The Assistant. S. K. Tremayne
idol, my daddy, who told me riddles and made me giggle. How dare they say horrible things about him. So I came up with some convincing lies. And I shall do the same now. I gaze at Tabitha’s impatient, expectant face.
‘Well, Tabs. After all that I thought, sod it, there must be some bug, or malfunction, and I turned everything off at the fuse box.’
I look in her eyes. Blank. Stubborn. Defending myself. I will not be cowed. I love Tabitha but I won’t be patronized by her. Even if I am in the wrong.
My lie – or my half-truth – seems to have done the job. She stands, wearing a softer mystified frown, then she flicks a glance at her wristwatch.
‘Christ, it’s nearly ten. I have to go, we’re editing at the studios – those bloody frogs.’ Her eyes meet mine. I see sympathy there. And confusion. And something else I don’t comprehend. ‘Look, sweetheart, I don’t blame you or anything like that, it was a shock, that’s all. The flat was so cold! Tell you what …’ She walks from my side, over to my bedroom door, and gives me the first smile of the morning. ‘Shall we have a nice supper tonight, just you and me here? Open a nice bottle of red, then I can explain again how everything works – the lights, the apps, the whole shebang. And we can gossip about Arlo’s stupid Belgian banker pal. Turns out he’s quite remarkably deviant. It’s delicious.’
My friend is being a friend. She’s being nice. Perhaps too nice?
No. What’s wrong with me? Why am I mistrusting my very best friend?
‘Brilliant!’ I say. ‘Great idea, a girls’ night in. I’ll cook! I’ll do that fish thing, cioppino – remember?’
‘Excellent,’ she says. ‘Make a lot, I bet I won’t even have time for lunch – we’ll be stuck in that studio all day – the exec producer clearly misses her time in the Gestapo.’
Pale blue eyes. Pretty smile.
Tabitha opens the door, and the smile is saying goodbye,
‘See you later. Let the Assistants sort the heating and everything, I’ve rebooted them all. They’re fine.’
And with that she sweeps out of my bedroom. Leaving her perfume.
It is the scent of my humiliation. Probably costs £5,000 an ounce. I, by contrast, smell of dried sweat and unwashed T-shirts. I hear the flat door slam. I stare at HomeHelp. The ovoid tormentor. There are no dancing lights. There is nothing. I can still feel the dreamy Xanax in my head. The sleeping pills. How many did I take? I can’t recall. That’s a bad sign. I must Pull Myself Together. I must be like Tabitha. Efficient, brisk, clever, smart, yet still funny and likeable. Why can’t I be like her?
Yes. Enough. GET UP. Don’t think about the past. GET UP.
But it is too late. As I stand up and walk into the living room. and gaze at the moistened frost on the windows, the memories finally breach, like a ferocious Christmas storm, like winter waves swamping little harbours. Jamie Trewin. Poor Jamie Trewin. It all comes back to that.
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