The A-Z of Us (24 page)

‘When did I become a woman of secrets?' I wonder, as the bus careers along Cambridge Heath Road.

Just as the bus pulls up to my stop, I sense panic rising. What if Raj goes back to the house, to pick up fresh clothes? What if he goes into the bathroom and discovers my wedding ring sitting blatantly on the shelf? What if he sees the condom packet on the toilet seat, freshly opened and missing three of its regiment? Did I do these two things, I wonder, because, in some twisted, subconscious way, I want to bring about this final rupture in our relationship?

I step off the number 55 and walk the three hundred yards to the office. The morning light seems more luminous, more full. Today, anything can happen. Please God.

The morning passes quickly. Duncan Archer is nowhere to be seen – Sandra the secretary says he's away on site somewhere. As usually happens when Duncan is away, everyone on my side of the office seems more relaxed. Some appear positively merry. I hear laughter from one
desk, then singing as one of the senior architects carries a model out to reception. It feels, in some ways, like a last day at school, or the Friday before a long weekend.

Everything else is so routine, so mundane, that I feel almost heady with normality.

I finish a couple of new drawings for the bar project, changing the length of the counter, adding an extra table to the dining area. I enjoy the neatness of the lines, the tiny exactitude of the writing alongside each measurement. I wonder, not for the first time, whether my interest in architecture has more to do with the presentation of the plans than the actual building being constructed. Unlike most of my colleagues, I never relish a site visit. I hate the dirty, temporary mess that builders seem to thrive in.

After lunch, my breast begins to hurt. I try to ignore it. Over the past few days, I've started a new tactic. I'll convince myself that there's nothing wrong, and in so doing, force my body to believe the same thing. I want to be a concrete tower, impenetrable and indestructible.

I need a couple of Nurofen. I take my bag to the ladies' toilets and stand in front of the mirrors. I look so tired. But I can't give in to pity. I have to fight it. I unzip my bag. Where is the bloody Nurofen packet? I know I put it in here. I open the bag wider, bending over slightly to look into its depths. As I do so, I sense someone behind me.

‘Hello, Gemma…'

I turn swiftly. My bag swings round, the contents hurling outwards, a shower of pens, hair-pins, make-up, tissues, tampons and a bottle of perfume, clattering onto
the cold linoleum floor. Duncan Archer stands there. I step back. I can smell alcohol on his breath.

‘This is the ladies, Duncan!' I stammer. On the floor I see my make-up bag, my smashed perfume bottle in a pool of Gucci Envy, my hairbrush, and, by Duncan Archer's dark brown Camper shoes, three green condom packets, shining like precious jewels. Before I can do anything, he's bending down, a chuckle forming in his throat. He picks up one of the condoms. He stands and looks at me with a wide grin.

‘“Elite Pleasure Ribbed”. Well, Gemma. Saucy. Very saucy.'

‘This is the ladies…' I stammer again, as if these words are the only spell that might cause the evil troll to disappear. His eyes are bloodshot and as he speaks he fingers the condom packet suggestively.

‘Just in case, hey, Gemma, ha, ha, ha…'

He rips open the packet, pulling out the condom. It dangles from his thumb and forefinger like a slip of severed skin.

‘Duncan…'

‘When were you going to use this then, you saucy girl…'

He steps closer to me, I step back, but my spine hits the frame of the cubicle. I have nowhere to go. He thrusts the condom towards my face. I can smell the bitter latex, mixed with the stench of booze on his breath. As I move instinctively to one side, his left hand appears on my hip, gripping me into him.

‘Duncan… please…' I whimper and in that instant I wonder if telling him about my breast and the lump might
somehow dissuade him from his advance. But I know there is no time for logic.

I draw back my right leg, and knee him hard in the balls.

‘Urrghhh!'

He staggers backwards.

I push him hard. Duncan Archer collapses against the sink, gasping for breath. His eyes bulge, his tongue loose and lolling. I nod once, with satisfaction. I am still quick, still strong. Perhaps I shouldn't have given up playing netball and tennis after I married Raj.

