Secrets of the Tides (35 page)

She sighs. This is the part of the job she likes least: pitching ideas she doesn’t believe in to clients, selling to them in such a way that they will walk out of their offices delighted with the agency and happy with the exorbitant fees they will be charged. Sometimes she hates advertising.

She has just about pulled herself together when their Creative Director Leela appears at her desk.

‘Are you ready, my lovely?’ Leela asks, adjusting a laptop and folder of papers in her arms. ‘I’m going to head up to the boardroom and set up . . .’ Her words trail off as she looks at Dora. ‘Oh, you look like shit. Are you OK?’

Dora smiles in spite of herself. Diminutive Leela with her perfect coffee-coloured skin, lustrous black hair and tongue as sharp as steel. She has never been one to beat around the bush. ‘Yeah, I’m OK; just a dodgy takeaway last night. I’ll be all right.’

‘Are you sure? I mean, I don’t want to be rude but you really don’t look too good.’

‘Seriously, Lee, I’ll be fine. It’s just the smell of that bloody cereal.’

Leela laughs. ‘Yeah, that’s why I’m heading upstairs. It’s making my stomach churn too. The things we do, eh? Dominic had better give us a bloody big bonus for this one.’

Dora nods. ‘I’ll be up in a moment, you go on ahead.’

‘OK.’ Leela looks at her with concern, turns to go and then swings back. ‘Look, don’t take this the wrong way, but you might want to try some blusher.’

‘A bit pale?’

‘Well, you know Cate Blanchett at the end of that movie
Elizabeth
. . .’

Dora laughs weakly. ‘Say no more. I’ll get the bronzer.’

The Sunrise executives arrive on time and the meeting begins well. The clients smile and nod encouragingly as Dora talks through the launch strategy and the rationale behind their Captain Fizz character. The Creatives pull up the graphics and storyboards and by the time they have lined up the showreel Dora is feeling confident. The Sunrise executives are buying into it.

Before they dim the lights for their finale reel, Dominic stands to address the group. ‘Tina, Rick . . .’ he addresses each of the executives in turn with his winning smile. ‘I hope you’re as excited by what you’ve seen here today as we are. We consider your account to be the jewel in the Fielding and Fey crown. It’s a privilege to be working on your business; and even more exciting that we will be launching Wheat Fizzies as our first project together. I think the team here have come up with some sensational ideas and we’re excited about moving these forward over the coming weeks.’

The Sunrise Executives smile benevolently up at Dominic. He has a way of putting people at ease, a way of making his clients feel like the most important people to walk the earth.

‘To conclude, we’d just like to run you through a short promo reel we’ve put together with rough cuts of the Captain Fizz television spots. It’s an indication of where we feel we can take this campaign. We really do believe we’re on to something big here. As Dora has already said, if we can capture the attention of the three-to eight-year-old demographic, the sky really will be the limit.’

With well-timed efficiency the lights in the boardroom are dimmed and everyone turns their attention to the giant plasma screen running across one wall of the room. Dora swivels round in her chair for a better view. She hasn’t seen the tape – it has been running late – and she is interested to see what Leela and her team have come up with to deliver the final, knockout punch. She sees Leela grin at her from across the room. She is obviously happy; it’s a good sign.

The tape starts innocuously enough. There are roughs of the television ads and images of Captain Fizz battling against some of Sunrise’s biggest competing brands. The Executives chuckle in their seats and Dominic turns to give her a little wink. Then the tape shifts. It shows images of young children, around three or four years old, she guesses, running around a playground. They are laughing and playing innocently enough, but as Dora watches the scene unfold, she feels something dreadful grip at her stomach. She sits there in the dark, mesmerised by the screen. The children are dressed as their new marketing icon, Captain Fizz. They wear red trousers, blue T-shirts and long, home-made capes. As they run and play they throw Wheat Fizzies around laughing. ‘Take that! And that! You Can’t Fight the Fizz!’ they cry with cheerful glee and then, as the tape draws to its conclusion, one adorable blond-haired boy turns straight to camera and proclaims with an innocent, gap-toothed smile: ‘I love Captain Fizz: he’s the bestest superhero of them all.’

Dora feels something lurch sickeningly within and, without further warning, she leans over and vomits all over the Sunrise Sales Director’s impossibly shiny shoes.

She is sitting at her desk with her head in her hands when Dominic finds her. He knocks lightly on her door before entering and seating himself in the chair opposite.

