Jennie Ensor - The Girl in His Eyes

It was the other man who had spoken. The man who had no concern about the consequences of his actions. The man whose needs could not be denied indefinitely, who was waiting impatiently for his next fix. The man prepared to sacrifice everything for the impossible joy of a girl in her first bloom.

Emma looked at him gravely. He prepared himself for disappointment. She didn’t like him, or she sensed somehow what was on his mind. Or maybe she would refuse to go with him again just to spite her mother, who thought swimming with this boring older guy would be good for her.

‘Yeah, okay.’ Quietly, yet without hesitation.

They walked back to the car. The sun was golden above the horizon and a row of trees cast long shadows over them.

She came to him as he fell asleep that night, in that enchanting place between alertness and oblivion. Laura, in her swimming costume, spread out on the grass, drops of water sparkling on her bare shoulders. No matter how many times he replayed it, the image was as clear as it had always been.

She had been standing under the garden hose, trying to cool herself down. Now, propped up on an elbow, she was engrossed in a book. Riddles in Philosophy it said on the cover, the sort of book she’d taken to reading of late.

He sat down beside the discarded sun hat. Though not yet a woman, his daughter was beautiful. In only a few months, the bones in her face had become visible. He watched the side of her face, its sharpness of concentration, the little furrow in her brow. She was ignoring him. She wanted him to leave her alone so she could get on with her book.

The tan of her thighs glistened against the white of her costume. The cheeks of her bottom stretched the skimpy material. He could see the curves of her breasts too. Last year they had only been tiny buds.

He glanced up at the houses on either side. The back windows of one were curtained, and those of the others were obscured by a nearby tree – now strung with small apples – and a mass of roses poking up from the fence. No one could see them here, at the far end of the garden.

He knew that what he was about to do was wrong. Only that wasn’t enough, not anymore. He closed his eyes, the electric fizz of anticipation building inside him.

‘Alison wants to see you in her office,’ Jan said cheerily as she strutted past, a stack of DVDs in her arms. ‘I’d go straight away, if I were you.’

Laura looked up from her computer. She was in trouble, she guessed. Alison was finding fault with everyone today. One of the editors had been rebuked for allowing his honeymoon to coincide with the week of the annual company get-together. Then Alison’s PA had been reprimanded for making a spelling mistake in a presentation to potential clients – pubic instead of public – loud enough to send the whole office into a fit of sniggers and giggles.

Yes, she must have done something wrong, despite her renewed efforts to do everything as if her life depended on it, to make up for her recent lack of concentration. Nightmares had disrupted her sleep more than ever lately. By about mid-afternoon, she’d have to go outside for a quick walk around the block to stop herself from dropping off at her desk. Today had been worse than usual. All morning she’d found it hard to focus on the simplest task.

Her boss’s door was open. Laura knocked and went in.

‘That was Charlie on the phone,’ Alison announced in her thick New Zealand accent, not issuing an invitation to sit. She was standing behind her desk, bouncing a paperweight between her hands, her eyes hard and bright. Her bulk seemed more mountainous than usual. ‘He said he left a message with you this morning.’

Laura waited for Alison to continue. Her gaze wandered from the paperweight, to Alison’s clunky watch, to the large ruby on her finger. The message stayed obstinately out of reach.

Alison’s frown embedded itself deeper. ‘I’ll give you a clue. It involves Mr Beale.’

Then she remembered, with sickening clarity. ‘It was for Charlie to call Tim at Flamingo.’

‘That’s the one.’

Someone had distracted her with Jeff’s leaving collection as she was about to write it down, and then she’d had a call to go and help in the edit suite.

‘I forgot about it. I’m sorry.’

The volume of Alison’s voice shot up by several decibels. ‘You forgot about it? You forgot about it?’

Laura opened her mouth to speak, but Alison got there first.

‘Charlie is off his fucking tree. Flamingo have decided to go with the fuckwits down the road instead of us – thanks to you.’

‘I’m sorry, Alison. It won’t happen again, I promise.’

A cursory flick of the hand. ‘I have to go back to work. I’ll see you later on.’

At 5pm Laura started on her last task – booking next week’s facilities. The summons still hadn’t come. Anxiety lodged inside her gut, the vague unease slowly building into a churning, icky sensation, until she couldn’t think of anything except what would happen next. Alison was well known for her temper – even some of the men were reluctant to say anything that might set her off.

At 5.30pm, people started to leave the office. While most ignored her, some gave her curious or pitying stares. Laura sorted the papers on her desk into neat piles and sharpened her pencil. She was sorely tempted to slip away with the others. God only knew what Alison would say to her. Perhaps she’d have calmed down. Or was she waiting for everyone to leave so she could let rip?

At 6pm, Jan beckoned to Laura.

‘Alison will see you now.’

Alison was sitting down at her desk, examining a sheet of paper. She lowered it and motioned for Laura to sit.

‘Laura, I’m not going to beat around the bush. You’ve been here for nearly three months now. How do you think you’re doing?’

Alison’s tone was scathing. This interview wasn’t going to go well. Laura wet the inside of her mouth with her tongue and fought the urge to swallow. She tried to speak confidently without any trace of a wobble.

‘I could be doing better, I suppose.’

‘Yes, I’d agree with that. Let me give you a few reasons why.’ Alison leaned forward, emphasising her heavy jowls and extensive cleavage. ‘One, you obviously dislike what you’re doing, or think it’s beneath you – since you arrived here you’ve shown no interest in your work, and rush home as soon as you possibly can. Two, you keep making mistakes when you should know better. Three,’ Alison thumped the desk with the heel of her hand as her voice increased in pitch and volume, ‘you go around in a daze not knowing what the hell you’re doing. Someone asks you to do something and you forget to do it, and we lose an important contract.’ A speck of saliva landed just below Laura’s eye. ‘Is there anything I’ve missed?’

Laura shrank into her chair, staring at her hands huddled in her lap. What could she say? That she’d been doing her best, only it was difficult to concentrate on anything after so many nights of broken sleep? That a dull ache clouded her head most of the time, like someone pushing their knuckles behind her eyeballs? That she wanted just one last chance to prove herself? That she needed this job?

There was no point.

‘You can go now, Laura, and don’t bother coming back. You’ll be paid for the rest of the month. I suggest you find yourself a job you’re better suited to.’

Rachel gave Laura an interrogatory glance. ‘So, you’ve been looking for something else?’

Rachel’s pale, red-tinged hair was piled behind her head as usual. Today she was wearing her new camel coat, its collar turned up in the late January chill.