I looked him up again on LinkedIn. He was beaming away in the photo, looking so happy with himself. It was just after five o’clock now. I opened my e-mail and started to write a message, but after a few lines I guessed he’d just ignore it and I couldn’t hang around waiting for his reply. I saved it as a draft just in case I needed it later and tried the number that he’d given me. As soon as it rang, the call was cut off. Furious now, I called his office’s direct line instead.
“Good afternoon, Alan Walker’s office,” said a young woman.
“I’d like to speak to Mr. Walker. It’s a private matter.”
“Who’s speaking?”
“Ruby Dean.”
She went away for a moment, then came back. “Could you tell me what it’s about? I’m his personal assistant.”
“I think he would prefer it if I didn’t.” It didn’t sound as though she knew she was about to be replaced and I didn’t want to be the one to tell her.
A minute or two later, a man spoke. “Alan Walker here. Who’s calling?”
“It’s Ruby Dean.”
There was a pause, then he said, “Sorry, have we met?”
“Good question. We should have met but we haven’t.”
He sounded confused. “I’m sorry?”
“We were supposed to meet today in Manchester. I wondered whether you wanted to reconvene.”
Now he sounded bewildered. “A meeting? Who are you?”
I said again, “I’m Ruby Dean. You invited me to interview at the North West Conference Centre today.”
“What?” There was no mistaking his confusion. “I haven’t a clue what you’re talking about.”
“You e-mailed me earlier today. You said you were looking for a PA.”
“Not me,” he said firmly. “I’ve got a PA. You’ve just spoken to her. What was the sender’s e-mail address?”
I found it on my laptop and read it out to him.
“That’s not mine. It doesn’t belong to anyone in this company.” His voice softened slightly. “I think you’ve been the victim of a hoax. If you hear anything more from them, get back in touch, will you?”
Hot with embarrassment and anger, I thanked him again and ended the call, really glad I hadn’t asked him whether he’d sent me a text from a different phone telling me I’d be sorry if I contacted him again. Then he really would have thought I was mad.
Once again I looked at the e-mail. The e-mail address had Alan’s name and then the company name. I frowned. How could someone create that? It wasn’t as though it was a random Gmail address. So I went online and searched for that company’s website. A white screen appeared, telling me the site couldn’t be reached.
Frustrated, I shut my laptop. Why would someone ask me to interview if they weren’t going to turn up? Why would they use Alan’s name? Was he lying about the e-mail?
I stomped into the kitchen. By now I was starving. In the fridge was a lasagna I’d bought that morning. It didn’t look tempting but I was too hungry to cook something from scratch. I put it into the oven and while I waited, I opened all the windows to let some air in and went back to the unpacking I’d started earlier that day.
The bathroom wasn’t big enough to hold all my toiletries and I took the bulk of them into the bedroom to put into a drawer there. On the bed lay my clothes in piles, just as I’d left them before I went to Manchester, and I started to put them away. When I’d put my T-shirts into the chest of drawers I turned to the bed. Where were my dresses? I closed my eyes and thought of that morning, how I’d laid everything out in piles. I’d put my dresses one on top of the other, straightening out creases as I went in the hope that I wouldn’t have to iron them. I shook my head. I was sure I’d done that. I could remember the feel of the fabric as I stroked the wrinkles away.
I wondered whether I’d taken them into the living room, though couldn’t think why I would have done that. I turned at the doorway to check the bed again, to see if they’d fallen onto the floor. The wardrobe door was standing slightly ajar. Slowly I reached out and opened it wide. All of my dresses were there on hangers, just as I’d planned, swaying in the evening breeze.
CHAPTER 16
Ruby
I woke at five the next morning, hardly knowing where I was. The early-morning sun crept through the thin curtains, lighting up the bedroom. In that light every single blemish could be seen, from the cracked plaster on the ceiling to the little rips in the wallpaper. A small silver cobweb hung in the corner of the room. My eyes fixed on the wardrobe. I could not remember hanging up those dresses. Then I thought of a movie I’d seen, Still Alice, about a woman suffering from early-onset dementia. I shuddered. That couldn’t be happening to me. I was just tired. I had too much on my mind. Too many worries. I must have hung up the dresses while I was thinking about the interview and that’s why I couldn’t remember doing it.
That made me think of the interview the previous day. Why had I been set up like that? I wondered whether it had been Kourtney O’Dwyer at the employment agency, making me suffer for my sins. Or Eleanor at Sheridan’s. The thought flashed through my mind that it might be Harry, punishing me. I pushed hard against that thought. He wouldn’t do that. Why would he? I hadn’t done anything to harm him. But my eyes drifted up to the cobweb; I was unemployed and living in a run-down flat because of him. He’d had no reason to do that to me, but he’d still done it. Could he have taken it further? I jumped out of bed to stop myself thinking about it. It couldn’t have been Harry. He loved me. Or at least he had. I couldn’t bear to think he no longer did.
Last night had been the first night in a long time that I’d gone to bed stone-cold sober. Tom and I were more at ease with each other if we were tipsy and then at the hotel I’d had to drink so that I could sleep. But now it was time to change.
My running shoes lay on the floor in the corner of the bedroom. Harry and I had planned to run together in the park that summer and I’d packed them into my car, eager for my new life with him. As soon as I saw them I knew what I was going to do. I was going to go back to being the woman I was more than thirteen years ago, before I met Tom. Before I met Harry.
* * *
• • •
My street was quiet when I left the flat. I’d thought the shop on the corner would be open, the owner getting newspapers ready for the day ahead, but it was in darkness and all was still.
I took a deep breath and focused on the middle distance, and then I started to run. I hadn’t run for years and years, since the days I’d lived in Liverpool. A couple of friends and I would run along the dockside there in the early morning, and now more than ten years later I was doing the same, though on the other side of the river.