‘What the hell happened to you back there?’

‘It’s . . . er . . . nothing, just a touch of food poisoning. I’m so sorry. I thought I was over it. I really hope I didn’t ruin things for the team.’

Dominic waves his hand dismissively. ‘Forget the team for a moment. A new pair of shoes and a spot of Febreze is all it took. Sunrise have gone away happy and we’re committed to stage two. It’s a great result. I can hardly believe it myself; I never thought they’d buy that Captain Fizz crap.’

Dora smiles weakly.

‘No,’ he continues. ‘It’s you I’m worried about. You haven’t been yourself these last few weeks. And don’t tell me it’s food poisoning. I know you better than that, Dora. If something’s bothering you then I want to know about it.’

Dora looks up at him in surprise. Dominic does not normally go in for touchy-feely management techniques. He is a renowned pit bull. She doesn’t know what to say. She can tell him the truth; but then what is that, actually? That she is pregnant and falling apart with guilt from a tragedy that happened ten years ago? It would be hard for a pit bull to swallow.

‘Look, Dominic, I will tell you, but not yet, OK? You have to trust me. This is personal. I know I need to sort it out.’ She sighs. ‘Can you leave it with me for now and if things haven’t improved in a few days, well, then you’re welcome to come back in here and sack my sorry arse.’

Dominic looks at her with concern. ‘I’d like to help, if I can?’

‘Honestly, Dom, trust me, you’re not the one who can help me right now.’

He stares back at her for a moment and then throws up his hands in defeat. ‘OK, I won’t ask again. You’ve got two weeks. I don’t want to see you back in the office until then, OK?’

Dora nods, grateful that he doesn’t require any further explanation at this stage.

He stands and walks towards the door. ‘You did good in there today, you know?’ he says as he reaches the hallway. ‘And I would never sack your “sorry arse”, as you so sweetly put it – certainly not because of a small bout of food poisoning. Besides,’ he says with a knowing wink, ‘they
were
terrible shoes.’

Dora breathes a sigh of relief.

‘Now, get yourself home to bed, young lady, before I see any more of your breakfast on my carpet!’

She still feels queasy so, rather than take the bus, Dora decides to walk for a while. It’s warm out and by the looks of the puddles splashed across the pavement she’s just missed a shower. The air is still damp and probably as fresh as it will ever get in London so as she walks she breathes in great lungfuls of the stuff, trying not to think about the exhaust fumes she’s inhaling too.

She makes her way along Old Street, under the railway bridge plastered in fly-posters and past a celebrated Banksy mural, before cutting up through Hoxton Square, weaving past council estates, corner shops and old Victorian terraces made good by the affluent media set. The council have been busy; summer flowers burst from beds and tubs, their bright colours in stark contrast to the grey cityscape. She sees a fluorescent yellow police sign appealing for information about an assault, and further on, a wall of beer kegs stacked outside a pub. Sunlight peers cautiously through the cloud, as if checking it is safe to come out; its rays bounce down onto the silver kegs, blinding her momentarily with their glare.

She carries on through the maze of estates until she sees the canal. The sun is still out and the sight of it glimmering on the pond-green water entices her down onto the towpath. There is no one visible in either direction and she pauses for a moment, peering into the water, watching as it creeps slowly past. There is a sheen of rainbow-coloured oil at the surface and an empty plastic bottle floating near the bridge; it bobs up and down like a fisherman’s float. Away from the hum of traffic and people it is suddenly and strangely quiet. Dora likes it; there is something about the unexpected stillness of the canal, the imperfect, dirty beauty of the waterway that appeals to her; she stays there for a few minutes, gazing into the dark, shifting mass of water, until a cyclist speeds towards her, dinging his bell. She waits for him to pass before heading down the towpath.

Halfway down the track she shrugs off her jacket. The sun has gained in confidence. Two ducks splash in the reed beds on the far side of the canal; Dora wishes she had some bread to throw. Every so often she passes a barge, moored to the side. Most are dilapidated old things: all crackled paint, rotting wood and grimy tarpaulin shrouds, but one or two are well cared for. She has just stopped to admire a beautiful red and blue boat with cheery checked curtains and an array of potted geraniums scattered across its deck when she sees the man walking towards her.

