Freeing Grace (3 page)

I seriously considered this option. It was a perfectly valid one. She was a fantastic girl, Anna. Clever, confident and vivacious. Far too good for me. I could almost see the church doors flying open and my bride gliding radiantly through them with about five of her clumsiest and ugliest friends trailing along behind her, wearing shiny purple dresses and looking like fat fairies on a tree. I could actually hear the thunder of the organ. I’d fly my mum over, and she’d wear her best dress and sob happily in the front row.

But I couldn’t bring myself to do it. The very thought of spending the rest of my life tied irrevocably to Anna—or anyone else, for that matter—made me feel claustrophobic. Perhaps I was a fool, because I gave up a hell of a chance that day.

I got dressed, turned on breakfast television and made some coffee. Then I began to wander around the flat in my socks, lobbing things into cardboard boxes, feeling lousy, trying not to dwell on what I’d just lost. She wanted me out, she’d have me out. Today. This was her place, after all.

I was pretty decent about it, if I do say so myself. I left the stereo and most of the CDs, although I couldn’t resist the Van Morrison collection. It was odd to see just how entangled our lives had become. Depressing, really. We’d surrounded ourselves with objects and memories that belonged to us both. Who actually forked out for that Moroccan rug by the bed? Who owned the Balinese statue we’d brought back in our hand luggage? It had fallen out of the overhead locker and floored that air hostie. Served her right, stroppy sow.

I spent all morning packing up, and in that time I made some decisions. Rather monumental decisions, actually.

Life in the City was changing, fast and furiously. The financial world was barely recognisable; it wasn’t a fun place to be any more, and I reckoned it could get a whole lot worse. I’d been thinking about getting out for a while. Anna just gave me that final shove.

I left a note, a short one, just saying thanks. It was pathetic. Then I piled the stuff into my car and let myself out—for the last time—into the rain, which put on a special performance to mark the solemnity of the occasion. I stood on the doorstep for a minute or two, jingling the keys to the flat from one hand to the other and wondering where the hell I was going to be sleeping that night. It felt a bit odd, after four years, to be posting my own door keys back through the letterbox and hearing them thud onto the hall carpet. Final. Not my home any more.

I didn’t cry, though.

Obviously.

The rain paused for breath as I arrived in the City. I left the car in an underground car park and walked the rest of the way. I’ve never quite got used to wearing the suit and tie and shiny shoes; makes me feel like a confidence trickster—which is more or less accurate, I suppose. They were digging up Moorgate again, and I inhaled the life-giving tang of burning tarmac and exhaust fumes as I marched in through the mirrored doors of Stanton’s.

I headed straight up to Delaney’s office. My boss was pretty friendly, in his slithery Californian way.

‘Jake! Pull up a chair. What can I do for you?’

‘I’m afraid I’ve come to tell you that I’m leaving, Barney.’ Jeez, I enjoyed those words more than you can possibly imagine. I still smirk at the memory.

He looked vaguely impatient, turning in his swivel chair, peering at me like a hungry lizard. Then he crossed his legs and switched on his reptilian smile.

‘So, Jake. How much?’

‘No, really,’ I protested. ‘This isn’t a device to lever more money out of you.’

He sighed cynically. ‘C’mon, Jake, I wasn’t born yesterday. Let’s cut to the chase. What’s the figure we’ve got to match?’

‘No, no, Barney.’ He’s gone mad, I thought. Does he seriously believe I’m here to make demands, in the middle of a financial meltdown? ‘I’m really leaving.’ I dragged a slightly scruffy letter out of my pocket, scribbled in the car park. ‘Here it is in writing.’

I pushed the paper across his desk. He stared vacantly at it, his smile fixed. Then he flicked his tongue. I’m sure it was forked. ‘Perhaps you’d care to tell me why, Jake? I presume you’re going elsewhere.’

I laughed out loud. ‘Else
where
? You think I’m jumping ship? Barney, wake up! Everyone’s getting fired, for God’s sake!’

I could tell he didn’t believe me. He didn’t live in the real world. ‘Sure you don’t just need a holiday?’ He was going through the motions now. We both knew it.

‘Quite sure.’

He tossed his head, huffily. ‘Well. I’m afraid I can’t rule out the possibility that you’re defecting. So you’d better clear your desk immediately.’

It didn’t look as though he was going to thank me for the years of loyal service.

