The fact is, Brian says belligerently, we can’t possibly write a mission statement until we’ve decided what our values are. He looks around the meeting room as if challenging anyone to disagree.
We’re in Room 7b, a glass-walled box identical to 7a and 7c. Someone has written the purpose of the meeting on a flip pad. Company mission statement. There are still torn-off pages from a previous meeting stuck to the glass. One says 24 hour response? Emergency warehouse capability? It looks a lot more exciting than what we’re doing.
For over a year now I’ve been angling to move into marketing. I suspect the fact that I’m here today, though, probably has more to do with being a friend of Amanda’s, and therefore of Saul’s, than because Brian actually wants me, Saul being quite high up on the financial side. I try to nod energetically whenever Brian looks in my direction. Somehow I’d thought marketing would be more glamorous than this.
Is someone going to act as secretary? Leona asks, looking at me. I take the hint and jump up to stand next to the flip pad, marker pen in hand, the eager new girl. At the top of the page I write VALUES.
Energy, someone suggests. Obediently I write it down.
Positivity, someone else says.
Other voices chip in. Caring. Dynamism. Reliability.
Charles says, Emma, you haven’t written down Dynamism.
Dynamism was his suggestion. Isn’t it the same as Energy? I ask. Brian frowns. I write down Dynamism anyway.
I think we should ask ourselves, What exactly is the higher purpose of Flow? Leona says, looking around self-importantly. What is the unique contribution we at Flow can make to people’s lives?
There’s a long silence. Delivering bottled water? I suggest. I say this because Flow’s business is to supply the big bottles of water that slot into office watercoolers. Brian frowns again, and I resolve to keep my mouth shut.
Water’s essential. Water is life, Charles says. Write that down, Emma.
Meekly I obey.
I read somewhere, Leona adds, that we’re all mostly water. So water is, quite literally, a big part of us.
Hydration, Brian says thoughtfully. Several people nod, including me.
The door opens and Saul sticks his head in. Ah, the creative geniuses of marketing hard at work, he says genially. How’re you getting on?
Brian grunts. Mission statement hell.
Saul glances at the flipboard. It’s pretty straightforward, isn’t it? To save people the bother of running a tap, and charge them a crazy premium for it.
Sod off, you, Brian says with a laugh. You’re not helping.
All right, Emma? Saul says cheerily as he obeys. He winks. I see Leona’s head swivel toward me. I bet she didn’t know I had friends in management.
I write down Mostly water and Hydration.
When the meeting is finally over—apparently Flow’s mission and higher purpose is To make more watercooler moments happen, every day and everywhere, an insight all present agree is suitably creative and brilliant—I go back to my desk and wait until the office empties for lunch before I dial a number.
The Monkford Partnership, a well-bred female voice says.
Edward Monkford please, I say.
Silence. The Monkford Partnership doesn’t go in for recorded music. Then: Edward here.
Mr. Monkford, it’s Emma. From One Folgate Street.
Call me Edward.
Edward, I need to ask you something about our contract.
I know I should really be going through Mark, the agent, about this sort of thing. But I have a feeling he’d only tell Simon.
I’m afraid the rules are non-negotiable, Emma, Edward Monkford says sternly.
I don’t have a problem with the rules, I assure him. Quite the opposite. And I don’t want to leave One Folgate Street.
A pause. Why would you need to?
That contract Simon and I signed…What would happen if one of us stopped living there? And the other one wanted to stay?
Are you and Simon no longer together? I’m sorry to hear that, Emma.
It’s a…theoretical question at the moment. I’m just wondering what the situation would be, that’s all.
My head is pounding. Just thinking about leaving Simon gives me a strange feeling, like vertigo. Is it the break-in that’s done this? Is it talking to Carol? Or is it One Folgate Street itself, those powerful empty spaces in which, suddenly, everything seems so much clearer?
Edward Monkford considers. Technically, he says, you’d be in breach of contract. But I imagine you could sign a deed of variation to say you take on all the responsibilities yourself. Any competent lawyer could draw one up in ten minutes. Would you still be able to afford the rent?
I don’t know, I say truthfully. One Folgate Street might cost a preposterously small amount for somewhere so amazing, but it’s still more than I can afford on my tiny salary.
Well, I’m sure we can come to some arrangement.
That’s really kind of you, I say. And now I feel even more disloyal, because Simon, if he were listening to this conversation, would say that I phoned Edward Monkford rather than the agent because this was precisely the outcome I was hoping for.
Simon gets back to One Folgate Street about an hour after me. What’s all this? he says.
I’m cooking, I say, flashing him a smile. Your favorite. Beef Wellington.
Wow, he says, amazed, looking around the kitchen. Admittedly it’s a bit of a mess, but at least he can see what an effort I’ve made. How long has this taken? he asks.
I did the shopping at lunchtime and I left work on time to get it all ready, I say proudly.
As soon as I’d put the phone down on Edward Monkford I’d felt terrible. What was I thinking? Simon has tried so hard, and really I’ve behaved like a monster these past few weeks. I’ve decided I’m going to make it up to him, starting tonight.
