Catherine Steadman - Something in the Water - A Novel

We talk for two hours straight, going through two bottles of Krug together, which I assumed he’d be covering, as the bill would be equivalent to a month’s rent in my flat. It flowed easily, the conversation and the champagne. In the moments where he smiled, my thigh would tense involuntarily.

Finally the spell breaks when Mark’s friend catches his eye from across the room and gestures that he and his lady friend are off. Having come to some kind of hard-fought agreement, one would imagine.

“On that magical note, I’m going to have to call it a night, I’m afraid.” Mark gets to his feet reluctantly.

“You have to see him back?” I stall. I don’t want to ask for his number; I want him to ask for mine.

“God no, that would be just…no, thank God. I’ll put them in a cab and my work is done. You?”

“Caro’s place is just around the corner. I’ll probably crash on her couch tonight.” I’ve done it before and in all honesty her sofa bed is far more comfortable than my bed.

“You’re North, though, right? Your place? Usually?” He’s stalling now too. Over his shoulder I see Richard, loitering passive-aggressively by the stairs. His date must already be up on street level being bored by passersby.

“Uh, yeah, North, Finsbury Park.” I’m not sure where this conversation is going now. We’re floundering.

He nods his head decisively. A decision made.

“Great. Um, okay, so long story short. I got this projector for Christmas from my sister and I’m really having a bit of a moment with it. I’ve got it shining onto this blank wall in my apartment. It’s pretty fucking epic. If you fancied it? I’ve got some documentaries. Long shot but I’ve been meaning to watch this four-hour doc on Nicolae Ceaușescu?”

I look at him. Is he joking? Ceaușescu? I really can’t tell. This might be the most brilliantly odd invitation I’ve ever received. I realize I haven’t answered him. But he continues to talk, not letting the air out of the situation just yet.

“Former dictator of Romania. Sang ‘L’Internationale’ at his own execution. Too dark? Probably. Fancy it? Pretty sexy stuff, right? He had his own tour bus. Well, Ceaușescu-bus.”

He hangs there for a second. He’s perfect.

“Amazing. That was amazing. I would actually love that. Sign me up.” I pull a freshly minted business card out of my clutch and hand it to him. It’s the third time I’ve done this since I picked them up from the stationers after graduating last month. But it looks well practiced. Fred Davey’s got one, Caro’s got one, and now Mark Roberts has one.

“I’m free next week. Let’s watch the four-hour Ceaușescu.”

And with that I disappear back into the heart of Annabel’s.

It takes all of my self-control not to look back over my shoulder before I turn the corner.

Mark calls me from work at 7:23 A.M. Something’s wrong. There’s panic in his voice. He’s stifling it, but I can hear it.

I sit up in my chair. I’ve never heard even an inkling of this tone in his voice before. I shudder slightly, even in the warmth of the room.

“Erin, listen, I’m in the loo. They’ve taken my BlackBerry and I’ve got to leave the building right now. They’ve got two security guards outside the bathroom waiting to escort me off the premises.” He’s breathy but he’s holding it together.

“What’s happening?” I ask, visions of terror attacks and shaky mobile-phone footage racing through my mind. But it’s not that. I know it’s not that. I recognize the bones of this story already. I’ve heard it from enough people by now. It’s eerie in its sterility. Mark’s been “let go.”

“Lawrence called me into his office at seven o’clock. He told me he’d heard through the grapevine that I’m looking elsewhere and he thinks it’s better for all concerned if I take leave from today. He’s happy to offer references but my desk has been emptied already and I’ll have to hand in my work phone before leaving the building.” The line goes silent for a second. “He didn’t mention who told him.”

Silence again.

“But it’s fine, Erin. I’m fine. You know they make you go straight into an HR meeting after they let you go. They lead you out of the room and straight into another one with an HR rep in it! They cover their fucking backs, by God. Such a load of bullshit! The rep asks, Was I happy here? And then I have to say, ‘Yes, it’s been fantastic and it’s all worked out for the best in the end. Lawrence has done me a favor. Freed me up for the next challenge, blah blah.’ ” Mark’s ranting. He can sense my worry through the phone.

“It’s fine, though, Erin. It’s going to be fine. I promise you. Listen, I’ve got to go with these guys now but I’ll be home in an hour or so.”

I’m not at home, though.

I’m currently in Holloway Prison, about to do my first face-to-face interview. He can’t have forgotten, can he? I’m in a prison holding room. Shit! Please don’t need me there now, Mark. Please be okay.

But if he needs me, I’ll go.

Oh fucking hell. Those two constantly tugging needs: your own life and “being there.” Your relationship or your life. No matter how hard you try, you can’t have both.

“Should I come home?” I ask.

Silence.

“No, no, it’s fine,” he says finally. “I need to make a fuckload of calls and sort something out. I need to get in somewhere else before this gets too big. Rafie and Andrew were meant to get back to me yesterday—”

I hear banging on the door on his end.

“Fucking hell. Just a sec, mate! Christ. I’m taking a piss!” he shouts. “I gotta go, honey. Time’s up. Call me after the interview. Love you.”

“Love you.” I make a kiss noise but he’s already hung up.

Silence. I’m back in the hushed holding room again. The guard glances over and frowns, his dark eyes kind but firm.

“Didn’t want to mention it, but you can’t use that in here,” the guard mumbles, embarrassed to be playing the role of hall monitor. But it is his job; he’s doing his best.

I put the phone on airplane mode and set it on the table in front of me. More silence.

I stare at the empty chair on the other side of the table. The interviewee’s chair.

I feel a brief shiver of freedom. I’m not in that washroom with Mark. The whole world is still open and clear for me. It’s not my problem.

The guilt follows immediately. What an awful thing to think. Of course it’s my problem. It’s our problem. We’re getting married in a couple of months. But I can’t make that feeling stick. I don’t feel Mark’s problems like I feel my own. What does that mean? I don’t feel like something devastating has happened. I feel free and light.

He’ll be fine, I reassure myself. Maybe that’s why I don’t feel anything. Because it’ll all be fine by tomorrow. I’ll get home early tonight. I’ll make him dinner. I’ll open some wine. Wine and fine.

—

A sudden buzzer blast from the electric doors snaps me back to the present. It’s followed by the low clunk of sliding bolts. I straighten my notepad. Realign my pens. The guard catches my eye.

“Any point you feel uncomfortable, give me the nod and we’ll terminate,” he says. “I’ll be staying in the room, I’m sure they told you.”

“Yes. Thank you, Amal.” I flash him my most professional smile and press record on the camera, lens trained on the door.

Amal presses the door release. The buzz is deafening. Here we go. Interview one.

—

The door release thunders again and a short, fair-haired girl comes into view through the wire-meshed window of the door. A pair of eyes land on me, bore through me, before sliding off.