When I Find You Page 2

  ‘Ugh. Warmed by the boss’s illustrious derrière. Everything OK?’

  3

  Laura

  I SIT OUT on the terrace, shivering with cold, my mobile pressed to my ear, hunched over my body, my booted feet aligned on the grey decking. In the background, my nephews are having an argument in French.

  My sister married Eric Larebie ten years ago, after meeting him at university. They moved to France when my nephew Dominic was born, so the boys are fluent in both languages and my sister could pass for a Frenchwoman. They live in Paris, in a baroque apartment in the ninth arrondissement. Eric works for Banque de Paris and Isabel teaches at her local école maternelle. I miss her. When things go wrong, I find it so much easier to tell her than I do Mum.

  Dad, on the increasingly rare occasions that we speak, doesn’t listen anyway. Or actually he does, he listens for pauses so that he can turn the conversation back to him. And his wife is often in the background, gabbling away in Spanish.

  Mum is a worrier, so I let her assume that it’s all easy now, that my coping strategies are so firmly rooted I barely notice my condition. Even so, she always wears the ruby ring she inherited from her grandmother. My sister has a tiny tattoo on her left wrist. A swallow. She did it for me when I was eighteen, the year we found out that I wasn’t extremely forgetful, there was something wrong with me.

  ‘Calm down,’ Isabel says. ‘It’s only a party. Everyone will be so pissed they won’t notice if you make a mistake, or if they do they won’t remember. Your boss is right, chérie. If you don’t muck in, people will think you’re standoffish and you’ll never get on.’

  I love it when she calls me chérie. ‘They already do,’ I say. ‘And perhaps I don’t want to get on.’

  ‘Don’t be pathetic,’ she says with a laugh.

  I stare at the grooves in the decking. My fingers and toes are getting cold.

  ‘Who’s going? Is it the whole company?’ Isabel asks, then interrupts herself. ‘Dominic, tais-toi! Milo, arrête d’énerver ton frère, s’il te plaît!’

  ‘Yeah. But we’ve hired the bar, so at least I won’t molest any strangers.’

  Isabel laughs. ‘But you are intending to molest someone?’

  ‘Chance would be a fine thing. When’s your flight?’

  ‘Four o’clock. So, I’ll see you tomorrow evening. Try and relax tonight, OK, and be open if someone chats you up. You are a beautiful woman and you should be in a relationship. You spend much too much time on your own.’

  ‘That doesn’t help.’

  But she’s right. If I wasn’t going this evening, I’d only mope. I’d watch a film – preferably one with only two characters – then drag my feet into the bathroom where I’d greet the stranger in the mirror before cleaning my teeth. I’d think about the fun the rest of them were having as I slid into bed, imagining the thump of the music, the flushed faces, the pumping arms. Perhaps I’d even sing a Christmas anthem to myself.

  ‘You’ve gone quiet,’ Isabel says.

  Someone comes out and lights a cigarette. Two scavenging pigeons fly up on to a ledge, feathers ruffling in the breeze. I move towards the door. ‘Please stop worrying about me.’

  ‘You can tell me all about it tomorrow,’ Isabel says.

  I smile at the smoker and murmur a greeting before ending the call. He nods. I do not have a clue who he is.

  The mood in the building is buoyant, Christmas songs playing from someone’s computer. We’ve all crowded into the top-floor conference room to hear David give his pep talk. He is dressed in a diabolical Father Christmas onesie and hat. I’m standing with Eddie, watching.

  David Gunner is in his element, loving his audience and feeling our love for him. With his boundless enthusiasm and his constant reiteration that we are the best, it’s impossible not to absorb some of his magic and feel bigger and better than we really are. It’s his enthusiasm and his often-voiced gratitude to even the lowliest member of staff that ensures our loyalty. At a time in my life when I was nervous and unsure, he made me feel that my input was valuable. That’s his skill: he talks to people as though he thinks he can learn something from them.

  ‘Gunner Munro has had a phenomenal year and we are in terrific shape. Now I’m not going to give you a load of stats – for one thing, Bettina has neglected to provide me with a whiteboard …’

  ‘Thank Christ for that,’ Eddie mutters.