I have wine too, I tell him. Simon’s eyes widen when he sees I’m already a third of the way down the bottle, but he doesn’t say anything. Oh, and olives, and crisps, and many other nibbly things, I add.
I’ll have a shower, he says.
By the time he comes down again, showered and changed, the beef is in the oven and I’m a little drunk. He hands me a wrapped-up parcel. I know it isn’t till tomorrow, babe, he goes, but I want you to have this now. Happy birthday, Em.
I can tell from the shape it’s a teapot, but it’s only when I get the paper off that I see it’s not just any teapot but a beautiful art deco one with a peacock-feather design, like something from a 1930s ocean liner. I gasp. It’s gorgeous, I say.
I found it on Etsy, he says proudly. Do you recognize it? It’s the one Audrey Hepburn uses in Breakfast at Tiffany’s. Your favorite movie. I had it shipped over from an antiques shop in America.
You’re incredible, I say. I put it down and go and sit in his lap. I love you, I murmur, nibbling his ear.
I haven’t said it for too long. Neither of us has. I slip a hand between his thighs.
What’s gotten into you? he says, amused.
Nothing, I say. Maybe you need to get into me. Or one bit of you, anyway.
I wriggle in his lap and feel him starting to get hard. You’ve been so patient, I whisper in his ear. I slip down until I’m kneeling between his legs. I’d been planning to do this later, after supper, but there’s no time like the present and the wine is helping. I pull down his zipper and take out his cock. Looking up, I give him what I hope is a slutty, inviting smile, then slide my lips over the head.
For a minute or so he lets me. But I can feel him getting softer, not harder. I redouble my efforts, but that only makes things worse. When I look up again his eyes are tightly closed and his fists clenched, as if he’s desperately willing himself to get an erection.
Mmm, I murmur, to encourage him. Mmmmmm.
At the sound of my voice his eyes fly open and he pushes me away. Jesus, Emma, he says. He stands up, pushing his cock back inside his trousers. Jesus, he repeats.
What’s wrong? I say numbly.
He stares down at me. There’s a strange expression on his face. Deon Nelson, he says.
What about him?
How can you do to me what you did to that—that bastard? he goes.
Now it’s my turn to stare. Don’t be ridiculous, I say.
You let him come in your mouth, he says.
I flinch as if I’ve been hit. I didn’t let him, I say. He made me. How can you say that? How dare you?
My mood’s changed again, from euphoria to abject misery. We should eat the beef, I say, getting to my feet.
Wait, he goes. There’s something I’ve got to tell you.
He looks so miserable that I think, This is it. He’s breaking up with me.
The police came to see me today, he says. About a…discrepancy in my evidence.
What do you mean, discrepancy?
He walks to the window. It’s gone dark, but he stares out as if he can see something. After the break-in, he says, I gave the police a statement. I told them I’d been in a pub.
I know, I say. The Portland, wasn’t it?
It turns out it wasn’t the Portland, he says. They checked. The Portland doesn’t have a late license. So they looked at my credit card records.
It seems a lot of work, just to check which bar Simon was in. Why? I ask.
They said if they hadn’t, Nelson’s lawyer might claim they weren’t doing their jobs.
He pauses.
I wasn’t in a pub that night, Emma. I was in a club. A lap-dancing club.
So you’re telling me, I say slowly, that all the time I was being—being raped by that monster, you were looking at naked women?
It was a group of us, Em. Saul and some of the boys. It wasn’t my idea. I didn’t even enjoy it.
How much did you spend?
He looks bewildered. What does that have to do with anything?
How much did you spend? I shout. My voice echoes off the stone walls. I hadn’t even realized until now that One Folgate Street has an echo. It’s like the house is joining in, shouting at him too.
He sighs. I dunno. Three hundred pounds.
Jesus, I say.
The police reckon it’s all bound to come out in court, he says.
It’s just sinking in what this means. Not just that Simon’s capable of spending money he doesn’t have staring at naked women he can’t fuck just because his friends drag him there. Not just that he thinks I’m somehow soiled because of what that man did to me. But what it could mean for the case against Deon Nelson. The defense will say that our relationship is fucked up, that we lie to each other as well as to the police.
They’re going to say I consented that night, and that was why I didn’t report it.
I try to make it to the sink, but the sick—all that red wine, the black olives, nibbly things for our special night in—tumbles out of my mouth, a torrent of hot, bitter vomit.
Get out, I say, when I’ve finished throwing up. Just get out. Take your things and go.
I’ve been sleepwalking through life, letting this weak, feeble man pretend he loves me. It’s time to end it. Go, I repeat.
Em, he says, pleadingly. Em, listen to yourself. This isn’t you. You’re only talking like this because of everything that’s happened. We love each other. We’ll get over it. Don’t say something you’ll regret tomorrow.
I won’t regret it tomorrow, I say. I won’t ever regret it. We’re breaking up, Simon. It hasn’t been working for ages. I don’t want to be with you anymore and I’ve finally found the courage to say it.