Rebound (5 page)

It’s after 1 p.m. when I get to the office. I’m struck by the heavy, still air inside, as if the air-con is on the blink. Then I realize the mood of the place has
changed from positive corporate joviality to apathetic gloom. Nobody cares any more. But I’m wrong. Claire comes into my office with her iPad and a grin on her face. She shows me her Facebook
page and scrolls to a status update from Sarah. The first casualty of the cull strikes back, even before she’s been officially made redundant. I skim through the long anti-corporate rant
Basset Face has posted on her page. It’s mostly about her, about all those years of loyal service she’d put into the company only to be thrown away, discarded like an old rag. All that
talent wasted. All the skills, the expertise, the charm, unappreciated. She’s completely lost it and the update will be her own undoing. Ah, the beauty of social media. One problem less for
me.

The process of restructuring has started in earnest and I spend the rest of the afternoon in meetings. It’s turning into a long and ugly summer. Telling people that they are no longer
needed is a thankless task. I dread the intensity of it, the shock, the tears, followed by despondency. The cracks are already beginning to emerge within the management itself, unofficial cliques
forming spontaneously. But the comfort the coteries seem to offer is just an illusion. Everyone is interested in saving their own position only, by whatever means necessary. I wonder if it’s
worth the fight, but then what would I do if I were to lose my job? Being Head of On-Air in a broadcast company doesn’t really equip you for survival in the real world. Well, I could always
become a consultant, a synonym for being superfluous and unemployable. To my surprise and disappointment I realize I’m missing James. He’d talk me through it, help me see the whole
picture . . . Stop. What has happened to the self-sufficient, tough bitch Anna? I’m going to get through it on my own.

I manage to dodge Bell’s phone calls for a few days. I know she’d instantly sniff out that there is something strange going on in my life and I don’t want to
have to lie to her by omission. Being busy at work has its uses. But she is not easily put off by the sound of the answerphone and by Thursday I call her back. We arrange to meet for a quick bite
at Dim T, a cheap and cheerful dim sum place in Charlotte Street. When I arrive she’s already there, sipping hot sake. It’s not going to be such a quick bite, after all.

I immediately launch into a predictable work moan. Actually, there’s a lot to tell and she listens sympathetically. She lets me talk through three baskets of dim sum, which we share. When
the fourth basket arrives she goes straight to the point.

‘Are you seeing someone new?’

I look at her, pretending astonishment.

‘Someone new? When would I have time for that?’

She just stares at me without a word. I finish off the sake and wave to the waitress for more. Bell is still staring at me.

‘You’ve met someone.’ It’s a statement, not a question.

I sigh. She knows me too well.

‘I’m not “seeing” anyone.’ I make the inverted commas sign in the air.

‘What’s going on then?’

A new carafe of sake arrives and I fuss around it, pouring some for both of us, giving myself time to think what to say.

‘I haven’t technically met anyone, either.’ It comes out lame.

‘Oh God,’ she says. ‘Sounds like your rebound behaviour.’

She’s always given me a hard time over this.

‘It doesn’t and it’s not, Bell.’ I try to sound authoritative, which is quite hard after so much sake. ‘OK, I’ve met this guy, he is absolutely gorgeous, but
it’s not going to lead anywhere.’

‘Where did you meet? What’s his name?’

‘You’re worse than the Stasi.’ I take another sip of sake.

‘Because I care about you?’

She’s upset now. I reach out and touch her hand.

‘I’m sorry, I didn’t mean it.’

‘I know.’ She pats my hand. ‘Come on, spill.’

‘There’s nothing to spill, really. We’ve bumped into each other a couple of times on the Heath. I don’t know who he is. I don’t know his name. I only know
he’s gorgeous. End of story.’

‘Or the beginning of one?’

‘Nah. It’s not going to happen, Bell, I told you.’ I’m fed up with her interrogation and she knows it. ‘Let’s talk about you.’

She sighs and pours more sake.

‘Not much to report. Well, that’s not true, actually. I did meet someone on TangoWire. She’s quite cute, makes me laugh, we ended up chatting through the night.’

‘So what’s the problem?’

‘She lives in Moscow.’

‘Oh . . . Her English good?’

‘Moscow, Idaho.’