  ‘But suffice to say, with a little help from our big brands, we are nudging upwards and competing more than well with the market leaders. We are young and dynamic and, frankly, those dinosaurs can learn from us. You have all worked incredibly hard, and I could not have hoped for a more loyal, good-humoured and talented bunch of people. I’m going to shut up now, because Secret Santa is ready and waiting, but before I let you go, I have an announcement to make.’

  Eddie nudges me, and I turn and wrinkle my nose.

  ‘We’re on the shortlist for the GZ contract. For those of you who have been living at the bottom of a well for the last three months, this is huge. Bettina, could you do the honours?’

  Bettina moves amongst us carrying a tray laden with shot glasses two-thirds filled with a sunset orange liquid. I’ve already tried it, but I enjoy watching my colleagues sipping gingerly and raising their eyebrows. It’s too sweet for me and tastes like something that should be kept in the bathroom cupboard for medicinal emergencies, but American kids love it and it certainly packs a punch.

  ‘Zee pronounced the American way, guys. I don’t want to hear anyone saying Zed and I don’t care if your English teacher turns in her grave. It’s GZ to you and when you’re at the bar it’s “A GZ, please, guv,” not “A glass of your finest fucking Generation-Zed.” The guys in social media will give you the hashtag so you can get a conversation going online the instant we get the green light.’

  The client wants something anarchic, something that will appeal to British youth; something that will go viral.

  ‘Delicious,’ he finishes, raising his glass. ‘To GZ. This should get you in the mood for tonight. I want you all to be peeing amber tomorrow.’

  This is met with appreciative laughter and some covert grimaces.

  ‘We’re up against the big boys on this one, but we’re on that shortlist for a reason. They’ve looked at our campaigns, so they know we’re not scared to be disrespectful or give a toss about deviating from the norm. Our strength is that we might not always take the traditional route, but we keep it simple, we get it noticed. They fucking love all that shit. Eddie and Laura, obviously, I don’t expect you to work through Christmas …’

  I glance at Eddie and raise my eyebrows.

  ‘… but I want to see something on the first day back.’

  ‘Here you go.’

  Bettina plonks a cardboard box down on the floor and kneels beside it. Bettina is an intern who is desperate to get taken on in any capacity, but her long-term aim is to be a copywriter, so she makes herself especially useful to me and Eddie. She came to us through Graham Ludgrove. Graham has been here as long as me; in fact, we initially met at the interview for the Art Director job. I got it, but they offered him the company website, which he redesigned, rebuilt and now manages, working closely with Finn, the social media expert and one-time YouTuber who sits beside him.

  Bettina pulls out a sparkly plastic headband with star antennae and loops it over my outstretched hand. The blokes are all wearing antlers. I asked Bettina to order them, because it was expected – part of the fun – but they’re not going to make my life any easier.

  ‘Thanks.’ I dutifully arrange it in my hair and flick the stars so that they bounce from side to side.

  At six I leave the building with everyone else from my floor, sticking to Eddie’s side. I know the man behind us is Guy because he was still working and Eddie had to drag him away from his desk. He’s wearing a green and maroon scarf.

  Guy comes up beside me at the traffic lights and grins. ‘You’ve done well to get that brief.’ He sighs.
‘Cat food is a bastard. Ever since “nine out of ten owners …” Nothing has come close to following it.’

  I know what he means. That campaign wormed its way into the public consciousness. It’s unforgettable, and it’s nothing, just a set of ordinary words. And that’s pure chance, alchemy.

  ‘You’ll come up with something.’

  He looks perfectly cheerful. I doubt he’s losing sleep over it.

  ‘Got to earn my stripes,’ he says. ‘I’m glad you’re here this evening. Jamie said you weren’t coming.’

  Jamie? Was that him in the lift then? ‘Oh. Well I was, and I am.’

  My colleagues are surprised to see me, but no one is complaining. They’re a friendly bunch. We set off towards Curtain Road in high spirits, scarves and gloves protecting us from the biting cold. At Hoxton 101, we negotiate the crowded bar and file downstairs to the basement where our coats are whisked away. We wander into a darkened room, low-ceilinged to the point of claustrophobia and throbbing with sound. There are already a dozen people there – accounts and IT, I’d guess, because they’re the ones who tend to leave work dead on five o’clock whereas the rest of us have to be more flexible with our hours.

