The Temporary (19 page)

‘Please stay. We’ve got to talk – please!’

She picked up her coat and bag and left the room before he could even stand up. He heard her open the front door and he waited a few seconds, praying for her to slam it. The soft and distant click signalled his condemnation.

‘What’s this?’ said Ralph, gesturing helplessly at a large cardboard box which sat on the top of his desk. He put his arms around it to lift it to the floor, buckling beneath the weight, and straightened up to find a dusty embrace imprinted on the front of his shirt. ‘Oh, damn it!’ he said irritably, brushing himself down. ‘Roz, who the bloody hell put this here? My desk is not a dumping ground for boxes of rubbish.’

‘It’s them magazines you wanted,’ said Roz. Her eyes were fixed on her computer screen, but they jumped from side to side in an effort not to look up. ‘I brought them in.’

‘Oh.’ Ralph sat down and bent guiltily over the box. ‘That’s very kind of you. Did you carry them up on your own? They’re very heavy.’

‘It was all right,’ shrugged Roz. He opened the box and took a magazine from the top of the pile. There were hundreds of them, all with the title
Auto
Week
emblazoned across their tattered covers in red. He put the magazine on his desk and regarded it with polite interest. On the front was a photograph of a stationary car. A woman in a swimming costume lay on
her back on the bonnet, as if the car had just hit her. She looked rather like Francine. He looked at the date, and saw that the magazine was almost fifteen years old.

‘Thanks very much, Roz,’ he said loudly. ‘I shall enjoy reading these.’

Roz was silent, but he saw a noisy blush begin to march across her cheeks. She sat still for a moment, as if waiting for something, and then began to tap at her keyboard. Ralph pushed the magazine discreetly to one side and stared at his empty desktop. He was tired, his limbs heavy with the residue of a fractious night filled with flickering half-dreams in which he had been visited hourly by the horrible succubus of fear. He had woken feeling smothered and his thoughts still sounded tinny and distant, like a radio playing in another room. Having no alternative, he had put on his life again like a set of old, grubby clothes, hating their smell and feel the more for having removed them. Now and again a fierce pain of recollection stabbed at his chest as memories of the night before struggled free of his attempt to suppress them.

‘How do you spell inflation?’ said Roz.

She was typing avidly, staring at the screen and sighing as she jabbed a finger at the keyboard to annihilate a word. Ralph watched her, faintly distracted by the rare sight of her industry. She pressed a button and then turned to gaze expectantly at the printer. It began to whirr, disgorging a single white sheet. She picked it up and turned back to her desk, mouthing the words and nodding her head as she read. Then, to Ralph’s surprise, she got up and walked in a half circle to his side of the desk, placing it squarely before him.

‘What’s this?’ he said.

She didn’t reply and he looked at the sheet of paper. It was a formal office memorandum, addressed to him, from Roz L. Corby. It was headed ‘Re: Sale of Magazines’. Ralph looked
up, but Roz had disappeared. He turned back to the sheet of paper.

‘With regards to the copies of
Auto
Week
which I delivered to you this morning, I would like to remind you of the matter of payment for these magazines. The charge will be as is on the cover, which when you consider the matter of inflation is less than you would pay for them these days!’

It was signed, ‘yours sincerely, Roz L. Corby’. Ralph put his head in his hands and began to laugh.

‘Can I talk to Gary?’ demanded an American voice.

It was mid-afternoon, a time of lassitude and meetings, and the office was half-empty.

‘He’s not here,’ snapped Francine, who found interruptions of languor even more irritating than those of occupation. ‘Call back later.’

Lorraine looked up from the neighbouring desk, her fingers petrified in the air above her keyboard. Francine felt her gaze loiter and then wander away.

‘I see,’ said the man sternly. ‘And what’s your name, little lady?’

‘Francine Snaith.’

Lorraine’s eyes were on her again, avid now with interest.

‘Well, Francine, do you always talk to your boss’s clients that way? Because if you do, I think he should know about it.’

