The Safe Place Read online

  After a while she began to feel sad. As she watched the well-dressed human traffic flowing steadily through the foyer, she wondered what it would be like to have a job for life. Decent money, security, colleagues, Friday-night drinks. It all sounded so liberating.

  Emily realized then how much she’d enjoyed her six weeks at Proem. She didn’t exactly fit in, of course, but people had started to say hi to her in the coffee room, and she’d even been sent a fun little questionnaire for the in-house “newsletter,” whatever that was. “Get to Know Your Team,” the email had said, with a note explaining that her answers would be posted the following week along with her photograph. It had felt nice to be included.

  She looked for more excuses to hang around. Buoyed by the attentions of the abandoned little boy, she found increasingly elaborate ways to entertain him: Twenty Questions, magic tricks, a treasure hunt. She swept the floor. The photocopier was beeping; the paper tray was jammed. The coffee machine needed cleaning, the cushions straightening. She wanted to leave the place looking perfect. Maybe someone would realize what a great employee she’d been and call her back. But when the office activity began to wind down and the boy’s mother finally appeared to reclaim her shrieking, writhing child (Emily had pumped him full of sugary bribes), she knew it was finally time to go.

  Picking up her bag, she took a last look around. Somewhere in a parallel universe, maybe she belonged in a place like this. Maybe there was a version of her walking around in a Stella McCartney outfit and carrying a briefcase.

  But back in the elevator, she studied her reflection once more. On second thought, she decided, probably not.

  CHAPTER TWO

  SCOTT

  THE FAT nib of the pen was too blunt to penetrate his skin, but Scott Denny was giving it his best shot. He forced it into the center of his palm, turning it slowly like a screw, first one way and then the other, grinding the metal against his flesh.

  It was painful but not nearly enough. He cast his eyes over his meticulously ordered desk, searching for something that might do the job properly. There wasn’t a lot to work with. His phone obviously wouldn’t do much damage. Neither would the metal prongs of the charger, not even if he pressed really hard. He could maybe crush his fingers with one of the heavy granite statuettes. Or smash the ornate picture frame and use the glass to carve lines into his arm. If he had a stapler handy, he could slam it repeatedly into his thigh.

  Too messy, though. Too loud. Too conspicuous.

  On the other side of his desk, her slender frame perched delicately on a Danish cherrywood swivel chair, his executive assistant, Verity, blathered on. Her immaculately manicured nails tapped an irregular beat on the keyboard of her laptop as she made updates to his schedule.

  “You’ve got the managing exec of Alkira-Dunn coming in with her lawyer tomorrow at eight thirty, and after that you’ve got a conference call with the rep for Truss and Boulder. He’s hoping we’ll finance a buyout. I’ve already talked to him; he doesn’t have a business plan and we’re a bit unclear on competitors, so we need to look at that tonight. And then if you need to run models you’ve got some time before your lunch meeting. Now, you need to tell me what you want me to do about…”

  She droned on and on.

  And under the table, grind, grind, grind.

  He really should stop. It was going to leave one hell of a mark.

  The sky outside, dissected into squares by bronze-mullioned windows, was dishwater gray. Where had the afternoon gone? In just a few hours, the streetlights would start flickering on: a neat line of fire stretching along Grosvenor Street all the way to Hyde Park, a procession of torches lighting the way home for all but the likes of him, the night owls for whom the days were not defined by the rising and setting of the sun but by the open and close of global trade.

  Scott suddenly registered silence. He looked up. Verity had paused mid drivel and was giving him an odd look.

  “What?” he said.

  “Yesterday’s start-up. I need to know if you want me to go ahead and contact their director.”

  Scott tried to recall the previous day and drew a blank.

  “Everything okay?” Verity’s doll-like face was rumpled with concern.

  “Fine.” He smiled thinly. “Just a few issues at home. Nothing major. Yes, set up a meeting. What else?”

  Verity gave him a sideways look and returned to her screen, unconvinced but keen to press on.

  Grind, grind, grind.

