Jennie Ensor - The Girl in His Eyes

He sat at his desk – one of the more coveted ones because it was at the edge of the building and enjoyed a sweeping view across the Thames – and switched on the computer. The familiar messages scrolled down the screen: Login Name, Password; Welcome to Windows, Welcome to Zenco Brands.

It was time to leave all the other shit behind. He couldn’t think about that in here. He had to be the tough businessman again, the decisive leader, someone who knew what the fuck he was doing.

The monthly sales figures, where were they? He found the document, printed it, then searched several folders for the file he’d saved Thursday afternoon, the one that contained the revised marketing strategy he was supposed to be going over in the meeting.

Jesus, it was hot in here. His shirt was clinging to the sweat on his back. He got up, poured a cup of water from the dispenser and drank it quickly. Linda, his PA, strolled towards him, her face dripping with goodwill.

‘Hi, Paul. How was your weekend?’

Fucking awful , he almost said, to rid her face of its gormless smile. My life is about to go down the plughole. My daughter has told my wife I’m the biggest slimeball that ever walked the planet, and my wife has left home and I’ve no idea when she’ll be back.

He assumed a neutral expression. ‘So-so. I’ve had better.’

Linda was looking at him inquisitively, her nose twitching like a rabbit’s, sniffing for clues.

He remembered that Linda had celebrated her 30 thbirthday over the weekend with a massive piss-up.

‘How was the party?’

‘Fantastic. We sang Abba songs until four in the morning.’ Linda was peering at him through her speckled designer frames. ‘Are you alright, Paul?’

‘My head’s killing me. Could you dig me out an aspirin from somewhere? And, Linda, will you find the latest marketing strategy document for this meeting?’

At 9.30am he took his folder of papers and walked over to the boardroom. Every seat was filled. He put his jacket over the vacant chair at the end of the table, closest to the flat screen on the wall. Opposite him hung a large, excessively colourful painting. It was meant to be an abstract, he supposed – someone must have thought it gave the company a suitably cutting-edge feel. But it looked more like the result of someone hastily retching on the canvas.

To one side of him, Sadie, the marketing assistant, doodled on her notepad. Linda’s head was stuck inside the computer cabinet as she fiddled with the controls. He waited for her to pull out her head and smile at him before he cleared his throat, pushed back his chair and got to his feet.

All eyes were on him. A rush of adrenalin and another, scary, sensation, as if any moment he was going to lose it completely.

‘First things first, we’ve had another good set of results this month.’ He pointed to the top row of the spreadsheet that was displayed on the screen. ‘Mark, congratulations for getting number one slot, yet again.’

Pervert.

He grasped for his next sentence. Sadie was looking at him with raised eyebrows. He frowned at her, trying to pull himself together.

‘As you all know, we’ve had a few setbacks lately. We need to start making a significant improvement in sales volume.’

He gulped at his glass of water. It was too hot in here; the air conditioning didn’t seem to be working. He had to keep going, stay focused.

‘Kyle finally got the BAE contract signed last month,’ he continued. ‘Good work, Kyle.’

Another voice, different to the first.

Pervert.

Take no notice , he told himself. The voices aren’t real. Ignore them and they’ll go away.

The voices hissed in unison.

Pervert!

Sweat prickled on his forehead and the back of his neck. He loosened his tie. There was no air in this room. He swiped at his jacket.

‘Sorry, guys, I have to go. Dan, take over, will you?’

He met a wall of stares. Everyone was eyeballing him as if he’d sprouted an extra head. Sonia touched his arm, her eyes wide with alarm. ‘What’s the matter?’

‘I’m not feeling too well. I’m going outside to get some air.’

Thank God, he was out of there. He pressed the button for the lift, willing it to arrive before anyone came after him.

James at reception looked up with a blank face and carried on humming. Paul passed through the revolving doors, onto the street. He glanced at the sky. Dark clouds ganged up above the tops of nearby buildings.

‘Spare some change, sir?’ enquired the haggard old guy permanently installed beneath the cash machine on the corner. Paul shook his head and walked faster. The man muttered something unpleasant.

The lights were on in the café. Paul crossed over the road and went inside. No one would bother him in here, it wasn’t yet time for the mid-morning cappuccino rush. Apart from a couple of tourists tucking into late breakfasts, the place was empty.

He ordered an espresso and sat on a stool at the counter alongside the window. A worn copy of the Sunday Mirror lay in front of him, the first headline read:

Family die in blaze

Then, further down, another, smaller headline:

Sex pervert jailed for five years

He started to read the article. A man had pleaded guilty to indecently assaulting his ten-year-old niece.

Paul put down the paper. His heart beat harder than ever, it was about to gallop out of his chest. He picked up a paper serviette from the counter and wiped his brow. He was an animal trapped in a cage. Some vicious sods were prodding him through the bars with a stick. They knew he couldn’t escape. They were going to torment him until he couldn’t take it any longer.

They’d got it wrong, though. He wasn’t a pervert. No way was he one of those. He was nothing like that man who’d been sent to jail.

But what sort of man gets turned on by his own daughter? He’d told himself it was harmless, he hadn’t hurt her. Had he been kidding himself? Once, she’d been bright-eyed and talkative. She’d turned into a girl who didn’t laugh, a girl who kept things to herself. He’d told Suzanne it was nothing to do with him. Wasn’t it all his doing, though? Had he taken away Laura’s happiness, her spirit? And what about Emma? Would she stop laughing, too? He’d taken away her purity, hadn’t he? He’d seen her fear and ignored it. She’d trusted him and he’d pissed in her face.

No, no, no. It wasn’t like that. He wasn’t a bad man. He loved Laura. He loved Emma too. He had taken it too far with her, yes, he admitted that, but it didn’t make him the devil’s spawn. They were all out to get him. They didn’t understand how things really were.

A small white cup appeared in front of him. He stared at it, unable to pick it up. His mouth was dry, his heart was still hammering away like no one’s business. He patted down his face again with the serviette.

When he looked up, the fat Italian at the coffee machine was eying him suspiciously.

Paul paid and left. He turned into a narrow street and followed it to the river.

No one was around. He stood and stared at the dull metallic strip of water. A gull landed on a piece of driftwood at the river’s edge. Pages of an abandoned newspaper fluttered on a breeze.

A thought came, desolate like the wind: what would Laura think of him now she knew what had happened to Emma? His hope was that one day she’d stop treating him so coldly. Well, he could forget about that. She wouldn’t want to go anywhere near him now. And what about Suzanne? He’d convinced himself she would always forgive him, she’d always love him no matter what he did. But she wasn’t going to forgive him, not this time. He’d been an arrogant idiot. He’d finally managed to destroy her love, just when he’d found out he couldn’t do without it.