Rebound (22 page)

‘It’s a figure of speech, Navin. May I call you Navin?’ He nods and I continue. ‘I have never had so much contact with the police in my entire life. And as much as I like
you and respect your boss, it’s not something I want to develop into a long-term relationship.’

DS Kapoor suddenly looks flustered. I can see tiny droplets of sweat forming on his forehead. What have I said? He gets up, folds his notebook and carries his mug to the sink.

‘Thank you for the tea, Anna. I’m glad you’re OK. If you change your mind about filing a complaint, just give me a call at the station. I have to get going.’

‘Of course.’ I follow him to the hallway, taken aback by this sudden change in behaviour. I thank him for stopping by and close the door behind him. That was weird. Maybe I
shouldn’t have said I liked him. Perhaps he fancies me? He has been rather nice to me and he did look after Wispa, which in my book makes him a good person. Whatever it was, I have no time
and energy to try to get to the bottom of it, I decide. A quick walk with Wispa, a long soak in the bath and bed, that’s what I need.

Wispa already knows we’re going out and waits for me in the hallway, wagging her tail. I rummage in the cupboard under the stairs for poo bags, grab her leash, the house keys, and open the
front door. As I walk down into the street a police car stops in front of my house. The passenger door opens and I expect to see DS Kapoor again. What now? But the policeman looks quite different,
tall and blond-haired, in a white short-sleeved shirt and a black vest. His colleague gets out from the other side, a wiry Indian guy, but not DS Kapoor.

‘Miss Wright?’

‘Yes?’ I stop and put the leash on Wispa.

The blond-haired policeman squeezes himself between the parked cars and approaches me.

‘We’ve had a report of a domestic disturbance at your house.’

His voice reminds me of Gary Sinise, minus the American accent.

‘Another one?’

‘Excuse me? You are Miss Wright, right?’

I’m not sure if he’s trying to crack a joke I heard a million times when I was at school, but I dislike him instantly.

‘Yes, I am Ms Wright and it was my neighbour who called you.’ I feel a wave of anger bubbling inside me. Patrick will pay for this. ‘I was arguing with a friend outside my
front door. He must’ve misconstrued it as a disturbance.’

‘So you don’t require assistance?’

‘No, thank you, as you can see, I’m perfectly fine.’

‘We’d appreciate it if you could let your neighbour know to call the non-emergency number 101 in the future.’

‘Why don’t you tell him yourself, as you’re here.’

I march up my neighbour’s front steps and ring his bell.

‘His name is Evans. Mr Patrick Evans. Goodnight.’

I pull on Wispa’s leash and walk away indignantly. As I cross the street I can hear Patrick unlocking his door and the nasal drone of the blond policeman enquiring about a report of a
disturbance.

What a waste of police time, I think, as I walk down Swain’s Lane. And to have them call at your house twice in half an hour, just when you don’t need them at all. But then a
different thought makes me stop and Wispa looks at me impatiently. Why did they come twice? The visit from the Gary Sinise lookalike and his sidekick seemed genuine, but what was DS Kapoor doing at
my house? No, I’m getting too suspicious, I decide as I start walking again. Kapoor was obviously on duty, knew about the call made by Mr Evans, probably recognized my address and decided to
check if I was OK. Sinise and Co. on the other hand were sent to my house by a dispatcher. There, mystery solved. There is a distinct chill in the air and the musty smell of wet earth and rotting
leaves heralds the beginning of autumn. I haven’t even noticed the summer colours starting to lose their vibrancy and the mornings becoming wrapped in fog.

It turns out Candice arrives on the 11.15 a.m. United flight from Chicago, having caught a local flight from Spokane to Denver, and then connecting onto the London flight in
Chicago. She is going to be exhausted. It’ll take her at least an hour to go through passport control and customs, so I should get to the airport by noon. Which doesn’t leave me a lot
of time at work in the morning. Luckily, the office isn’t far from the M4, but still, I’ll have to leave by 11.30 at the latest. I kick myself for offering to pick her up. I
should’ve booked a cab for her and asked them to take her straight to Michael’s. But it’s too late to change the plan and I feel I owe Bell this at least – taking care of
her girlfriend while she’s in London.