He is a long way off, a hundred metres or so, but the sight of him – and the young boy loping at his side – is like a physical blow to her body. The air rushes from her lungs. Blood drains from her face and her pupils dilate with shock, like the aperture of a camera seeking light. All around sound fades as her brain zeros in on the two figures walking towards her.

They’re still fifty metres away but she knows beyond all doubt that it’s him: whippet-thin with snake-like hips and long dark hair.

She knows it’s the man from the beach.

She peers as they come closer. The boy trotting along next to him is dressed in school uniform. He seems to be having trouble keeping up. An oversized satchel bounces on his back in time to his hurried steps. Dora cannot see the boy’s face, he is too busy watching the path as it races beneath his feet, but the shock of his straw-like hair glinting in the sunshine is enough to make Dora feel dizzy. She reaches out and puts a steadying hand on the barge.

Thirty metres . . . twenty metres. She cannot take her eyes off them.

Fifteen metres away and the boy stumbles. The man yanks at his skinny arm, half in irritation, half to hold him up. He snarls something from the twisted corner of his mouth and Dora sees the boy’s fair head droop lower still.

Ten metres and she remains fixed to the spot.

‘Come on,’ she hears the man urge, half dragging the scrap of a boy. ‘I told you we’d be late. We don’t have time for this.’

Dora ignores the man now. She only has eyes for the boy. She is willing him to look up at her. Pale freckled skin, wide mouth, her father’s clear blue eyes; she can see it so clearly in her mind’s eye. She already knows what she will see, but she needs to see his face all the same. She stands stock still, barely daring to breathe until finally the man spots her. He eyes her warily as they close the gap and moves one protective hand onto the boy’s shoulder.

‘My shoes hurt,’ the boy whines.

Dora’s heart misses a beat at the sound of the plaintive little-boy wail. She is back there on the beach.
Too fast. I’m thirsty. Can we stop?
She hears the echoes of Alfie and feels her heart split in two. It’s definitely him.

Without thinking she steps in front of them, blocking the path. She doesn’t know what will happen next. She doesn’t think to worry whether the man is dangerous. All she cares about is seeing the boy’s eyes. She needs to know that it’s really him.

‘What do you want?’ asks the man. He is aggressive, irritated.

Look at me. Alfie, look at me, she wills
.

And finally, he does. As the man pulls on the boy’s arm, trying to move him onto the grass verge and around her physical blockade, the boy lifts his eyes and stares up at her.

She sees a narrow, heart-shaped face, a pointed chin . . . and watery-brown eyes filled with uncertainty and fear.

Dora peers at him hungrily, and then her heart sinks.

‘Dad?’ the boy asks hesitantly, his eyes darting from Dora to the man and then back again.

‘Come on, son,’ the man says roughly. He turns to Dora. ‘You should watch where you’re going, lady!’

‘I’m . . . I’m sorry,’ she stammers, ‘I thought . . . I thought . . .’

‘Silly cow,’ the man mutters under his breath and as they disappear around the bend in the towpath Dora sinks to the still-damp ground, the breath leaving her body in great shuddering gasps.

She thinks about it the rest of the way home on the bus. Did she really think it would be Alfie? Ten years have passed. He wouldn’t be a little boy any more and the fact that she’d managed to convince herself so wholeheartedly, even for just a moment, that the young boy walking along the canal could be Alfie shows her just how mad she is. That boy couldn’t have been more than eight or nine and Alfie, if he were alive, would be fourteen now.

She rests her head against the graffitied interior of the bus and watches as the kebab shops and convenience stores of the Kingsland Road swim past. Is that what she wants, she asks herself? Does she really still want Alfie to be alive after all this time? Could he really have spent the last decade living some shadowy, alternate life, one far removed from the sheltered bosom of their family? It’s something she has never been able to give voice to, to anyone. But if she’s honest with herself, it’s never far from her thoughts, lurking there in the darkest corners of her mind, filed next to the unbearable tabloid stories of paedophiles and child smuggling rings too shocking to contemplate.

She knows the police pursued every line of enquiry. She knows that the inquest, based on the best possible evidence, declared Alfie to be dead. They were confident enough to issue them with a death certificate so that the funeral could go ahead. So why can’t she let it go? Why the nightmares? The panic attacks? The desperate searching for his face? Dora knows if she is to hang on to her sanity she must try to push the possibility of her brother still being alive from her mind. But it’s easier said than done when her mind is capable of playing such agonising tricks on her.