‘Duncan?' a voice squeaks, behind me. I whirl round. At the entrance to the ladies' toilets stands Gwen Jones, the office manager. She looks worried. Very worried.

Duncan Archer gabbles.

‘I was just talking to Gemma…'

I cut him off.

‘Duncan attacked me. He tried to molest me.'

I wonder for a moment if Gwen will believe me, but one glance at the office manager's face confirms that she does. This gives me strength.

‘Gwen, please get Duncan out of the building. I'll see you in your office in twenty minutes.'

Nobody looks up as I exit the toilets. I make tea and sit at my desk, flicking through drawings on the screen. At three-thirty I walk over to the office manager's cubicle.

I speak quickly.

‘I did not in any way encourage this, Gwen.'

‘I believe you. You have every right to sue for sexual harassment. I know your husband is a lawyer…'

‘That is one option.'

‘All I ask is that you consider how completely out of character this was for Duncan. He's going through a very tough time at the moment…'

‘Oh, well that's fine then. Let's forget the whole fucking thing!'

My voice is strident. It seems like someone else's. I like it.

‘No, no, of course not… It's just…' Gwen lowers her voice. ‘He's been drinking. He needs to go away for a while, perhaps to a clinic. We are looking into it…'

Gwen tails off, evidently trying to regroup. I remain silent, yet my mind is racing.

What should I do? What can I do?

I could sue. I enjoy, for an instant, a picture of Duncan Archer's terrified face on the front page of a morning newspaper. It could, given the right exposure, destroy him. I imagine the faces of his colleagues as he clears out his desk. I picture his wife. She'd throw him out for good, and he'd undoubtedly hit the bottle even harder. I see his two little daughters, what are their names? Emma and Susan. I see their laughing faces in the office one Friday afternoon a few months back as their father lifted them up to see one of his designs. I recall the impressive drawings he showed me when I first joined, and the passion with which he talked about his earlier work.

If I sued him, I'd have to appear in court, the defence would rake over my own background. They'd find out about the cancer, everyone would know. Maybe they'd even use it against me.

Perhaps I should just pretend nothing has happened.

It's tempting. Why not? Duncan Archer is going away, I could just come to work and tinker with the plans, redraw the renderings, stay focused on the nineteen-inch screen for the rest of my life and never have to deal with anything terrifying or hurtful or difficult, ever again. Would that be so bad?

I want to hide. Like when I was a little girl and I'd race away from my sister to the toilet under the stairs and lock the door and wait for my father to come and talk gently from beyond the darkness, convincing me that all was safe and good and right once more.

Why was I so vehement about telling Ian what I thought of his tendency to run away to foreign countries? Did I get annoyed with him because deep down I'm angry at my own predisposition towards fleeing responsibility?

I feel a little sick. Gwen Jones is still trying to think of something to say. Then an idea hits me, appearing suddenly, like an itch or a nosebleed.

I have the power to save Duncan. I can forgive him.

If I forgive Duncan, I will be better than him. Better than all of them. He could be encouraged to change, to dry out. He could love his two daughters as they deserve to be loved.

The strength of my voice surprises me.

‘Okay Gwen. Here's what I propose. I'll take two weeks off. The bar project is almost finished, Stan can take over the final drawings. You'll put me on treble pay. Then I'll come back and we'll talk about the future.'

‘Okay.' Gwen looks a little startled, like a child caught stealing.

‘Things will have to change.'

‘Yes. I… Of course…'

‘And now I need three thousand pounds, up front. I need to pay the builders working on my house.'

The office manager looks at me as if trying to decide whether I'm telling the truth. I feel like laughing. I feel so strong.

‘All right. There'll be a cheque on your desk in ten minutes.'

‘Good. I'll leave then. You can tell people I'm taking holiday time to get my house in order.'

I'm pleased with the phrase.

‘Are you sure?'

‘Positive.'

‘Thank you, Gemma.'

I catch a cab to Smithfield Market. It's 4.00 p.m. I have three hours to kill before my date with Neil. I am lightheaded. It's a feeling that reminds me of the night Raj asked me to marry him. I feel deliriously well.

