The Undomestic Goddess
Page 105
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I travel down in the lift with Ernest in total silence. If I opened my mouth, I might burst into tears.
When I get out of the building I check my mobile. There’s a text from Nat on my phone, asking how things went. I read it several times, but I can’t bring myself to reply. Nor can I bring myself to go back to the Geigers’ house. Even though I could probably still catch a train, I can’t face them tonight.
On automatic pilot, I head down to the Underground and onto a tube. I can see my face in the window opposite, pale and expressionless. And all the way, my mind is buzzing. May 28th. May 28th.
I don’t hit on the answer until I’m arriving at my building. May 28th. Chelsea Flower Show. Of course. We were at Chelsea all day on May 28th. Arnold, Ketterman, Guy, and I, doing some corporate entertaining. Arnold arrived straight from Paris and afterward he was driven home. He wasn’t even in the office.
He lied. Of course he did. I feel a wave of weary anger rising inside me. But there’s nothing I can do now. No one will ever believe me. I’ll live the rest of my life with everyone convinced it was my mistake.
I get out at my floor, already fumbling for the key, hoping against hope that Mrs. Farley won’t hear me, already planning a long, hot bath. And then, as I’m almost at my door, I stop dead, thinking hard.
Slowly I turn and head back to the lift. There’s one more chance. I have nothing to lose.
I rise up two floors and come out of the lift. It’s almost identical to my floor—same carpet, same wallpaper, same lamps. Just different numbers on the apartment doors. 31 and 32. I can’t remember which one I want, so in the end I plump for 31. It has a softer doormat. I sink down on the floor, put my bag down, lean against the door, and wait.
By the time Ketterman appears out of the lift doors I’m drained. I’ve been sitting here for three solid hours without anything to eat or drink. I feel wan and exhausted. But at the sight of him I scramble to my feet, clutching the wall as I feel a wash of fatigue.
For a moment Ketterman looks shocked. Then he resumes his usual stony expression.
“Samantha. What are you doing here?”
As I stand there I wonder if he’s heard about me going to the offices. He must have. He’ll have heard the whole gory tale. Not that he’s giving anything away.
“What are you doing here?” he repeats. He’s holding an enormous metal briefcase in one hand and his face is shadowed under the artificial lights. I take a step forward.
“I know I’m the last person you want to see.” I rub my aching neck. “Believe me, I don’t want to be here either. Out of all the people in the world I could turn to for help … you would be the last. You are the last.”
I break off for a moment. Ketterman hasn’t even flickered.
“So the fact that I’m here, coming to you … should prove it to you.” I look at him desperately. “I’m serious. I have something to tell you, and you have to listen. You have to.”
I can hear a car braking in the street outside and someone laughing raucously. Ketterman’s face is still rigid. I can’t tell what he’s thinking. Then, at last, he reaches in his pocket for a key. He walks past me, unlocks the door to flat 32—and finally turns.
“Come in.”
Twenty-two
I wake up to the view of a cracked, grubby ceiling. My eye runs along to a huge cobweb in the corner of the room, then down the wall to a rickety bookshelf stuffed with books, tapes, letters, old Christmas decorations, and the odd bit of discarded underwear.
How did I live in this mess for seven years?
How did I not notice it?
I push back the bedcover, get out of bed, and look around blearily. The carpet feels gritty under my feet and I wince. It needs a good Hoover. I guess the cleaner stopped coming after the money stopped appearing.
There are clothes lying all over the floor, and I search around until I find a dressing gown. I wrap it around myself and head out to the kitchen. I’d forgotten how bare and cold and spartan it was in here. There’s nothing in the fridge, of course. But I find a chamomile tea bag and fill the kettle, and perch on a bar stool, looking out at the brick wall opposite.
It’s already nine-fifteen. Ketterman will be at the office. He’ll be taking whatever action he’s going to take. In spite of everything, I feel weirdly calm. Matters are out of my hands now; there’s nothing further I can do.
He listened to me. He actually listened, and asked questions, and even made me a cup of tea. I was there for over an hour. He didn’t tell me what he thought or what he was going to do. He didn’t even say whether he believed me or not. But the fact that he took me seriously made all the difference.
