Moonlight on the Thames

6

Nicola walked along the river. Lights shimmered on the water as she walked towards Canary Wharf Pier. She’d stormed out of the office, unable to stand another minute of the Advent Calendar and everything it represented. She needed to clear her head, but so far it hadn’t worked.

An old man was fishing from the bank as she walked by. He looked up at her and grinned toothlessly, giving her a little wave. Right now, she envied him. He had a purpose, which was more than she could say.

Her phone vibrated with a text. Predictably, from Ollie.

Hey babe, why’d you leave? Got a few things to finish here but maybe we can meet up later. I told Chloe I’m working late!!! Ox

Bile rose in her throat as she pressed delete. How had it ever come to this?

She stared down at the dark waves lapping below the pier. The night was cloudy, the air so chilly that it almost hurt to breathe. Advent Calendar – what a stupid tradition. She’d never even heard of it before she’d joined Privé, though apparently it was growing in popularity among the bigger banks and law firms.

It had been a Friday night in early December, three years ago now, when it had begun. The partner doing that night’s Advent Calendar had hired out the entire restaurant on the top floor for the occasion. All of the PAs, analysts and juniors had sloped off early to get ready, the women donning sparkly dresses and high-heeled shoes in the ladies’ loos. Nicola hadn’t bothered to change. She was wearing a designer suit in a deep cherry red colour and a cream silk blouse underneath. She knew she looked good – not that it mattered. She wasn’t planning on staying long.

The party was already noisy and raucous by the time she arrived. She accepted a flute of champagne from a roving waiter and declined a mince pie. She’d stay at most an hour, and then make her escape. Work was keeping her busy, but this time of year always felt lonely. It had been a long time since she’d been with anyone. She would leave the party, get a taxi to the Mandarin Oriental or the Four Seasons, one of the hotels where the foreign businessmen congregated. Pick out someone at the bar, have a few drinks, pretend not to notice if a wedding ring was slipped into a pocket. Names would be irrelevant, and she’d make the last train home.

Just as she was about to leave, she’d heard Ollie’s voice behind her, his hand on her back too low for collegiality. He had joined the firm as a lateral partner about six months earlier. Though she’d felt Ollie’s eyes on her before, she’d always dismissed it as strictly an appraisal rather than a call to action. Yes, he could be funny and charming – once or twice she had actually laughed outright at something he’d said at a meeting or a client do. But he also talked about his family around the office.

He’d clearly had a few drinks already. That hand on her back, his eyes looking down at her curves. ‘Are you enjoying yourself?’ she’d asked him pointedly and begun to edge away.

But then he got this funny-looking grin on his face. He pointed upwards at a large sprig of mistletoe hanging from one of the chandeliers. Leaning in, he’d whispered in her ear. ‘I’ve been waiting for you.’

As he’d bent to kiss her under the mistletoe, she’d laughed in his face. His handsome, clean-cut features morphed into something ugly and surprised. She’d kept laughing as she walked away, turning for a brief moment to blow him a kiss.

Why had she stayed at the party? She couldn’t remember now. One hour had turned into two, one drink into three or four. She’d done the rounds, eating canapés and making small talk. Nicola could feel Ollie’s anger from across the room. She was up for a challenge, and obviously, the flirtation could lead nowhere. So she cast him a few glances, taunting him, fuelling the flame she’d lit inside him by her rejection. And, later on, when things had become pleasantly vague, she spotted him at a corner table, nursing a whisky. She’d walked past him towards the door, trailing her nails over his arm. Then she left the restaurant, taking the lift back down to the deserted tenth floor where her office was.

She’d waited exactly eleven and a half minutes (three more than she’d been expecting), when Ollie appeared at the door. She made a bargain with herself: if he said something stupid – if he said anything at all – she would send him away for good. And, in the end, when he said nothing, just walked across the large office to the desk, she wasn’t sure how she felt that he had won her silent wager.

She had removed her jacket and let him do the rest. He stood behind her, his hands moving everywhere underneath her clothing and over her skin, his lips and tongue hungrily exploring her neck. She didn’t move as she heard the snap of a condom, didn’t respond or make a sound.

