The Jaguar (2 page)

Marcus paused, evidently to recover his composure, having spoken with an increasing tone of frustration. Laura mused that Marcus himself probably spent more time in supermarkets than he would care to admit.

“So where would I come in?”

Laura ventured a polite smile and Marcus couldn't help noticing once again that this dark haired, dark eyed, modestly proportioned young lady went through something of a metamorphosis as her mouth and eyes narrowed and sparkled. He also felt, with a certain sense of unease, that she had already got the measure of him.

“Well,” said Marcus with a slightly laboured note of triumph, “That's simple. CTG backed off when the phones stopped ringing and allowed us to pick our own team. Steven and I explained that we didn't want operatives or personnel managers. For their part, CTG wanted us to develop new themes for some of their mass market locations: Eco-tourism, Adventure tourism, that sort of thing. You, according to your CV, are an outdoor girl; you're bright and you're a team player - just what we're looking for.”

There was a momentary pause as Laura, whose eyes had once again drifted to the window, weighed up whether Marcus had finished. “Aren't there lots of people like that? What's so bespoke about me?”

Marcus felt vaguely drawn by her modesty. It wasn't a quality with which he was particularly familiar.

“Yes, but about half way through your letter of application” - Marcus rustled through the papers in front of him and held up a particular sheet for dramatic emphasis - “you stopped saying what you thought you should say and wrote - yes, here it is
– I want to stand in the middle of a rainforest, with a machete in my hand, and no map
. I like that. Steven liked that when I read it to him. You'd fit in well.”

As Laura travelled home on the Underground she remembered how close she had come to deleting that sentence. It owed its survival to the same desire to be reckless that had prompted the application in the first place. Two more sentences in an advertisement on the curved carriage wall reinforced the approach:
There's probably no god. Now stop worrying and enjoy your life
.

Upon leaving the offices of Tailwind Adventure she had experienced a brief, but significant encounter. Culjinder was back behind her desk in the ante-room and had lowered her glasses to very deliberately look her up and down. Laura had stopped, expecting her to speak. Culjinder hadn't, staring back at her with a - “
Well, what is it
?” expression that suggested impatience and a certain cynicism. Laura's stubborn streak surfaced and for a few seconds there was silence between them, during which time she realised that this slightly plump lady in a sari and dark-rimmed spectacles was probably the perfect counterpoint to her youthful potential employers' excesses. The missing mother figure, she concluded. Skirting a bottomless well of personal sadness, her taught lips had softened into a smile and then a hello. She took Culjinder's subsequent careful explanation of the exact manner in which travel expenses could be claimed as a form of approval.

As her carriage decelerated bumpily into a station, Laura steadied herself, looked around unsuccessfully for a seat then cast an eye idly over another poster on the platform wall.
You survived the end of the world, so now what
? Vaguely curious at this seemingly random revelation, her eyes fell first to its picture of a sun-kissed tropical beach and next to the very real young man struggling incongruously with a suitcase beneath it. The latch appeared to be stuck.

Laura could only see his features from the side. His profile looked as foreign as many a London lad, but at the same time was disturbingly, and inexplicably, familiar. He had a strong, straight nose and heavy brows pulled into a frown beneath a tussle of thick black curly hair, creating an overall impression of brooding sensuality. Looking up, he turned in frustration as the doors of the tube rolled together. Laura was sure his rich Latino eyes lingered briefly on hers. The train lurched forwards a few inches then stopped, unaccountably, in a screech of metal on metal. The carriage momentarily re-opened and, as Laura regained her balance, she found those eyes again: deep, inviting pools of possibility that held her transfixed for several seconds. Then he was gone, to be replaced by a shiny black wall as her conveyance returned to its tunnel. Instinctively, she had framed a message for those eyes, which spoke instead only to her own reflection.

Laura had rarely felt so drawn to offer comfort, but was aware how out of proportion this was to such a trivial encounter, however handsomely packaged. She felt a familiar rush of blood as she imagined her fingers running through the unruly waves of his hair. Not prone to romantic notions, she endeavoured, half successfully, to dismiss the moment as a capricious conceit and quirk of the moment. The usual rush hour mix of crush, clatter and body odour helped, but every pair of eyes she met was his.