When I get out of the building I check my mobile. There’s a text from Nat on my phone, asking how things went. I read it several times, but I can’t bring myself to reply. Nor can I bring myself to go back to the Geigers’ house. Even though I could probably still catch a train, I can’t face them tonight.
On automatic pilot, I head down to the Underground and onto a tube. I can see my face in the window opposite, pale and expressionless. And all the way, my mind is buzzing. May 28th. May 28th.
I don’t hit on the answer until I’m arriving at my building. May 28th. Chelsea Flower Show. Of course. We were at Chelsea all day on May 28th. Arnold, Ketterman, Guy, and I, doing some corporate entertaining. Arnold arrived straight from Paris and afterward he was driven home. He wasn’t even in the office.
He lied. Of course he did. I feel a wave of weary anger rising inside me. But there’s nothing I can do now. No one will ever believe me. I’ll live the rest of my life with everyone convinced it was my mistake.
I get out at my floor, already fumbling for the key, hoping against hope that Mrs. Farley won’t hear me, already planning a long, hot bath. And then, as I’m almost at my door, I stop dead, thinking hard.
Slowly I turn and head back to the lift. There’s one more chance. I have nothing to lose.
I rise up two floors and come out of the lift. It’s almost identical to my floor—same carpet, same wallpaper, same lamps. Just different numbers on the apartment doors. 31 and 32. I can’t remember which one I want, so in the end I plump for 31. It has a softer doormat. I sink down on the floor, put my bag down, lean against the door, and wait.
By the time Ketterman appears out of the lift doors I’m drained. I’ve been sitting here for three solid hours without anything to eat or drink. I feel wan and exhausted. But at the sight of him I scramble to my feet, clutching the wall as I feel a wash of fatigue.
For a moment Ketterman looks shocked. Then he resumes his usual stony expression.
“Samantha. What are you doing here?”
As I stand there I wonder if he’s heard about me going to the offices. He must have. He’ll have heard the whole gory tale. Not that he’s giving anything away.
“What are you doing here?” he repeats. He’s holding an enormous metal briefcase in one hand and his face is shadowed under the artificial lights. I take a step forward.
“I know I’m the last person you want to see.” I rub my aching neck. “Believe me, I don’t want to be here either. Out of all the people in the world I could turn to for help … you would be the last. You are the last.”
I break off for a moment. Ketterman hasn’t even flickered.
“So the fact that I’m here, coming to you … should prove it to you.” I look at him desperately. “I’m serious. I have something to tell you, and you have to listen. You have to.”
I can hear a car braking in the street outside and someone laughing raucously. Ketterman’s face is still rigid. I can’t tell what he’s thinking. Then, at last, he reaches in his pocket for a key. He walks past me, unlocks the door to flat 32—and finally turns.
“Come in.”
Twenty-two
I wake up to the view of a cracked, grubby ceiling. My eye runs along to a huge cobweb in the corner of the room, then down the wall to a rickety bookshelf stuffed with books, tapes, letters, old Christmas decorations, and the odd bit of discarded underwear.
How did I live in this mess for seven years?
How did I not notice it?
I push back the bedcover, get out of bed, and look around blearily. The carpet feels gritty under my feet and I wince. It needs a good Hoover. I guess the cleaner stopped coming after the money stopped appearing.
There are clothes lying all over the floor, and I search around until I find a dressing gown. I wrap it around myself and head out to the kitchen. I’d forgotten how bare and cold and spartan it was in here. There’s nothing in the fridge, of course. But I find a chamomile tea bag and fill the kettle, and perch on a bar stool, looking out at the brick wall opposite.
It’s already nine-fifteen. Ketterman will be at the office. He’ll be taking whatever action he’s going to take. In spite of everything, I feel weirdly calm. Matters are out of my hands now; there’s nothing further I can do.
He listened to me. He actually listened, and asked questions, and even made me a cup of tea. I was there for over an hour. He didn’t tell me what he thought or what he was going to do. He didn’t even say whether he believed me or not. But the fact that he took me seriously made all the difference.