Afterwards, it had ended. Days later they’d discussed what had happened; they’d both agreed it had been a Christmas party cliché. A one-off, a mistake.

And the time after that.

Now, three years had gone by. Three years of her life that she wouldn’t be getting back again. The excitement of those illicit liaisons was long gone. The empty promises had fuelled the spark for a while, and then things had continued because it was easier than breaking them off.

Before the ill-fated night at Waterloo Station, it had been two months since they’d last been together. He’d made a few attempts to rekindle things, and the damn texts never stopped, but she’d made excuses. Then, when holiday loneliness had set in, she’d booked their favourite hotel on Charlotte Street and he’d let her down—

Come on, Nic, you know I’m sorry. I really want to see you. Tonight.

Nicola sighed, her finger hovering over the delete button. But she’d taken the coward’s way out for long enough.

No.

Texting back the single word, she turned off her phone and put it in her bag. She walked back the way she had come. In her rush to leave the office, she hadn’t brought her flat shoes with her. Her left shoe was already rubbing a blister on her heel.

She had to be strong. Over meant over. No more moments of weakness. She’d go home, regroup, call Jules back like she’d promised. Lie down on the sofa, put on some music. In the new year she’d start looking for another job. There were plenty of other private equity firms that would love to have her. She’d choose a new industry to specialise in – maybe energy or infrastructure. Raising finance to power villages in Africa must feel more worthwhile than taking another fashion brand or cosmetic company global. It would be a clean break from Ollie, and generally, a new start all around. A new start… Yes, that was exactly what she needed.

Canada Square was buzzing with people. Office workers out for dinner or drinks, and tourists come to see the lights and decorations. The plaza had been transformed into a winter garden. Icicle-shaped lights hung from the trees and giant mythical birds made of wire and lights glowed overhead, swooping down towards globes shaped like golden apples. Part of the square was taken up by an ice rink, with strobes of coloured lights reflecting off the mirror-like surface. Had she come here as a child, she would have been transfixed. And even the way things were now, a part of her appreciated the effort it had taken to transform a city of concrete and glass into something so magical.

She walked towards the giant tree at the centre of the square, made entirely out of strings of white lights on wire formed into thousands of leaf shapes. All of a sudden, voices rang out above the background noise—

Good tidings we bring

To you and your kin,

We wish you a merry Christmas

And a Happy New Year

Oh, bring us some figgy pudding

And a cup of good cheer.

Nicola felt a strange lightness as the words floated through the air. Christmas carollers. There were lots of groups carolling at the Wharf this time of year. There was no reason to think that it might be the group she’d heard at Waterloo Station. Still, she walked as quickly as she could towards the din.

The conductor… she’d only seen him for the minute it had taken her to vent her frustrations. And yet, in that time, she’d felt something. It probably would make no difference, but she really did owe him an apology for what she’d done. Make a donation, start making amends. That way, she could put it behind her.

Could it possibly be the same group of carollers? What had they been called? The Choir of Saint something – St Anne’s, maybe? Yes, that was the name.

In front of the Christmas tree, a stage had been erected, framed by large white light snowflakes. There was a choir on the stage, but it was a school choir made up of children, aged probably ten and eleven. The conductor was a round, matronly woman. A sign in old-fashioned lettering at the front read: ‘West Ham Invitational Children’s Choir’.

Fighting back an irrational surge of disappointment, Nicola sat down on a bench and took out her phone. Her inbox showed that there were twenty-seven new emails and two new texts from Ollie that she deleted immediately. Instead of checking her emails, she opened up a web browser and typed in: St Anne’s Church London. There were quite a few listings in and around London and the immediate suburbs, all of which seemed to have choirs.

The first listing she opened was a church in Westminster. The choir was headed by one Stephen Richardson-Ward, Director of Music, with a load of degrees and initials after his name. The next had a Music Director listed as Catherine Evans-Jones. The fifth link, an Anglican church near Clapham Junction, had a broken web link in the choir section. Could that be the one? Maybe.

She stood up – her feet were killing her now – and limped in the direction of the taxi rank. It was complete and utter folly, that much she knew. But then again, she really had nothing better to do.