Chapter Three

Bristol

“You said what?”

“I said: If you react to traffic lights that slowly you should be playing for Bristol
.”

“...and he hit you?”

“Yes: he had a Bristol FC Supporters Club sticker in his rear window. They went down after last season.”

“...and you knew this?”

“Yes.” David handed his bloodied shirt to his sometime girlfriend, Phoebe.

“But why, David?”

“I don't know. I sat there staring at that stupid sticker after the crash. I'd been thinking about something else completely. It just seemed so bloody trivial. It made me angry.”

Phoebe crossed David's kitchen to the washing machine and turned to study him from a distance. He sat topless at the small pine kitchen table, contemplating the cup of tea that Phoebe had just passed him. David wasn't a young forty year old. Phoebe had noticed how the dark bags under his eyes were now often patterned with age. He was over-weight and growing ever so slightly pear-shaped and his hunched, shirtless frame looked limp and formless. His head still bore a full crown of brown hair, but it was etched with grey and had lost the healthy sheen that had once attracted her to him. Phoebe was worried about David. He was always tired, never talked about work and his shoulders collapsed at even the most fleeting tribulation. What had he been thinking about that had distracted him enough to have an accident? She was unsure whether she wanted to know.

Phoebe busied herself making the dinner. “I have to go soon: Adam will be back from rugby.”

David shrugged.

“How was work?”

David said nothing, assuming Phoebe was using her son as an excuse to get away. Work had not been good. Then there was the accident. The feelings he discovered there had left a deep sense of guilt. He had been desperate all day to get home to Phoebe, but now anything he might say would only confirm he was letting her down. He needed to be alone. He looked up as she turned back to her cooking and watched as she pulled dishes, cutlery and condiments from various draws and cupboards, as naturally as if the place was her own. Phoebe was in her late thirties; slight and trim, with short-cropped and quite striking strawberry-blonde hair. She was wearing sandals, brown jeans and a cream, autumn-leaf blouse. David dwelt on her petite facial features and striking blue eyes. This made him feel calmer. He was about to speak when Phoebe interjected.

“David.”

“Yes.”

“I want you to promise to do something for me.”

“Yes?”

“If someone rings will you promise to pick up the phone?”

David looked at Phoebe, unsure how to respond. He trawled through his mind for possible explanations for this slight, but unusual request.

“Is it your mother?” He knew that she had been unwell and perhaps things had taken a turn for the worse.

“No, she's doing OK. I had a long talk with her earlier, though she's still missing Dad.”

“So are you and Adam,” observed David. “I can't remember the last time Adam cracked one of his jokes. Do you notice he's always wearing that Glastonbury T-shirt his Granddad bought him?”

Phoebe reflected on the care she put into ironing that T-shirt. She knew she didn't have to tell Adam to look after it. It was part of the new, closer bond forged in grief between the two of them. Unfortunately, it had yet to bring her closer to her mother. They always spent time together - her mother took this for granted - but Phoebe could already feel the role of dutiful daughter wearing thin now the love of her life, her dear father, was no longer there at the end of each visit with a cup of tea and a cuddle.

“It's nothing to do with that, David. Well, at least not directly.” Her voice now carried the same worn-down tone as his.

Recognising this, David rallied. “Of course I'll answer the phone. Whatever it is, you can count on me.” His words sounded hollow, but a smile flickered briefly in Phoebe's eyes as she carried their dinner to the table.

Laura arrived home that evening to the usual mix of semi-intoxicated flatmates and uninvited guests. A heated conversation flickered between the sunken sofas in the bay-fronted living room of her Georgian, Bristol flat. Laura listened for a second, realised there was unlikely to be any immediate opportunity to impart her good news, so headed for the kitchen and a cup of tea. She pulled up a stool, slouched against a workbench and half-heartedly explored the contents of the local free newspaper.

“Laura.”

Someone must have actually noticed her.

“Laura?”

“Yes.”

