‘Not yet. We’ll think of something; but, first, we’re going to need more wine,’ she says.
‘Can I get another glass of this, please?’ I ask a passing waiter. I turn back to Jo. ‘I can’t lose this job.’
‘You won’t.’
‘I haven’t had time to do everything I needed to do.’ The waiter is still hovering nearby and gives me a look of concern. I smile. He nods politely and goes to get the wine. I glance around the bar and a straw poll of eyes confirm that I’m being too loud. It happens sometimes when I’m tired or drunk. I remind myself to be quiet.
As soon as the wine arrives, Jo tells me to take a notepad and pen out of my bag. She instructs me to write PROJECT MADELINE in big red letters across the top of a blank page, so I do, underlining the words for good measure. Jo is the kind of girl who likes to write everything down. Being like that can get you into trouble if you aren’t careful. She stares at the notepad and I drink some more of the wine, enjoying the feel of its warmth surging down through my body. I smile and Jo grins back, we’ve had the same idea at the same time, like we so often do. She tells me what to write and I furiously scribble every word on the pad, struggling to keep up with what I’m hearing. It’s a good idea.
‘She thinks they’ll never get rid of her, Madeline Frost is Coffee Morning,’ says Jo. I notice that she hasn’t touched her glass.
‘That’s exactly what Matthew said. Perhaps it could be a new jingle,’ I say, expecting her to smile. She doesn’t.
‘But she doesn’t know how your chat with Matthew went. So, maybe what we need to do is get Madeline to think they’ve had enough of her temper tantrums and that they are going to get rid of her,’ she says.
‘But they’d never do that.’
‘She doesn’t know that for sure. Nobody is irreplaceable any more and I’m starting to think if we plant enough seeds, the idea will start to grow. If she didn’t have that job, she’d be nothing. It’s her life, it’s all she has.’
‘Agreed. But how? There isn’t enough time, not now.’ I start to cry again. I can’t help it.
‘It’s OK. Cry if you need to, get it out of your system. Luckily, you’re a pretty crier.’
‘I’m not a pretty anything.’
‘Why do you do that? You’re beautiful. Admittedly, you could make more of an effort . . .’
‘Thanks.’
‘Sorry, but it’s true. Not wearing make-up doesn’t make you look pale and interesting, it just makes you look pale. You’ve got a nice figure but it’s like you’re always trying to hide beneath the same old clothes.’
‘I am trying to hide.’
‘Well stop it.’
She’s right, I’m a mess. My mind rewinds to Edward, he must have thought he’d had a lucky escape not ending up with me.
‘I just bumped into an ex on Oxford Street,’ I say, studying her face for a reaction.
‘Which one?’
‘There’s no need to say it like that, there weren’t that many.’
‘More than me. Who was it?’
‘It doesn’t matter. I just felt like such a frump, such a loser. I wish he hadn’t seen me looking like that, that’s all.’
‘Who cares? Right now you just need to focus on what matters. Go and buy yourself a new wardrobe; a few new dresses, some new shoes, something with a heel, and get some make-up while you’re at it. You need to look really happy and confident tomorrow, just stick it all on a credit card. Madeline knew he would tell you today, so she’ll be expecting you to be upset, probably doesn’t think you’ll come in at all, but you will. We’ll start some rumours on social media. We’ll take control of the situation. You know what you have to do.’
‘Yes, I do.’
‘So go shopping, then go home. Get an early night and come in tomorrow looking fabulous, as though you don’t have a care in the world.’
I do as I’m told, drain my glass and pay the bill. I’ve always stayed within the lines when colouring in my life, but now I’m prepared to let things get a bit messy. Before leaving the bar, I rip the Project Madeline page from my notebook, screw it up and throw it on the open fire, watching the white paper brown and burn.
Now
Boxing Day, December 2016 – Evening
When I first start to fall, I forget to be afraid, too busy noticing that the hand that pushed me looked so much like my own. But as I plummet into the darkness below, my worst fears follow me down. I want to scream, but I can’t, that familiar hand is now tightly clasped over my mouth. I can’t make a sound, I can barely breathe. When the terror shakes me from the recurring nightmare, I awake into another. I still don’t recall what happened to me, no matter how hard I try, no matter how badly I need to know.
People seem to come and go, a cacophony of murmurs, strange sounds and smells. Ill-defined shapes linger over and around me, as though I am under water, drowning in my own mistakes. Sometimes it feels like I am lying at the bottom of a murky pond, the weight of the dirty liquid pushing down on me, filling me up with secrets and filth. There are moments when I think it would be a relief to drown, for it all to be over. Nobody can see me down here, but then I was always rather invisible. The new world around me turns in slow motion just out of reach, while I remain perfectly still, down in the darkness.
Occasionally, I manage to resurface just long enough to focus on the sounds, to speed them up so that they become recognisable to me again, like right now. I can hear the sound of a paper page being turned, no doubt one of the silly crime novels he is so fond of. The others come and go but he is always here, I am no longer alone. I wonder why he hasn’t put the book down and rushed to my side now that I’m awake and then remember that for him I am not awake, for him nothing has changed. All sense of time has left me, it could be day or night. I am a silent, living corpse. I hear a door open and someone enters the room.
‘Hello, Mr Reynolds. You shouldn’t really be here this late but I suppose we can make an exception just this once. I was here when they brought your wife in last night.’
Last night?
It feels like I’ve been here for days.
The doctor’s voice sounds familiar, but then I suppose it would if he’s been treating me. I imagine what he looks like. I picture a serious man with tired eyes, a furrowed brow eroded into a series of lines by all the sadness he must have seen. I imagine him wearing a white coat, then I remember that they don’t do that any more, they just look like everyone else and so the man I imagined fades away.
I hear Paul drop his book and fumble around like a fool; he’s always been intimidated by medical professionals. I bet he stands to shake his hand; in fact, I know he will. I don’t need to see him to know exactly how he’ll behave, I can predict his every move.
‘Do you need someone to take a look at your hand?’ asks the doctor.
What’s wrong with his hand?
‘No, it’s fine,’ says Paul.
‘You’ve bruised it quite badly. Are you sure? It’s no trouble.’