What? she mouthed as I held her back. One of Phil’s orange non-Marine issue eyelashes was coming unstuck. The grunting was coming from the boardroom, just the other side of a few shafts of moonlight spearing the office windows. Phil yanked us on, passing our own workstations to slump ourselves just the other side of the glass boardroom wall, blinds mercifully shielding us from view.
It probably wasn’t the most appropriate time, but the alcohol in me saw fit to roll off a few more comedy blinks. Phil clamped a hand over her mouth, and for a few more moments, we both stayed that way – crouched in darkness and silent hysterics while the grunter grunted on. Over his groaning, Stewie’s guest was delivering a running commentary on her talents. Listening to dirty talk was too much. I clamped my fingers and thumb over the end of my nose, trying to hold down the pressure of burning hilarity before it leaked noisily from my face.
Phil was at it too, straining to remain quiet as she leant against the glass wall, but unlike me, Phil was focused–determined to take Stewart down commando style. From behind her makeshift lashes, Phil fixed me with determined eyes. She raised her free hand, aggressively pointing two fingers at her own eyes then mine. Then she signalled the count.
Three fingers …
Two fingers …
One …
We half exploded, half fell into the boardroom. Phil had clearly done this before, going straight for the lights.
‘GREEN BERETS! EVERYBODY FREEZE!’ she shouted as the half-naked blonde skittered from where she’d been straddling her friend.
The laughter that had been waiting for its escape jumped from my body towards the dazed couple before I could stop it.
For a few seconds, the room became like a vacuum, a spinning black hole sucking away the air. A queasiness immediately filled the void my laughter had left behind. I swayed on my feet.
Sadie looked younger without her glasses.
Disorientated, I watched the groaner lurch from his chair, yanking at his trousers.
‘Amy!’ James, baffled, running a hand over his muddled blond head. ‘Shit! Amy, I can explain …’
‘ARE YOU SURE this is what you want to do, honey? Why not leave it a little while, just until you’ve given yourself a few days to think everything through?’ This was the third time Phil had called. It was a rare occasion that saw the softness beneath her prickly veneer, but I guess she thought the situation warranted it. Somewhere in the murky recesses of my mind, I knew it wasn’t a good sign.
‘All I’ve done is think, Phil. My head hurts from it. I just …’ I watched the rain silently streaming down the windows overlooking the executive homes opposite. So far April had been unseasonably cold. All morning the sky had promised snow, but there was nothing on the horizon now but miserable grey inevitability.
Phil waited for me to get it together, but I’d already forgotten what I was saying.
‘You can’t just walk, Amy. You’ve worked too hard at that place. Don’t tell Adrian anything, not yet. Just … call in sick. Think about all that later.’
Later? Because later would somehow suddenly mean I didn’t work at the same company as the man who’d just car-crashed our life? Or the woman he’d chosen to go joyriding with? What could later possibly offer? My focus shifted from the streaks of rainwater, breaking my view of the new sandpit in the garden, to the faint reflection I could see of myself in the cold grey glass. I turned away–away from it all, back to the house James hadn’t returned to last night. Apparently, he couldn’t explain. Other than a flurry of missed calls at 3 a.m. there had been nothing.
‘Ame? Are you still there?’
I leant my back against the bookcase and scanned the rest of the lounge. My own home suddenly felt foreign.
‘I’m here.’
Anna had advised us to replace the old glass coffee table with this wooden one. Wood was safer, easier to affix corner cushions to. I’d bought those the same day. And the socket covers, the kitchen drawer catches and the fire guard. All deployed and ready for action. We were fully accident-proofed. If you wanted to hurt yourself around here, as in really cause yourself gut-wrenching pain, James’s idea of love and loyalty was probably going to be your best bet. I tried to shake his name from my head but, from nowhere, the turmoil of the last twelve hours saw its chance and rushed me again. I covered my face with my sweater sleeve, holding the lower part of the phone away so Phil wouldn’t hear.
‘Why don’t I come over?’ she tried.
Quietly, I breathed through it. I felt my chest release again, reluctantly unclenching like an angry fist, and risked a steady lungful of air.
‘I can’t stay here, Phil. I’m going to Mum’s once I’ve packed some things.’
‘Is Viv picking you up, or do you need a ride?’ she asked softly.
‘No. Thanks. I’ll get a cab.’ My voice faltered.
‘Are you crying? Because if you’re crying I’m coming over right now.’ A warm rush streaked down either side of my face again. I wiped the tears away, as if that might somehow hide the evidence from my friend.
‘Stand down, Phil. I’m not crying,’ I lied. ‘I have to go. I don’t want to be here much longer in case he turns up.’
Phil let out an unappeased breath. ‘Okay. Call me, will you?’
I nodded at the phone and set it down on its post before Phil could hear me lose it again.
I hadn’t been sure that I couldn’t stay here until I’d said it out loud. Now I knew I couldn’t. I didn’t think he’d have brought her here, but it wasn’t impossible. I booked a cab and skipped upstairs, pulling closed the first door I passed. The lingering smell of recent paint was reason enough to shut off that bedroom. James said we should wait, see who we were matched with, but I’d started painting the nursery in neutrals the day we’d returned from panel. Maybe I’d jinxed it. There were superstitions about that kind of thing.
My bedroom felt just as foreign as the rest of the house. I began stuffing a few handfuls of clothing into James’s overnight bag before lunging towards my dressing table. The bottom drawer slid out easily, revealing the prettily decorated firebox nestled safely on its cushion of winter sweaters. I couldn’t remember where the idea had originated from, my grandmother probably, but I was glad for it now. In the event of a house fire or other major catastrophe, letters, keepsakes – anything of irreplaceable value–would all be to hand in the firebox. All in one place, ready for salvation.
I lifted the découpaged box from the open drawer and regarded it. Dedicated teacher that she was, there wasn’t much Mum couldn’t achieve with PVA glue and patience. My fingers briefly reacquainted themselves with the delicately placed art nouveau motifs in muted blues and greens, the subtle unevenness of the layered images she’d painstakingly crafted. She’d made the firebox for us that August, busying herself in the kitchen while I’d pretended to sleep up here. James had to return to work eventually, for normality’s sake, if nothing else. She’d said such precious things deserved to be kept somewhere nice.
I let my fingers rest on the lip of the firebox. As if I needed to look. As if I didn’t know by heart the remembrances kept safely inside. The pitiful testaments to our son’s tiny life.
He’d have been at