  Beside him on his desk, Scott’s phone lit up displaying yet another new message. There was now a neat little queue of them.

  Please talk to me …

  Last night I thought …

  We need you, don’t …

  I swear if you …

  I fucking hate you …

  Selfish thoughtless cowardly bastard …

  Grind, grind, grind.

  He nodded along with whatever Verity was saying, his thoughts drifting further and further away. Images darted birdlike through his mind, swooping and flashing their colors at him. He saw an orange sun peeking through feathery fronds of pampas grass. A wet footprint evaporating on hot polished travertine.

  Then a pillow, soft and plump. A delicate finger, pointing.

  And stars. A thick blanket of stars across a clear, black sky.

  He fought the urge to slap himself. His eyes wandered, seeking an anchor. Through the glass wall of his office he could see the worker bees buzzing from room to room at a time-lapsed pace. Clients came and went. Junior staff members leaned in doorways clutching dainty cups of espresso. And over in reception, a large potted fig tree wobbled as a fully grown woman tried to wedge herself behind it.

  He narrowed his eyes. Was he seeing things? No. His receptionist really was hiding behind a potted plant. Suddenly, a small boy jumped out from under the desk and hopped up and down, pointing with glee at the ill-concealed blond. She clutched at her chest as if shot, then fell to the ground in a heap. The boy laughed and sat on her head.

  Scott removed the pen from his hand.

  He watched, entranced, as the receptionist negotiated her way out from under the boy and staved off a second attack with some sort of trick. The child gazed up at her as she produced a small object from behind his ear, and for the first time in a long while, Scott smiled.

  There was a soft knock at the door, and both he and Verity turned to see David Mahoney’s smarmy little face peeping around the door. “Sorry to interrupt,” David said, “but I just wanted to let you know that it’s done. I told her.”

  Scott blinked. “What?”

  “The temp on reception. I fired her. As … as we discussed.” David’s eyes slid to Verity, who shrugged.

  “Oh.” Scott glanced back toward reception. The young woman was now galloping around and flapping her arms like wings. “Yes. Good. Thank you.”

  David pressed his hand to his heart and pretended to faint. “Oh god, don’t do that to me. For a minute there I thought I’d made a mistake.”

  “No. No mistake.”

  “Thank heaven for that.” He let out a high-pitched laugh. “I was worried I’d be out the door next!”

  Scott stared at him.

  “Okay, well, she ought to be packing up her things as we speak.”

  “No rush,” Scott murmured. Down the hall, the receptionist was wrapping what looked like a stack of cookies in a napkin. She pressed them into the little boy’s hand.

  David backed away with an almost courtly bow and the door clicked shut after him. There was a brief pause, during which Verity raised a penciled eyebrow. “Dare I ask what she did to offend you?”

  Scott said nothing, and Verity went back to her laptop. She knew better than to push him. She resumed her meaningless stream of facts and figures.

  And underneath it, a small unpleasant sound.

  Tap tap tap.

  Scott frowned. It was coming from under the table. A soft, wet rhythm, somewhere near his feet.

  Tap tap tap.

>   Peering down, he saw several tiny dark splashes of blood on the polished concrete. Well, would you look at that, he almost said. Clearly, you should never underestimate a blunt instrument.

  CHAPTER THREE

  EMILY

  AFTER HEADING out of the main lobby and onto the street, Emily circled around the back of the building and turned left toward the small Tesco Metro near the Tube station. She was starving, and the cupboards at home were pretty much bare. A mental rummage through her fridge turned up a small hardened block of cheese, a jar of curry paste, tomato sauce, and a carrot. Not even Jamie Oliver could make a meal out of that.

  She checked her phone as she walked. No missed calls, no new emails; just a text from her acting agent, Lara, reminding Emily of the times of both the following day’s audition and the routine admin meeting they’d scheduled for an hour beforehand. Emily tapped out a response: Yay! See you tomorrow! and quickened her step. At least getting fired meant that she wouldn’t have to sneak out of work again. Actually, maybe it was a sign. Destiny or something. Maybe she was supposed to get fired so that she could go to this audition. After all, the universe worked in strange and mysterious ways.