‘Oh, another one from the other side of the pond.’ Bell’s penchant for American girls has caused her much heartache, not to mention the expense of long-distance air travel. I
keep reminding her that ‘I love you’ means ‘Have a good day’ over there and not ‘I want to live with you till I die’. But she doesn’t listen.

‘Yes, but she seems genuinely nice.’

‘What do you do for a living in Moscow, Idaho?’

‘She actually works at the uni.’

‘They have a university there?’

‘They do, quite a big one, apparently. She’s a lecturer in anthropology.’

‘So you did manage to have some proper conversation, besides your lesbian sex banter?’

‘Oh, come on, it’s a dating site, not a porn chat room.’ She seems quite pissed off.

‘I’m kidding, Bell.’ I raise my hands in mock apology.

She smiles and we both finish the last of our sake in one gulp.

‘More?’ She points at the empty carafe.

‘I’d love to, but I have a Friday at work to go through.’ I look at the time on my iPhone. ‘I have to get going.’

We part in front of the restaurant, Bell off to catch the number 73 bus from Oxford Street, while I hail a cab. I used to feel guilty about taking black cabs in London, but the value of my
comfort has gone up proportionally to my wage packet.

Friday used to be a light-hearted day at work, carrying the promise of a weekend filled with lovely laziness for singles or frantic catching up on family life for people with
children. The light-hearted atmosphere has been destroyed successfully by the recent announcements. I drive to work with a heavy heart and arrive to find the car park filled with balloons. More
balloons in the lift. And in the office. A laminated sheet on my desk explains everything. Today is Doughnut Day, a combined initiative of HR and Happy Workplace, which will lead to the Office
Bake-Off next Friday. D-Day seems a rather unfortunate name, bringing to mind the high number of casualties in Normandy, perhaps a cruel joke by HR, who are now working on the number of casualties
in our corporate cull. Oh well, happy D-Day, I think as I grab two greasy dough balls from an ornamental basket in the kitchen.

Back in my office, I look through the lists of staff in my departments. It’s going to be a tough one. The editors are already unhappy with the looming change in the working hours. Some of
them have been starting work late and finishing late, out of sync with the working hours of the producers, who need editors. The sound guys are up in arms because their ten-hour shifts will be
scrapped, forcing them to go back to the regular five-day working week. The production team has been driven to distraction by the new tape-less delivery system that seems to grind to a halt every
day, hours of digital output vanishing into computerized limbo. Oh, bring back the good old times of physical tape, the Digi-Beta, or even the clunky Beta-SP, a real object in your hand that could
be delivered and be done with, that’s the mantra of any producer over the age of thirty. That brings me to the producers, a profoundly insecure bunch, always complaining about something,
sometimes as trivial as their desks being moved half an inch in the wrong direction. Any challenge, no matter how small, and off they go, pouting and whimpering like a kid with a grazed knee. And
soon they will have to face the biggest challenge of their careers: having to justify their own existence. I look through the list: Gary, he’ll do fine, a consummate corporate player;
Caroline, a solid workhorse, she’ll even deliver for the Bake-Off next Friday; Sarah, she’s practically gone already; Kevin, lazy but talented, he may actually survive; Karen, big and
noisy, always going on about herself, the jury’s out; JJ, whose brain is fried by so much pot, he probably won’t even see it coming; Sam, young and naive, may crack under pressure;
Mina, a technical whizz who could leave anytime and would be snapped up immediately by someone who’d pay her much more; Dan, a stuttering graphics genius who should be writing a blog from
Nepal instead of sitting at his desk; Linda, a vacuous and nasty bitch who’ll stay, because nasty bitches always stay . . . Claire interrupts my reverie. The shoot next week. Do I want to be
involved? Not really. But it’s going to be at Pinewood Studios and the big shots are flying in especially from the States. In that case I’ll be involved. My self-preservation instinct,
developed painstakingly over the years, kicks in. I busy myself with looking through scripts and approving the crew for the shoot with Stephan, my favourite production manager. I’ll have to
make sure he doesn’t become one of the casualties of the corporate cull.

Saturday at last and I’m up at the crack of dawn, as usual. I throw my running clothes on while Wispa is watching me suspiciously from her bed. It’s too early even
for her. I have to coax her with a dog biscuit and off we go, down Fitzroy Park.