The office is unusually quiet, with most of the producers out on shoots or in edit suites. My work mailbox isn’t quiet at all on the other hand. Since last night over a hundred new emails
have arrived, most of them carrying red flags of urgency. I check my diary and it doesn’t look good. I’ll miss a big departmental meeting in the afternoon. Claire tells me Julian wants
to have a one-to-one with me tomorrow morning, another date I won’t be able to keep. But surely my friend’s funeral warrants one more day of compassionate leave. She also reminds me
that today is the last day to submit our company’s entries to this year’s Promax UK. It’s that time of the year again! I can almost measure the length of my professional life by
the number of Promax conferences I’ve attended over the years. From a bright-eyed and hungry-for-awards young promo-maker to begin with, to the jaded and cynical know-it-all I am now. A TV
promotion, or a promo, is a weird beast. Its aim is to drive ratings but often it’s far superior creatively to the programme it’s supposed to promote. What do Promax judges take into
account then? Accuracy, effectiveness or creativity? A promo that does exactly what it says on the tin usually has the creative value of a pint of wood stain. A promo that’s truly unique and
brilliant often wouldn’t be able to sell water to a thirsty man in a desert. Luckily, my task this morning is not hindered by such dilemmas. Our creative department hasn’t produced any
masterpieces this year, so I go for a selection of humorous spots that fit safely into categories like Best Use of Humour or Something for Nothing. Better than nothing, I think, as I pass on my
selection to Claire who is going to take care of the paperwork. Then I write a short and apologetic email to Julian, excusing myself from our tête-à-tête tomorrow, and head out
of the door.

There is hardly any traffic on the M4 and I reach the short-term car park at Terminal 3 at five past twelve. The information board in the arrivals hall says that the flight from Chicago has
landed and the bags are on their way to the baggage hall. I position myself at the barrier to crowd-watch. The sliding doors disgorge passengers in various states of disarray, from fresh and
energetic European hoppers to blurry-eyed and crumpled intercontinental travellers. A clutch of disorientated Japanese tourists is followed by a gaggle of overexcited American pensioners, then the
doors remain closed for a while. They open again to reveal a colourful couple: a large woman in a bright, flowing dress and a small man dressed in black, pushing a luggage trolley filled with a
stack of suitcases. They make such a captivating picture that I almost miss the woman who appears right behind them, carrying just a small cabin bag. She is quite petite, slim but muscular, with
straight highlighted hair pulled back in a ponytail and blue eyes that look striking in her tanned face. I instantly know it’s Candice. She recognizes me at the same moment and walks towards
me, smiling.

‘Anna?’

‘Candice!’

We hug as if we’ve known each other for years.

‘Thank you so much for meeting me.’

‘It’s a pleasure, Candice, really.’

I stop to pay the parking fee at the machine, then lead Candice to the car.

‘Good flight, or should I say flights?’

‘I feel my carbon footprint has grown dramatically within the last twenty-four hours,’ she laughs. ‘But it hasn’t been that bad. I managed to sleep on the flight from
Chicago.’

Unlike most Americans I know, she’s softly spoken and has a gentle manner about her. I like her instantly. As we drive towards London I ask her if this is her first trip to the UK.

‘Actually, I lived in Canterbury for a couple of years.’

‘Canterbury?’ I repeat, wondering if I heard her right.

‘I did an MA course in Social Anthropology at Kent.’

‘Wow, so you’re no stranger to this part of the world.’

‘No, this visit would feel quite nostalgic, if only the circumstances were different . . .’

We both fall silent for a while. Then Candice clears her throat.

‘What was she like?’

Even though I’m driving, I can’t help looking at her. She stares back at me, her blue eyes serious and pleading, as if she’s asking me to divulge a secret.

‘What was she like,’ I repeat, my gaze returning to the road in front of us. ‘She was a good person, honest, trustworthy . . . singular. You know, with most people you get the
feeling that there is another person hiding behind the facade you see. With Bell you never got that: she was exactly who you saw, no hidden agendas, no Mr Hyde to her Dr Jekyll. She was kind, open,
warm. And very funny. We’d had so many good laughs over the years.’

‘She talked a lot about you. You were her best friend.’

‘I hope I was . . . I tried to be . . .’ A tearful feeling wells up inside me. ‘But I failed, I let her down badly—’ I stop, searching for words, wondering why
I’m sharing my most intimate thoughts with a woman I met ten minutes ago. She waits for me to go on and I feel I have to. I realize I’ve been carrying a terrible burden of guilt around
with me and I have to share it with someone. ‘She died because of me, Candice.’

