Crazy Paving Page 3

  The contractor was called Mr Robinson. He had a pitted, bulging nose which he blew often into handkerchiefs the size of cushion covers. ‘Ah, Helen,’ he declared, grinning at her. ‘The face that launched a thousand tea trolleys!’

  ‘What?’ said Helly.

  ‘Oh never mind,’ he said. The men laughed.

  She looked at them expectantly. ‘Tea for me,’ said Mr Robinson. ‘One sugar.’

  ‘Coffee,’ said the architect.

  ‘Coffee, black please,’ said one of the men from Arnold & Sons and his companion added, ‘Same.’

  ‘White coffee,’ said Raymond.

  ‘Did I say white?’ asked the architect.

  ‘Usual,’ said Richard.

  ‘Oh, I’ll have a tea please,’ said William.

  ‘Gosh,’ said Mr Robinson, cheerily. ‘Will you remember all that?’

  While the kettle boiled, Helly rummaged through the cupboard to find the family selection tin of biscuits which was reserved for visitors. A memo had recently gone round reminding staff that the contents of this particular tin were for consumption at meetings only. While she arranged some of them on a plate and poured the drinks, she stuck the end of a pink wafer between her lips and sucked at it. As she leant over the tray to reach the sugar bowl, the remaining end fell off and landed with a small splash in one of the cups of tea. She fished it out with a spoon.

  When she reached Richard’s door, she tapped it lightly with one foot. A voice called, ‘Come in.’

  Stupid gits, she thought, and tapped again.

  There was a small rumpus from inside and the door opened. They parted to allow her to set down the tray on Richard’s desk. The two men from Arnold & Sons had to jump up and pull back the chairs that they had arranged with such care. There was shuffling, murmurs. Eventually there was just room for Helly to make her way through. She edged sideways past the architect’s chair and leant forward. As she did, her shirt tightened against the front of her body and her skirt rode higher up her thighs. The seven men observed her in silence.

  The tray slipped as she put it down and the plate of biscuits slid dangerously towards the edge. The men all leant forward. Richard took the plate of biscuits from the tray and set it down in front of himself. Helly negotiated the tray and stood back to allow them to take their drinks. ‘Thank you Helen,’ Richard said. William and Mr Robinson nodded their agreement. She waited for them to help themselves so that she could remove the tray.

  There was a white coffee left. The architect was looking at Richard. ‘I think I said black.’

  ‘Helen,’ Richard said, lifting the tray up with a tight little smile, ‘Mr Smallwood said black.’ Helly took it from him.

  The filter jug was almost empty. Helly poured the architect the dregs. Some grounds were still stuck in the bottom so she scraped them out with a teaspoon and added them to the cup. Then she topped it up with cold water from the tap, stirring well. She put some fresh coffee on to brew.

  By the time she had returned to Richard’s office, the meeting was under way. Mr Robinson was talking. As he spoke, the biscuit plate was being passed slowly round the group. His eyes were fixed on it. ‘I’m not sure that’s the point really,’ he was saying as he observed William helping himself to a jammy dodger. ‘The point is, do we want to be reactive or proactive? Like, just complaining or really sorting these guys out? Do we want them to do the job properly or do we want a custard cream?’ There was a pause. ‘I mean, do we want them to come up with the yum-yums? I mean, the goodies – er, goods,’ he ended in confusion.

  ‘Quite,’ said Richard.

  Helly took advantage of the pause to hand the architect his very black coffee.

  Helly returned to her corner and slumped back into her chair. She put her elbows on her desk and chin in her hands, listening to the hum of the wall heater behind her desk and the intermittent click and whirr of Annette’s audio machine.

  Then she leant back and pulled some filing onto her lap so that it would look as if she was working if anyone walked past. While she shuffled the papers around, she prepared her little speech for Richard. About ten to five should do it. His visitors would have gone. Friday night. He wouldn’t have long to argue or he would miss his train.

  Annette had completed the first tape by half past three, in time to look up from her desk and see that Philip Woodrow from Commercial was sweeping round the corner with a paper plate on which sat three fresh cream éclairs. He was also holding a partially consumed bottle of dessert wine. He put down the paper plate and waved the bottle. ‘Mugs?’ he enquired cheerily.