‘Sorry,’ said Francine sourly.

‘You don’t sound too sorry,’ said the man. ‘What’s going on, Francine?’

‘I’m busy,’ Francine replied. ‘I haven’t got all day.’

‘Well, if you can find the time in your schedule, tell Gary that Harry Rosenthal wants to talk with him.’

‘Who was that?’ said Lorraine excitably when Francine put the phone down.

‘Harry Rosenthal,’ said Francine coolly. She could feel her legs shaking beneath her desk.

‘Mr
Rosenthal
?’

Lorraine raised her eyebrows in pencilled astonishment and turned reluctantly back to her work, looking as if she were about to burst with the import of what she had just witnessed. Francine could see her shaking her head as she typed. She got up and made herself some coffee without offering to make any for Lorraine. It was still only three o’clock, but Francine was already straining with an almost uncontainable desire to leave the office. Mr Lancing was out for the afternoon and wouldn’t come in until the next morning, but Lorraine was watching her now, glancing vigilantly up from her screen every few minutes with the mistrustful aspect of a security guard. It would be impossible for her to leave unnoticed, and she had already gone home twice in the middle of the afternoon during the past week under the cover of illness and didn’t dare try it again. There were only two hours to wait before she could walk away free. Surely she could make them pass? She forced herself back into her chair and cast about for something to do. A tape recorded by Mr Lancing earlier in the day lay on her desk, awaiting
transcription
. Francine considered the possibility of typing it up, and felt her frame go limp at the prospect of something so laborious. Now that her sense of duty had run dry, she required not industry but entertainment to propel her through the long minutes. It had proved impossible, since that shrouded moment in which she had ceased to be interested in Lancing & Louche, to tame herself again into the habits of work, and her belief that she needed a change permitted the impulses of disruption to rule her in their stead. How could she be expected to carry on, when everything about the place now bored her? She needed excitement, variety! People didn’t look up any more when she came into the office – even Mr
Louche no longer loitered at her desk – and Francine knew that, once extinguished, the quality of novelty could not be revived. Occasionally, faint warnings of a danger up ahead reached her ears, and when she heard them unpleasant anxieties crept across her thoughts. The agency would be angry with her if she lost this job. What if she didn’t find anything else? What if, when she dug into her resources, she found their seams exhausted, the future used up, all her luck gone? The idea was enough to induce panic, and Francine would try to struggle back into her harness, but in doing so she was faced with a still more disagreeable fate: her belief that she always deserved something better than that which she possessed was her engine, and without it she would surely grind to a halt. The thought of what might happen if she did filled her head with such noise that the sound of other perils was lost. She put Mr Lancing’s tape into the machine and switched it on. He had placed his mouth too close to the microphone, and when she put on her headphones she could hear his breath grating against her ears. She fixed her eyes on the screen and began to type.

At twenty past five Francine switched off the tape and started gathering her things. Mr Lancing’s letter dangled unfinished on the screen, but considering the effort she had gone to in making the gesture at all she felt it couldn’t be expected of her then to put herself out by staying late. Lorraine sat stolidly at her desk, as if she had no intention of going home. When she saw Francine rise from her chair, she looked at her watch. The telephone rang just as Francine was putting on her coat and she stiffened with impatience.

‘Miss Snaith? There’s a Stephen Sparks waiting for you in reception.’

‘For me?’ said Francine, not understanding.

‘That’s what the gentleman says.’

Francine put the phone down, her heart pounding with
pleasure and fear. What was he doing here? As she stood the moment grew around her, glowing with significance. In it, the flavour of excitement, untasted for so long, deliciously returned. She had known he would come! There
had
been something between them at the party – all this time he must have been trying to find a way of seeing her alone! If only she hadn’t started things with Ralph, who knew what might have happened? The brutal thought that Ralph himself might have sent Stephen to talk to her stamped a sudden, heavy foot on her blossoming hopes. Would he have dared? The idea was disagreeable, and she took immediate action against it by ejecting it from her thoughts.

