Consent Read online

  *

  She’s walking through the rain, collar up, hair soaked to a glaze. Most people have umbrellas. That’s how wise most people are. And most who don’t are in taxis, or crowded under bus shelters, or greying windows with their breath. Her bag buzzes.

  Hi Steph. Hang on a second.

  She presses herself into the porch of a bankrupt shop.

  Sorry Steph. It’s pissing down. I meant to get back to you last night, and I got your texts, thanks so much. I don’t know where to start. It’s been such a horrible day.

  Let me start then.

  OK.

  Guess what?

  What?

  Me and Greg are getting married!

  How arduous she finds it, how heavy, to say in the right tone,

  That’s wonderful! Congratulations!

  Yay! Thank you! His case finished yesterday, so we went for dinner last night and he just came out and asked me!

  Wow. That’s fantastic, Steph! I’m so pleased for you!

  She says this because it is true. It is nice to have some happiness around.

  I sort of knew it was coming, because he’d booked this place we really like. Passeggiata. You know it? We usually discuss where we’re going, but he just suddenly announced we had a table there, so I was quite keyed up. I was like, haha, I was watching all the waiters like a total hawk, convinced he’d prepared something, you know, like when they put the ring in the blancmange, even though I know that isn’t really Greg’s style.

  No. Definitely.

  But in the end he just pulled out a box during the pudding. It was a while before I noticed, actually, I’m such a space cadet. I was busy eating, and rabbiting on about these costumes. I think I’d stopped expecting it by then. So it was only when I realised that he wasn’t talking that I looked down and saw the box. Then he asked me! He didn’t go down on one knee or anything, but actually I’m glad. The place was really full. It would have been so embarrassing!

  What’s the ring like?

  Oh it’s gorgeous. A really simple platinum band, with a half-carat lemon diamond. You know how I’ve always loved lemon diamonds?

  Beautiful. So have you made any plans?

  Well, we’re thinking Ireland. Greg has family there, and it’s got some beautiful places that are quite cheap right now. Next summer on the west coast is probably what we’ll aim for. Maybe the year after.

  Oh well, it’s really great news. I’m so happy for you, Steph. Will you be home later? We must celebrate!

  We must! And you must tell me your news. How did it go yesterday? What’s been horrible?

  Frances explains. She tries to sound calm.

  Oh my God, that’s awful, Steph says at last.

  A large crowd is sheltering in a sandwich shop across the road.

  Frances?

  She is thinking of that other man. The nice man from the Rose Cafe. He was in the pub. She’d clean forgotten. He’d seen her after she came back in, then spoken to Patrick on his way out about some client. A publisher, that’s right. The man has her number. He would definitely remember.

  Frances?

  She is walking. The publisher would have a number for Patrick. She needs to remember their name.

  Sorry, Steph. It’s pouring here. Look, I’m so happy about your news. It’s really wonderful. I’ll see you at home soon, OK? You must have loads more people to tell.

  She skips across the road and takes a long route to avoid the office. What was the client’s name? She lands a step on a loose stone and takes a splash on the ankle. These lesser streets don’t get the love of the thoroughfares. She finds the Rose Cafe, but he isn’t there. She collects herself. She knows that he’s a regular. He told her so. She buys tea again and sits at the same table. She mops her hair with a handful of napkins, and hangs up her coat to dry. She gets out her book. Her breaths lengthen and her shoulders wilt. Rain chatters against the glass, but she doesn’t hear. She is lost, her legs are crossed. The tea goes cold. The words draw her in, as fire draws air.

  Saturday morning and the sound of keys. Hello! Steph sings. Frances wades down to her in slippers. They embrace. Steph shows the ring.

  I’m sorry, she says. I know it’s been a hideous week for you, but I’m still dizzy at the moment. I can’t believe it. I’ve hardly even slept.

  No, it’s wonderful. Honestly, it’s just the news I need. Have you had breakfast?

