The Lie. C.L. Taylor

       Chapter 3

      It’s the next morning and I’ve only been at my desk for ten minutes when Geoff, my boss, wanders over. He lingers behind me, his hand on the back of my chair. I shuffle as far forward as I can so I end up perched right on the very edge of the seat.

      “Late again, Emma.”

      “Sorry.” I keep my gaze fixed on the spreadsheet in front of me. “Tube was delayed.”

      It’s a lie. We didn’t get Al into bed until 2 a.m. and then I had to wait for a taxi to get me back to Wood Green. By the time I rolled into bed, it was after three.

      “You’ll have to make up the time. I want you here until seven.”

      “But I need to get to Clapham by then, my brother’s in a play.”

      “You should have thought about that this morning and got up earlier. Now …” My chair creaks as he rests his full weight on it and leans around me so his mouth is inches from the side of my face. I can feel his breath, hot and sour in my ear. “I’m expecting that spreadsheet by lunchtime so I can look over it before I speak to the sales team this afternoon. Or should I expect that to be late, too?”

      I want to tell him to stick his spreadsheet up his arse. Instead I curl my hands into fists and press my fingernails into the palms of my hands. “You’ll get it.”

      I’ve been Geoff’s PA for three years. He’s Head of Sales here at United Internet Solutions, a software, hosting and search engine optimisation company. I was only supposed to be here for three months – it was meant to be just another of the countless temping jobs I took after university – but he extended my contract and then offered me a five-grand pay rise and a permanent position. Daisy told me back then to turn it down and do something else, but the only thing I’ve ever really wanted to do is be a vet, and you can’t do that with a business degree. And I couldn’t face temping again.

      I wait until Stephen Jones, Geoff’s favourite salesman and self-proclaimed “top dog”, strolls past us and into his office, closing the door behind him, and then I head for the ladies’ loos, my mobile phone hidden up my sleeve. I check the stalls to make sure that neither of the other two women who work for UIS are about, then I dial Mum’s number. It’s Tuesday, which means she should be at home. She works in the GP surgery she and Dad set up when they were newly married and still childless, but she only does Mondays, Wednesdays and Fridays. The phone rings for several minutes before she finally picks up. She’s had her mobile for years but still hasn’t worked out how to set up voicemail.

      “Shouldn’t you be at work?” That’s how she greets me. No “Hello, Emma,” no “Everything okay, darling?” just “Shouldn’t you be at work?”

      “I am at work.”

      “Should you be on the phone? You don’t want to upset your boss, not after your recent appraisal.”

      “Mum, can you just … never mind. Look, I can’t make it to Henry’s show tonight.”

      There’s an audible intake of breath followed by an exaggerated sigh. “Oh, Emma.”

      There it is, her disappointed tone, the one perfectly pitched to make me feel like utter shit.

      “I’m sorry, Mum. I really wanted to make it but—”

      “Henry will be disappointed. You know how much work he’s put into his one-man show. Tonight’s the night he’s invited lots of agents along, and it’s so important that the audience is on his side and—”

      “Mum, I know.”

      “He wants to take it to Edinburgh, you know that, don’t you? We’re ever so proud.”

      “Yes, I do know that, but Geoff—”

      “Can’t you ask him nicely? I’m sure he’d understand if you explain why.”

      “I have asked him. He said I have to work until seven because I was late this morning.”

      “Oh, for God’s sake. So it’s your own fault you can’t come? Don’t tell me, you were out drinking until late with your friends again.”

      “Yes. No. We had to help Al. I’ve told you how upset she’s been about Simone recently, and—”

      “And that’s what I should tell Henry, is it? That your friends are more important to you than your family?”

      “That’s not fair, Mum. I’ve been to all George’s matches, and I was there when Isabella opened her dance studio.”

      I spent most of my childhood being dragged from one sibling event to another, a habit that has now become so ingrained that I start each day by checking the calendar in my kitchen to see who’s doing what. Isabella is my oldest sibling. She’s thirty-two, an ex-dancer, ridiculously beautiful and married with a son. George is my older brother. He’s twenty-eight and a golf pro. He lives in St Andrews and I rarely see him. Henry’s the youngest; he’s twenty-four and the next Jimmy Carr, if you believe my mother.

      “Mum?”

      There’s a pause, a pause that stretches for one, two, three, four seconds.

      “Mum? Are you still there?”

      She sighs again. “You should get back to work. It sounds like you’re in enough trouble as it is.”

      I swipe at my eyes with the heel of my hand. “Could you wish Henry good luck from me?”

      “I will. I’ll speak to you soon. You’d better get back to it. Work hard and make us proud.”

      The line goes dead before I can reply.