Composite Creatures Caroline Hardaker (smart books to read TXT) 📖

in the way she spoke to me made me feel like I’d have to fight to accept the invite and cross the divide. That the whole phone call was “obligation”.

But maybe I was being touchy. She was still my friend. We hadn’t fought, we hadn’t anything, in fact. No. I’d go, and work out the truth. I’d meet them at the restaurant straight after work – as I likely wouldn’t get out until after 7pm anyway. I’d face them, and I’d face them smiling.

After hanging up the phone I packed away the easel and paints, and crushed my self-portrait into the recycling. My skin tingled, and I felt more awake than I had done in weeks. Those brief minutes of talking – this is what I needed. This.

The next day, I went to Stokers dressed for night. My nerves were like date-night nerves, the sort I used to get when Art and I would meet in the early days. In the afternoon, I jotted down some topics on a scrap of paper I could use as conversation starters, safe stuff, in case I dried up. Art’s lecture, the garden. But when it came to Eleanor and Rosa’s lives I had no idea what was going on, so I couldn’t think of anything to ask. Any question would be broad and impersonal. Had it always been so complicated? I hadn’t asked Rosa for any news while she was on the phone. Perhaps her sheepish tone was because she was hiding what she wanted to say, too.

From around 4pm my skin was prickling and my throat was blossoming. A frantic glance into the bathroom mirror showed me that the rash had bloomed up the sides of my face. I smeared on a stick of concealer, thick and chalky, powdering on a rosy flush to soften the camouflage.

As I was switching off my workstation, Markus stuck his head out of his office door and beckoned me with a curling finger. He wore the clichéd half-smile of a Bond villain. All these gestures and side-winks in the last few months, it was all new. I was in the infantry and he was in the white tower, and he’d always loved it there, you could tell. Our exchanges had only ever been one or two words as our paths never even came close to crossing. Lately, I was sure he’d even avoided me, sidestepping my cubicle to ask one of my neighbours for a figure or data file he needed. This had always been fine with me. In fact, I welcomed the ease that came with indifference. I never had to look him in the eye, as he never looked into mine.

But something about Markus was changing. Before, he’d stride, but now he shuffled with little urgent steps. When talking to colleagues in the middle of the office he’d tweak his nose, and sometimes scratch the side of his neck until it raged, red and angry. He kept his head down in the office until he came right past my cubicle and he’d shout “Good morning Norah,” loud enough for everyone to hear, grinning from ear to ear. What made it particularly odd was the way he’d never wait for a response, but would continue on in his mad shuffle, still watching me out of the corner of his eye, and then lock his office door behind him.

Anyway, I dropped my bag back on my chair and followed Markus into his office. After a quick glance to see who was still in the wider office, he closed the door behind me and gesticulated in the direction of the seat in front of his desk. I hardly had time to sit before he started to talk in a strangely shrill voice:

“How are you doing, Norah? You’re here late on a Friday.”

“I’m OK, I was just finishing–”

“Here’s the thing, Norah, I’ve been watching you for a while and frankly, you’ve been overlooked.”

“I don’t think–”

“I have to apologise for that. No, I want to apologise. You get your head down and you work, you’re solid. You don’t shout up but that’s to be commended. The hardest working people do the work, after all. I’m going to look into how I can improve things for you. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

Markus had been standing, but once he’d finished speaking he sank into his leather chair. Slumped low and fiddling with the edge of the desk, he didn’t meet my eye.

“Do you accept my apology?”

I hardly knew what else to say other than a quiet “Yes.” All of his colour drained, Markus took a deep breath and pushed himself up in his seat. He waved his hand towards the door, regaining a little of his old dismissive style. “Go on, go home. You shouldn’t be here so late anyway.”

It was such a weird interaction. It was as if he thought I held him to account, and I certainly didn’t. And even though he grovelled, I knew that he didn’t care. What did he mean by “improving things” for me? They were fine as they were. Maybe a bigger cubicle would be nice, or a pay rise. But otherwise it didn’t seem an exciting prospect that my work-life would change. In all this time it hadn’t even crossed my mind to wonder how the different departments worked where I wasn’t involved, or to try to work out what Markus’ job actually was. Like most of my faces, Stokers wasn’t my life, it was a means to an end.

14

In the taxi, I couldn’t shake off the peculiar, creeping feeling Markus had left with me. Through the window, a dance of young girls in their glittering dresses mingled with couples hand-inhand, trussed up tightly for each other in coordinating jackets. My outfit already felt tired and ready to be changed, and for the length of the journey I tried to iron out the creases with the flat of my palm.

We were meeting at a little Japanese place near Eleanor’s