‘Bye,’ said Lorraine, without looking up.

‘See you tomorrow,’ said Francine, picking up her bag and sweeping past her.

She saw him as soon as she came through the glass doors; or at least, his demeanour informed her that it must be him, for she barely recognized his appearance. He was sitting on one of the large leather sofas at the end of the foyer, reading a newspaper. In his casual clothes he looked leisurely and incongruous against the hushed, industrious marble of the hall, his rustling pages loud above the tapping of heels and the low purr of telephones. His concrete presence, after the night-time memory she had nurtured of him, surprised her with its unfamiliarity. He leaned back into the sofa, smiling at something he was reading. Far from threatening his
confidence
, his separateness made it monolithic, and Francine felt suddenly rather afraid of him. She crossed the hall and stood in front of him.

‘What are you doing here?’ she said finally, when he didn’t look up. Now that she had said something she felt better, and she readied a smile for his attention.

‘Aha!’

He leaped from his seat and to her surprise kissed her
cheek. His skin was soft and slightly perfumed, like a woman’s. For a moment she could feel more than see him and her nerves instantly burned with consciousness. The force of his physical proximity seemed to envelop her in its currents, like heat.

‘How did you find me?’ she said, drawing back. She tried to stop herself from staring at him – he was so good looking, like somebody from a magazine! – but there was something beleaguering in the mobility of his face, his flickering smile, the enthusiasm of his limbs pressing against his clothes, which made it hard to unstick her eyes.

‘Not difficult.’ He shook his head and made a tutting noise through his teeth. With a pang Francine wondered if he was laughing at her. ‘Ralph told me. Weeks ago, I’ll admit, but how could I forget Lancing & Louche?
Louche!
’ He cackled. ‘Anyway, I was in the area, so I thought I’d drop in. Time for a drink?’

‘I suppose so,’ said Francine with studied reluctance, resolved to play him at his own game. She looked at her watch. ‘Where shall we go?’

‘Leave that to me,’ said Stephen, taking her arm and leading her towards the large glass doors. ‘I know a place.’

Francine felt an almost suffocating admiration at her throat as she permitted herself to be led. She remembered then that Stephen had been like that at the party, at once pinching and caressing, and the memory reassured her. He was so forceful, so completely in control of things; he made her feel alive! Her tainted circumstances, momentarily forgotten, came back to her blacker than ever. Why couldn’t Ralph be like that? Why had she chosen him, when Stephen had been there too? He liked her, it was obvious that he did. If only she had waited! She vaguely remembered waiting, in the days after the party, for Stephen to call, her disappointment, her bewilderment, when he didn’t.

‘So how are you, Francine?’ he said as they walked, arms still linked, out into the street. He glanced at her. ‘As lovely as ever, I see.’

‘Oh, I’m all right,’ said Francine wistfully.

‘Good.’ He steered her down a narrow turning into a small alley. ‘That’s good. Here we are.’

They had arrived at a small bar which, as Francine hadn’t known it was there, appeared intriguing. Stephen held open the door and she walked in ahead of him and down a flight of wooden steps, into a large cellar with barrels against the walls and tables with candles. Despite the early hour it was already crowded and echoing with laughter and conversation.

‘This is nice,’ said Francine.

‘Stick with me, honey,’ he said in a comic voice. ‘I know this town – I’ve been thrown out of most of it.’ He laughed, as if he were joking. ‘Go and sit down. I’ll get us something to drink.’

He wandered towards the bar while she sat down at an empty table. She watched him as he ordered, saying
something
to the barman which made him smile. He was wearing a suede jacket which looked expensive. Moments later he came to the table with a bottle and two glasses.

‘Thought you’d prefer white,’ he said, setting the bottle down on the table.

