Jennie Ensor - The Girl in His Eyes

Was something going on between Paul and Emma?

A series of mental images came to her. Her husband with Emma. Paul trying to amuse the girl, making a fuss of her, taking an interest in her – too much of an interest – while Emma laughed, flaunting her taut, young body at him.

No, she scolded herself, that was ridiculous. She was jumping to conclusions based on nothing. The photograph didn’t show anything like that. All it showed was the normal exuberance of a young girl, posing for the camera, aware of her own sexuality. Jane had said Emma was getting interested in boys. Perhaps Emma had been testing out her attractiveness on Paul. That would be natural, wouldn’t it?

Suzanne put the camera back in its case and into the drawer. She’d ask Paul about it later. It was 4.50pm now, too late to go to her class. She would go for a walk instead.

Specks of drizzle wetted her face as she walked along the edge of the golf course. She burrowed her hands into her jacket pockets and brought out her gym membership card.

Paul was leaning against the fridge, drinking from a bottle of beer as she chopped vegetables for a stir-fry, telling her about his day. The directors of the parent company had flown back to Chicago, after unsettling everyone by talking about falling profits.

‘They’re going to bring in consultants to look at restructuring options,’ he said. ‘We all know that means redundancies. We’ve heard rumours, but there’s been nothing definite till now.’

She put down the knife and looked at him. ‘Your job’s safe, isn’t it?’

‘They could combine my position with Dave’s, I guess. But it’s too early to predict. Coleman wants to make his mark, he’s keen to chop out the dead wood. I reckon he wants to offload us from the group.’

Restructuring had happened before at his company and Paul had survived, but this time… What would they do if he lost his job? He was too old to get another job quickly, or at all. Suddenly the photograph seemed trivial. Still, it would be good to be reassured she was worrying over nothing.

‘Oh, by the way, Paul. The picture of Emma on your camera, when did you take it? I saw it this afternoon while I was looking for something.’

He swigged on his beer again then walked to the pedal bin and dropped the empty bottle inside. Then he turned to her, a furrow on his brow.

‘I took it that last time I saw her. After we’d been to the pool.’

‘What, here? At home?’

A beat. ‘That’s right. What were you doing anyway, looking through my desk?’ His voice louder, the tell-tale reddening of his face. ‘I’ve told you before to keep out of there.’

‘For goodness sake, I was trying to find my gym card. Why was she here, in our house?’

‘I told you, I brought her back here after swimming and we watched a film – don’t you remember?’

She shook her head. ‘No, I don’t remember you saying that.’

‘You must have been thinking of something else, as usual.’ A dash of contempt in his voice, not quite hidden. ‘We came out of the pool early, so I suggested we came back here to watch a film. I thought she might enjoy watching it better here – and it would make a change for her to be away from the mess over at Jane’s.’

She tried to fit the information together in her head. ‘But why did you take a photo of her?’

‘When she saw my camera on the table, she asked if I’d mind taking a few photos of her, she wanted to send some off to a model agency. I didn’t see any harm in it.’

‘Where are the others? There was only one of her on the camera.’

He shrugged. ‘They didn’t turn out too well – I deleted them. That one, I thought I’d send to Emma.’ He carried the salad bowl to the table, sat down, and started helping himself to salad. ‘Is anything wrong?’

She didn’t reply immediately, examining her mental image of the photograph.

‘It’s just that she looked so… I don’t know. Coquettish.’

‘Oh, Emma loves posing, she was just acting up for the camera. She was trying to look like the models in Glamour magazine.’ He put the tongs back in the bowl with a dull clatter.

‘She looks like she was trying to come on to you, almost.’

‘Yes, I know what you mean. But models look like that these days, don’t they?’ He sprinkled salt over his salad. ‘Come and eat, Suze, stop worrying.’

She sat down at the table, opposite him, in her usual place. Paul had mentioned Emma being keen on the idea of modelling as a future career. She remembered that, at any rate.

There was nothing to worry about, she told herself. What he had said made sense. But she was still a little uneasy. Why hadn’t he said anything before, about Emma coming to the house? Her memory couldn’t be that bad. Surely, she wouldn’t have forgotten something like that. Perhaps he’d said it while she was thinking about something else.

I’ll ring Jane , she decided. Yes, she’d mention the photo of Emma and the modelling thing. They hadn’t had a decent conversation for ages; Jane was so busy nowadays. Tomorrow, or over the weekend. Weekday evenings were never the best time to talk. Jane would be preparing dinner, in the middle of eating it, or collapsed in front of the TV.

After dinner, Paul went into the office to work on his computer. Suzanne watched Marmaduke squeeze in through the cat flap. He brushed against her legs and purred as she scraped the last of the chicken pieces into his bowl.

Amass of people swirled into Hammersmith underground station, like water going down a plughole. Laura pulled her canvas bag closer to her side, forcing her way against the flow, up the steps and out into the damp evening. All her gear for tonight was inside the bag – the black silk wrap that she’d borrowed from Noelle, which just covered her bottom, as well as the three-inch-high silver platforms, shameless wisp of a G-string, black lace garter and fishnet stockings – everything except the elbow-length black gloves, which none of the department stores she tried had in stock. It was probably just as well – in total she’d had to fork out nearly eighty quid, paid out of money she had set aside for Tube fares and the electric meter.

She checked her watch again: 6.58pm, she was going to be late for her first shift. Why hadn’t she left fifteen minutes earlier? It was just her luck, having to wait twenty minutes for a Tube, tonight of all nights. Her trainers slapped against the pavement. She walked as fast as she could, dodging shoppers and office workers. Her mouth was dry but there was no time to stop and take a drink. She felt fear and excitement in turn. Soon, she’d be wearing next to nothing in front of a roomful of strangers, doing things that before this week she’d never imagined herself doing. And how would she ever remember all the things Noelle had shown her?

She shivered. What on earth would Rachel say if she knew? She’d be surprised, certainly, and probably none too pleased. And what if her mother found out? She’d be horrified. As for her father, God knows what he’d think. He’d probably fly off his perch, making out she was the lowest of the low.

Laura turned in to a side street, past spiky railings guarding smart terraces. At the fourth street on the right, she stopped. Was this the turning, the street without a sign? Everything looked different in the dark. She walked a little way down it.

This was the building. It looked similar to the offices on either side, except the door was painted in a deep plum shade, and a gold plaque on the wall proclaimed the name of the club in Gothic script: Rascals. She crossed the road and went up the steps to the front door.