“Seriously?”
“New-labels-to-watch piece. Get two other names.”
“Done.”
He turned back to his work and I hesitated.
Jim raised his head, not missing a beat. I had a sudden urge to tell him about being followed home last night but stopped short. There followed a quick-fire neurological debate back and forth in the brain: talk about it, keep it a secret, talk about it. I could see the scenario: revelations, explanation and consequences.
“What’s up, Boss?”
“I think I was followed home last night.”
“For real?”
“Maybe not so much followed as watched, if that makes sense.” Instead of looking directly at him I focused on his T-shirt emblazoned with the image of a beef burger in bun, cheese melting.
“What happened?”
“I went home, nothing happened.”
“You okay?” First flicker of concern.
“Yeah, I’m okay.”
Jim quickly made light of it, sensing I didn’t want to make a fuss. “Edinburgh’s underworld strikes again.”
“Lucky me.”
“The Watcher–wouldn’t worry; harmless ghost who just, well, watches, people.”
The name stuck–seemed wholly appropriate. Harmless? We’d soon see about that.
Jim relished Edinburgh’s rich history of hauntings and poltergeists; liked to tease me. I’ve heard it all: Mary King’s Close, where its plague victims were walled up and left to die. “Otherwise known as the street of sorrows,” Jim whispered. He also regaled me with stories about witches and malicious poltergeists who could leave you with bruises and burns. Perversely, I liked this about him. He didn’t treat me differently from anyone else in the office. Dead people weren’t off limits when I was around.
Yeah, Jim was much smarter than he looked. He knew I didn’t want death to define me.
Chapter Ten
Dr Harrison Warner (deceased)
Two months ago I received a hand-written envelope addressed to Harrison but redirected to me. It wasn’t unusual to have mail forwarded from London to Edinburgh. On one occasion, a letter was even addressed to
Dr Harrison Warner (deceased)
. The word in brackets, typed on the envelope like a curious footnote to the recipient
. We’re not quite sure what happened to this man
.
Personal paperwork doesn’t cease to exist when we do. Harrison’s hadn’t lost momentum, even though we’d gone through the channels to take him off mailing lists.
I opened these letters with desperate comfort or absolute rage. Fleetingly, I’d think–and hope–dear God, he still exists. Like dialling his mobile and listening to his phone message after he’d gone. Let’s pretend.
More often than not I’d phone those guilty of administrative error and scream, “My husband’s dead. He won’t be taking out a new credit card with you. Ever. Stop writing to him.”
“Yes, Mrs Warner,” was the usual droned response. “Please accept our apologies. We’ll put a note on his file for future reference.”
I’d grip the handset, harder, more demented. “Delete the goddamn file. He won’t be calling you. Trust me.”
There was never much reaction, unless I was informed that it was not possible to
just delete files
because it wasn’t my file to delete. For data protection security it was necessary to speak to the account holder in person.
Good luck, I thought, hopelessly, putting down the phone without bothering to disconnect the call.
The envelope stood out from the usual mailshots and junk because it was handwritten, which threw me. Personal correspondence had all but ceased after the condolences dried up.
Who the hell still didn’t know
? I wondered.
Unfinished sympathies
, my mother said, which I’m sure is a section from a self-help book. I definitely could have written such a book. People would surface from the past, bob up and want to know what happened. “Oh my gosh, I heard the news. How. Are. You?”
I would go through the motions and string together a credible answer using select key words: car crash, truly terrible, it’s okay, desperate shock, I’m
fine
.
On this occasion, though, I ripped into the envelope with wearisome frustration and was caught short when six photographs slithered onto Ralph’s marble kitchen counter, instant collage on a backdrop of brilliant white.
Thrown, I checked the front of the envelope to confirm it was Harrison’s mail. It was clearly addressed to him at our home address in London. Royal-Mail redirected to Edinburgh. Here in this apartment.
