And she slapped his face.
The glass broke. The milk splashed. He stepped back and cut his foot, but the pain had already given way to hurt. Puzzled, he ran his fingers across his reddening cheek.
“What the hell – what are you looking for?”
She was frantically searching beneath the mattress, then pulled up short in confusion.
“You – shouldn’t creep up on me like that.” Marla slunk back beneath the covers, sleep-pressed hair folding over her eyes. She turned her back to him, embarrassed by the vivid dream that had leaked over into reality. Picking the glass from his foot, he watched a drop of crimson blood disperse in an alabaster puddle of milk like a spreading virus.
An Elastoplast took care of the wound. He rattled the glass fragments into a box, which he sealed and placed in the pedal bin beneath the sink, then listened as his son thumped downstairs.
“Sean? You want Crunchy-Crunch?” He cocked his head. No answer. Odd. The boy could always be drawn by mention of his favourite breakfast cereal. “Seanie?”
He looked around to find the boy glaring distrustfully at him through the bars. “Sean, what’s the matter? Come down and pour your milk on.”
The child shook his head slowly and solemnly, mumbling something to himself. He pulled his stripy sweatshirt over his chin and locked his arms around his knees. He stared through the bars, but he wouldn’t descend any further.
“Come and have your breakfast, Sean. We can take some up to Mummy.” Another muffled reply.
Michael set the dustpan aside and took a step toward his son. “I can’t hear what you’re saying.”
“You’re not my daddy,” the boy screamed suddenly, scrambling back up the stairs to the safety of his bedroom.
* * *
Michael checked himself in the rear-view mirror. The same pleasant, confident face looked back, although the smile was a little less certain than usual. He drove through the avenue of sodden embankment trees heading into the city and wondered about the behaviour of his family. He didn’t wonder for long; the three of them had managed to maintain a problem-free existence until now, cushioned perhaps by Marla’s inherited wealth and his own easy-going attitude. If they got under each other’s feet in town there was always the cottage in Norfolk, a convenient ivy-covered bolt hole that provided healing seclusion. But the memory of the slap lingered as clearly as if the hand print had remained on his face.
Michael parked the car in the underground garage and took the lift to the seventh floor where he worked for Aberfitch McKiernny, a law firm dealing primarily with property disputes. The receptionist glanced up as he passed but failed to grant him her usual morning smile. The switchboard operators glared sullenly in his wake. Even the postboy seemed to be ignoring him. Why was everyone in such a bad mood today?
Michelle was already waiting by his door. She was the most efficient secretary he had ever employed. Power dressed in tight black raw cotton, her pale hair knotted carefully at her neck, she impatiently tapped a pair of plastic folders against the palm of her hand while she waited for him to remove his coat.
“You were supposed to take these home with you last night,” she explained, passing them over.
“I didn’t get around to them. The Trowerbridge case took up all my time. I’ll try to run them later this morning.”
She reached over and took the folders back. “I don’t think that will do any good. Your ‘opinion’ was needed yesterday; no one will want it today.”
She stressed the words strangely, as if she no longer held much respect for him. Michael seated himself behind his desk and studied her. What was going on here? Michelle had always been his biggest fan, his greatest supporter. It was obvious to everyone that she was more than a little in love with him, and he played on the knowledge mercilessly. But today her tone had changed. There was a testiness in her voice, as if she had seen inside him and no longer desired what she saw.
“Michelle, are you okay?”
She folded her arms across her chest, pure frost. “Fine. Why?”
“I don’t know, you sound so—”
“You’d better get into Leo’s office. He’s been calling for you. He sounds pretty angry about something.”
Leo Tarrant, fifty-seven, the calm centre of the firm, was at peace because he knew he was retiring in a year, and no longer let anything in the world worry him. But this morning he wasn’t like that. His usually slick grey mane was ruffled about his head. His face was sclerotic and mottled with suppressed rage. He tipped back his chair and flicked rhythmically at the sides of a gold cigarette case, reminder of his past habit, now a talisman of his strengthened heart.
“You’ve let me down badly with this Trowerbridge business,” he admitted. “I thought I’d get an early result by placing it in your hands. Instead it now looks as if they’ll have to go to court after all.”
Michael shifted uncomfortably in his seat. He simply couldn’t comprehend Leo’s attitude. Trowerbridge Developments had been sued by one of its tenants for failing to maintain a property. The company, aware that it had little chance of winning the case, had requested the negotiation of an out-of-court settlement by its longstanding legal representatives. Michael had done everything within his power to ensure that this would happen. After all, the clients were friends of his. They saw each other socially. Their kids even played together.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about, Leo,” Michael confessed. “I completed my end of the deal in plenty of time to prevent the planned court action from going ahead.”
“That’s exactly the opposite of what I’ve heard,” said his boss, clicking away at the clasp of the cigarette box. “According to the client’s own progress report you’ve been holding back the negotiations and leaning so far in favour of the tenants that there’s precious little time left for Trowerbridge to cut himself a deal. Neither he nor his son can see any way of making a satisfactory settlement. And there’s something else.”
Michael was dumbfounded. He couldn’t have worked any harder for these people. If this was their way of showing gratitude…
“Have you ever received any financial inducements from the Trowerbridge family? Negative-equity absorbers, anything like that?”
The old man was accusing him of taking a bribe? He could scarcely believe his ears.
“No, of course not,” he spluttered furiously. “I’m amazed that you could even consider—”
“Calm down, I’m not saying you did. It’s something that the corporation suggested I look into. Think back over your relationship with Trowerbridge during the past few months, would you? You’d better make damned sure that there’s nothing in your recent dealings with them that could damage your standing with this firm. Now let’s go over these complaints in detail.” He produced a slim red file and carefully unfolded it.
For the next hour and a half Michael was interrogated about his handling of the impending lawsuit. Although he left Leo’s office more or less vindicated, he knew from the look on the old man’s face that something irretrievable had been lost; a level of trust had been removed. The layer of good faith that had always existed between himself and his superiors had been torn away like the stripes from a dishonoured soldier’s tunic. It wasn’t just a matter of rebuilding Leo’s confidence in him. He wanted to know why his abilities had been so quickly doubted. Clearly the Trowerbridge family, father and son, had lied, and Leo had believed them. But why should they do that? What had they to gain beyond an undesired delay to the lawsuit? It made no sense.