Flights of Angels (10 page)

She was sitting on an A4 file, waiting for Claudie to return. Her face was attentive, and she hadn’t broken into a dance routine for at least half an hour. This was serious.

‘You okay?’ she asked as Claudie sat down.

Claudie nodded. ‘You?’

Jalisa looked mildly shocked that somebody should ask how she was. ‘Yes. Thank you.’

‘Good.’

‘Look, Claudie - you’ve got this incredible habit of getting everyone off the subject. Don’t get me wrong, it’s an amazing trait to have, but it’s the flight who’ll have the explaining to do if we’re found not to be doing our job properly, so are you going to tell me what’s wrong or not?’

Claudie flinched at the direct approach Jalisa was taking. She didn’t know what they taught them in Angel School, but she was quite sure abruptness wasn’t a good policy to adopt with clients.

‘I don’t think that’s very fair, Jalisa. I was interrupted before. It had nothing to do with me going off the subject.’

‘Yes, I know,’ Jalisa conceded, ‘but you’re going off the subject again now.’

So she was.

‘So what’s the matter?’ Jalisa pressed.

‘It’s nothing,’ she lied. ‘It’s just something Dr Lynton said to me.’ She sighed, wishing she didn’t have to think about the whole horrible incident again; wishing she could pop it in the filing cabinet of her mind. ‘I made an observation about a stranger I saw in a bookshop, and Dr Lynton blew it out of all proportion.’

‘A male stranger?’ Jalisa asked.

‘Yes.’

‘I see.’

Claudie looked straight into Jalisa’s eyes. What did she see, exactly? Could Jalisa see the hurt and distress which she felt? The sense of betrayal - hers in Dr Lynton, and, if it was possible, Luke’s in hers? Could she possibly sense the guilt she felt by merely looking at another man? It was all too horrible, and it was all way too early.

‘Yes. I see,’ Jalisa said again, as if reading Claudie’s thoughts. And they left it at that.

At about two o’clock, a stern voice called Claudie away from Jalisa’s latest tap-dance routine. It was Mr Bartholomew. Claudie turned round and saw that the beaky nose was only inches away from her again. His usually sallow face was burning red and his eyes looked ready to pop out of his head at any moment.

‘I’d like a word,’ he said in a subdued tone. ‘In my office.’

Oh, dear, Claudie thought, watching him disappear before she had a chance to keep up with him. She turned to Jalisa who had stopped dancing. She looked up at Claudie and then blew a massive raspberry.

‘Don’t you go taking any nonsense from him, Claudie!’ she said.

Claudie giggled, took a deep breath, and followed Mr Bartholomew.

She’d always liked her boss’s office. It was all cream and chestnut, and there wasn’t a grotty grey filing cabinet in sight. And there was, of course, the painting. Claudie had spent many a furtive moment wishing she could leap right into. Her eyes would peep over her memo pad as she was taking down shorthand, or gaze right into it if the telephone interrupted Mr Bartholomew’s flow. It was an ordinary landscape: a country field with a river meandering through it like a piece of ribbon flung from heaven. A light breeze tickled the trees and, Claudie thought, you would almost be able hear it sometimes, if Mr Bartholomew wasn’t in full dictation mode.

She wished she could leap into it right now. Wished she could walk along the river bank, her feet slicing through the long grass like a lady in a Monet painting. She wanted to disappear through the trees and walk on, on towards the horizon until she was nothing more than a little dot in the distance.

But she was going nowhere, and there wasn’t even a memo pad to hide behind today. She peered up from under her dark fringe. Mr Bartholomew was still red in the face, as if he were about to explode. She had a feeling she knew what was coming.

He sank back into the big leather armchair which squeaked like a rude schoolboy. Claudie tried hard to suppress another giggle. She always had the urge to fall about in giggles when she was nervous.

‘Claudie,’ he began, his voice barely above a whisper, his fingertips steepling in front of him. ‘I’ve been concerned about you lately.’

Concerned. Yeah, right, Claudie thought. ‘Oh?’ she said instead, faking bewilderment rather badly.

‘Yes,’ he said ponderously, the redness of his face draining slightly. It was embarrassment. Of course. He wasn’t angry with her at all. She’d never seen him angry before. He just got uptight and walked around the building slamming doors behind him, but this was definitely a case of acute embarrassment. He wasn’t a person to person sort of man; couldn’t stand having to talk to anyone for more than was absolutely necessary to conduct business. He never socialised, and never sent out Christmas cards.