  In the supermarket, Emily found herself humming along to the tinny background music as she browsed the aisles, her basket dangling from her elbow. She picked up milk, eggs, cereal, onions, tomatoes, and chicken, and on a cheerful whim she threw in some smoked salmon and an avocado. By the time she reached the self-service checkout, she’d also acquired a block of the good chocolate and a four-pack of Bacardi Breezers, because why not?

  Unfortunately, the display on the card reader soon told her why not. Card declined, insufficient funds.

  Emily frowned. Impossible. She definitely had money in that account; she hadn’t been paid yet, but the rent wasn’t due until next week.

  A Tesco employee hovered nearby. “Do you need some help?”

  “No, no.” Emily grinned. “All good, just used the wrong card, that’s all. I won’t be a sec.”

  She pulled her phone out of her bag and brought up her banking app. Her account details appeared. Shit. The rent came out this week, not next week. It had bounced, which meant she had yet again hit her overdraft limit and would have to apply for her third extension in as many months. She would be laughed out of the bank.

  “You sure you don’t need help?” asked the shop assistant again.

  “Yes, fine, no problem.” Emily went to pull out her credit card and remembered that it had been canceled due to irregular payments. No, no, no. She briefly considered running out of the shop without paying but thought better of it.

  Blushing, she beckoned the Tesco lady over. “Actually, I do have a bit of a problem. This is so embarrassing, but I’ve left my card at home. I must have picked up my old one by mistake. So annoying—they look exactly the same!”

  The woman peered at her over the top of her glasses. She was nobody’s fool. “You can go home and get it,” she said. “We’ll keep your shopping here until you get back.”

  “Well, no. I live quite far away so that’s not really … Look, can I just take a couple of things and leave the rest?”

  Nobody’s Fool rolled her eyes. Without saying a word, she pushed a couple of buttons on the screen and swiped her staff clearance card, erasing Emily’s shopping list and bringing up the start page once more.

  “Thanks. Sorry.” Emily paid for the Breezers, milk, and eggs, and watched as her extravagances were taken away.

  Outside on the street, she bit her nails. Her pay would come in next week, but it would only just cover the missed rent, so there would be nothing left for food or travel. Or bills. She thought of the overdue electricity reminder taped to the fridge.

  Things were not looking good. Nobody’s Fool was right; she needed help.

  * * *

  Rather than get straight on the Tube, Emily took the side streets off Piccadilly Circus and Trafalgar Square down to the river. The smoggy London air was far from fresh, but it beat the vacuum of the underground and she needed a clear head.

  On the Golden Jubilee Bridge, she placed her shopping bag at her feet and pulled her phone out of her pocket. Underneath, the Thames slid by, brown and soupy. Her thumb hovered over her mother’s number. Did she really have the nerve to call? Was she that desperate?

  “I have had enough!” Juliet had shrieked during Emily’s last visit. “You can’t keep doing this! You can’t just disappear for months on end, no phone calls, no emails, nothing, and then show up out of nowhere asking for money.” Afterward, the two of them had sat in stunned silence, neither knowing how to bridge the gap. Juliet, as always, was the first to try. “I’m sorry for raising my voice,” she said, her face drawn. “But your father and I worry so much about you, and we’re afraid that … Look, it would just be lovely to hear from you because you’d like to say hello, and not just because you want something.”

  That had been Emily’s cue to be gracious, conciliatory. Instead she chose the lowest road. “I’m sorry I’m such a massive disappointment to you guys,” she said, “but you were the ones who adopted a kid from fuck knows where. If you wanted perfection then maybe you should’ve left me where I was.”

  Juliet had recoiled as if slapped. “That is not fair, Emily. And you know it.”

  Emily did know it, but there was a spark of truth in what she’d said. Plus, she always got a kick out of seeing her saintly mother snap. What, no jolly silver lining for me? Oh, how sad. This time, though, the look on Juliet’s face had been somewhat less satisfying.

