The Safe Place Read online

Of course, there were her parents, but the thought of moving back in with Juliet and Peter, even temporarily, almost made her retch. There was another option there, but it was only marginally less horrendous. Over the past five or six years, Emily had called her mother countless times and asked to borrow money; always Juliet and never Peter, who told anyone who would listen that kids these days would only learn self-sufficiency when they were thrown into the churning waters of adulthood with no life jacket. Juliet, on the other hand, always caved, but would it be different this time?

  Emily hadn’t spoken to either parent since her last visit, so naturally a repeat performance would go down like a shit sandwich. But what was the alternative? Live in a box on the street? She was fairly certain that her mother would rather part with some cash than see her sleep in a doorway. Eighty percent certain, anyway. Maybe seventy-five.

  Emily looked at her phone. Her mouth was bone dry.

  Just do it.

  She picked it up and pressed the call button.

  Juliet picked up after six long rings. “Hello, Emily? Is that you?”

  “Yes, it’s me. Hi.”

  “Darling, hello! I’m so glad you called! Listen, let me just … hang on, I can’t quite…”

  “Hello? Are you there?” There was a lot of noise in the background, clinking and laughter and music.

  “Hold on,” Juliet was saying, “I’m just…” There was a squeak and a bang, and the chatter was instantly muffled. “Ah, that’s better! Sorry, I’m in a restaurant. You know the one on the corner where the old bank used to be? They’ve done it up. It’s very nice, the food is superb.”

  “That’s nice.” Emily took a breath. “Listen, I just wanted to apologize for, you know, the thing at your house. The way we left things … I’ve been feeling bad.”

  “Oh. Well. Thank you, darling, I appreciate that.” Juliet paused. “How about we just forget it happened, okay?”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Absolutely.”

  “Okay. So, we’re good?”

  “Yes, sweetheart, we’re good.”

  “Cool.” Emily picked at a dry smear of egg yolk on the tabletop. “So … how’ve you been?”

  Juliet chuckled. “I’m just fine.” She made it sound like a question, her tone playful.

  She’s being weird, Emily thought, instantly on her guard. “And Peter?”

  “Yes, your father is also fine. He’s here, actually. Your grandparents and Auntie Cath, too. Do you want to say hello?”

  “Oh, no, I don’t want to disturb.” A pang of guilt curdled into bitterness. How cozy, a quiet family dinner without the black sheep, just the way you like it. “Look,” she said, pressing on. “This is going to sound bad, but please hear me out because I’m, uh, dealing with a bit of a situation here.”

  “Are you alright?”

  “Well, I’m not dying or anything. But things are a bit difficult. I’m in a bit of trouble.”

  “You’re making me nervous.” Juliet snickered. “You’re not pregnant, are you? I only ask because I know you’re not calling about money.”

  “I told you it would sound bad.”

  “Emily—”

  “And I wouldn’t ask unless it was an emergency.”

  “Emily, stop.” Juliet’s tone had changed completely. “Are you about to ask me for more money? Yes or no.”

  Emily swallowed. There was no way around it. “Kind of. Yes. But please believe me when I say I’m desperate.”

  There was a sigh, followed by a short cluck of a sound that could have been a laugh or a sob.

  Emily listened resolutely to the muted clink and buzz of the restaurant, steeling herself for a lecture. “Oh, come on,” she said, breaking the silence. “It can’t be that much of a shock.” She didn’t mean to sound sulky, but that’s how it came out.

  When it came, Juliet’s voice was thick. “I’m not shocked. Not one bit. I just thought…”

  “What? What did you think?”

  A sniff and a rustle of tissue.

  “I just thought you might be calling to wish me a happy birthday.”

  Oh. Fuck.

  “Juliet, I—”

  There was a soft click and the line went dead.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  SCOTT

  FOR SCOTT, every working day began with an early morning ritual. He arrived at the office before sunrise and wandered from room to room, trailing his fingers lovingly over the curves and corners of his kingdom. Soft leather, polished timber, frosted glass, and black steel: he caressed it all, making a silent inventory of every detail. He knew the building as intimately as he knew his own skin. He’d overseen the entire renovation process, from knocking down the first wall to repositioning the electrical outlets; he remembered every single purchase, every decision, every placement. This space was his brainchild, his vision, his literal dream come true.

