Emma Page - Element of Chance

‘A mild morning,’ the postman said. ‘Could be sunny later on.’ Rolt saw the postmark on the third letter. He turned over the envelope and read the seal on the back: Kain Engineering. His heart seemed to rise up in his chest, suspend its beat for a long moment and then drop back with a thud.

‘They talked about rain in the forecast,’ the postman said. ‘They get it wrong two days out of three.’ Rolt glanced up, aware that the man had said something. He smiled, nodded vaguely and plunged off across the grass, ripping open the thick white paper, unable to wait till he got into the house.

He fumbled at the folded sheet. His eyes raced over the lines of typing. The words sprang out at him like whorls of fire … Interview … Monday … 3.30 p.m.

He raised his head and looked up at the pearly sky. The mail van went back down the drive and out into the road. A flood of joy washed over Rolt. Careful, he told himself, must keep my grip. He walked up the short flight of stone steps that led to the front door. His pace was consciously brisk, his manner controlled and competent.

I’ll get Alison back, he said in his mind with total confidence. He had something to offer her now. And she’d had time to think things over, she was no longer an inexperienced girl. She’d see sense, realize where her best interests – the best interests of both of them – lay. And no doubt by now she’d had more than enough of turning out in all weathers five days a week to go to the office. She’d probably wondered why he hadn’t been in touch with her lately. After all, if she actually wanted a divorce, she could have approached him as soon as the two years were up. And she had no steady boy-friend, he was pretty certain of that.

He let himself into the house and closed the door behind him with a precise click. Silence settled back over the high-ceilinged rooms, the spacious hallway, lofty staircase, wide landings. He stood looking down at the carpet with its subdued pattern of blues and greys. Things would sort themselves out, it would all come right in the end. Just to get Alison back would at once make him feel younger, more positive and hopeful, give direction and purpose to his life.

He raised his head and glanced about him. Yes, that’s it, he said to himself with decision. I’ll phone Alison, I’ll get the whole thing settled … But possibly not before the Kain interview … Probably best not to speak to her before three-thirty next Monday afternoon … For if by some remote chance she put on a voice of ice, if she refused to listen to reason, how then could he possibly conduct himself with cheerful confidence during the ordeal of the interview?

No, he would get the job first and then phone Alison; he’d have something concrete to lay before her then, something more enticing than vague, optimistic proposals. He put up a hand and rubbed his chin. In actual fact, he thought, I’d offer her anything to get her back. He imagined himself phrasing the words over the phone … Just say what it is you want and you can have it. How could any woman resist an offer like that? Anything she wanted … Well, of course, it went without saying, anything within reason.

He placed his hands together, linked the fingers, rubbed the palms against each other with a sense of satisfaction and relief. He noted with pleasure his feeling of control and competence, of being in charge of himself and his existence. And now, with all that resolved, what about one little drink? Not as a prop or a crutch – certainly not. Nor as a shield or a distorting mirror. But perfectly normally and wholesomely, by way of celebration.

Five minutes later he was sitting at ease in the dining room when he remembered the other letters the postman had handed him. He set down his glass and picked up the little pile of envelopes. Nothing of great consequence. The telephone account, a couple of receipts, and a bill for the perfume he had given Celia Brettell on her birthday last month. Her thirty-third birthday according to Miss Brettell, her thirty-eighth according to uncharitable intimates. Every year at Christmas and on her birthday – with the exception of the couple of years of his marriage – he rang the changes between chocolates, flowers, books and perfumes, being careful never to give her anything more personal. He flicked the sheet of paper against his fingers, thinking about Celia.

He had known her for years, liked her well enough. There had been a time when he had almost allowed her to steer him towards the altar, from lack of any alternative and more attractive prospect. But that of course had been in the days before Alison.

He thrust the bill back into its envelope and instantly forgot about Miss Brettell. He gathered up the rest of his mail, stood up, finished his drink and went upstairs, half smiling, thinking with pleasurable expectation about the interview on Monday.

Monday morning, ten minutes past seven. In the bedroom of her ground-floor flat in Fairview, a solid Edwardian villa set on the lower slopes of the hills that cradled Barbourne, Alison Rolt drew back the curtains and looked out at the day. A little over two miles separated Fairview from Andrew Rolt’s Victorian residence on the other side of Barbourne.

Quite a pleasant day. A light veil of mist obscured the view but there was a strong hint of warmth and sunshine later in the morning.

She went swiftly along to the bathroom and turned on the taps, piled her long hair on top of her head, squeezing the springy tresses into a waterproof cap ruched and frilled with pale blue nylon.

She flung a handful of salts into the water and stepped in. There was a suggestion of the exotic about her; she was small, slender and delicately made, still three or four years away from thirty. A pale olive skin deepened by suntan, quick movements, easy grace.

The only sound came from the water running into the cistern and her own soapy splashings. But I don’t in the least mind being alone in the house, she thought, leaning back in the pale green water. She wasn’t nervous; she found the quiet a pleasant contrast to the daily bustle at the office. And in any case the situation was likely to be merely temporary; the two upper flats were sure to be tenanted again before long.

She came out of her thoughts with the recollection that it was Monday morning, that she had made up her mind on Friday to start a campaign to restore the efficiency of the girls who worked under her. She was junior partner at the Kingfisher Secretarial Agency in Barbourne, she had striven for high standards in the time she had held the post – a little less than a year. She had achieved a fair degree of success, only to find some of her efforts being undone in the last month or two.

In the middle of the summer Kingfisher had finally absorbed the remnants of Tyler’s, the other secretarial agency in the town. Before her move to Kingfisher Alison had worked at Tyler’s for eighteen months. It was a long-established agency but it had grown increasingly complacent, opposed to inevitable change, partly because old Mr Tyler had no son or daughter to inject fresh ideas into the business. He had seen the Kingfisher start up six years ago; he had felt no concern, considering the new agency an upstart enterprise likely to remain small and unimportant or else fade out altogether.

But Kingfisher had steadily expanded, nibbling unremittingly at the edges of Tyler’s business, gradually luring away staff, enticing and retaining clients. A little over a year ago Mr Tyler died. The ownership of his agency passed to his widowed sister, an elderly invalid living in a South Coast nursing home, with no interest in the business apart from the money it might bring her. One of the senior members of staff – a man of no very great competence, not far off retiring age – was promoted to manager.