  The bar has been provided with a generous subsidy of £1,000, so after knocking back a compulsory shot from the tray of GZ, I fortify myself with a double vodka tonic, downing it quickly to get rid of the lingering taste of the product. I stand at the bar for a few minutes, looking round for someone I can recognize, and the barman passes me another glass with a sympathetic smile. I sip it quickly, feeling uncomfortable, until I spot Bettina’s glorious, tumbling black curls and join her on the dance floor. My plastic headband feels tight, but I’m determined to keep it on; to show Rebecca that I can be one of the team. Bettina grins at me. The music pulses through my muscles. Under the revolving disco lights people move in and out of my vision, a blur of indistinguishable faces.

  But there is no need to worry. It’s far too noisy for conversation and with two double vodka tonics already downed, not to mention the GZ, on top of an empty stomach, my natural reserve is starting to go. I’m doing my thing, not caring who with. I move to the rhythm, singing along with the others, my arms in the air, my hands curled into fists, egged on by my friends, whoever they may be. I feel freed, ecstatic, my body escaping, the alcohol and the music fuzzing the sharp edges. And if that wasn’t enough to fill my cup to overflowing, I’m being pursued in the nicest possible way. I don’t know who he is, but he keeps getting in front of me, edging other men out, copying my moves. It’s as if he’s desperate for me to notice him. And it’s working.

  ‘Laura!’ he bellows.

  I look at his face, scanning hair and shape, trying to ignore the ridiculous antlers, hoping to find something that identifies him. Even his voice is unrecognizable; slurred by booze and drowned in noise. In any case, voices have never been all that helpful to me, not unless there’s a distinctive accent.

  He holds out his hand and I take it. He whirls me into him and away and I giggle hysterically as I twirl under his arm. He’s wearing a pale pink shirt, with the sleeves rolled up; the only pink shirt in the room as far as I can see. Its colour changes with the flashing lights, but it’s still recognizable from its white collar. Once I realize this, I relax. He is Pink-Shirt from now on, and I stop trying to study the precise curve of his ear or the size of his Adam’s apple. I’m enjoying myself.

  We dance, behaving like kids, uninhibited and a little bit stupid. Occasionally Pink-Shirt pulls me into his arms and murmurs flattering nonsense, most of which I can’t hear. It’s extraordinary how close you can feel to someone within such a short space of time. I’m drunk and all over the place but the unexpected is happening. I want to touch him, and he wants to touch me, and soon we’re sneaking away from the dance floor and into a dark corner and he’s holding me, and his cheek is pressed against my head. He is sweaty all over, his shirt glued to his back, but I don’t care. It’s me and him and lips and hands and damp tendrils of hair plastered to foreheads. It’s giggly and sweet and I am happy and out of control.

  ‘I need to take a piss,’ he says. ‘Don’t go away.’

  When he leaves my side, I lose confidence, unanchored in a sea of strangers. I move to the bar and order another vodka. Bettina is beside me, her arm pressing against mine.

  ‘Having fun?’ she shouts.

  ‘Yes!’

  ‘Hurrah for that!’ She dances off into the crowd.

  That pierces my good mood. Is that the impression I give? That I don’t normally have a good time? The vodka goes down even quicker than the first two. Someone squeezes into the space beside me and orders a drink, then he puts his mouth close to my ear and says:

  ‘Dark horse.’

  He touches my waist and the hot dampness of his palm soaks through to my skin. I don’t know who it is, but I know instantly that I don’t like him.

  I detach his fingers, leave the bar and weave across the floor, in search of Pink-Shirt.

  ‘Thought I’d lost you,’ he says when I find him.