  ‘In the coffee alcove,’ said Annette. ‘What’s the occasion?’

  He was gone before she had finished but when he came back he said, slightly indignantly, ‘Roger’s birthday!’ He poured wine into three mugs. ‘Where’s Joan?’

  ‘At the dentist,’ said Annette. ‘I don’t think she’s going to want a cream cake.’

  ‘You’ll have to eat two then,’ he said and strode off, swinging the bottle.

  Helly had appeared.

  ‘Cake,’ said Annette, indicating the plate.

  ‘What for?’ said Helly, ‘I don’t like éclairs.’

  ‘Roger’s birthday,’ said Annette.

  ‘Who?’

  Annette shrugged.

  Helly picked up one of the mugs of dessert wine and took a contemplative swig. She pulled a face. ‘Bleeding hell Annette, even I can’t drink this shit!’

  ‘I’ll deal with it.’

  Annette took the three mugs and poured the wine down the sink. She rinsed them and placed them back in the cupboard, upside-down. When she returned, Helly had gone back to her desk but the éclairs were still sitting on the paper plate next to Annette’s computer. She stopped and gazed at them. Calmly, despairingly, she felt the sweep of destiny. She checked her watch. Richard would be in his meeting for a while yet. There was time.

  She opened the bottom drawer on the right hand side of her desk and withdrew a small key. With that, she opened the top drawer on the left, which contained her personal belongings: hand cream, a box of tampons and a diskette containing her CV. At the back, there were a number of carefully folded paper bags. You never knew when you might need a paper bag. She drew one out and unfolded it. Then she slid the plate with the éclairs inside and re-locked the drawer.

  She took the back staircase. The ladies’ toilet was on the landing. Inside, she nudged the door of each cubicle gently with her foot to make sure she was alone. She, Joan and Helly were the only women on their floor so it was unlikely she would be interrupted. She went into a cubicle and locked the door. She lowered the toilet seat and sat down. She pulled the éclairs out of the paper bag and set the plate down in front of her.

  Then, leaning forward, she picked up an éclair and stuffed it almost whole into her mouth. Cream spurted over her chin. She leant further forward so that it would not plop down onto her skirt, which was all wool and needed dry cleaning. A crust of chocolate fell onto the floor and she picked it up, adding it to the thick sweet mush already in her mouth. She chewed as little as possible before she swallowed.

  She sat up, breathing deeply.

  Then she repeated the process with the next éclair. Then she did it again.

  Eating the three éclairs took her less than five minutes. She picked up the paper plate and placed it back in the bag. Then she folded it stiffly and placed it on the tray of the sanitary towel bin to her right. She pulled some toilet paper from the dispenser and wiped her face. As she did, she began to sweat. It always started with sweating. Then she began to feel dizzy. She slipped from the toilet and lifted the lid. She held her hair back from her face with one hand and grasped the side of the seat with the other. Then she waited for the huge, heaving, glorious rush – the push towards cleanliness, her punishment, her just deserts.

  While his visitors rose and put on their coats, Richard shuffled the papers on his desk. William was fidgeting at his elbow. He looked up at him.

&nb
sp; ‘It’s just that . . .’ William began.

  Richard held his hand up, half closed his eyes, pursed his lips and nodded. As far as he was concerned, the meeting was over. They hadn’t quite got around to the points William had wanted to cover but there were a few things Richard had to check out first. Young William was proving to be a bit slow on the uptake.

  The men from Arnold & Sons were chatting with the architect and making their way to the door. Richard said goodbye, rising from his chair and checking his watch. The others were leaving too.

  As he ushered them out, he caught a glimpse of Helly hovering nearby, waiting to clear the cups. He had some phone calls to make, so he shut the door and returned to his desk. It was ten to five. He didn’t want to be late tonight.