  Years ago, just after graduation and before landing his first job with an investment bank, Scott had fallen asleep on a train from London to Bristol and woken up knowing exactly what he was going to do with his career. With a clear and burning certainty, he knew that one day he would launch his own fund, one with an emphasis on the development and mentorship of emerging companies, and that he would build the perfect corporate palace in which to house it. He could see the pure beauty that would be his offices, the devilish expense hidden beneath dazzling simplicity. He’d nursed his dream and worked relentlessly until it came to life. That was his way. That was how he’d been as a child, as a teenager, and as a young adult, always dreaming and planning and working, pulling thoughts out of his head and making them real.

  Somehow, he’d managed to orchestrate his married life in the same way, dreaming up the perfect girl to be his perfect wife and only barely believing his good luck when Nina showed up behind the counter of his local coffee shop. He’d never seen anything more beautiful in his life. She was a miracle, the very image of what he wanted: a mysterious stranger from a far-off land with a face as fresh as ocean spray. It was love at first sight. With her, he knew, he would build something pure, something unbreakable. And sure enough, as if by magic, their perfect life had materialized before their eyes.

  In fact, for a long time it seemed he only had to think of what he wanted and, lo, it would appear. Even Nina couldn’t dispute his ability to make special things happen. She used to say he was like a glassblower, somehow able to coax shape and color from dry, dusty sand.

  A warm glow spread over Scott’s shoulder, and he turned to see the sun breaking free of the London skyline. Its buttery rays came bouncing through the glass walls of the mezzanine, lighting up the meeting rooms as if from the inside and transforming the whole office into a glittering prism. He tried to smile. In the past, his offices had always made him happy, but lately he’d found himself stroking the surfaces not with pleasure but with melancholy, as if he were saying goodbye. As if the mere touch of his finger could turn his dreams into dust and his glass back into sand.

  Shrinking away from the light, he looked down over the balcony. The mezzanine was one of his favorite features, not least because it provided a bird’s-eye view of reception. It was from here that he liked to watch his staff arrive for work. Verity was always first, her long hair swishing behind her like a cape. Then his most senior associates appeared, usually followed by a few of the younger, hungrier junior team members. His second-in-command would show up at some point. And then, over the past six weeks, almost always red-faced and out of breath, Emily the receptionist had brought up the rear.

  Initially, Emily had caught his attention because there’d been something familiar about her, something Scott couldn’t put his finger on. But she’d held it because she was fascinatingly different. Wide-eyed and often late, she couldn’t have been further from the highly experienced temps they usually hired. She’d stared at the switchboard as if she’d never seen anything so complicated in her life and greeted everyone who walked through the door like they were a guest at a surprise party
without ever stopping to check who anyone was (he once saw her show a courier through to the boardroom). With her panic-stricken responses to most requests, she made for an amusing distraction from his clogged in-box and buzzing phone.

  Every day he’d watched her fumble around on the desk, dropping the headset and misplacing paperwork. He watched her eat lunch on her own, compulsively checking her phone with visible disappointment. He watched her watching the team, especially the girls: she followed them with hungry eyes, imitating their show-pony walks and bouncy hairstyles, aping their outfits with high-street knockoffs, desperate for them to notice her. And as he watched, an idea had taken shape, or the seed of one, at least—and not an especially viable one at that. But as the days rolled by and Nina’s messages became increasingly frantic, the seed grew, until one day he decided to conduct a few tests.

  First, he ran a Google search. He discovered Emily was an actress, though not a successful one. She’d grown up in a village in Derbyshire. Her social-media accounts revealed limited activity—just a few pictures of the same two or three friends hanging out at cheap venues and free events. No boyfriend. No family photos.

  He made a few phone calls, dug a little deeper.

  He asked Verity to relay a few random requests, assign some tasks that he knew Emily had already completed, just to see if she would do them again. She did. He asked her to go outside at a specific time every day for a week and take a photograph of the building at the end of the block. She went. He emailed her the password for an absent junior’s desktop computer and instructed her to access a file marked PRIVATE. She raised no objections. She was so eager to please that she complied with every order without hesitation.