  Steph hasn’t, so feeling festive they begin a hunt for the teapot, but instead come across the stovetop coffee maker and half a bag of beans long since folded and forgotten. They feed the lot through the grinder. And there’s bread and eggs. They decide to have homemade lattes with buttered toast and the eggs scrambled. As they cook they remember the chats they’ve had about marriage over the years, and the chats generally, even the times they joked about the chat they’re having now. The young sun patterns them with next door’s leaves. They stir the eggs and assemble the machine and laugh, and now and then lean on the counter. The food is ready first, so they eat it beside the coffeepot. Their thoughts touch upon the strangeness of eating cooked food standing, a hand for a table, a fork pressed and waggled as a knife. It’s only a touch because they don’t want the nonchalance of the moment spoiled. It implies that they are independent young women who so often spend mornings eating homemade food with friends that it’s done casually. Being intent on their nonchalance, however, they forget the coffee, which is billowing wildly when they lift the lid. To cool it they add too much milk, which at least mitigates the tastes of staleness and scalding. They say how good it is, and hide from the lie in a discussion of where Stephanie will live.

  He’s planning to sell when the market’s better.

  To go where?

  Just anywhere we can get more space. Probably a bit further out. You don’t want to jinx it, but I suppose we’ll be looking for a family home.

  Stephanie puts her mug on the table.

  When do you expect to move out?

  Probably next month. Maybe before. Like you said I’m almost living with him already. There’s more of my stuff in his flat than his! I’ll just take the rest in batches.

  Is there a date we could pencil in? It’s just that if I’m going to find a new housemate, they’ll want to know when they can have the room.

  Oh. Well it can be quite soon, if you like. Shall we say two weeks from now?

  Sooner than Frances had expected. Sooner than any tenancy agreement would allow.

  Whoever moves in, you know they’ll never replace you, she says.

  Ah thanks. I was thinking that if …

  Stephanie sits and the chair twists sharply, holds long enough for her to look up, confused, then collapses, tipping her forwards on to the floor. She sits resplendent in the pieces. Laughter takes Frances over. She can’t speak. All her strength goes into safely putting down the cup that she can no longer hold. A hand supports her on the table while fresh hilarities come to her in spasms. There’s the counter-majesty of Stephanie’s neat placement in the mess. There’s the apt timing of the accident, as though fate had heard their conversation about klutzy Stephanie being irreplaceable and given prompt supporting evidence. There’s the exact irony that Stephanie was sitting down to get all serious, trying to physically reflect the businesslike direction of their talk, and that this put her on the floor. There’s also the desire to laugh for any reason. Life lacks laughs just now. Plus this pratfall takes Steph’s cultivated girlishness and snaps its stems. She wants this emphasised without being seen to emphasise it herself, and does this with laughter, helpless laughter. There’s been a lot of Frances being right about Steph in the past year and not much of anybody noticing. A crumb of justice is worth all her chairs. When the laughs wane she stokes them further until she sees that Steph has had enough.

  It just went, Steph says, standing. I barely touched it.

  Through the last chuckles,

  I’ll take it out of your deposit.

  Don’t you dare. Honestly, I am sorry but
it just went.

  Oh don’t worry. It doesn’t matter. Those chairs are pretty old.

  They address the mess. One takes the swinging skeleton, the other the detached leg and crosspiece. With nowhere else to leave them, they leave them in the back corner of the front room. When they return their coffees are too cold to enjoy.

  So do you think you’ll see this guy again? The guy you brought home?

  Patrick.

  Yes. Is he good news? If you find him, I mean?

  Steph is an inveterate matchmaker and basically deaf about it, deaf or wilful. Years back she had a passion for arranging double dates, which Frances wanly outlasted. Accepting now that she is unable to help in this regard Steph keeps help in readiness. Instead of loud zeal there is now loud forbearance, which breaks at any mention of new lovers, any hint of an escape for Frances from the spinsterhood that her warmer-blooded housemate has been spared.

  Anyway, Frances says.

  *

  She is sorting through books in her room cross-legged when the police call. It is a gentle-voiced DI Someone, whatever a DI is. He says there is no news. He says,

  I’m trying to get hold of Patrick. It is Patrick, isn’t it? The man you spent Thursday evening with?

  Yes.

  Do you have his correct phone number?

  No, I don’t. Actually I meant to say I think the number he gave me isn’t right. I texted yesterday and it’s not him.

  I’ve had the same trouble. Do you have an email address instead? Or just a surname?

  No. I’m sorry. I know he has a small delivery business, but I don’t know what it’s called. He might just be a sole trader. He often works for architects, he said. And publishers and designers.