  He had only just sat down when there was a light tap and Helly entered. He looked up with a frown, ready to suggest that she left the crockery until after he had gone, but instead of going to gather it up she closed the door behind her, sat down in a chair freshly unoccupied by Mr J F Liver of Arnold & Sons Limited and crossed her legs. She looked at him with an expression he had never seen on her face before; it was a mixture of calmness, arrogance and purpose. He realised that he had never really thought of her as having a range of facial expressions at her disposal, until now.

  ‘Can I have a word,’ she said, after a pause. It was not phrased as a question.

  He raised his eyebrows and blinked. ‘Monday would be more convenient.’

  ‘Not for me.’

  He looked at her. He reminded himself that she was still a probationer and wondered if he ought to remind her too. This girl had an unfortunate manner. There were plenty of jobless youngsters out there who did not have unfortunate manners. He waited for her to continue.

  ‘It’s like this Richard,’ she spoke lightly but without flippancy. ‘I know you’re bent.’

  He paused. Then he said, ‘What?’

  ‘Bent. Bent double. As crooked as they come. You’ve been taking backhanders from Arnold & Sons; from Summerton Limited as well. A few others probably but those are the two I know about. I suppose they could turn up a few other worms if they looked into it. If someone told them to look into it that is.’

  Their gazes met.

  Helly looked down at her lap and then back up. ‘I suppose you’re wondering what I want. Now you might be thinking I want money and you’d be wrong. Also, I’m not going to start acting up and all that. I only want one thing and I’m not going to explain why either. It’s very simple and should be easy; mind you, I don’t know what you decided this afternoon.’

  Richard kept his face impassive.

  ‘If you gave Arnold & Sons the go ahead then you’re in a bit of trouble. However, you won’t have had time to do a Letter of Intent so I’m sure you can come up with something. Say there’s been a budget problem or something like that.’

  She paused, looking down again at her hands which, for once, were folded demurely in her lap. She was giving him the opportunity to ask her what the hell she was talking about but he remained silent. Eventually, she looked up again and continued.

  ‘The compulsory purchase order on Rosewood Cottage in Deptford, to make way for the South-East Line Extension Plan. I want it stopped.’

  Richard stared. The phone rang. They both jumped.

  Richard grabbed it. There was a pause. Then he said, ‘Tell him I’m tied up. Tell him I’m still in the meeting. It’ll have to wait until Monday . . . yes.’ He put down the phone.

  Helly continued. ‘How you do it is up to you. I don’t much care. Tell them that it isn’t necessary after all, or tell them that you’ve heard there might be a local campaign. You’re worried about bad publicity. You can swing it. You’re a lot cleverer than people round here think.’ She gave a small smile. ‘You can work around Rosewood Cottage, no problem. It’s a clear three hundred yards from the main site and there’s no statutory minimum. You can put the workman’s portakabin on the wasteground to the east. You could use Melford Road for daytime access; you don’t even need to go down Sutton Street.’

  Richard took a deep breath. Helly checked her watch. ‘Look Richard. I understand you’re a bit taken aback so I’ll give you the weekend to think about it. I really don’t give a damn how much money you’re making on the side. In your position I would probably want to screw the shit out of this bunch of bastards too. Good luck to you. All you have to do is think of an excuse to drop the compulsory purchase and I’ll never mention this again. I’ll just forget everything I know, unless you try and give me the boot of course in which case I go straight to the top. And by the way, I do have proof. Mind you, if you’ve got any sense you won’t want to get rid of me. It’s much better to have me who knows and doesn’t care than someone who might find out.’ She rose from her chair. ‘I’m not going to milk this Richard. You’ll be able to forget this conversation happened. Except just this once. Sorry, but clear away your own coffee cups.’

  Annette explained to Mr Javed that Richard was still in his meeting, although she knew full well that he was not. Mr Javed had been trying to get through all afternoon and was not pleased. He left a number for Richard to try first thing on Monday. She wrote it down and then took the note to Richard.

  She rounded the corner in time to see him storming away down the office, briefcase in one hand, pulling his mac on over his suit with the other. The belt from his mac was hanging from one loop, down to the floor, and the buckle clattered after him as he hurried off, as if a tiny dog was snapping at his heels.

