Page 7

D id I feel better after filling my stomach with a stew that was both warming and tasty?

Well, it had filled some sort of need. I felt stuffed, having downed my first full meal in a while.

I ate to dull the hunger pains, not for any kind of pleasure, and I wasn’t used to eating in front of strangers, struggling to move the fork into my mouth without spilling gravy all over myself.

Stewart had laughed and offered me a spoon. Perhaps a piece of bread to mop up the sauce ?

I wasn’t amused, but I’d ended up smiling anyway. I didn’t fully understand why, but it had been a nice change of pace. A break in the weird routine I’d found myself in.

And I had managed to make polite, albeit awkward small talk and thanked him for his hospitality before excusing myself and retiring to my now strange-looking basement.

I closed the door behind me and stood there in mild shock, having completely forgotten about the day’s activities. The room smelled clean and fresh; the bed was neatly made. It was like I’d wandered into the wrong house.

The silence and loneliness I suddenly felt didn’t sit well in the room anymore. I shouldn’t be here. Not on my own. I had no idea what to do with myself, staring at the alien space around me. What kind of man could exist in a place like this? Clean. Bare. Soulless.

A bit like me.

Stewart was a nice man, though. Direct and friendly at the same time. Steady. I liked that.

But a friendship was the last thing I needed. I needed to get myself together, not hang out with the neighbours, drinking far too much tea, my bladder reminded me, once again protesting at the amount of liquid I’d consumed today.

I found my phone and curled up on the bed, still dressed in the haphazard items of clothing I’d found earlier.

Maybe I should dress better. Wear a shirt and tie. I hadn’t worn one for so long and felt uneasy even at the thought of masquerading as someone I no longer was.

The messages were sparse these days, but there was another one from Jean, my former PA, nagging me to give her a call, send her a text. Anything.

I don’t know if it was the adrenaline of the day that made me do it, but I did. I rang her back, my hands shaking as the call connected.

“Dylan,” she purred in clear delight. “Are you all right?”

“Hi, Jean,” I said weakly, already regretting this incredibly stupid idea. But I’d talked today. Maybe I could talk more. “How are you?”

“How am I?” She laughed. “Still sat here like a lemon, trying to figure out how to be an old bird. I can’t knit, I definitely can’t bake, and my daughter-in-law made me do a Zumba class.

I got on the floor at the end and couldn’t get up.

I’m not cut out for this life. But enough about me, how are you, dear? ”

“Dear?” I repeated, laughing. She knew me. And I knew her.

“Dylan, dear. How are you?”

“I’m shit, Jean, but you know this.”

“I do,” she said softly. “But here we are.”

“Yes,” I agreed.

We’d worked together for years. There were a lot of words we didn’t need to share. Like the guilt I’d always carry for ruining the end of her career. Just like I’d ruined mine.

“Are you ready to try to salvage some of what we left behind? Those boxes still there?” she asked. I could almost see her nose twitching in eagerness. She was usually a patient woman, and her newfound impatience was all down to me.

“I don’t know,” I sighed out before I lost my nerve. “I don’t know, Jean.”

“I told you, and I will say it again. I don’t care if you can’t pay me.

I don’t care if I have to work out of your kitchen and have you make me cups of that awful tea you used to drink.

But I do care about you, Dylan. And I don’t want things to end like this.

We still had projects, clients and people we let down.

I don’t believe we can salvage much, but we can start again.

I have contacts. You have the expertise.

We can do this. If you’ll still have me. ”

“Of course I’ll have you. I just don’t know if you’ll have me.”

“You’re still you, Dylan. All that quiet charm and elegance, and you’re a decent man. A good lawyer. We used to make a great team. I think we still do.”

“You should have found another job, Jean.” Same old, same old. We’d been through this over and over again. Months. Almost a year.

“I’m too old. I’ve not kept up with the systems and technology, and I miss the office and the phones ringing.

I miss doing your schedule and speaking to people.

I applied for a few positions, I admit to that, but it wasn’t the same.

It didn’t feel right. The offices were too big and too busy and all these young people on top of each other, and they were asking all these questions in the interviews, and I just…

You know what I’m like, Dylan. I liked what we had.

Just you and me and all those computers. ”

“You hated the computers.”

“I did. But I got around them, and I even made friends with that double-screen set-up and the new phone system. ”

“You whipped them into shape in no time. Got me up and running.”

“Remember the second day with the new software? When I’d got the meetings double-booked and the dates were all wrong for your appointments, and we ended up having Young&Modern and Ralph Andersson in at the same time?”

I had to laugh. Yes, it had been wildly unprofessional, and if not for Jean, we’d have had a lawsuit on our hands.

“You’re a good actress.”

“I tried.” Her laughter made me feel better. Lighter.

“Shall I come over at eight in the morning? I’ll bring nice coffee and something to nibble on. Just like the old days. I have no expectations, but it would be nice to see you.”

