Paul pursed his lips, gave a tight nod, and said, ‘Pity. It’s a brilliant way to entertain clients. Plenty of time to chat between drives.’
Mark balled his fists, stretching the fabric of his pockets. ‘I’ve never lost a client. I find doing a good job for them helps.’ A smile flickered at the corners of his mouth. ‘Speaking of which,I’ve a call scheduled. See you at the 10 o’clock meeting. I’ve got several interesting new mandates I’m pursuing.’
Paul’s head dipped a farewell nod.
Mark leaned over his computer, clicking on the link to the call. Through the glass front of his office, he saw a figure come to a halt at the door. He glanced at his watch – the director was cutting it a bit fine – and cleared a space on his desk for his second cup of coffee, reliving the chat with Paul, confident he’d driven his message home. For all his bluster, Paul wasn’t as talented as Mark, and as the head of department, had a hefty sales target to meet; Paul would find a way to accommodate Mark’s vast fee-earning expertise. The niggling worry Mark had yet to overcome was the other ways Paul could swing the revenge bat. Uppermost in his mind was this year’s bonus – a subject his wife enquired about as regularly, and with as much enthusiasm, as a young child speculating about a trip to Disneyland.
There was a knock on the door. Mark told himself not to waste a Monday morning worrying about the size of this year’s bonus – he’d pulled in more revenue than anyone else last year. But – his inner voice reminded him – since the change in head of department, it would be Paul dictating who won large, and that didn’t bode well for Mark or, more accurately he thought – loosening his tie with a finger, and calling out to the director to come in – his wife’s expectations.
Forget it, he scolded himself. If they didn’t pay up, he could always jump ship to a rival bank.
In the Devon seaside village of Croyde, Alex held a cereal bowl close to his mouth and shovelled in his breakfast. He was itching to hit the waves. He tipped the dish, poured the last of the milk into his mouth, then let it fall, clattering onto the kitchen counter next to the other discarded crockery, each piece containing the crusted dried-on remains of a recent meal.
Picking up his surfboard and rucksack, he cast his eyes aroundthe room, at the dirty dishes, splodges of dried milk, and the carpet of cereal crumbs strewn across the countertop. The floor was patterned with dark brown stains where used teabags had dripped as they were hurled in the direction of the permanently open dustbin. His nose twitched: stale curry and grease.
Sandra will straighten everything, he thought. That’s what she’s paid for. If Alex tidied up, Sandra wouldn’t have anything to do, and he couldn’t be responsible for that. As a card-carrying member of the Labour Party, redistributing dollops of his father’s wealth was a rewarding pastime. From the few to the many – it was important for Alex to do his bit.
After an hour using his six-foot frame to maximum advantage, steering his board across the crests of waves, he took a break and checked his phone. Two missed calls. He dug out a packet of biscuits from his rucksack and ripped it open, shoving two in at once, then took a swig of water before using a towel to scrub at the mop of thick dark hair he’d inherited from his father. He sat in the car – out of the wind – and dialled. His mother answered.
‘Hello, darling. Got back safely? How’s Devon? It’s dry up here, bit of sun. I’m walking the dogs with Mary.’
Alex pictured his mother walking beside her best friend. He’d known Mary and her husband Charles all his life and liked them – they were Labour party supporters like him. ‘Yup, sunny here too. Surf’s up.’
There was a pause.
‘Well, you didn’t call to chat about the weather!’
Alex suspected Mary was feigning disinterest in the phone conversation but, knowing she didn’t approve of his mother’s largesse towards him, he chose his words carefully. He should’ve asked over the weekend. ‘I’m a bit strapped for cash.’
‘Again?What do you do with it? I sent you a grand before Christmas!’
He winced. Mary would be clamouring to warn his mother off.‘Sorry, Mum, I need money.’
‘How much?’
‘Five hundred?’
‘Hmm, that’s a lot of money when you’ve no bills.’ He listened to his mother breathing down the line, hearing distant sounds of London traffic. ‘It was lovely to see you over the weekend. When are you next coming up?’
‘Dunno. Is Dad in the office at the weekend?’
‘He hasn’t said anything, but it is only Monday.’
‘He didn’t speak to me once yesterday.’
Yesterday Alex had made a special effort not to antagonize his father – his mother had warned him there was a big deal being nursed to the finish line. How often had that excuse been trotted out over the years to cover his father’s tetchiness? Alex was standing by the front door at the allotted time, stayed silent in the car, and didn’t mention politics once. Yesterday, “the tottering big deal” meant his father spent half the lunch party outside in the drizzle, shoulders hunched, phone pinned to his ear like an oversized hearing aid. Alex entertained the party with surfing stories, but his eyes were constantly drawn to the figure outside where, oblivious to the rain, his father’s eyes shone with excitement. Alex tried to recall a single occasion when those eyes had looked at him with the same alert happy expression. In his early childhood, his father was a rarely seen figure of authority referred to as a last resort by his mother if Alex was very naughty. At boarding school, the few occasions Alex did see his father in a speech day or concert audience, it wasn’t long before he spotted the dark-suited figure forcing other parents to shuffle their legs to one side, using his phone like a machete to drive a path through the jungle of bodies.
Was “the tottering big deal” about to be rolled out again as an excuse not to send money?
‘Please,’ his mother wheedled, ‘I hardly saw you over theweekend.’ He groaned as she gave a final push. ‘Come up soon. Do it for me and I’ll see about the cash.’
‘OK.’ Alex needed the money, and anyway, it was January – bonus season – so next week might be the perfect time to be in London.
Two
On Tuesday morning, Emily woke again to the chirp of crickets. She snuffled, turned on her side, and allowed the sound to conjure memories of sitting on romantic terraces, the heat of the evening on her bare arms. Twenty seconds later the crickets were still singing. She rolled back to face her husband and grunted, ‘Mark, alarm.’
A hand shot out. The room fell silent. She drifted back to sleep.