‘I’ve noticed a distinct lack of,’ he paused, his heavy eyelids half-closing as he searched for the right word.

Claudie began to get nervous. Distinct lack of what? What was she lacking? She hadn’t noticed anything was missing recently.

‘Concentration,’ he finished.

Claudie breathed a sigh of relief. Was that all? ‘Oh,’ she said again, in a suitably subdued tone of voice, as if it genuinely concerned her.

‘Now, I know it’s not been-’ he paused, squirming in his seat, making it fart again. Claudie watched. She felt terrible for him, she really did. She’d had this effect on people lately: the ability to make them squirm; to make them highly uncomfortable; to render them both speechless and senseless.

‘It’s not been an easy time for you, but I had thought you’d settled back into work rather well.’

Claudie nodded. She thought she’d settled back in rather well too. Especially since the arrival of the angels, but she couldn’t very well say that.

‘But lately, I’ve noticed you’ve been rather abstracted.’

Claudie leant forward very slightly. Abstracted. He hadn’t hesitated when he’d used
that
word. Claudie blinked hard and swallowed, as if trying to digest what he’d said. She’d been called some things before in her time, but never abstracted. Dreamy - yes, wistful - yes, but abstracted was a new one. She’d have to write it down in case she forgot it.

‘Is anything the matter, Claudie?’ he asked.

‘No, Mr Bartholomew.’

‘Because you’ve got that look about you again. As if you’re going to float right out of your chair and vanish.’

Claudie felt herself frowning. ‘Do I?’

He nodded vehemently. ‘Yes!’ he said, his beaky nose bobbing up and down as if it meant to slice the air. ‘Yes!’ he repeated. ‘You do.’

She didn’t suppose it was a good thing, otherwise he wouldn’t have mentioned it. He never gave praise, didn’t Mr Bartholomew, only advice on what you could do better. But floating out of her chair! That didn’t sound too bad. Claudie could almost imagine it. It was like something out of one of her MGM musicals. Of course she wasn’t quite dressed for it. She’d have to get something a little more appropriate, something with lace and sequins in cloudy blue would be more suitable for floating. A dress like the one in that number,
Smoke Gets In Your Eyes
, from
Till The Clouds Roll
By
, she thought. Yes! Perfect.

‘Claudie?’

‘Yes?’ she looked him square in the face. She
must
try harder to concentrate. This was important.

‘Do you need more time? Would you prefer not to be at work at the moment?’

‘No!’ she said anxiously. ‘No. I love my work. I’m happy here.’

‘But is it good for you? I mean,’ he combed his hair with his long fingers, ‘would you be better off at home?’

‘No!’ Claudie all but screeched. She didn’t want him to send her home.

‘I think, perhaps, for the rest of the week. Things are pretty slow here at the moment,’ he lied. ‘And I can easily pass things over to Kristen and Angela.’

‘But I -’

‘I think it would do you good.’

Claudie opened her mouth to protest again but Mr Bartholomew was out of his chair.

‘You’re still seeing this Dr Lindell, are you?’

‘Dr Lynton. Yes.’

‘Good. That’s good,’ he said, ushering her awkwardly out of the office. ‘Now, Claudie, if there’s anything you need, just let - er - us know.’

‘Mr Bartholomew?’

‘Yes?’

‘You haven’t just fired me, have you?’

‘No. No! I just think a little time off would be good for you. But I want you back here on Monday morning.’

‘I see,’ Claudie said, watching his face as it reddened again. Then the nodding began as he desperately tried to think of a suitable way to wind up the conversation.

‘I’ll see you on Monday,’ Claudie said, deciding to help him out of the awkward situation.

‘Yes,’ he said, and she turned to walk back to her desk.

‘Is everything all right, Claudes?’ Kristen asked as she walked back in.

‘I’m not sure,’ Claudie said.

Angela stood back up to full height after having had her head in the filing cabinet for the last ten minutes. ‘What’s happened?’

‘He’s given me the rest of the week off,’ Claudie explained, feeling as if a ginormous question mark was hovering somewhere above her head.

‘You lucky thing!’ Angela piped. ‘And it’s only Monday.’

‘I don’t know what to do.’

‘You enjoy it!’ Angela said.

Kristen got up and gave Claudie a big hug. ‘It will do you good.’

‘That’s what he said. But there’s nothing wrong with me!’ Claudie protested.