I arrived at my corner three seconds before Kenneth, the security man, fetched up to escort me from the building. That’s the Stanton’s way, although I’d expected to be given a bit longer. It’s the same in most investment banks, I should think. You’ve become a spy, potentially, for the competition. So once you’re out, you’re out, before you start stealing secrets. Kenneth planted himself beside my desk, raised his eyebrows at me, and then turned his uniformed back.

I opened the drawers and took out my things: half a packet of glacier mints, and a fluffy kiwi sent by Mum as a hint because she wanted me to come home. It lived zipped up snugly in a miniature felt rugby ball, and many a happy hour we’d spent with it in the office, practising drop kicks and passes. Only last month, Len Harvey broke a tooth after a truly spectacular tackle on my part landed him face down in the wastepaper bin. Mum would have been proud.

Len glanced up briefly from his screen and nodded at me. Like most of my ex-colleagues he was in his shirtsleeves, hair tousled, looking wild and desperate like someone in a casualty ward.

By contrast, at the next desk Lucy Harrison was yakking enthusiastically on the phone. It was as though she’d been filmed in colour against a black-and-white background. She’d been away earlier in the week, dealing with some family crisis; then straight on to Oslo for work. I was pleased to see her before I left. I’d finished my packing, but I waited to speak to her.

‘Jake.’ She glanced up at the clock as she finished her call. ‘How good of you to put in an appearance.’

‘Hi, Luce. All good at home?’

She flapped a hand, dismissively. ‘Mad as hatters.’

‘How about Oslo?’

‘Waste of time.’

She began dialling again, but then spotted the security guy. He was standing still, legs apart, waiting with the patience of a very bored person.

‘Is Ken your new bodyguard?’ she asked.

‘No. I’m out of here. Barney’s sent him to stop me walking out with the desktop stuffed down my pants.’

She dropped her phone, rage in the bottle-green eyes. ‘They haven’t given
you
the push?’

‘Nope. I jumped first, but it was only a matter of time.’

‘But you’re better than everybody else.’

‘No, just more expensive.’

Her gaze fell forlornly onto the little black rugby ball I was holding. I lobbed it over, and she reached out and caught it with one hand.

‘You can’t slink off without buying me lunch,’ she insisted, standing up and grabbing her jacket from the back of her chair. ‘Shall we ask the others?’

I looked around at the familiar faces. I’d probably never see them again. And you know what? I didn’t care. I shook my head, and she shook hers, too.

As we left, both our desk phones were ringing.

We had lunch in a wine bar on Finsbury Circus. I bought a bottle of something that cost enough to feed a Sudanese refugee family for a year, and drank most of it myself. Lucy seemed a bit distracted, and I wasn’t on top form either. She was a very deflating audience, drumming her long fingers on the table and scowling at the crowd mobbing the bar. Normally she’s engaged, lively, cheerily flirtatious.

The waitress arrived with Lucy’s minestrone, my steak sandwich, and the largest pepper grinder in the world. It made me feel inadequate. When she’d gone, Lucy leaned towards me.

‘Now. Tell me why you’re going.’

I didn’t need to feel guilty. I’d done right by the girl. Been her manager until twelve o’clock that day. In fact, I’d interviewed her for the job in the first place. She was clearly outstanding. The boys leered, said she was
outstanding
, all right. But it honestly wasn’t about her Wonderbra bust—she wore little green blouses that matched her eyes—or her spectacular legs, or the nifty boy’s haircut that showed the nape of her neck. No. It was the way she looked at the world. She seemed to find it all rather funny. She was bright too, complete with a scary degree and three languages. Next to her, I felt like a hillbilly, which of course is exactly what I am.

Lucy and I had one of those entertaining friendships with an edge. But I’d never laid a finger on her, honest. It would have been harassment.

Anyway, I’d been proved right. She was one of the best, and she didn’t need me any more. I told her so.

She had quite a pronounced nose, but I always thought it was her best feature. It gave her face sophistication. She looked down it now, raised one graceful eyebrow and dunked her bread into her soup.

‘Of course I don’t
need
you, dickhead. Bloody ridiculous. I don’t need a feckless drunken colonial like you, no matter how sexy your smile.’ She gazed at my mouth for a few seconds, allowing herself a sinful little smirk. ‘What I want to know is why you’re going,
when
you decided to go, and why you didn’t tell me? And what’s the brilliant new career you’re heading for, and should I be hanging onto your coat-tails? Because—whatever it is—I’ll be better at it than you are.’

