Caroline Graham - A Ghost in the Machine

“Lawson.” Obviously Gail Fuller had decided to pretend not to remember her. Today was plainly the day for jealous women. This one was really knocking on. There was a silky moustache on her top lip, which Ms. Fuller had attempted to conceal by bleaching. Fine until it caught the light, as it did now, when it positively sparkled. A naturally coarse-grained complexion had been likewise disguised with a solid layer of rosy foundation. She looked, decided Polly, like a hairy raspberry ripple.

“I’m afraid Mr. Brinkley’s running late.” A vague wave at a hard, narrow chair with wooden arms. “Do sit down.”

Polly sank instead on to a small settee, adjusted the cushions to her satisfaction and studied the reading matter: today’s broadsheets, fairly recent numbers of the Economist , The Spectator and a couple of Private Eye s. She picked up The Independent and tried to immerse herself in an article about street theatre in the Gorbals. It failed to hold her attention and, as the minutes passed, she felt herself getting crosser and crosser. When she thought of all the trouble she’d taken to arrive punctually. She picked up Private Eye and flicked through the pages. As asinine as ever. Polly only just stopped herself flinging it down with some vigour.

The door to reception opened and Polly looked up eagerly. It was Andrew Latham. He had a stack of letters which he dropped into a wire tray marked “Post” on Ms. Fuller’s desk. He grinned and winked at Polly before disappearing again. She didn’t like him any more this time than she had at the funeral.

How different all this was from her imaginings. Polly had seen herself arriving and Dennis waiting to greet her in the outer office with a warm, friendly smile. He would usher her inside, fuss a little, making sure she was quite comfortable, then sit down for a long, understanding heart-to-heart. In reality it was another half an hour before she even clapped eyes on him.

“My dear child…”

Child? Don’t like the sound of that.

“Gail been keeping you entertained?”

I’ve had more fun under anaesthetic. “Absolutely, Dennis.”

“Would you like a drink?” asked Dennis when they were settled in his office.

“It’s a little early for me,” blushed Polly. She saw Dennis’s nostrils twitch and wondered if he could smell the Campari.

“I meant a cup of tea.”

“Oh, yes. Lovely.”

Dennis rang through to the outer office then embarked on a round of courteous questions. How were Polly’s parents? Had they got any further forward in their plans for the new business? Was Polly staying long? It must be so nice for Benny to have company.

Polly could not begin to say how kind and welcoming Benny had been. And her parents sent their regards. It was such a load off both their minds that she had someone like Dennis to turn to for advice. An old family friend.

A girl brought in a tray holding cups of red-brown liquid strong enough to dissolve not only any sugar that went into it but the spoon as well. There was also a plate of squashed-fly biscuits. Dennis drank deep and tucked in with every appearance of relish. Polly took a single disbelieving swallow and prayed the residue on her teeth would brush off.

Eventually, pushing his cup, saucer and the few remaining Garibaldis aside, Dennis said, “So, Polly – what exactly can I do for you?”

“Well…” Now that the time had come Polly found herself uncertain how to begin. She had rehearsed various opening gambits. The one she chose would depend on an accurate reading of the situation when the moment to speak arrived. Now it was here and the reading was much harder to take than she had expected.

On the surface Dennis appeared his usual, slightly avuncular self. But his eyes were as sharp as tacks. And he had not apologised for keeping her waiting. What if this had not been a flustered oversight but a deliberate example of the sort of power play she loved to indulge in herself? One thing was plain—this was not going to be a friendly get-together with business arising almost as an afterthought. Polly decided the only sensible approach was to be completely open and straightforward.

“It’s about my—” She broke off remembering that the word “money” had not been mentioned once during the reading of the will. This ridiculous delicacy it seemed prudent to uphold. “My legacy.”

“I see,” replied Dennis, who had never thought otherwise. “Well, as you can’t collect for another eleven—”

“Ten.”

“—months there’s little point in my offering investment advice at the moment. The market’s a volatile animal. What promises high returns today can wipe you out tomorrow.”

“I realise that.” He was talking to her as if she was six. “I don’t know if Dad told you, but I shall soon be in my final year at the LSE.”

“He did. Well done.”

Polly’s cheeks flushed. She swallowed hard. This patronising pat on the head was the final straw. Dennis took up a pad of headed paper and unscrewed his fountain pen.

“If you have any savings to invest I can recommend—”

“Thank you, Dennis. I wasn’t looking for free tips.” Savings! If only…She had nothing. Just this monstrous debt waxing fatter every day. “I was simply trying to demonstrate that I’m pretty capable when it comes to handling money. Even…quite large amounts.”

“Polly, I can’t help you on this one.”

He had known all along why she had come. Of course he had. And what the outcome would be. In which case, surely even agreeing to see her was no more than a tease. Indignation swelled in Polly. Swelled and burst forth.

“It’s pretty ridiculous, don’t you think? I can vote, have a child, get myself killed in the armed forces, marry, win the lottery, become a criminal, get tried with the grown-ups and go to prison and still not be thought capable of handling a measly sixty thousand pounds!”

“It must seem very unfair—”

“You wouldn’t have to tell my parents.” Oh God! What was she saying? As if he would ever dream of colluding with her against them. This was all going so wrong. “Sorry. I didn’t mean that.”

“I do understand your frustration, my dear. And I sympathise. But it’s simply not within my power to release the money.”

This statement, though true, was not for the reasons of professional probity that Polly immediately assumed. The fact was that the bequest, as part of Carey Lawson’s general estate, was already technically in the Lawsons’ hands. Dennis hoped Mallory would be wise enough to keep this to himself.

Polly, angry, disappointed and feeling furious tears about to spring, got up and began awkwardly to make her way to the door.

“Polly?” She stopped but barely turned. Dennis could see a pulse at her throat flutter. “Are you in some sort of trouble?”

“Trouble?” She gave a thin, incredulous laugh. “Honestly, Dennis…”

“Why not talk to me about it? I might be able to help.” He saw her fingers grip the doorknob, turn it. There was a brief hesitation. He went on: “All meetings with clients are confidential. No one will know you’ve been here.”

Oh right, thought Polly. That’s no one as in only Andrew Latham and Miss Hirsute in reception. Only the entire staff in the outer office. And anyone else in the building who happened to have seen her climbing the stairs. She slammed the door and walked away.

Latham saw her leave. Noticed the tightened lips and flushed cheekbones as she wove a path between the desks, towards the door. He was not the only one. As Polly disappeared Andrew put in an instructive moment watching everyone else watching her go.

Two out of the three females – one was pretending indifference – looked respectively envious and wistful. The men’s expressions ranged from uncomplicated lust through simple yearning to light-hearted pleasure that the day could offer up such a treat for sore eyes. But no one cracked a mucky joke or described what they’d like to give Polly to make her life complete. No one clenched a fist and thrust their forearm into the air. The moment passed and they turned back to their machines, looking dazed and somewhat at a loss.