Renée Knight - Disclaimer

Fuck. Her hands shake as she snatches them up and shoves them in the bin under her desk. Fuck. He has been here. Thank Christ she is alone, but as she sits back in her chair and looks up she sees she is not.

Kim and Simon are watching her. Kim and Simon are standing side by side. In Kim’s hand is a copy of the book. Catherine tries to meet her eye but she avoids meeting Catherine’s. Simon walks towards her, hand held out, as if he is approaching a nervous animal. Don’t speak, let him speak first.

“Cath.” He imbues her name with his own sense of superiority.

She watches him come closer, her foot pressing down on the bin under her desk to stop her leg shaking.

“You okay if we have a quick chat?” And he sits down on the chair next to her. He has never been able to hide his feelings of rivalry. This is an opportunity he won’t pass up. Kim stands by his side.

“Thing is, Kim came to me because she didn’t know what to do.”

Kim speaks now, sounding like a nervous child: “Stephen Brigstocke came in — he brought in the books… his book.” One twitches in her hand. Catherine bites her cheek until she tastes blood.

“So the difficulty is,” Simon picks up, “Kim told me that you asked her to drop the story about Mr. Brigstocke and I wondered why you were so keen to kill it off?”

“Oh, did you. Well, it has absolutely nothing to do with you.” Her voice shakes, lacking the strength of its words.

“I think it does… I mean I wish it didn’t but… if a junior member of the team comes to me asking for advice then it becomes my business.”

“A junior member of the team? God. Who do you think you are?”

He takes the book from Kim and waves it around.

“You told Kim he was a paedophile and you asked her to track him down and then, once she’d done that, you told her to forget all about it.” He sits back in the chair, spreading his legs and thrusting them out in front so his crotch is staring up at Catherine. “I wonder why you did that?”

“I don’t have to explain myself to you, Simon. Or to you, Kim,” and she glares at her. “This is a personal matter. It has nothing to do with work.”

“Well, then why did you ask me to get his address and telephone number?” Kim is on the verge of tears.

“Did you let him in here?” Catherine demands.

“Yes — reception phoned and I went down to meet him. When he told me who he was—”

Simon interrupts her. “It’s okay, Kim, I’ll handle this,” and he sends her a smile over his shoulder. “Here’s the thing. I don’t know what’s in this book, I haven’t had time to read it yet, but a man you had been investigating as a paedophile turns up here with a book he has written. And he tells Kim that you’re part of the story. That you are in this book. I mean, what is it? Some kind of confession?” And he fans the pages as if they’ll answer his question.

“I didn’t say he was a paedophile.”

“But…,” Kim stutters.

“I asked you to help me find Stephen Brigstocke’s contact details and some background on him. I asked you because I trusted you.” Now Catherine is close to tears.

“Hey, don’t take it out on Kim — she’s not the one who needs to defend herself.” And he shuffles his chair closer to Catherine’s, leaning in so close she can smell his perfume. He has succeeded in making her feel like a nervous animal. She looks around the office, but still no one else is in.

“I told everyone we were having a meeting, so they’ve gone to the canteen.”

“God, you’re such a shit. You’re enjoying yourself, aren’t you. You could have done this in the meeting room but no — you want everyone to know about this fucking charade.”

“Cath, Cath — you’re the one who’s created this situation. You’re not being honest with us and that worries me — it jeopardises the reputation of the whole team.”

“What? What the fuck are you talking about?”

“Mr. Brigstocke came here because he was frightened. You used Kim to get his address and telephone number and then you went round to his house. He says you tried to break in and then left threatening messages on his answer machine.” He leans in even closer. She is cornered. She must get away. She picks up her bag, but Simon puts his hand on her arm.

“Cath, come on, we need to talk about this…”

“Get your fucking hand off me.” And he backs off raising both hands, one holding the book, in surrender.

“He is the one stalking me — that’s why I went to his house. To talk to him… he is the one who is threatening me….”

“Okay, okay. And why is he doing that? I mean, what’s he threatening you with?”

She is deafened by the sound of blood pumping in her ears.

“It’s private. Can’t you get that through your fucking head?”

“Listen, just try to stay calm.”

“Don’t you fucking tell me to stay calm. You have no right to ask me anything about it and I’m not—” She is about to cry and she will not do that.

“You’re clearly very upset. Whatever it is you’re covering up, I’m sure it would be better if you just came clean about it.” Then he touches her again. She snatches the book out of his hand, and throws it. It hits him in the face. She stares, fascinated by the burning red on his cheek and the beads of blood which appear from a cut on the side of his nose. Both of them are too shocked to speak. Kim is the only one to move, grabbing some tissues and thrusting them at Simon.

“You shouldn’t have done that,” he says as he dabs at his nose and she hears the threat in his words. His eyes flick over her shoulder and she turns to see they have an audience — small but appreciative. Her colleagues watch through a glass partition. She is the show — a one-woman show. They are shocked, but they pity her too as they sip their coffees. She has humiliated herself. Simon waits for an apology.

“You fucking asked for it,” she says as she walks out, feeling the eyes on her but refusing to meet them. She takes the lift down and imagines them all rushing to Simon. God she looked crazy. She’s really lost it. She walks passed security and out through the glass doors. She keeps walking until she reaches the bus stop. She has no idea how long it takes the bus to come, two minutes? Twenty? And when it does she barely remembers getting onto it, swiping her Oyster card, sitting down and staring from the window at streets that are grey and nondescript.

SUMMER 1993

When was the first time she saw him? Was Robert there or had he already left? Did she notice Jonathan when she, Robert, and Nicholas were still a threesome? She thinks not. When Robert was there she hadn’t even known Jonathan existed. And what was her first impression when she did see him? Youth, carelessness — he was carefree and she wasn’t. His dark hair, tanned skin, long limbs. He was watching her and Nicholas. They were in a café near the beach. It was the day Robert left. She was trying to get Nicholas to eat his tea: one more mouthful and then he could have an ice cream, just one more mouthful of rice then we can both have an ice cream. She was on the verge of tears, hating herself for not coping for one fucking day without her husband.

“Make the most of it,” Robert had said. “It’s pissing down in London.” And he’d smiled and she’d tried to smile back but she couldn’t. She didn’t cry either although she felt like it. She didn’t want to make a scene or push Robert into making a choice: which was more important, work or her? She could have done that. She knows she would have won. But she didn’t.

“We’ll come home with you,” she’d tried instead.

“Don’t be silly — why would you want to do that? It’s beautiful here. The hotel’s paid for, just enjoy it. No cooking, no washing, a beautiful beach.” Yes, there was a beach, there was the sea, the sun was shining, but she didn’t want to be there on her own. Postnatal depression. But five years on? She hadn’t owned up to it. She was lucky, that’s what everyone told her. She was lucky.