Amy Bird - Three Steps Behind You

‘You’re kidding, right?’ he says. ‘Crash here for tonight, take a sofa.’

‘What if I get blood on Nicole’s sofas?’

‘They’re not Nicole’s sofas.’

That’s right, they’re not. Adam bought the sofas when he and Helen married. Just after he bought the house – or rather, she did. Outright. It’s a wonder he keeps working, or doesn’t upgrade the house. He could probably afford Bishop’s Avenue now (aka M/Billionaires’ Row), with his bonus and a decent mortgage. I asked him once, why he didn’t. He cast his eyes down and said, ‘Because it keeps Helen alive for me in a small way, staying here.’ I wished I hadn’t asked.

I strip down to my boxers and curl up on the sofa under the throw that Adam gives me. So many memories, here. I’d invite him to join me, but I doubt he’d like it. And I doubt very much that Nicole would, either.

Not that she can value the marriage bed very much, though. Because when I wake up in the middle of the night, she is standing in the doorway. Watching me. And frowning.

Chapter 12

In the morning, there is a text from the car rental place inviting me in for an investigatory meeting later that day.

Adam grills me while he cooks the breakfast bacon in the oven. It saves discussing the previous evening.

‘Don’t go,’ he says. ‘Tell them you want to see their evidence. Ask for their HR procedure. Say you need to speak with your lawyer.’

They do things differently in the City.

‘I smacked a co-worker in the face, Adam. I’d say they have their evidence.’

‘You’ve been a good employee, though, and it’s not like you to be violent, is it?’

‘No,’ I say.

‘Right,’ Adam says. ‘And I’ll bet you were provoked?’

‘Yes,’ I acknowledge.

‘Good. Then raise a grievance against the guy who provoked you. That’ll throw them. Trust me – I know how HR work.’

Adam goes through to the living room and returns with the rose. He chops the long stalk and puts it in a vase on the tray.

‘Too much?’ he asks.

‘Go for it,’ I say. ‘Tell her I hope she slept well. No interruptions.’

He nods his assent. When I go upstairs to shower after breakfast, I see the tray emptied outside Nicole’s room. The rose is there still, but all its petals are shredded.

Adam gives me a lift to the car rental shop, over in Hendon. We listen to the Today Programme while John Humphreys castrates his latest victim. I wonder why anyone would go on the show.

‘Exposure,’ says Adam. ‘To position stories before they break another way.’

‘But they get destroyed!’

‘Rather that than stay silent. Besides, they get to manage their own downfall. Makes them feel they aren’t completely impotent.’

I think about book three and wonder if he is right. I look at him now, driving along confidently, tolerating me so close by his side. No. About this one thing, Adam is wrong. Difficult to imagine how I would do damage limitation.

When we get to the shop, I suggest he leaves the car with us and gets the train into Farringdon. He elects to drop me off on the corner and use the station car park.

‘Wouldn’t want them to expect my business.’ Which is true – he was a good customer before. A regular one, anyway. Always discreet. ‘And my car will show your ones up!’ He’s joking, but it’s true. The black BMW 4x4 is a bit of a contrast to the red Skodas on the forecourt.

I watch the back of his car as he pulls away. What would it take, I wonder, to be permanently in that car with him? Permanently in the passenger seat, with him at my side? There’d have to be a space first, I suppose.

Perhaps it will just take time. Time, and book four. Because I still remember the message he gave me, the message I wrote in book three. About playing the long game.

For now, I trudge towards the shop, where my colleagues are waiting to mete out judgement. Perhaps I will vanish from the garage too, like Jimmy did. Although that was of his own volition. He, too, wouldn’t have wanted to show the forecourt up. When he landed that Maserati. A lucky win. Some might say too lucky.

Chapter 13

In the car shop, Prakesh can hardly contain his excitement. His leg jiggles under the table as he calls the investigatory meeting to order. It is a tight squeeze in the back office, what with Chris and Steve there too. Chris says he is here as my ‘workplace representative’. In other words, he just didn’t want to miss the gossip. Steve is here as the aggrieved party.

If I wanted to, I could look at Prakesh’s notes. There is something headed ‘Script for Investigatory/Disciplinary meeting’. I wonder if it ends by me being given a Maserati. Probably not.

‘We are gathered here today,’ Prakesh begins.

‘That’s the words for a wedding ceremony!’ mutters Chris. Perhaps he has forgotten he is supposed to be representing me.

‘You’re only meant to be observing,’ says Prakesh.

Chris pouts and tries to sink down in his chair, but he is obstructed by the collective knees under the table.

‘Now, Dan. You know why you’re here,’ continues Prakesh. ‘You punched Steve—’

‘Allegedly,’ I say.

Prakesh turns to look at Steve. He has a dressing strapped across his nose. Prakesh turns back to me and raises an eyebrow.

I lift my sellotaped, Adam-bandaged wrist slightly. ‘Doesn’t prove anything,’ I say.

‘Bet he put that on for the sympathy vote,’ says Chris. In theory, he could be talking about me or Steve. But I know he means me. Perhaps I should ask for a new workplace representative. Bring Jimmy back, so he can help me, like he used to.

I begin to peel the Sellotape off my skin. Prakesh continues talking.

‘That’s not the only reason we called you in here, though.’

My skin lifts up to join the Sellotape, puckering slightly. Rip, the tape sounds as it pulls away.

‘While you were gone, we found some paperwork irregularities …’ Prakesh is saying.

Rip, sounds another portion of the tape. Some of the hairs on my wrist come with it. I examine them. Some are grey. I wonder if you can dye wrist hair.

‘Around the procedures for renting out cars.’

I rip away the last section of the tape. Now just to reveal the blood. I hope it will be impressive.

‘In particular, the letting of cars to one Jeremy Bond, two years ago,’ Prakesh continues. ‘It seems you didn’t get the correct …’

Prakesh pauses as I lift the cotton wool from my wound. I see his eyes take in the deep welt, part dried almost black blood, part fresh crimson.

‘… deposit,’ he continues. ‘Or identification documents.’

‘That’s not news,’ I say, because it isn’t. I went through that with the police, back at the time. Once they’d finished questioning Adam. Nearest and dearest always makes for the clearest suspect, at first.

‘Who is Jeremy Bond?’ asks Prakesh.

‘A guy who’s not big on deposits or ID documents,’ I retort.

‘I can do you for aiding and abetting,’ says Prakesh.

‘If the police can’t, you certainly can’t,’ I point out, turning my wrist around so I can see the blood from all angles.

Prakesh changes tack.

‘And then there’s your previous conviction.’

I look up.

‘How did you know about that?’ I ask.

Prakesh shuffles the papers around on the table and mutters to himself. I consider asking him to speak up, to tell me why what I did back then is relevant. But I know that won’t help. So I place my hands calmly on the table, remembering what Adam had told me.

‘That’s a spent conviction,’ I say. ‘Anyway, it’s not relevant to my employment and you can’t penalise me for it.’

Adam’s lawyer told us both how to respond, when Adam’s employers tried to make an issue of it. Advice worth the money Adam paid for it.