But there is no contact.
Faith jerks her head back. Her face freezes into something serious, the kind of face a doctor might make before delivering bad news. ‘Oh, Reubyn, I ...’ She shakes her head.
‘I understand,’ Reubyn quickly replies. And he does. His body has gone numb – stunned and wet feeling, like he’s been doused with cold water. A roiling sickness thickens in his gut.
‘It’s just that ... Oh God, I really like you,’ she says, her brow furrowed. ‘But I’m not in the right place for something romantic right now. That sounds like such a cliché, but ...’
‘Of course. I totally understand.’
‘Are you sure? I’m sorry if I gave you the wrong idea.’
Reubyn stares vacantly into the trees. ‘It’s fine.’
‘Right, well then, shall we do another take?’ Then, after five seconds or so: ‘Reubyn?’
He’s dizzied, unsteady on his feet. His vision is unfocused, and, in front of him, he sees nothing but a blurry barcode of tree stems. Reubyn blinks hard, then turns to look at her. ‘Do you know what, I think it might look more authentic if I film this bit myself, on my phone.’
Faith nods slowly, the life gone from her eyes. ‘Okay. Is there anything I can do to help?’
‘No, I’m good.’
‘Right.’
‘Do you mind taking the camera back to the bus? It would be good to get it out of the rain.’
Faith nods. She looks at the ground, then turns and trudges back up the path. After about fifty yards, she stops and looks over her shoulder. Reubyn pretends not to see, and fiddles with his phone.
When she’s disappeared from view, Reubyn slips the phone back into his pocket. He closes his eyes for a moment and stands stock-still on the muddy path, listening to the rain patter against his coat, feeling it run cold down his burning cheeks. He turns his face upwards to accept more of it. Water cascades off the canopy and the leaves glisten with a green that reminds him of poison. The sky, as much as he can see of it, is a ruined charcoal sketch – smudged with too much black. All around him the trees bend and groan.
Reubyn breathes deeply, then lumbers up the trail towards the bus, each step requiring an effort, as if he’s gained a few stone.
Why did he think this time would be any different? This is how it always plays out, after all. It’s not possible to become suddenly attractive by taking an online course and watching a bunch of how-to videos. How stupid can he get? He can’t escape what he is: the guy who’s destined to be put in the friendzone. The platonic side-dude who the girl will turn to for support when she’s having trouble with her boyfriend. The boy who was last picked for sport is now the remaining sack of sub-primal cuts left languishing at the bar in the great meat raffle that is dating.
The air crackles as he walks the path, and he kicks loose branches as he goes. Then, in a direct insult, the heavens break,and rain hammers tenfold, thundering against the trees and surging through the canopy in broken chandeliers. Reubyn doesn’t quicken his step, just lets it pour on to him. Allows it to wash the mud from his clothes. He’ll be damned if he’s going to let the elements get in the way of what he’s here to do. And he won’t allow himself to be distracted by Faith, either. Not anymore.
Reubyn reaches the path’s end and enters the clearing, greeted by the rain’s raw power; unbridled by treetops, it lashes against the car park and the bus’s roof in an angry din. He crosses towards the bus and slows up when he sees her. Only the back of her head and shoulders are visible through the window. Even that is warped – distorted by the run-off that bleeds its way down the glass. She sits next to Elis. Not only next to him; they’re so close there’s nothing to separate them at all. Elis snakes an arm around her shoulders, says something in her ear, and, in a moment of certainty that knots Reubyn’s stomach, normality is restored to the universe.
Chapter 37
Polly
There’s a restless tension in the bus as they wait for Reubyn to re-emerge. He came back from his shoot soaked to the skin and with a face like a slapped arse. He barely uttered a word – just got straight into the shower. Since then, he’s been loitering in the bedroom for the entire afternoon, avoiding them. But he can’t avoid them forever.
The other six are sprawled about the living area, and, with the rain hammering on the roof, Polly can’t hear the quiet conversation going on between Elis and Faith over in the corner. Miles, Jessie and George have been chatting, but the conversation has been listless and slow-moving and has now dried up.
Everyone has been growing more ill-tempered, tired and unsettled. But at least there’s now an overwhelming consensus that they need to leave – today. Apart from anything else, it would be good to move into an area with some signal. There might be an update from the police. Just as importantly, Polly needs to do some work. Shedesperatelyneeds to do some work. Being unable to check in on her staff, to ensure her business is running smoothly, is filling her with anxiety.
Even though she’s managing a small team, poor Dee will be stressing out, because she’s used to Polly at least checking in with her every morning. And her junior staff, who have already gone rogue in Polly’s absence, will have now turned completely feral. If Polly had known she would need to take so much time out this year, she would’ve taken on staff with more experience, rather than a couple of trainees. Now she’s got a potential disaster on her hands.
Marco is keen but has a tendency to screw things up. It’s like working with a puppy. His eagerness is endearing but he needs reining in, and it wouldn’t come as a surprise if he’s already launched some ill-conceived campaign in the two days Polly’s been unable to monitor his work. And then there’s Callie. If Polly doesn’t designate specific tasks, her default setting is to do nothing.
Preoccupied by these thoughts, before checking out of the Queenstown hotel, Polly decided to do an impromptu performance appraisal – going through Callie’s work emails. Her activity was underwhelming, to say the least. In fact, she had sent so few emails that it didn’t take long before Polly had sifted through more than a week’s worth. It was at that point that she noticed an alarming thread in Callie’s inbox. Next to the name James Gardner was a subject line that gave Polly a sudden chill.Story about Miles Deverill, it said. Polly clicked it open immediately. Gardner, it transpired, was a reporter fromThe Chronicle, responding to an email Callie had sent to their tip-offs mailbox. There were a total of six emails in the exchange, outlining the whole sordid arrangement – the story she’d sold to them.
The Chroniclehad agreed to pay her £200 – barely more than Polly pays her for a day’s work – and in return, Callie gave them everything: their flight details, the name of their hotel (which mercifully didn’t appear in the resulting article), and who was going on the trip. She also provided them with Miles’s motivation for going, later attributed toa source close to the family. Polly could barely believe it. Callie had soldout their whole family for the price of a good haircut. The discovery left her so boiling with rage that she had to take a cold shower to try to calm herself down before calling to confront her.
Callie hadn’t picked up at first. And by the time Polly finally got through, she was preparing to check out. That hadn’t helped defuse the situation at all. As Polly held her phone to her ear in one hand, and tried to manoeuvre her bulky luggage through the door with the other, she’d completely lost her temper. Callie obviously hadn’t realised her boss had the right to trawl her emails – the shock at being caught was evident in her voice. But, luckily for her, it turned out to be a short conversation because George appeared out of nowhere, forcing Polly to end the call. She hasn’t been able to speak to Callie since, and the way the situation was left is far from ideal. Essentially, she gave Callie a short but ferocious bollocking, then hung up on her and immediately went offline for days on end. And that’s not great management. You don’t need to be Richard Branson to realise that what Polly’s done isn’t the way to deal with an HR issue of this magnitude. If you need to fire someone, it’s even more important to do things by the book. Otherwise, you’re simply asking for an employment tribunal. Polly’s stress levels keep rising the longer the situation remains unresolved.
The door to the kitchen opens, and all eyes turn to Reubyn. He flips on the kettle and rummages through the cupboards, pretending not to notice their stares.