“What do you think?” It was George, her flatmate Katie's tall, Caribbean boyfriend.

“I think that you should go and get me some fish and chips. I'm starving.”

“There are biscuits in the tin. You should have been here earlier. Katie let me do the cooking.”

Laura glanced to her left to examine the sink. The large pile of tomato-stained dishes and pans suggested he was telling the truth.

“Pity you couldn't wash up.”

“We knew you'd be home soon.”

Laura sighed, too tired to be provoked. Should she wash up, go to bed or join the conversation? The last two options were a close call. She wandered cup in hand into the living room and sat cross-legged on a rug, her back wedged between a sofa and the burnt umber tones of George's outstretched legs.

“I want to know if trust in big business died with the Recession.” The typically bald statement came from Simon, George's friend and Laura's one-time partner.

“Blimey,” protested Laura, “don't we leave questions like that at work?” She focused pointedly on her tea then used the cup to tap George on the thigh. He was falling asleep in fits and starts and, as he did so, a deep rumble and an occasional splutter emanated from over Laura's left shoulder. She turned to Simon, who lay full-length on the opposing sofa, stroking his thinning fair hair with his beer-free hand. “So I take it work today was particularly dull?” she quizzed.

“Of course: you weren't there.” Simon's lean, slightly pinched face slipped to mock despondency in a well-practised theatrical gesture. “Tell me how to make advertising exciting and I'll go and get your chips, Laura, and maybe even let you sleep with me again.”

Laura sighed at the thought of sleep and her own bed. Simon had always been too restless a sleeper to make his mock offer even remotely appealing. “I take it that you miss me terribly and still can't bear to be without me?”

“
Ouch
!”

“If I were you, I'd quit,” she responded bluntly. She took Simon's concerted attempt to balance a beer can on his forehead as mute acceptance.

“Anyway, you may be just about to lose your job, but I've got a new one. I take it none of you could be bothered to shift your arses to pick up the phone when I tried to call you earlier?”

“Sorry” said Katie, “bit of a heavy week. Tell us all about it then.” Her moon face opened into a wide smile and her heavily painted eyelashes shifted a little closer to her brow.

George leant forward and tussled Laura's hair. “Well done, girl.” Laura always found his rich base voice soothing and was aware that she was becoming just a tad jealous of Katie.

“Well,” Laura collected her thoughts, “they're called Tailwind Adventure. They want me to help them start up some new destinations. They're part of the Carlton Travel Group now, which is apparently working to appeal to a more individualistic and thrill-seeking market, if you'll forgive the corporate spiel. Thinking about it, perhaps you should have gone to the interview, Simon?” She couldn't help the sort of gentle dig that had once been so characteristic of their relationship.

Simon smiled, spilling beer from the forgotten can onto the carpet as he rolled towards her. “So thrills and individualism equals you, does it?”

Laura folded her arms. She hadn't stopped to think about it from this perspective. What, exactly, would she bring to the role? She didn't actually have a clue what it would entail.

“Well, all I know is that they told me to look out my passport.”

“When do you start - I assume I'm going to be looking for a new flatmate if you're working abroad?” Katie raised another matter that Laura had yet to consider.

Apologetically, Laura levered herself up using George's legs, who squealed in mock discomfort. Tottering sleepily, she blew him a goodnight kiss, winked mischievously at Katie, and patted Simon on the shoulder as she shuffled past him towards her bed. What had she got herself into? Hopefully things would seem clearer in the morning. As she finally closed her eyes, she rediscovered those from her close encounter on the Underground. Laura slipped away on a warm, but turbulent ocean of uncertainty.

Chapter Four

In dreams, Bristol

The telephone rang. Its insistent tone drifted from a far corner of the insurance office where David worked. In front of him was a balance sheet he could not balance, spending that he could not justify, the unwelcome results of an ill-considered decision he had long since forgotten. The papers multiplied in front of him and toppled to the floor. The ringing grew louder. People were laughing and shouting at him to pick up the phone. His boss thumped his desk, snatched the shrill instrument, shook it a few inches from David's face then hurled it against a wall. As it smashed into a thousand pieces, David woke up.