Shame and denial had kept me silent. But now I finally realised it was all his fucking fault and I wanted someone to share my outrage. Who would I call? Still not Claudia. She was too volatile. I didn't think I could deal with any dramatics and jumping around. I wanted horror, but I also wanted to be rocked, to have my hair stroked and to be told, ‘there, there'.

And I knew who I wanted to do it. I wiped my eyes and blew my nose. I was thirsty from all that crying. I wondered how long you have to cry to dehydrate. I drank some apple juice, double locked the door and curled up on the sofa with the phone. Emily jumped on my lap, kneading. She has a little white patch of fur round her mouth, as if upon her birth God had decreed, ‘May your chin always be dipped in cream'. I kissed the silken bit of her head between her ears and whispered, ‘May your chin always be dipped in cream.'