‘I do,’ said Francine, thinking triumphantly of the bitter ink Ralph had made her drink. Stephen inspected her with amused, brazen eyes, and as she felt his examination she realized that she hadn’t assessed her appearance in front of a mirror before she’d left the office. She looked back at him boldly to deflect him. Meeting his gaze, its unexpected penetration almost caused her physically to lurch, as if he had suddenly pressed himself against her. The warm tentacles of his proximity curled about her skin. For the first time in her life, she felt as if it didn’t matter what she looked like. His
mouth, which moved constantly in a perpetual curve, seemed instead to be tasting her, feeding from her face.

‘So who are Lancing and Louche?’ he said, filling her glass. ‘They live up to their names, I hope.’

‘They’re my bosses,’ said Francine, sipping delicately. ‘They’re really boring.’

‘No skirmishes behind the filing cabinets, then?’

Francine giggled. ‘Not really.’

‘I bet you’re a bit of distraction, though, aren’t you? Running around the office in your – your
very
short skirt, if I may say. I see major deals falling through as you bring them their coffee, Francine.’

Francine giggled again. She felt her skin begin to blush beneath his words, as if they were hands. The sensation surprised her with its unpleasantness, and she tried once more to bathe in his attention. It was just as she had hoped it would be! Looking at his careless face seconds later, she felt a more distinct twinge of discomfort. She hadn’t felt that way at all when she’d first met him, had felt a glow, in fact, which had lasted for days afterward, and it dimly struck her that something had happened to her. A ridiculous ache for Ralph grew tight across her chest, and she picked up her glass and emptied it with one bitter swallow.

‘Steady on,’ laughed Stephen. ‘I won’t be able to carry a big girl like you all the way home.’

‘I can look after myself,’ said Francine, irked by his physical assessment of her

‘I’m sure you can.’

A brittle edge to his voice sundered their atmosphere and stranded them in silence. Stephen looked about him, suddenly indifferent to her presence, and when an attractive girl walked by Francine was astounded to see his eyes follow her quite openly, as if attached by invisible threads to her flanks. His
gaze came back to her and his face assumed an expression of amusement, as if he could see what she was thinking. In that moment she suddenly hated him, hated him almost as much as she hated Ralph. Their connection with each other made a circuit for her anger and it flowed effectively between them in her thoughts.

‘How do you know Ralph?’ she said sharply, desperate to regain his attention but unable to think of anything else to talk about. The wine was beginning to creep numbly through her veins.

‘What? Oh, Ralph. We were at school together.’

Francine knew that already, but Stephen didn’t seem to think it odd that she should say she didn’t.

‘What was he like?’

‘At school?’ Stephen barked with laughter. ‘He was a prat, if you really want to know. A right little goody two-shoes.’

She felt a vague plummeting of disappointment, but the thought that Stephen might say more bad things about Ralph – things she could repeat to him later if the necessity arose – encouraged her back to interrogation.

‘Why were you friends with him, then?’

‘Well, I wasn’t, not to begin with. But then we had a sort of – arranged marriage.’

‘What do you mean?’ She wondered why Stephen could never say anything in a normal way.

‘Oh God, it was so long ago now.’ He waited, as if he had changed his mind, but when she didn’t speak either he continued. ‘Well, I got into a spot of trouble, as it were, and as a punishment they made me look after Ralph.’ He laughed. ‘Not much of a compliment to him, I suppose.’

‘What sort of trouble?’

‘You’re a nosy little thing, aren’t you? Well, it was just a bit of, um, high spirits. Public school, you know, hothouses of
impropriety. Actually, it wasn’t really my fault. We all got caught by one of the masters, but they pinned the whole thing on me.’

‘Caught doing what?’

‘Don’t ask.’ He laughed delightedly.

‘I want to know,’ said Francine irritably.

‘Well, we were – how can I put it?’ He laughed again. ‘We were engaged in an
initiation
ritual,
I suppose. It happened to most of the new boys, sort of to break them in. It was all pretty harmless, just sticking their heads in the bog or something.’