Cambridge Blue - Alison Bruce [47]
Goodhew glanced through the closest windows as he approached the double doors. As always, he paid particular attention to the three coat hooks visible through the window directly to his left. Today, however, this was just out of habit, as he expected them to be empty. Mel, he knew, always wore one of four jackets to work, a red cut-off parka with a grey fur-edged hood on the coldest days, through to a bleached denim jacket on the warmest, with either her brown bomber jacket or her knee-length red trench coat taking care of the temperatures in between. Now hanging on the middle hook was her red mac: an early start for someone not due in until 9 a.m., and especially early compared to her normal clockwork-precison arrival at three minutes to.
Mel’s cubby-hole of a desk was buried too deep inside the building to be seen from outside, and Goodhew was happy to put his single-mindedness on hold for a few minutes, just to say good morning.
She wasn’t at her desk, he discovered, but he hovered for a few minutes anyway. He doubted she’d left her coat behind the night before; also, her purse sat next to the telephone, and two empty polystyrene cups lay in the bin, post-cleaning lady and therefore post-8 p.m. the previous evening. In addition, her chair wasn’t tucked neatly away either, but marooned halfway between the desk and where he now stood. He tucked it back under the desk.
He guessed he must have heard Mel before he actually saw her, though he wasn’t aware of any sound, just had an instinct to turn around.
‘Hi,’ he said.
She wore a baggy jumper with sleeves hanging loose down to her knuckles, but even with her hand closed, he could see it was clutching a screwed-up ball of tissues.
‘Hi,’ she mumbled, and she did a funny up-down thing with the corners of her mouth – the one people do when they wish they could flash a signboard saying ‘Imagine I’m smiling back at you.’
‘Doing overtime?’ he enquired.
‘No.’ The way she said it left no opening for further conversation. ‘What’s up?’ She looked up at him enquiringly, and he saw that, although her eyes weren’t red, she’d obviously been crying.
‘That’s what I should be asking you. You look upset.’
‘No wonder you made detective.’ She pulled her chair back out from the desk and dropped on to it with her full weight, the gas-lift letting the seat bounce down by an inch before it recovered. She threw the ball of tissues into the bin. ‘Looking crap and feeling crap, it’s always a winning combination. Thanks for pointing it out.’
‘You look nice, just upset.’ He smiled. ‘I mean, you don’t look crap, even if you feel it.’
She studied his face for a while, in silence, then spoke. ‘I’m messing up, and I’m making choices that are meant to bail me out, and it’s only once I’ve made them that I see I’ve fucked up again.’
‘It can’t be that bad, can it?’
Mel was still staring at him. ‘Fuck-up on top of fuck-up, that’s me, Gary.’ With no warning, a new flood of tears rose and teetered, defying gravity to stay put until she finally managed to blink them away.
To him, the ‘If you need to talk’ offer always sounded like a line, but he said it anyway, and then wasn’t surprised when she shook her head.
‘I don’t think so. I’ve decided I’m not making any more choices. My new plan is to stick where I am, as my anti-fuck-up strategy. But thanks for the offer.’
He started to say something else, but she stopped him, her voice suddenly firmer. ‘If you don’t mind, Gary, I don’t want to talk to you any more right now.’
Perhaps he showed some surprise because she added, in further explanation, ‘You always make me feel so transparent.’
And whatever he’d expected her to say, it wasn’t that.
‘Like you’re not there?’ he queried.
‘No, not like that.’ She looked impatient then. ‘Transparent,’ she repeated.
She looked at him as if thus saying it a second time would