‘I’m going to open a massage parlour.’

‘Oh, good. Can I be the receptionist? Together, we could go far.’

‘No. You’re too indiscreet. Actually, I’m going to be a bum. Look at them.’ I pointed to the yelling, sweating scrum at the bar. ‘Flooded with adrenaline. They’re ready to fight to the death even now, in the half-hour they’ve got away from their desks. And for what?’

She glanced at the killer mob. ‘Money.’

‘Lucy, the system’s on the verge of collapse. There
is
no money any more. And anyway, I’ve made enough of the stuff. It’s time I got out.’

‘When did you decide this?’

‘Six o’clock this morning.’

She blinked innocently. ‘Oh, yes? You had a midlife crisis at six o’clock this morning?’

‘Anna threw me out.’

‘Ah.’ She nodded calmly. ‘Well, that was inevitable. A woman like that wasn’t going to wait forever. Did you try to change her mind?’

I shrugged.

She leaned closer, raking me with searchlight eyes. ‘Do you love her at all, Jake?’

‘I don’t know,’ I said helplessly. Everyone knows I don’t answer that kind of question. ‘What does that
mean
, really?’

‘Honestly! You’ve all the emotional acuity of a dishwasher. Haven’t you ever been in love?’

‘Not since I was ten years old.’

‘Who was the lucky girl?’

‘I had a Jack Russell. Sala. Means Princess. She was neat.’

She slapped my wrist. ‘Idiot! I was serious.’

I was, too. But I laughed it off. Always do.

‘Look,’ I told her, ‘it feels like a reprieve. My neck was on the block. The drums were rolling and a messenger came galloping up, waving the king’s pardon.’

She was gazing at me shrewdly. ‘I don’t believe you for one minute.’

‘No. Well.’ I sighed. ‘Anna wants kids.’

‘That’s pretty normal. Doesn’t make her a psychopath.’

‘Bloody hell, Luce, I’m too young to be a father. I’m not
ready
.’

She snorted. ‘Jake, you’re forty! You’re wearing it well, I’ll admit that. You’re revoltingly fit, and you’ve a luscious mouth and wicked brown eyes that make women want to mother you, poor tarts. And there’s that lazy antipodean accent.’ She smiled, stretched across and tugged at my hair. ‘But one day soon you’ll find a steely strand in here, glinting treacherously.’ She leaned a little closer, focusing intently on my forehead. ‘Actually, do you
dye
your hair?’

‘Certainly not.’

‘What do they call that shade? Mahogany?’

I didn’t like the way this was going. ‘Well, anyway. I
do
feel reprieved. And I intend to make good use of it because, as my mother always says, life isn’t a dress rehearsal.’

‘Really? Does your mother treat her life as the final performance?’

I picked up the bottle and waved it at her, but she stretched a hand over her glass.

‘Well.’ I poured myself another. ‘She made the mistake of marrying my father, and she might as well have thrown in her lot with the devil himself. Every day’s been the same for the last forty-five years. She gets up at five. Then she bakes and cleans and sews and feeds the calves and does the garden and the washing and the accounts, while he roars around on a quad bike with a pack of dogs sprinting ahead and a dead sheep slung across the back with its tongue hanging out. Every so often he stomps into the kitchen, swears, scoffs all the food, and messes everything up again.’

I paused, tasting the hatred. Knocked back half the glass, but it didn’t take the taste away. Never would.

‘They’re reckoned to be a real success story in the district. People say, “That Connie Kelly, she doesn’t waste a minute of her life.” ’ I shuddered. ‘And they’re right. She hasn’t wasted a minute. She’s wasted the whole bloody lot.’

‘How far are they from a town?’ asked Lucy.

‘They’re in the middle of nowhere, Luce. And I mean that absolutely literally. It’s an hour sliding down a gravel track to a tar-sealed road, and you’re still another hour from the nearest traffic light.’

‘You’re joking.’

‘Wish I was.’

‘Why haven’t they been over here? You could pay.’

‘Dad won’t come, and I wouldn’t see him if he did.’

‘Why not?’

I scowled, and Lucy raised her eyebrows.

‘Well, it all sounds very childish.’ She poured herself some fizzy water. ‘Still, I suppose now that you’re single and unemployed you’ll be heading home.’

‘I can’t. My place has long-term tenants.’

‘Not home to Clapham Common, you idiot. Home to New Zealand.’