Page 30 of The Last Train Home
I force a laugh. ‘Something like that.’
He nods, directs his attention to the dregs in his glass and I do the same, grateful I don’t have to talk about this any more. I look at my watch. ‘Come on, let’s go.’
Chapter 19
Abbie
I’m at my desk when my phone beeps twice, letting me know I’ve got two messages back-to-back. I expect it to be my mum, because I’ve just messaged her to tell her I’ve been promoted. I’m now editing a geographical section of the magazine, covering features about retail in parts of Europe. It’s on top of the UK features section I’ve already been editing, and it’s for such a tiny bit more money that it’s hardly worth discussing, but there’s a bit of travel involved and it’s all a leap and a bound to the next thing. Whatever the next thing is. But the message isn’t from my mum. It’s from a number I don’t recognise. I click the messages and read the first one: Hi, it’s Sean. I work with Tom. Don’t know if you remember me? We met in the pub a while ago.
Well, this is curious, I think, as I read the second one, also from him: If you’re up for a drink one day after work soon, let me know. It would be nice to get to know you. Sean x
I sit back and look at my phone. The message makes me smile. Is it because I’m flattered? Possibly. I do remember Sean. He was funny, nice and good-looking. But I wasn’t interested in anything remotely romantic when I gave himmy number. I simply thought it would be good to make a new friend. Perhaps this was somewhat naïve of me, but at the time Tom and I had been in the throes of … whatever was happening between us. And now we’re firmly not doing that any more. I wonder if that’s why Sean’s messaging now, all this time later, because Tom’s let on to him that whatever was happening between us has ended. So ithasended then.
I read Sean’s messages again. They’re written in a very low-pressure way and I quite like that. But Sean and Tom are friends. I put my phone down on my desk. I won’t reply immediately. I need to think about this for a bit. I need to think about all of it.
Chapter 20
Tom
I’ve just walked into my annual review, and the bit where I start trying to negotiate higher pay is coming up, as is the bit where I get my Christmas bonus confirmed. I haven’t exactly worked like a dog these past few months, but if I’d had this review prior to that day in October, I’d have knocked it right out of the park.
I worry if Sean’s been carrying me recently. I worry if Sean’stoldthem he’s been carrying me. Prior to the Tube derailment, I was carrying Sean. But that’s what friends do, right? Regardless, I look as if I mean business. I need the money or, rather, I want the money, so I’m giving this meeting my everything.
I sit down and start outlining everything we have achieved this year, and how much money my team and I have made the company and how much we’ve saved it, which adds up to a nice figure. ‘And we’ve done this on reduced staff numbers, without hiring any extra personnel or having to let anyone go,’ I say, which is my real ace card. They don’t care about letting people go, but I do. People need to eat.
But because I have given my boss, Derek, zero time to lead his own meeting, he’s giving me a look of impatience and I know it’s time to shut up.
Throughout my speech he’s written nothing down at all, despite the notepad and pen being the only things sitting prominently on the table that divides us. Nothing that’s said in these annual reviews is ever a shocker. It would be a pretty sad state of affairs if we saved up all our news for a once-yearly meeting. The news would be bursting to get out of us, which is what I think has just happened actually.
‘How are you doing in yourself, Tom?’ Derek asks. His pudgy little eyes don’t exactly look sympathetic, so I can’t work out what’s going on. When people ask this, I never quite know what it means. How doesHow are you doing in yourself?differ from a straight-upHow are you doing?
‘I’m great,’ I lie. Let’s get past this and crack on with the chat about my bonus.
‘I’ve got to be honest,’ Derek starts, and I know the conversation is about to go downhill. I feel my palms get sweaty and I rub them on my trousers. ‘There have been some concerns raised lately.’
‘What? About me?’ I ask quickly.
‘About the performance coming from your department.’
Oh, shit! It doesn’t matter if it’s not directly about me. My department is my responsibility. If we’re underperforming, then it’s on me. Although I didn’t think we were underperforming. I’ve just spent the last twenty minutes outlining how we’ve excelled.
‘Can I have some more details?’ I ask with a calmness I don’t feel, and Derek reels out a short list of minor offencesthat almost have me breathing an obvious sigh of relief. ‘I will fix those,’ I say. ‘Not a problem.’
But he’s giving me a look of sadness that makes me think he’s about to start accusing us all of insider trading.
‘There are other things we need to talk about,’ he says, and I think,This is it. I start mentally spending my bonus. I’ve got my eye on a new watch and, man alive, I would love to fly over to my parents in the Caribbean in the first-class cabin this time. And then I realise my priorities are totally changing and I’m not buying any of this sort of stuff ever again probably. That’s sobering.
But Derek stands up, wheels the TV over from the corner of the room, clicks a few buttons and faffs around for far too long with the VHS. Are we about to watch TV? What’s on at this time of day?Neighbours?Doctors? Derek hovers next to the screen, clearly not at ease enough with all this fairly basic equipment to sit back down with any level of confidence.
A white-and-grey picture appears on the screen. CCTV images of our building appear. It takes me a few seconds to work out what I’m looking at, and then it all clicks into place as I see the date in October and the time marked at 5.32 a.m. I’d been running to catch up with Abbie, just after we’d been about to … I cringe, thinking about how badly I’d behaved. I’d been shocked and I’d reacted badly to a text message. It’s good we didn’t have sex. But no matter how many times I tell myself that, I’m not sure I believe it. That fucking message.
I stiffen in my seat as I watch a grainy image of me pulverising the wall of our office building as I admitted to myself that I’d lost Abbie – breaking my hand in the process. It’s embarrassing to watch. I look like a twat, like I’m auditioning to be one of those sad men inFight Club.
I don’t speak. The image finishes, and the grainy me walks away cradling his hand. I don’t remember cradling my hand. But it’s all there. Exhibit A.
Derek sits back down and gives me the sympathetic look he’s had on his face the entire meeting. I know how he’s been positively itching to get to this point, and probably everything I’ve said prior to this has been irrelevant while he bided his time. This is the meaty bit, the juicy bit; the bit where Derek gets me to spill my guts. Well, not today.
The silence is uncomfortable and I’m worried I’m in danger of breaking.
