Page 59 of Insomnia

I guess that’s all I can ask for.

47.

I’m in a taxi heading back into town to collect my car when Buckley’s secretary calls asking if I can “just pop in.” She says it in a tone of voice I’ve heard her use on other people, one that meansI’m sure Mr. Buckley can do this another way, but it may be better for you to be able to defend yourself in person.I almost tell her about Phoebe’s accident—I think somebody pushed her—and that I can’t possibly make it, but I don’t. I hear myself saying I’ll be there in about fifteen minutes.

What else have I got to do anyway? Sit in my hotel room and wait for a call from the hospital? I don’t even have my sleeping pills, so I can’t double dose and hope to sleep for forty-eight hours, until my birthday is over. I may as well face whatever music this is with Buckley.

I get the cab to drop me at the office and I’m still trembling, but I stand tall as I take the lift up and head straight to Buckley’s office.

“I’m not sure of the legality of calling someone in when they’re on compassionate leave,” I say, standing in front of his desk. “Are you okay? Need my help with something?” He looks at me somewhat aghast. My clothes are dirty. The blood has darkened but there’s no doubt as to what the sticky patches on my hands and clothes are. I imagine my hair is a mess and my eyes are bloodshotand sunken. If Phoebe thought I looked like our mother before, what would she make of me now?

Phoebe. She’ll be in surgery now. I look at the clock on the wall. It clicks between one ten and one fifteen, and then for a moment there’s only blackness and I’m sure that I’m rattling the door handle of my kitchen. My heart thumps and the world spins and then I can see Buckley, and also the door handle, one laid over the other like tracing paper.Look, look, a candle, a book and a bell...I flinch, the burst of song loud in my head.

“Emma?” Buckley is up on his feet. His mouth’s moving and I can read his lips, but I can’t hear the words. “Emma? Are you all right?”

I close my eyes for a moment and when I open them again, thankfully my house has vanished and only the quiet office remains. My right hand, however, is hovering out in front of me. I’ve been rattling an invisible door handle in front of my boss.

“Sorry,” I mutter and drop into a chair opposite his desk. “I’ve had a bit of a morning. My sister was hit by a van. I’ve been at the hospital.” I cover one hand with the other. What was that? A hallucination? Forty tomorrow. Going not so quietly mad. Tread carefully, Angus Buckley, who knows what I’m capable of?

“If this is about Parker Stockwell and how I spoke to him when he called me, then I’m sorry, but I shouldn’t have to be sexually harassed at the weekend just for the firm’s benefit. And—”

“It’s not about Parker Stockwell.” He clears his throat. “And for the record, I agree. I’m sure he didn’t mean it that way, but no one on the team should be made to feel uncomfortable by a client. And I apologize if having you at the dinner made you feel that way.”

I sit up a little straighter in my chair. This must be serious if Buckley’s been reading up on sexism in the workplace. Covering his own ass before he guns for mine. “So what is it?”

“These reviews.” He slides a printout across the desk at me.

I look down at the paper. Trustpilot and Google. Four reviews. All with the header of my name.

“I’ve never been spoken to so rudely by anyone in my life. I expected sympathy when I said my husband wanted a divorce. Not to be laughed at and told it was probably my own fault.”

“I’m actually in shock! How is this woman qualified? I was honest about my situation and she called me a slut and hung up. Sick woman. I should complain to the Law Society but I’ve got enough problems to deal with. I’ll go somewhere else. Don’t use this firm!”

Stunned, I look up at Buckley. “Surely you don’t believe any of this? I mean...” I look at the paper again. “I never said these things. I don’t know who these people—” I stop. Thereisa familiarity to the names. They ring a bell.

“You rang them. They were client inquiries. Rosemary has their names in her records.”

“Well, whoever they are, I never said these things.”

Buckley lets out a long sigh. “Why would they lie?” His voice is soft and he leans forward. “Rosemary told me that on the day she gave you these, there was an incident with some letters on your Dictaphone. An odd recording.”

“That’s different,” I say. “That’s...” How do I explain that? I look back at the papers. “This is... this is slander. These people. How do we even know they’re real? I mean, it could be someone out to make me look bad. It could have been my sister even. Or Miranda Stockwell. Or anyone.”

“Why would anyone be out to get you? It doesn’t make sense. I rang one of these women and she confirmed the whole exchange. She’s going to Milborough & Brown. I checked with them. They have had a preliminary meeting with her and she’s looking for divorce representation.” He stares at me. “You’re clearly goingthrough something. Some kind of breakdown. And while I have every sympathy, we can’t have this here. And these reviews—well, you can imagine the damage they could do to the firm. We have to be seen to take action.”

The silence hangs heavy with meaning. “You’re firing me?” Even sitting here in my sister’s blood I find that hard to take in. Some time off, yes, but letting me go? I was supposed to be made partner. That’s what my future was. And now this. “Wow.”

“We really have no choice. I’m very sorry.”

I say nothing for a long moment and then get up. He doesn’t look sorry at all. He looks relieved. A quiet calm settles on me.

“I understand.” I’m not going to scream and shout at him. I find I’m not even that surprised. My personal life is crumbling,of coursemy job would be next. I walk out of Buckley’s office without another word. I remember calling those women. I’m sure I do. The day Michelle came in. The day of the Dictaphone. Perfectly normal inquiry calls. I listened and told them that they could have a free thirty-minute consultation and then could proceed from there. All pretty standard. I’m sure it was. But even as I think it, I doubt myself.

I go straight to my office and gather up what I can that’s mine. No family photos on my desk—not great when you’re dealing with people’s breakups to remind them of what they’ve lost—but I take my diary and contacts book, and a few other bits packaged into a box. I’m sure there’s plenty of other stuff in here that’s mine, but I can’t be bothered to go through it all now. I just want to get out. My face burns and I notice that Rosemary has made herself scarce. So much for all that warmth and care she emits. A fair-weather friend.

48.

In the lift on the way back down, so soon after arriving, I don’t know whether to laugh or cry. Maybe Robertisgoing to have to pay the bills for a while if my name is mud in legal circles. Our savings certainly aren’t going to be blown on his midlife crisis bar. Maybe we’ll have to downsize. Tomorrow I’m forty. Maybe these things will no longer be my concern if I go the way of my mother.What happened back there? One glimpse of some of Mum’s numbers and your mind starts to slip?One daughter may be dead by the morning, the other mad by nightfall. Our mother would be so proud.

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