  Chapter 2

  Annette caught the eight eighteen from Hither Green. It was a twelve minute walk to the station so she left the house between eight o’clock and five past; never later or earlier. She was always on Platform 1 in time, but the train rarely rewarded her punctuality. Sometimes it rained; sometimes the sun shone; sometimes a rainbow flew across the sky and took a suicidal dive into the backstreets of Catford; but at eight eighteen the eight eighteen to Charing Cross was always stuck in the wilds of Kent, trawling its way towards her through swathes of ever solid, unoptimistic south-east London travellers.

  Her alarm went off at six thirty. First, there was the stagger to the bathroom to run the bath, then the groggy clamber downstairs to make tea. Breakfast was a single slice of fine brown bread, toasted to a crisp and smeared with Marmite. She would climb the stairs again and sit on the toilet in her bathrobe while she ate, watching her bath froth and fill.

  She washed her hair every morning, leaving her towel wrapped round her head while she dried her long pale body. Then came the ritual inspection of her face, the peering and prodding, the squeezing here and there. She used a magnifying mirror for each square inch, avoiding the overall picture. Thirty-one, she sometimes thought; I am thirty-one and have the oily, bumpy skin of an adolescent. Soon I will have wrinkles. I will be the only woman in the history of cosmetics to go straight from Clearasil to Oil of Ulay.

  Then she would apply moisturiser, and make herself another cup of black tea. Sometimes she would pause in the kitchen, sipping and glancing round at the bare, gleaming surfaces. She kept all her crockery and utensils in a cupboard, out of sight. She hated clutter. A stranger coming into her home might assume she had only just moved in.

  Upstairs, it was time for foundation, powder and blush. She paid particular attention to her eyes, knowing them to be the most prominent feature in an otherwise small, rather flat face. They were wide-spaced, dark, clear. She applied base tint on the lids, then powder, liner, translucent mascara followed by the eyelash curler and then, coloured mascara – not too much, otherwise it smeared. The eyes alone took ten minutes.

  After her hair was gelled and blow-dried, she plugged in her curling tongs while she dressed. Recently, she had taken to wearing men’s shirts: crisp billowing cotton which crunched when she put on her coat. She loved white, brilliant white, white so white it made her teeth look slightly yellow. When she was dressed, she would sit on the edge of her bed and curl the ends of her hair, wa
tching herself in the full length mirror on the wardrobe. Her hair was brown, straight, layered and very fine. No matter how often she had it trimmed it always looked to her as though she was growing it out. Each morning she would flick and twist and spray, in hope. Each day at work she would go to the Ladies as soon as she got the chance, with a handbag-sized canister of hairspray, to flick and twist again.

  By seven fifty-five, the process was complete and she had five minutes to check the contents of her handbag, find her gloves and button her coat. Mostly, she looked in the mirror again and felt pleased. It was impossible not to feel pleased after all that effort. She would turn this way and that, slightly, and shake her head. She would imagine herself being glimpsed.

  Occasionally, she would despair. Once in a while, as she observed her slim, competent figure, she would be overcome with misery, an existential longing for short hair and good skin, for a look that looked the same in the middle of the day as in the middle of the night. She would settle for being less attractive if only she could always look the same, regardless of primping or preening or lotions or devices. Those she met saw careful make-up and gently hanging waves of hair. When she looked at her reflection she saw bad skin and flat, droopy locks – a look guaranteed to give a fresh surprise each morning.

  Any man who takes me on, she sometimes thought, is in for a bit of a shock when he gets up close.

  Richard was almost on time. She heard him unlocking his office door and went to pour his coffee.

  He looked up as she entered and extended a hand for the cup. ‘Thanks,’ he said.

  Then, as she was turning, he added, ‘Take a seat. I need a word.’ She was half-way to the seat when he said, ‘Shut the door.’

  Richard called her in for a word two or three times a month. He always asked her to shut the door. The word was usually about a suggested name change for the department or an adjustment to memo format. It would last ten to fifteen minutes and would involve Annette nodding and frowning slightly while Richard talked. He called it, bouncing ideas off her.