I didn’t know if I was ready for that. I wasn’t ready for anything.

“I don’t care if the house is a pigsty, or if you’ve forgotten to wear pants again.”

Oops. I’d forgotten about that little incident.

“I’ll wear pants. I’ll even wear a shirt and tie.”

Would I? Had I actually agreed to this ?

I apparently had, as I was awoken the next morning by the front door opening and closing and the clatter of high heels against the hardwood floors.

It took me a while to get my head working. My heart was beating too fast again as memories of Veronica and the children, of laughter and little feet, overtook me, only to be brutally yanked back into reality with the realisation that it was either Jean upstairs or a burglar.

Jean had a key, since I’d apparently given her one in a moment of terror, not knowing if I’d make it to the morning. There had been incidents, ones I didn’t want to think about. Also shame. Because nobody wants to have to admit that they’ve completely failed at life and lived to tell the tale.

And there was the sharp rap on the door at the top of the stairs.

“Morning, Dylan.”

“Coming.”

She wasn’t my mother, and I wasn’t a child. I also didn’t have any decent clothes down here, so I had to once again turn up in my loungewear.

“Clothes, Mr Scotland.” She tutted.

“Mr Scotland.” I sighed.

“Well, this is work. We need clean clothes and a cheerful attitude.”

“They are actually clean. I have proper attire in the tumble dryer,” I lied.

“Wonderful.”

Jean was a delight. She always had been since the first day she’d turned up for her job interview in a too-small business suit and sky-high heels. She hadn’t changed, only become a little more rounded in her choice of attire, her elaborate hairdos now replaced with a sleek, grey bob.

It suited her, and I complimented her as if on automatic, but for once, I actually meant it.

“You should meet my neighbour. He’s a very handsome gentleman. Would be right up your street, Jean.”

“Matchmaking already? It’s not even eight thirty, Dylan. I brought you coffee from Graziano’s and some of those sourdough baps you like. Extra ham.”

“You remembered,” I said, eyeing up the bags on the kitchen counter like I’d never seen food before.

“I need to fatten you up a bit. You’re far too skinny. ”

“You’re not my mother.”

“No, I’m not,” she said mock-sternly, “but your dear mother would be highly upset if she saw you like this. Don’t disgrace her memory by becoming a slob, Dylan.”

“I’m not a slob. I’m just in a state.”

I smirked at myself, matching her eye roll.

“That you are. But we’re working on that, aren’t we?”

After that, we did try to work. The first day was spent setting up some kind of workstation in my abandoned living room.

Stewart had been right about the heating needing to come on.

The house was cold and unloved, and it had nothing to do with Jean opening all the windows to get some fresh air in because it felt a little better with someone else in it.

“This Stewart,” Jean said the next morning, when I’d managed to dress in a shirt and tie and open the door for her. “He must be a good influence. Nice tie. Trousers are too big. We need to get those taken in.”

This was what working closely with someone did to you. It was an intimate relationship where boundaries were crossed so often it almost felt normal.

“He’s the guy next door. I’ve only met him once.”

“Yet you spent all day yesterday talking about him. He must have made quite the impression.”

“He’s just the neighbour.”

“One I looked up. He’s quite a character and was very brutally made redundant.

I texted with Adeline at Bromptons, and she knows Jenny, who works for Templar, and apparently, everyone was appalled when that terrible hotel sacked all their staff to become a low-cost outfit.

Terrible if you ask me, but I suppose that’s the way things work these days.

They used to have a decent restaurant too, and now it’s become a Nando’s. ”

“A Nando’s?” I questioned, chewing down another of Jean’s morning treats.

I wouldn’t need to take in these trousers if she kept feeding me like this.

Also, I needed to pay her because she was now loading up suggested schedules and people she was going to ring and offer my services to, and I was filled with an absolute fear of everything she was attempting to do. I wasn’t ready for this.

“You’re absolutely ready for this,” she berated me as if she could read my thoughts. “It’s like riding a bike. First contract done, and you’ll be grand. Child’s play, Dylan.”

The words made me shiver. Cold .

I was cold.

A week later, she was still in my kitchen, rolling her eyes at my impostor syndrome as she made another phone call that perhaps I should have made myself.

The week after, I was crying myself to sleep, out of exhaustion, fear and rejection.

And then it was the weekend, and I found myself once again sitting on the patio in my dressing gown, wondering what the hell I was playing at.

I was an embarrassment. A failed lawyer who had let clients down and cost them projects. My reputation was in tatters, and despite Jean’s cheery disposition, I had failed to lure in a single new client.

“I thought we’d decided to stop the crying on the patio in our dressing gown.”

Stewart.

He placed two cups of tea on the rickety table and sat in the chair opposite.

“So, talk to me,” he said.

Funnily enough, I did.