Helen Monks Takhar - Precious You

‘Do you know who’ll you be reporting to? I wasn’t expecting a new intern today.’

‘Gemma Lunt, the publisher. It’s her first day too.’

‘Right, well, don’t worry, I’ll explain why we’re late. Stick with me, and my deputy Asif. You’ll be fine.’

‘Should I be worried?’

‘No. Not really. Just keep your head down. You’ll probably be set up in my team.’

You nodded. ‘Sounds great. I’m super-focused on what I need to do, like you say, being somewhere I can learn from older people?’

A spike. The sense of the smooth, hard finger of youth prodding my loosening life. Subtle, and few would deny the barb if they heard it themselves. But I would learn very quickly that every single person in my world would take your side first, always give you the benefit of the doubt before they would me. A privilege given to the young and beautiful, a privilege I didn’t know I had until I lost it.

I watched you for a moment from the corner of my eye as the first inkling there was something less than innocent about you prickled my stomach. I didn’t yet know if it was just paranoia; a wild idea sprouting from an already unreliable mind. I never fully realised how much danger a person is in when the individual they trust least is themselves. After you, Lily, I’ll never ignore my first instincts again.

‘It’s great you’re so ready to learn…I’m Katherine, by the way.’

‘Lily.’

You offered me your narrow palm, but gave no indication you knew exactly who I was.

The minutes dragged as we passed Liverpool Street. It had gone nine. I was supposed to be in Gemma Lunt’s office in fifteen minutes. I’d only agreed to the early slot so I could avoid the usual Monday morning social interrogation. I thought about dropping her a line to manage expectations, then decided I’d chance getting there on-the-knuckle and avoid my first communication with her being about something I’d failed to execute effectively.

The cab suddenly picked up speed and we caught a couple of green lights. For a moment, it seemed possible I might just be OK.

You leant forward to speak to the driver, ‘Hi, could you pull in here, up on the left?’ and we swerved into a side street. Turning to me, ‘I have to pick up something from my mum? I’ll be so quick.’

‘But I’m already late, couldn’t you—’

‘It’s OK. I can square it with Gem, promise.’

‘Gem ?’ You knew my new boss. How?

I tried to remember what I’d only that hour told you about my work. When I struggled, a fresh anxiety rose in my chest. Another symptom of the beige cloud: forgetfulness followed by panic about what might have happened in the gaps.

Before I could say anything else, you were out of the taxi, running through a carved stone archway. When you clearly thought I couldn’t see you anymore, you stopped running and instead walked slowly towards a heavy lacquered door. You pressed on a buzzer and spoke sullenly into an intercom, all urgency gone. In my head, I begged you to yank the door towards you and race through it like your life depended on it, but instead you pulled it carefully and stepped gently into the building.

9.03.

9.05.

At 9.07 I drafted an email to Gemma, trying to convey confidence, a lack of guilt, but also some necessary undertones of contrition. I noticed your laptop case next to me.

9.12.

I wanted to know what the hell you were doing. I thought about telling the driver to get going, but you were apparently on intimate terms with ‘Gem’, the very woman who’d masterminded the buyout of Leadership . I couldn’t leave you there, even if I wanted to. The day had felt like a huge test I needed to pass. You were making me fail it.

When it got to 9.17, the meter bust forty-five quid and I was getting seriously pissed off. Not only because I’d lost all hope of not being late, but also because once it got past £60, I’d have to submit a ‘business case’ with the receipt under the new staff code of conduct.

I looked at your laptop case again. The driver thumbed his phone. The courtyard was empty. I let my hand inch over to the far side of the back seat. Your case was made of suede, soft as butter. It felt expensive. The closing mechanism was a string and leather tag wrapped around two buttons. Anyone wanting to sneak a peek would have to remember exactly which direction you’d tied the figure of eight around the buttons. They would have to be quick about it.

Before I could stop myself, my fingers had unspun the twine and flapped the case open. Your phone number and your name in sensible black ink capitals:

LILY LUNT

So, you were some relation to Gemma Lunt.

Well, wasn’t that a neat detail you’d chosen to keep to yourself. I wondered what else you might be opting to not tell me and what you would divulge to Gemma from the information you’d gleaned from me so far.

The driver stirred, saying something like, Here we go. I looked up to see you sweeping out of the door and into the courtyard. My fingers were suddenly sodden. Was the string wrapped round the top button first or second? From the left or the right? I tried one way, it didn’t look right. I tried another, it still looked wrong. I quickly glanced up again. You were still a few seconds away, but on seeing me, broke into a quick jog, a wholly fake display that you gave a shit over how late you were making me. I fumbled desperately. You were at the other door and your perfect little figure of eight had been replaced by a damp, slack tangle. You climbed in, and if the mangled thread didn’t tell you I’d been tampering with your things, then my sweaty guilt surely would. I’d have to distract you and hope against hope you wouldn’t notice. So although you should have been apologising to me for royally fucking-up my morning, instead, I found myself over-brightly asking you, ‘Everything alright?’

‘Yes, good thanks. Hi, we can go?’ you said to the driver.

Your eyes rested on your case.

You knew.

You were carrying a black cube with the words Caran d’Ache embossed in silver. I didn’t know they were a luxury pen maker until I googled it later. This, the family business and a mother working in the City? You had to be made of money.

‘Something for Gemma?’

You pulled your eyes off the dirtied twine and breathed as if you were saying Look, Katherine , without actually saying it.

‘I’m so, so sorry. I didn’t want to make things, like, at all awkward. So, Gem is my aunt. I know a bit about optimising content, that sort of thing, with the magazine and the website, I guess it seemed a bit of a no-brainer, me helping out? Gem and my mum, they haven’t always been best buds.’ You tapped the box with an alabaster finger. ‘Sorry . Family stuff. Look, I’ll explain to Gem it was me. I made you late. My bad, honest,’ and your dark eyes flickered down onto your laptop case again before returning to my face.

Optimising content. We used to call it ‘good writing’, and once upon a time some, just a few of us got our jobs on merit, not because of the luck of birth. Now I was going to end up walking in with you, like I was in on it. My team were going to disrespect me even more than they already did.

‘Don’t worry about it. Really. How about we start again from the beginning?’

You smiled: surprisingly wide and meaningful, some strange energy coming off you as your sunny lips stretched over tombstone teeth, eyes darting across my face again. My anger started to recede. That smile of yours. Another one of your gifts.

‘You got it. Let’s start again.’

A minute later in Monument, the traffic was dire. My stomach turned with dread. I couldn’t afford to feel this way. I summoned what Iain would have said to me: It’s not so bad, is it, girl? Let’s get a bit of perspective, will we?