I pay in the £3,000 cheque at the bank. I wander around a bookshop on Cowcross Street, stop for tea. I feel suddenly hungry and order a large slice of chocolate cake, which I eat, slowly, with small deliberate forkfuls. I don't know why I asked for the money. I know it means I'll never be able to sue for sexual harassment, and I know that this is why Gwen Jones was so quick to give it to me, but I don't care. I want the money to pay the builders in order to get them back in, so that they can tidy up what they've started, and leave the building in a state where Raj and I can sell it.

As the light softens and evening approaches, I feel
butterflies in my stomach. It has been a very strange day. I wonder how it will end. Will I sleep with Neil? Will this day prove to be the turning point in my life? Will he come with me to the hospital and hold my hand as the doctor tells me the terrifying news?

I go into a couple of clothes shops, glancing along the rails. It's been months since I've bought any new clothes – I didn't feel able to once the work on the house began.

The third shop I enter is having a sale. I survey the trousers, the skirts, the shirts. Then at the end of the rail, I see a little black dress. I've been looking for one for a long time, something for Christmas parties or dinners with Raj's work colleagues. I am surprised to see it's my size, a 12. I take it hurriedly to the changing rooms, suddenly filled with teenage excitement.

There are two full-length mirrors in the changing rooms. I undress quickly, not wanting to look at my body. But I can't resist a peek as I stand there in my La Perla underwear. I've lost weight. There's no doubt. Not that the thighs show any sign of thinning. Instead, the pounds have disappeared from my face, my arms, my breasts. I seem older, more pinched. God, I hate my body. More than ever. I touch my left breast, take it in my right hand. I want to tear it off. I want to cut off my skin, my fat, my flesh and step out of my body as if it's a wetsuit. My arms fall flatly to my sides.

When Neil touched me, the first time, I felt invincible. For days afterwards I sensed men looking at me and I revelled in the power. Even with Raj my body caused him to exhale, pausing for that magical moment before entering me.

But now I feel rotten. Like dying fruit.

‘I'm so scared,' my reflection says, repeating the words in case the big-thighed woman in the La Perla underwear opposite didn't hear them.

‘I'm so scared.'

I order a double vodka and tonic and sit at the table in the window so I'll be able to see Neil arrive. I'm forty-five minutes early. I watch the videos on the TV above the bar. The barman, a cute Australian, smiles at me. I look down at my drink. Time passes. I begin to feel better. I try to empty my head, to leave myself open and optimistic for the night ahead.

7.20 p.m. I know he won't be early. Neil isn't punctual like Ian. I've always liked that about Ian, that you can count on him. Not that Raj is ever late either, but he always gets mad if he has to wait for you longer than ten minutes. Not like Ian. Although he's punctual, Ian doesn't seem to mind others being tardy. One time I was forty-five minutes late for a coffee, and he simply laughed, teasing me for being an airhead.

I wonder if I should call Ben Keane to tell him that I now have the money to finish the first (and now final) stage of the work on 26 Raleigh Street. I rummage around in my bag, trying to avoid contact with the metallic condom packets. I can't find his number. Instead I take out the pocket-sized London
A to Z
. I want to look at the city, to see where I could live when we sell the house. As I turn the front page I notice Raj's name written on the inside cover. I curse quickly. He'll be furious. He hates it when I borrow his
A to Z
, he claims I never give it back (which is true, often I do
forget I've borrowed it, but then what are husbands for?).

Oh well. There's no use worrying about it, he will have already bought another one, cursing me as he pays out the £4.99.

As I turn the book over, I notice a scribble on the tattered inside page. I look closer. It's a jaunty inscription, the sort I remember from teenage school books.

Raj ♥ Gemma.

The letters are small, but painstakingly inscribed. He's coloured in the heart, leaving no white behind. I close the book quickly, and slip it back into my bag.

It's 7.35 p.m. The barman smiles at me again. Another video comes on. I have no idea who the band are. They screech and throw themselves around the screen, tossing their hair like women in shampoo commercials.

7.45 p.m.

Neil was always late, when we were going out. Initially I found it charming, he was so boyishly disorganized. But as the year progressed I found myself getting more and more irritated. But I didn't tell him, I blamed myself for being an uptight cow.