‘Of course there isn’t,’ Kristen laughed, giving her friend’s shoulder a reassuring squeeze. ‘But you go home and make the most of your time.’

‘I don’t want to go home!’ Claudie said. She was beginning to sound like an angry child but that was exactly how she felt: the desperation of having nobody listen to her - not
really
listen to her. They had no idea what she wanted and needed at the moment, did they?

‘I wish I could go home in your place,’ Angela said, motioning to a mountain of filing which had spread across the top of the filing cabinets like a snowstorm.

‘Be my guest,’ Claudie sighed, wandering back to her desk and sitting down heavily. Jalisa immediately appeared.

‘Oh, dear,’ she said in a tiny voice. ‘Have we got you into trouble?’

‘Yes,’ Claudie whispered back, chewing her lip as Lily, Mary, Bert and Mr Woo appeared, all looking very apologetic.

‘What are you going to do?’ Bert asked.

‘I have special herb for -’

‘She doesn’t want any more bloody herbs!’ Lily told Mr Woo, slapping his hand.

‘That hurt!’ he said, his head shrinking into his mandarin collar.

‘Lily! What did you go and do that for?’ Mary asked, poking her sister in the arm.

‘Because he’s getting on my nerves, always going on about bloody herbs. Well they can’t cure a broken heart, can they?’

‘Shut up!’ Jalisa shouted. ‘We were trying to find out what Claudie wants to do.’

Silence was restored to the desk as five pairs of eyes looked up at Claudie, waiting for her response.

She looked down at them and sighed heavily. ‘I just want to get on with my life. But nobody’s letting me.’

It was Monday afternoon and Claudie didn’t know what to do with herself. She didn’t need to go food shopping and she’d never been a great one for clothes shopping, despite being half-French. And she didn’t want to go home yet. The magic of MGM just wasn’t the same in the middle of the afternoon.

She felt strangely out of place as she left the office and headed into town, as if she’d stepped outside her own life. That had been a familiar feeling over the last few months. She felt like she was living in a twilight world and didn’t seem to fit in any more. She had become a stranger to herself and, it would seem, to her job too. And just as she’d thought she was doing so well.

Claudie sighed. Her job was her touchstone, and she knew she’d be lost without it. Didn’t Mr Bartholomew know that he was doing her more harm than good by sending her home? After all, what did she have to go home for? There was nothing there any more but an empty bed and a collection of over-watched videos.

She decided to go for a walk. There was an icy bite to the breeze but it would be invigorating, and would, perhaps, help her think what to do with her unexpected week off.

She took the well-trodden route up the one hundred and ninety-nine steps to St Mary’s Church. It was a popular pilgrimage for tourists but was quiet today.

The sea looked a uniform slate grey from the top of the hill. Same as the sky. Claudie looked down onto the clusters of town houses, their red roofs dull and uninspiring. She couldn’t imagine any artist wanting to paint the scene today.

Whitby really could be the most isolating of places, especially in the winter when both sun and tourists forgot about its existence. Claudie missed the tourists. As much as she hated the tat that was sold in the shops, apart from Jimmy’s boats, of course, she really did like the jolliness of the visitors. There was something about crowds of people all wearing the same bright anoraks and ear to ear grins as they licked sky-scraping ice creams which made her smile. But there was nothing to smile about today.

She walked around the churchyard, pulling the collar of her coat up against the relentless wind. She knew where she was going. It was kind of a personal pilgrimage. Something that the tourists didn’t know about but which caused great interest if they were lucky enough to stumble across it: a simple inscription above a tomb which told of Francis and Mary Huntroods who were born on the same day and, after marrying on their joint birthday, went on to have twelve children together. They died, aged eighty, on the same day of the year they were born. ‘The one not above five hours before ye other.’

Claudie felt a shiver down her spine as she read the words for the hundredth time. Why hadn’t
she
died with Luke? She remembered how bitter she’d felt when she’d realised that she wasn’t going to die along with him. All sorts of thoughts had assailed her. Wasn’t that what true love meant? Why was she still alive? What possible purpose could she have left?

Luke had been the perfect partner; her one chance at happiness. How could she expect to find that again? It didn’t happen more than once to a person, did it? She’d been given her crack at happiness. Yes, it had only been a mere wink in the stretch of a lifetime, but she’d had it nevertheless, and that made her feel so hollow inside, so terrifyingly alone, that she wished she could climb inside one of the graves, close her eyes, and fall into oblivion.