  He then found a Jungian personality quiz online, the type often used for career assessment, and pasted it into an email, tailoring it with a few “fun” questions of his own. Anticipating that Emily would enjoy the special attention, he invented a story about a company newsletter and an initiative to spotlight individual members of the team. Naturally, she took the bait. Her answers were most illuminating.

  He even followed her home one night, shadowing her all the way to Deptford, where he’d watched her wrestle with the door to a depressing little flat above a curry house.

  And then something amazing had happened. He’d made a call to a former colleague, cashing in on a long-standing debt of thanks. Three days later, that former colleague made good on his word and delivered a thick orange envelope to Scott’s desk, the contents of which almost stopped Scott’s heart. He’d never been one to believe in fate but here, it seemed, was a certain kind of proof. The heavens, the gods, whatever: something had conspired to lead that girl here, to Proem, to him. It could be no coincidence. Everything was too spookily, flawlessly aligned.

  That very afternoon, the idea went from tiny seed to fully formed plan. He called in a few more favors, made a few arrangements. Placed some ducks in a neat little row. And then, about a week later, he instructed David Mahoney to terminate Emily’s employment.

  Of course, he’d had moments of doubt. Moments when he’d questioned his own judgment. But then, as he’d watched Emily play hide-and-seek in reception with the little boy, the final piece fell into place. She was the right choice; he was sure of it.

  Soon, he would call Yves. Start the preparations. There was just one thing left to do.

  In his pocket, his phone vibrated once. Twice. Three times. Probably Nina again. Fortunately, he’d had the good sense to deal with yesterday’s barrage of messages before he’d gone to sleep. They’d spoken at midnight, her anguished whispers traveling the distance between them like a thread-thin beam of light, arcing back and forth over land and sea, bouncing off stars and satellites. He used to see their connection like that: an unbreakable line from his heart to hers, holding them together no matter how far apart they might be. Not anymore.

  “Please,” she’d begged yet again. “You can’t imagine what it’s like. I’m so alone.”

  He’d murmured his support, told her what she wanted to hear.

  “If I just had someone to talk to, I…” She stopped. Switched tack. “When are you coming? When?”

  For a few sweet moments he’d allowed himself to remember what it was like before. He thought about how it felt to laugh with her, to hold her and feel her hair tangled around his fingers. He remembered the day they met, and euphoria rose in his heart like a ghost from a grave. He conjured the smell of her perfumed skin and the warmth of her body, and after they hung up he’d felt, briefly, like he could breathe again. But inevitably, the feeling hadn’t lasted long. Within a couple of hours, he was back to jittery, agitated, and semiviolent.

  Downstairs, the rumble of the elevator signaled the start of the day. The doors opened and Verity stepped out, her heels clicking across the polished concrete.

  Scott cracked his knuckles and rolled back his shoulders. He pulled his phone from his pocket, determined to dismiss Nina’s latest communications and forget about her for at least the next few hours. But the missed call wasn’t from his wife.

  Scott checked the number. The caller had left a voicemail message. Hitting the button, he lifted the phone to his ear.

  “Scott. It’s Tom. Tom Stanhope?” The voice was eager, confident. “Sorry it’s early. Just wanted to tell you that I spoke to Damien and the job’s going ahead. Everything’s moving surprisingly quickly, actually, which is great. We leave next month. So, I just wanted to call and say how much I appreciate you setting it all up. You’ve changed my life, man. And that thing we spoke about?” The man’s voice became hushed, as if he’d just ducked into a quiet room. “It’s getting sorted today. Ten o’clock. So, yeah, I hope it helps you out. Anyway, give me a call later. And thanks again.”

  Scott deleted the message and slid the phone back into his pocket.

  “Scott?” Verity’s voice rang out from somewhere below. “Are you up there?”

  “Yep,” he called back. “Coming down.”

  Taking a deep breath, he threw one last glance at the empty reception desk before making his way back down the stairs, sliding his palm over the bronze stair rail as he went.