  I remember, years ago. I must have been fourteen, because it was the first house party I’d been invited to; the first at least that involved boys, illicit alcohol smuggled in under bomber jackets, disco lights and dance music, much like this one, with people, particularly the boys, going way over the top. Like tonight the music was loud, making it impossible to talk, like tonight I drank to get rid of my nerves. I exploded out of my bubble, unfurled my wings and shed my inhibitions. And, again like tonight, a boy made a play for me. I knew his name because some girl squealed it as she threw her arms around him, but by the end of the evening he was paralytic and barely able to string a sentence together, let alone ask me for my phone number. Back at school on Monday, faced with a hundred lookie-likies in their frayed uniform trousers, mucky-collared white shirts and blazers, I couldn’t find him without asking someone, and I wasn’t going to do that. I hoped he would find me and, if he was shy, make some excuse to bump into me by-mistake-on-purpose. We had made out after all. When that didn’t happen, I made myself available, hanging out where I could easily be seen at breaks and lunch and at the end of the day. But to no avail. He never approached me and none of the girls came to whisper in my ear that he fancied me. And then I heard he was having a party – a gathering really – at his house. Only a select few invited, but not me. I pity my fourteen-year-old self. It’s tough enough being an adolescent when you can recognize your fellow man. I couldn’t slip out of the way whenever I saw him coming, because I never saw him coming. I moved through those days in a permanent state of alarm.

  I am bursting for the loo, so even though I don’t want to leave Pink-Shirt’s side again, I sway through the crowd, turning more than once, checking where he is, like Hansel trying to remind himself of the way back through the woods.

  4

  Rebecca

  THE MUSIC FEELS as though it’s inside Rebecca’s head, its pulse sandwiched between her brain and her skull. She cannot take much more of this. She stands beside the bar, her smile feeling as though it’s been stitched in place, making her jaw muscles ache and the metallic pain in the right-hand side of her face even worse.

  She’s happy to see Laura is enjoying herself. She’s thrown herself in with an abandon that Rebecca would find funny, if she didn’t feel so awful. Laura is shaking her stuff, hands combing through her hair, like a sex kitten. She is the last person Rebecca would have described as a sex kitten so it’s touching to see her letting go like this. At least she doesn’t need to feel guilty about insisting she come. Laura’s difficulties are irrelevant here. No one could possibly notice.

  Unable to tolerate alcohol, she sips from a glass of fizzy water, dreaming of her bed, her cool sheets and plump pillows. She wants to curl up and let the paracetamol do its work. She has already let her boyfriend know that tonight is off. She’d only be cranky. He certainly wouldn’t get any sex.

  Not that he would mind. They have been together for seven years
and have known each other for nine and he’s seen her at her worst; revolting with flu, lying in a sea of snotty tissues, her nose raw from being blown too often. He’s seen her angry and he’s seen her heartbroken. He’s seen her snappish and irritable.

  Why does she do this to herself? Sometimes she thinks she will break in two. She remembers lying beside his wife on a sunlounger at their house in the South of France, him and their children splashing around in the pool, and noticing the curve of her friend’s belly. She knows that if he was going to leave his family, he would have done so already, but she’s not giving up. They are meant to be together.

  She flinches at a wave of pain. Her head is pounding, and she feels sick. She discreetly checks the time on her phone. It’s only twenty past nine. The strobing lights are too much, they confuse and half blind her. She breaks out in a cold sweat and rushes into the poorly lit atrium, locates the door to the Ladies, bangs into a cubicle and throws up.

  When she comes out, Laura is pulling back her hair and swallowing water from the tap. Her face is flushed, her eyes bright.

  Rebecca studies her own reflection in the mirror. It would be hard for her to look ugly, but the downlights don’t do her any favours.

  Laura hands her a couple of sheets of paper towel from the dispenser. ‘Are you all right? You’re as white as a sheet.’

  ‘Migraine. I’m going home.’

  ‘You poor thing. I’ll get your coat for you, if you like.’

  Laura is slurring her words and Rebecca’s coat is cashmere. She doesn’t want it handled clumsily or dropped on the sticky floor.

  ‘That’s sweet of you, but I can manage.’ She takes the little fold-up brush she keeps in her clutch, runs it through her hair and gives Laura a wan smile. ‘I was meant to be seeing someone tonight. Best-laid plans, eh?’

  She takes a deep breath and heads for the door. Graham is just outside, his coat hanging over his arm, a guilty look on his face. She’s sure she had a question for him earlier, about the website, but for the life of her … Anyway, this is not the place.