The Lie. C.L. Taylor
see you.”
“They know.” Al runs a hand over her Mohican. “Everyone knows. I’m a fucking laughing stock.”
“No, you’re not,” Daisy says. “Relationships end all the time, Al. No one’s judging you.”
“Oh yeah? Then why did Jess on reception say ‘Ticket for one?’ when I came in?”
“Because you came alone?”
“Oh, fuck off, Daisy” – she yanks her hand out of Daisy’s grip – “what would you know? You haven’t been dumped once in your whole life.”
“Well, I have,” I say, “and I know how much it hurts, especially if they leave you for someone else. I’d had my suspicions about Jake for a while, but then when he—”
“Emma!” Leanne makes a stop talking gesture with her finger across her throat.
“Not that Simone left you for someone else,” I say, but it’s too late. Al’s on her feet and barging past me.
“If she’s here with that fucking bitch, today of all days, I’m going to swing for her. I’ll swing for both of them. Fucking baby dyke bitches.”
“Al!” Daisy totters after her, reaching for her arm. “She’s not worth it. Al!”
“Well done, Emma.” Leanne glares up at me from behind her neon fringe. “I’d just talked her down and you fired her up again.”
“She didn’t look very chilled to me.”
“You didn’t see her before. She was punching the cubicle walls. She nearly got us both thrown out.”
“Sorry. I didn’t mean to—”
She pushes past me. “You never do, Emma.”
By the time I find the others, they’re standing in the centre of the dance floor downstairs with a circle of people surrounding them. Al is in the middle, jabbing her finger at Simone and some other girl I don’t recognise. Daisy and Leanne are either side of her.
“I fucking knew it,” Al says. “I knew you were sleeping with Gem.”
“Actually” – Simone squares up to her, even though she’s several inches shorter and several stone lighter – “Gem and I got together after we split up, not that it’s any of your business.”
“I think you’ll find it is.” Al turns her attention to the other woman, who takes a step closer to Simone and slings a heavy arm around her shoulders. She’s at least six feet tall, all sinew and muscle, with a heavy jaw and close-cropped hair. She’s got a boxer’s physique and the attitude to match.
“Think you’re clever, do you?” Al says. “Taking Simone off me?”
“I don’t think anything.”
“’Course you don’t. Pig shit doesn’t think.”
Boxer Woman smirks. “Piss off, Al. No one’s interested, least of all Simone. And for the record, I didn’t take her off you, she came running.”
“Bullshit. We were happy before you started sniffing around.”
“Is that so? According to Sim, you’re a possessive control freak who wouldn’t let her out.”
“Is that what you told her?” Al glares at Simone. “That I’m a control freak? After everything I did for you? When we met, you had nowhere to live. You had nothing, Simone and I let you live with me rent-free. I gave you money to go clubbing. I would have done anything for you.”
“You smothered me.”
Al’s eyes mist with tears. “Then you should have told me, not run off with this bull dog.”
“What did you call me?” Boxer Woman drops her arm from around Simone’s shoulders and takes a step towards Al. “Say that again to my face, you fat bitch.”
“Fuck you.” Al half steps, half jumps forward and swings at the taller woman before Leanne or Daisy can stop her. Her fist makes contact with Gem’s jaw and she stumbles backwards. Her foot slips on the beer-stained floor and she tumbles to the ground. The crowd whoops with excitement, and out of the corner of my eye, I spot a male member of security, walkie-talkie pressed to his ear, striding towards us. Daisy sees him too and gestures for me to help Leanne, who’s desperately shoving Al towards the door.
It doesn’t take much persuasion to get her to leave now. She’s so jubilant she practically skips out of the room.
“Fucking yeah!” She punches the air then winces and hugs her right hand to her body. She glances behind us as we hurry her towards the exit. “Where’s Daisy?”
Leanne and I exchange a look. “She’ll be fine. She’s chatting up the bouncer.”
“Dirty slut.” Al laughs all the way out of the building and into the waiting cab.
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