  * * *

  By 9:15, Scott was already exhausted. The breakfast meeting was not going well. Sweeping his aching eyes around the table, he tried to pay attention to the conversation. Verity was on a roll, engaging their investors with her usual flair, but Scott couldn’t keep up. The restaurant was too loud. He felt distracted and devoid of ideas. The conversation with Nina had resulted in a fitful night’s sleep; he’d tossed and turned, finally drifting off at maybe 3 A.M. Then two hours later, for reasons he now couldn’t quite fathom, he’d forced himself out of bed and into the gym.

  Underneath the table, he balled his hand into a fist and winced. Gouging a hole in his palm with a pen had not been a great move. He’d cleaned and dressed the wound, but it was still throbbing. When Verity had asked about the bandage he’d told her he’d burned it on the oven. She seemed to buy it.

  Someone nudged him.

  “Sorry,” he said, clearing his throat. “What was that?”

  “I said, congratulations on the latest IPO,” said the investor to Scott’s left, an Italian man with hair plugs and a frozen Botoxed forehead. “Impressive. I don’t mind telling you that a few of us had our doubts about that one, but once again, you did it.” He tapped Scott gently on the arm. “I tell you something now, Scott Denny: I will always invest with you. Whatever it is, I’m in.”

  “I appreciate your faith in me.”

  “Oh, I have faith. You know why? Because you, my friend, are ruthless.” The Italian held aloft his macchiato in a silent toast. “They told me in the beginning that you were ruthless, and that’s exactly what you are.”

  Scott nodded, accepting the compliment with what he hoped passed for grace. Yes, he was ruthless. But he had good reason to be.

  He clenched his jaw and shifted in his seat. He was in no mood to celebrate. Actually, that was an understatement. Suddenly,
he was in no mood to drink, eat, talk, think, or suffer any company whatsoever.

  Verity said something to him from across the table. He smiled, but inside him a storm was gathering.

  “Another piccolo, Mr. Denny?” The maître d’ hovered at his elbow.

  Scott dismissed him with a small shake of his head. He felt unwell. A hot rage was building behind his eyes, and the urge to unburden himself right there in the restaurant, to vomit his secrets all over the white linen tablecloth, became almost uncontrollable.

  Checking his watch, he placed his napkin on the table and pushed his chair back. “Gentlemen, I hope you’ll excuse me,” he said to the table. “But I have another meeting to attend.”

  From the corner of his eye, he saw Verity’s head snap up. She mouthed something at him. What meeting?

  “I’ll leave you in Verity’s capable hands. Thank you for your time, gentlemen, and I look forward to seeing you again.”

  Shaking hands with both investors, he turned toward the door, leaving his assistant frantically scrolling through her calendar, looking for an appointment she would never find.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  EMILY

  FEELING SOMEWHAT hungover and determined to avoid a discussion with Spencer about their imminent eviction, Emily crept out of the house early and caught the DLR into central London. Curling up against the window, she replayed the phone call with Juliet. There was no getting around it: she’d messed up. Again. She was a terrible person.

  She felt the sting of tears and lowered her head, grateful for the unspoken commuter law prohibiting eye contact with fellow passengers. When did life get so hard? Where did it all go wrong?

  Growing up in Hoxley, she’d always felt different from all the boring nobodies who worked in the village bakery and the butcher’s and the post office; she was braver, bolder. Better. For years she’d marveled at her parents, astonished that they could stand the boredom. Peter’s small dental clinic had been running like clockwork for more than thirty years, the same sequence of events repeating through the week in brain-meltingly dull eight-hour units, and for as long as Emily could remember, Juliet had worked three days a week as a landscaper for a local National Trust site. Filling their weekends with coffee, gardening, and watercolor paints, the two of them were as much a part of the local landscape as the drystone walls threading their way over the Derbyshire hills, and they rarely ventured farther afield than Sheffield, except to take their annual two-week holiday in Tenerife. Her school friends had been the same: no ambition, no imagination. She would listen to them talk about baby names and wedding dresses, and shake her head at them, wondering how they could endure village life, and they would shake their heads right back, equally dumbfounded that she could not.