‘That’s right. He’s a sweet thing.’ Blythe smiled thinly, her eyes heavy.
‘Oh, right. I’ll be going then… let you get ready.’ But as Kelsey rose to leave, Blythe simply stretched herself in her chair and tucked the shawl around her knees, showing no sign she intended to move from her spot. The room was growing dull as the autumn light from the windows faded. Kelsey felt increasingly convinced Blythe’s young man was a figment of her vivid imagination.
‘Is there anything you need before I go?’ she asked.
‘Nothing, my dear,’ Blythe said sleepily. ‘Pull the door so it locks, won’t you?’
After she climbed the stairs to her own flat, Kelsey opened the window at the head of her bed, crouched on her pillow and watched for the visitor Blythe had spoken of, but no one came – or at least they didn’t let themselves in at the side of the building down Blythe’s overgrown garden path.
Soon the cold air had filled the room and made Kelsey shiver. Pulling the window closed she thought of the dozing Blythe all alone downstairs, surrounded by memories of her theatrical glory days, and the way she’d been written off for nothing more than falling in love with a stage scoundrel. Was her seducer her co-star; the drunken, stagediving John Wagstaff that she’d spoken of? There was no way of knowing without prying, and did it really matter? What mattered was that life had thrown Blythe and Kelsey together and even though Blythe seemed self-sufficient and happy enough with all her memories around her, Kelsey hoped they could become friends. As well as being fabulous company, Blythe clearly knew a thing or two about love and longing, and so would be the perfect person to spend time with while she waited for her own leading man to come back to her.
Chapter Twelve
‘My unsoiled name, the austereness of my life, my vouch against you,
and my place in the state, will so your accusation overweigh,
that you shall stifle in your own report and smell of calumny’
(Measure for Measure)
Monday morning in Edinburgh brought the first dewy frost where breath turns to swirling vapour in the chilly air and the pavements shine with the silver sparkle of autumn. The last of the summer begonias in the municipal flowerbeds along Princes Street gardens had been touched by the sudden change and the edges of their fading petals were dark and shrivelled.
Mirren had awoken early, showered, and taken care over dressing, choosing her best black suit with the flippy skirt. For the first time in months she put on her glasses, leaving her contact lenses in their case. Her eyes were tired and dry after a restless night worrying over what her meeting with Mr Angus would hold.
She couldn’t face any breakfast even though her stomach ached with hunger, and the toothbrush made her gag, but Mirren smiled to see that her mum had made her a packed lunch of cheese and pickle sandwiches and left them in the fridge before she’d gone to bed the night before. Jeanie often did this on her better days and it gave Mirren a moment’s comfort and hope that calmer times were ahead for them, at least for a short while.
As usual she switched her phone on before heading out for the bus, and logged in to theBroadsheet’s staff email app. As her inbox loaded onscreen she told herself to breathe deeply.In for five, out for seven. And again.But the counter-current of anxiety was too strong to resist, and as one unread email revealed itself, a vicious rip curl and the twisting waters receding under it hit her, impossible to swim against. Reading Jamesey Wallace’s words felt like drowning.
Thank you for your email. I’m sorry if you got upset. I thought we were having a friendly, informal chat and suddenly you got very emotional. I’ve been thinking about all the things we discussed and I can’t fathom what prompted your reaction. I hope you feel better now, but if you took something from our conversation that was offensive to you then that is a shame.
All the best, Jamesey.
Mr Angus was busy when Mirren arrived at his door, knocking once and walking in as was the custom. He stopped her and sent her back out to wait. She chose the same chair in the same spot where she’d waited for her job interview five years before, when she’d been so full of hope and excitement and ambition. She was glad she’d already submitted her feature on festive theatre breaks on Friday, anything to win her brownie points with her boss and make him more inclined to excuse her emailing faux pas.
She was surprised to find Mr Angus was the one to open the door after a few minutes’ wait during which her heart fluttered in her chest.
‘Come in, Mirren. You don’t mind if Mandy from HR sits in with us, do you?’
‘No, that’s great.’ In fact it was a relief to see Mandy there. She was a true ally, having once warned Mirren that Mr Angus was known to get ‘a wee bit handsy’ after a few whiskies on a work weekend away.
That was how the news spread in organisations like this, Mirren had learned. Similarly, she had heard on the grapevine (via Selina, one of the PAs) that Mr Leonard, the sub-editor had a propensity for making jovial remarks about the hem lengths of the women in the office and so it was best not to wear heels around him because that only encouraged him.
As Mirren sat down, Mandy threw her a quick smile and that helped settle her nerves even more. Perhaps Mandy’s presence meant they’d taken Jamesey’s behaviour seriously? Maybe he’d been suspended, or fired even, and this was her chance to state exactly what happened and how long he’s been treating her this way. Mirren sat a little straighter in her chair and took a deep breath.
Mr Angus clasped his hands on the desktop. ‘Miss Imrie, I don’t appreciate staff sending inappropriately worded emails, especially over the weekend.’
‘Umm, OK, that’s fair. I was angry. I could have worded it more appropriately,’ Mirren murmured. ‘But I’m glad you mention that, Mr Angus. You see, I had my phone switched off all weekend and when I put it on this morning, this is what appeared.’ Mirren handed over her phone with Jamesey’s email open on the screen.
It took Mr Angus a few moments to read it. He seemed to be having trouble with his spectacles and held the phone at varying distances until he settled on an oddly close scrutiny of Jamesey’s message.
‘Ah, I see,’ he said blandly.
Mirren interlaced her fingers and let her hands settle over her crossed knees. Any minute now it’d be over, she’d be sent out the room, perhaps having been praised for her courage in bringing this matter to her boss’s attention and she’d be able to function at work normally without the creeping spectre of Jamesey Wallace haunting her. He’d been released from his previous employer for some kind of dubious behaviour – although Mirren had never heard that confirmed – and now he’d struck again and was about to be sent off into the world, unemployed and chastened once more. Good riddance, Jamesey Wallace!
‘I’m pleased to see Mr Wallace has had time to rethink his unfortunate phrasing and has offered an olive branch.’ Mr Angus clicked his gold pen shut and slipped it into his jacket pocket, signifying the meeting was over. ‘It would be seemly of you to accept it.’
Mirren’s eyes bulged. ‘Seemly? An olive branch? Mr Angus, will you please read it again. You’ll see that’s notactuallyan apology. It’s him blaming me for taking his friendly banter the wrong way, like I’m some irrational, over-emotional harpy who insists on being offended by perfectly innocent behaviour…’