Tears suddenly flood my eyes; I can barely see where we’re going. I step on the brake and turn off abruptly onto a side road leading to Heston Services. The car park is almost empty and I
stop right in front of Costa Coffee. I switch off the engine and take a deep breath.

‘I’m so sorry, Candice. I don’t know what has come over me. This must be so weird for you . . . ending up in a foreign country at a motorway service station with a stranger
having a nervous breakdown . . .’ I try to make light of what’s just happened.

Candice puts her hand on my shoulder.

‘Let’s have some coffee,’ she says.

I lock the car and we walk over to the coffee shop. Candice makes me sit down in an armchair in a quiet corner of the shop and goes to order the drinks. A few minutes later she puts a big
steaming mug in front of me and sits in the armchair opposite. As I pick up the mug, the smell of hot chocolate hits me. Candice smiles.

‘I thought we needed this more than coffee.’

I take a sip and decide she’s right. The taste of chocolate is both indulgent and soothing.

‘Thank you. I’m so sorry.’

‘There’s no need to apologize.’

‘I feel so silly. Here you are, exhausted after your flights, having to witness my sudden outpouring of confused emotions. This is not how it was supposed to happen.’

‘Sometimes we just can’t help it. When your cup becomes too full, you have to empty it . . .’

We drink our hot chocolates in silence.

‘I was in love with Bell. I still am. It all seemed crazy at the beginning, the whole Internet dating thing. I’m really not into it, don’t even know why I joined the site in
the first place. And then suddenly there was Bell, filling my life with hours of Skype conversations, just being together, in this weird long-distance way. I didn’t know what to expect when
she came over, wasn’t sure I’d like her in real life. The Internet is such a deceptive tool of communication. I remember waiting for her at the airport and thinking to myself, what if
she turns out to be a complete psycho? What if she isn’t who she says she is? But when she appeared at the top of the escalator in the arrivals hall, all my doubts melted away in an instant.
My stomach did a little flip and I was filled with this inexplicable joy. She felt so . . . familiar and exotic at the same time.’

Candice falls silent, stirring her chocolate absentmindedly.

‘You know, I really thought we’d spend the rest of our lives together.’

Her eyes glaze over with tears, she shakes her head and takes a sip of her chocolate. I reach out and touch her hand. I know there’s nothing I can say that would make her feel better.
There is nothing I can think of that would make me feel better.

We meet just inside the main gate of the New Southgate Cemetery. The morning sun is already quite hot and I decide against leaving Wispa in the car. I’m sure it’s
OK to take her with me, as long as she stays outside the chapel. There’s just a handful of us, no more than twenty people, most of whom I know. Marianne, Bell’s old friend from uni, a
smattering of friends from her teaching days, a few of her Stokey cronies and a couple of her exes, with Helen hovering on the edge of the gathering, muttering to herself. This does not bode well
for the confrontation with Candice. My phone starts ringing and I rummage through my bag to find it. I recognize the work reception number, which always comes up instead of any particular
extension, and I switch it off. Michael, who’s taken upon himself the role of host, invites everyone to proceed to the chapel, which houses the crematorium. To my relief I see that Helen
hasn’t been talking to herself. She removes a phone earpiece and puts it in her pocket. As we walk along the main alley I’m overwhelmed by the stark beauty of the Victorian gravestones,
the peaceful and contemplative nature of the place. It carries the wisdom of inevitability, forcing one to realize that no matter how hard we fight death, it still defeats us at the end. We move
slowly forward, a motley crew of mourners, united in grief. Old oak and chestnut trees scattered along the alley begin to shed their leaves, which rustle under our feet. I tie Wispa to a stone
bench outside and we enter the chapel through heavy wooden doors. The chapel’s Gothic exterior contrasts with the straight and unadorned lines of the interior, which feels quiet and
peaceful.

As we settle in the pews it becomes clear that Michael is continuing his role of host and he’s going to make a speech. I feel a pang of guilt. This is yet another thing I haven’t
thought of doing, being much too self-absorbed lately. Again I feel I’m letting Bell down. Michael’s eulogy is simple, warm and beautiful. He speaks of Bell as a great friend, a good
and generous human being. It’s all true, I think, welling up at the sound of Michael’s soothing voice.