  After a few moments, Emily replaced the phone in her bag. The river stretched out beneath her, full and fat. Lazy waves licked the cold stone walls and slapped the undersides of party boats, and Emily had a fleeting urge to throw herself in. Life just felt … too big. She was supposedly an adult, but for some reason she struggled to deal with, well, anything really. She didn’t understand her rental agreements. Tax returns were like cryptic crosswords to her. Conversations about mortgages and small-business loans (very rare in her life, but they did crop up occasionally) might as well have been in Urdu for all the sense they made to her. She seemed to spend most of her days feeling baffled and overwhelmed. Which, she mused, perhaps explained why she now found herself broke and unemployed, standing alone on a bridge with only half her shopping.

  Sighing heavily, she picked up her bag and turned away from the water, heading instead for home.

  * * *

  As usual, the door of Emily’s building got stuck on the bulging carpet, and she was forced to squeeze her body sideways through the gap. Her cardigan snagged on the latch, which pulled a small hole in the weave. “Crap,” she muttered, trying unsuccessfully to shove the door shut again. She gave it a kick. The doorknob fell off.

  She trudged up the stairs, brushing a film of dust off the bannister with her sleeve. Inside the flat, the ever-present smell of curry, courtesy of the Indian restaurant below, was today enriched by an acrid tang of burned toast. Spencer must be cooking.

  She poked her head into the kitchen, expecting to find her flatmate in his favorite spot at the table, bent over a packet of tobacco and some rolling papers. He wasn’t, but the evidence suggested he’d only just left. An ashtray full of roll-up stubs smoldered on the table, and a thin haze of smoke hung in the air. A tub of margarine sat lidless and sweaty next to greasy plates and, in the corner, takeout boxes spilled from the bin.

  Curling her lip in disgust, Emily returned the margarine to the fridge, opened a window, and then picked her way over to the countertop to search for a clean glass—one that didn’t have a small pool of alcohol at the bottom. Something caught her eye as she rummaged. Among the debris was an oil-spattered note.

  Guess what, it said in Spencer’s lazy scrawl, rent bounced again, landlord lost his shit. We’ve got four weeks.

  Emily sat at the table and cradled her head in both hands. She racked her brains, running through a mental list of friends who might have a spare room or even a sofa she coul
d crash on for a few weeks but, surprisingly, she came up with nothing.

  How is that even possible? I have friends, don’t I?

  She did, but many of them had thrown in the towel and moved away from London to get married and have kids. Now they were all scattered across the country, moving on with their lives, sending invitations to events that made absolutely no sense to her. Tupperware parties. Gender-reveal parties. She had no idea what these things even meant. Whenever she’d made the effort to visit, she’d found that she had nothing to say, nothing to contribute. It was as if they’d all flown off to the moon and left her behind.

  Of the friends who had stuck around, she could only think of two who might have had space for her, but Louise had sublet her room while she was away on tour and Rhea’s father had just died, so the time probably wasn’t the right time to ask for favors. That, and Rhea’s place was like a drug den. The last time Emily had stayed over she’d woken up in the living room at 8 A.M., hungover as fuck, surrounded by bearded men and bong smoke. She hadn’t the courage to ask who they were or where they’d come from, so she’d fronted it out, sitting up and pretending everything was normal. The TV had been on, spitting out news story after gruesome news story, the men all staring with glassy eyes at grim accounts of domestic violence and mass shootings, child abuse and murders, and she’d sat and watched with them for over half an hour before she’d felt brave enough to stand up and leave the room.

  And then Rhea had appeared, gray-faced and groggy, insisting that Emily come with her to her niece’s second birthday party. “Please, Em,” she’d pleaded, “I can’t face it on my own.” So, off they’d trudged to a clean white house in Putney where cake-faced kids literally ran rings around them. Emily had never felt so dirty in all her life. That was three years ago, and she hadn’t been back to Rhea’s house since.