The Heath is empty and quiet, except for the birds who make their morning racket. Soft fog is hovering above the lake, a thin haze that makes everything look Photoshopped. I huff and puff up the
hill, my breath visible in the air. Wispa is following me lazily. I get into the rhythm that works like meditation, putting me in the running trance, a hypnotic state of floating on endorphins, my
body purring like a perfect machine. I reach the top of the hill and follow my usual route into the woods.

I’m just about to turn and look for Wispa when someone pushes me roughly from behind. I stumble forward, regain my balance and nearly run into a tree, my outstretched arms cushioning the
impact. He’s right behind me, I can smell him as he pushes me against the tree. The Dior Man, I’m sure of it – the mixture of sweat and freshly washed clothes makes my head swim.
His hands are under my shirt, on my breasts; he fondles them briefly, then one of his hands slides down my belly, slick with sweat, into my jogging pants. I’m already wet when he touches me,
his fingers probing urgently. I can feel his hard cock against my back. He slides my pants down and enters me roughly from behind. I stifle a cry. My face hits the tree and I can feel the sharp
bark biting into my cheek as he fucks me, selfishly and relentlessly. I come just before he does, sticky wetness, his and mine, running down my thighs. I gasp as he withdraws and then he’s
gone.

I lean against the tree, unable to stand on my own. I slowly pull my pants up, then turn and slide down, my back against the tree trunk. I don’t know how long I sit there, semi-conscious
and spent. Someone jogs past me and I make an effort to get up, to look normal. Then I remember. Wispa. I stumble among the trees, looking for her, calling her name. She’s gone. I trot back
to the top of the hill but she’s not there. I retrace my steps back to the woods, then continue towards Kenwood, calling her all the time. ‘Have you seen my dog, a chocolate
Labrador?’ I ask a familiar-looking elderly couple in matching green anoraks, but they just stare at me suspiciously and shake their heads. Eventually I spot her at the bottom of the meadow,
a brown speck in the green grass. I call her again, but she doesn’t move. I run towards her, then slow down to a trot because I don’t want to scare her any more. She is looking at me
with big, round eyes. I call her and hold out my hand towards her. She slowly comes to me, her ears flat against her head, her tail between her legs. I pat her gently and kiss her head.
‘Forgive me,’ I whisper to her. We walk back, two wounded soldiers returning from a battlefield.

At home I go straight to the bathroom and turn the power shower on. I look at myself in the mirror. My face is dirty and I have a huge abrasion on my cheek, fresh blood congealing where the skin
has been rubbed off. This will be fun to explain. I dab the graze with some antiseptic and it stings like hell. I get into the shower and stand under the hot water, losing track of time. When the
skin on my fingertips begins to crinkle I get out and rub myself with a fresh towel. My skin is pink and dry, but I feel dirty. Dirty, dirty girl.

The weekend slips through my fingers like sand. I dodge Bell’s phone calls. I ignore Michael’s messages. I sneak out to Tesco in the village and buy some ready-made
pizzas, then spend most of the time watching a box set of
Game of Thrones
. Epic fantasy, that’s exactly what I need to escape the reality I myself have created.

By Sunday evening I’m restless, with images of the Heath encounter relentlessly coming back to me. How do I feel about it? Dirty, a bit disgusted and very sexy. The memory of the Dior Man
fucking me against that tree turns me on. I can exactly recall the smell, the sounds, the extreme eroticism of the situation. I masturbate right there in my sitting room, on my pristine
Heal’s sofa, some ludicrous
Game of Thrones
sex scene flickering on the flat screen of my TV.

As I snooze with the TV sound turned down, an unexpected thought starts buzzing around in my head like a persistent wasp. It makes me instantly awake. It
was
the Dior Man, wasn’t
it? Of course it was him, I recognized his smell, his touch, I’m sure. And if it wasn’t? If it wasn’t him, then was I raped? No, it was consensual, I wanted him. But . . . I
wanted the Dior Man, not some stranger. I catch myself making the assumption that somehow the Dior Man is not a stranger. He is a stranger, but a stranger I know. A stranger I know: the oxymoron
sounds like the title of a bad thriller. No, this is crazy. It was him, and that’s the end of it. I have to stop thinking about it.