Looking down at the worktop I see colours: autumn brown hair highlighted with changing-leaves, red and gold. There is a peachiness to the skin that could easily be digital work of Adobe Photoshop but I suspect is the real deal, as are the deep-sea navy eyes that could lure a man to an underwater kingdom before he realises too late that it is oxygen he needs to survive, not love.
I see a beautiful woman.
Paperwork was also included: a bachelor’s degree in computer science from London South Bank University, hospital-headed paper on which someone had scribbled lyrics of a song. It was treasured stuff; a time capsule of memories belonging to someone called Vivienne Roberts. This is how it began, seemingly benign.
Chapter Eleven
Gracie Gold Collection
Corset Magazine
threw me a lifeline. Demanding work ruled out free time to fret about The Watcher and hauntingly beautiful women. Jim was there with his cattle prod whenever I faltered, administering low-voltage reminders to get my head back to business. Hard work put distance between me and some kind of melancholic madness.
I had further incentive to keep my head down. I was still on probation even though I had good feedback from Archie Shaw, thanks to a significant boost in circulation figures. Workaholism works wonders. Talking of which, Suzanne called me later in the week, sounding impossibly excited, soon after our first dinner at Ribbons.
“I hope you don’t think I’m being too keen,” she rushed, “but I’d
love
to see what you think about…you know… the dresses. Please,
please
don’t feel you have to.”
It was obvious how much her work meant to her. I thought I was obsessed with work until I met Suzanne. We had ample time to discuss fashion over our first dinner at Ribbons because I was dodging Harrison talk.
I knew this much: she studied at the Chelsea College of Art & Design in London and had clocked up an impressive portfolio of jobs over 10 years, including personal shopper at Topshop, runner at fashion shows, freelance stints at costume design on television productions and, ultimately, pattern cutter.
As far as I gathered, she was sticking to pattern cutting for now because it provided regular income while she worked on her own designs. Her blog, shoereview.me, her
bit on the side
, she said, was starting to generate cash. More importantly, free shoes.
I could tell it took her a big push of courage to phone me at the office. I think the confidence came from a shock reaction that it was make-or-break time. She wanted the dream to work. The fire under her heels was also due to the fact she had taken out a huge loan to fund the business.
It was hard to believe I had only known Cece, Suzanne and Kate for such a short time. One sun-smudged afternoon at the Art Bar followed by dinner at Ribbons seemed to shoehorn an equivalent of 10 years’ friendship into 10 hours. We cut to the chase, straight in there: my husband is dead. So is mine. Mine. Ah, mine too.
I had a quick chat with Suzanne over the phone and arranged to meet at her apartment to go through her Gracie Gold collection. The interview would conclude at Hotel Missoni.
Truthfully, I thought she had been burgled when I visited her at home. I walked across a small pretty courtyard and stepped through the front door into chaos. Clothes and calico were strewn about the place, some half-stitched, ripped, rolls of ribbon streamed across polished floorboards and a box of buttons littered the table top as though dropped from a great height. Someone had shaken her home vigorously and set it down again.
As I ventured further in, I saw true-to-size photographs of her favourite famous wedding dresses lacquered onto doors, top to bottom. All at once I was in the presence of Carolyn Bessette Kennedy dressed in Narciso Rodriguez, Audrey Hepburn in Givenchy for
Funny Face
, Gwen Stefani in a magnificent Galliano gown and Grace Kelly standing next to Prince Rainier in an exquisite lace creation, while Mary Crown Princess of Denmark commandeered the bathroom door.
She quickly explained. “It was Ted’s wedding present to me. The photographs.”
“Your favourite?”
“Grace Kelly,” she said without hesitation. “Lace and embroidery girl, that’s me.”
We stood side by side, taking a moment to admire the actress in antique rose point lace and reams of silk taffeta and tulle.
“Her veil was covered with appliquéd lace lovebirds and thousands of seed pearls,” Suzanne explained, expression dreamy.
She moved me into the main living area, where mannequins worked the room. There was also a tailor’s dummy punctured with pins. Full house.
It was a claustrophobic box of sequins and silk, but I soon felt quite at home. Its saving grace was the natural light, flooding through floor-to-ceiling windows. Suzanne rushed me further still into the room, apologising about the mess, while reassuring me that a move to her new studio was imminent.
“The loan has been approved. I’m taking this super seriously.”
She talked incessantly while chucking fabric off chairs and the sofa until there was space to sit down.
“I’m messy but not usually
this
messy. Cece hates it; hyperventilates each time she visits, which isn’t often, trust me. Seriously, she gets breathless and out comes the whirring fan. Keeps emailing me the name of her cleaner–has
even
offered to pay.”
I laughed. “She is one proactive person.”
“Neat freak.”
I perched on a purple and white striped futon upholstered within an inch of its life while Suzanne continued to steamroll back and forth creating more space, which involved much flinging, stuffing and throwing. Her idea of wallpaper was tear sheets from fashion magazines: wall-to-wall couture, catwalk shots, models, shoes and accessories in black and white and colour.
The place brought back memories of
2Glam
. The hectic schedule, rails of clothes whooshing up and down corridors, couriers dropping off shoes for shoots, photographers dashing up in the lift to show off their book.
We finally found Suzanne’s sketches under a bolt of pink organza and I laid it out on the coffee table while Suzanne wheeled in a hanger rail of designs.
“Feel free to go through them while I… I’ll fix us drinks.”
She bolted to the kitchen, leaving me to look.
I prowled through the clothes first and within seconds was seriously thrilled.
Her debut collection consisted of 12 dresses, the romantic theme at large with ruffles and ribbon and a big nod to embroidery and lace–her signature stamp. There was a lot going on but it worked. She promised standout feminine looks and great confidence in the cut.
“I hope you’re not hiding in the kitchen,” I shouted as I admired an evening gown–fresh creative talent in keeping with
Corset
.
Suzanne’s head popped round the door, immediately.
“It’s safe to come out. I like what I see.”
“You do?” She cantered over; an excited four-year-old. “You like the designs?”
“I
really
like the designs.”
“Oh, gosh.”
“Have you got help to run up the clothes?”
She nodded with a nervous grin, hand over mouth. “I do. And the debt to prove it.”
“Every good designer has debt. And a manager.”
She winced. “Not there
yet
.”
We talked for two hours and it was great to focus on work. Suzanne had nailed a business plan and was in talks with an upmarket boutique that had commissioned an order. I felt relaxed, less weighed down with demons as I made suggestions and talked through ideas for a magazine shoot. Suzanne scribbled notes furiously.
When we started to wind up discussions she said, “It must have been hard to give it up. Life in London?”
I smiled and nodded, distracted by a framed photograph on the wall that stood out from tear sheets and professional fashion shots: a man getting out of a car not unaware of the camera. His face was unreadable; happy, angry, indifferent.
“That’s Ted,” she said, following my gaze, confirming my thoughts.
He was tall and narrow with sharp edges, shoulder blades visible and cheekbones. I saw a mouth turned down slightly at the corners, in concentration or rage.
The sun hit the corner of the photograph and cast a faint haze over its subject and scene. It didn’t surprise me for a minute that this man could disappear in a translucent glow, too bright to be seen in the passing.
Life was slightly different for Suzanne because, unlike the rest of us, she didn’t know for
sure
if her husband was definitely dead or not.
Chapter Twelve
The Living Dead
Suzanne was quite open about what she had been through: married for three years before her life had effectively been put on hold. That was seven years ago.
Her husband, Ted Holmes, disappeared one afternoon without explanation. He simply never came back home. No one knew where he had gone or where he was now.
His absence didn’t erase him from Suzanne’s life, though. She kept his clothes, his bike, books. He didn’t pack a suitcase or take his passport. He was just gone. How little you need to leave a life.
“I’ve kept everything, even razors,” Suzanne confessed, sheepish. “The last empty beer can he drank from.”
Ted was officially absent or missing, whatever the authorities wanted to call it. Suzanne told me she even received paperwork from the local council who creatively referred to him as the “living dead.”