  Thank you. I’m sure we’ll find him if we need to.

  Do you know yet what happened to Will?

  I can’t discuss specific details of the investigation.

  No of course.

  But I want to assure you that we have a team working on it, that’s partly why I rang. At the moment we’re approaching the incident with an open mind. This is important so we can collect good evidence for the coroner or any courts. It’s vital for the family to have confidence in the courts’ conclusions.

  The words sound read out. She imagines them being typed somewhere.

  Of course. It’s such an awful thing. I wish I could do more to help.

  My colleagues said you were very helpful yesterday. In fact, that’s something else I want to ask about. I believe you visited the Rising Sun pub late yesterday morning? Or perhaps early afternoon?

  I did, yes. I was trying to find Patrick actually.

  Yes. I was there later myself and some of the staff mentioned it. You were agitated, is that right?

  Well, no. Not agitated. No, that isn’t right. I was frustrated. I was trying to find Patrick. I’d just realised that the number was wrong and I was trying to help, because I knew you wanted to talk to him.

  It’s OK. I understand. Several of the bar staff said you were eager to find him, and that you wanted them to remember seeing you together.

  I didn’t want them to. I mean, of course I did want that, but I wasn’t trying to make them remember. I wasn’t trying to force anybody.

  I’m sorry. I phrased that badly. You were trying to jog their memories, let’s say.

  Yes. I was. I found it hard to believe they had all forgotten. I still find it hard to believe, to be honest. We were there all evening.

  That must have been frustrating. And of course people’s memories are unreliable. We see that a lot in my work, especially when a case comes to court. The things that people remember change from day to day. That’s why I wanted to reassure you that my team can handle it. I appreciate that you want to help, but we are talking to all the relevant people, and it’s better for the investigation if you let us interview them first.

  Of course. But I mean I wasn’t …

  I understand. It’s just important not to do anything that might look like interfering. In some people’s eyes.

  Listen, I promise you. It was never my intention to interfere in any way.

  I know. I thought it best to be sure. Things can easily get misunderstood. I’ve seen it a few times. Anyway, you have my number I believe? Just get in touch if you remember anything else.

  She sits silently on the bed for a long time, then checks a few things on her phone.

  Stephanie is in her own room, dividing costumes and equipment into piles and listening to music.

  I’m off out for a bit, Frances says.

  OK. I’m about to go out myself.

  The cafe is open when Frances arrives. The scowling woman still mans the buns, not so many buns today. Perhaps she depends on even the thin Saturday trade. Perhaps she has nowhere else to go.

  In the corner sits a man so round that he could be thirty or fifty. The same man who was here the first time? Frances isn’t sure of that either. He is hiding from the aftermath of his breakfast behind a newspaper, his coat still on. Would that be laziness? The coat? It would not be cold. Maybe being so large and alone and thinking little of oneself dulls the feeling of deserving comfort. Self-loathing makes a virtue of self-neglect. Maybe taking off your coat in a small space becomes conspicuous and embarrassing when you go above a certain size. Whatever the truth is, he looks settled in it, with his paper. He sits stone-still but for his brows, which scurry over the letters’ rooftops, shuddering across w’s and m’s, vaulting every chimneyed t. He’ll be a regular for sure.

  *

  And time does seep by. She’s never bored, not with her book and the passing trade and the internet on her phone. She quite forgets her mission until lunchtime, which was when the writer came before, though only for a coffee and a doughnut, which he hardly ate. People who aren’t the writer arrive, quite a few people but never in more than twos. They are not manual labourers today, but office workers, office overworkers, sent here on Saturdays by the upscale chains being closed. Some you can see like bad food when no one’s looking. Frances plays a game while they queue, trying to predict their orders, and loses nearly always. When she becomes hungry herself she has a jacket potato with strands of cheese and an etiolated side salad. Her orange juice is glugged dispassionately from a box. Only when most people have left does she use the toilet. The door directly adjoins the room and is almost cardboard. The lock is just a slender hook-and-eye.

  Are you all right? the owner asks as they near closing. She has a look that says she has her theories.

  Yes thanks. I’m waiting for somebody. I’m just not sure when he’ll arrive.

  The back of the van will be packed with yesterday’s shopping and you’ll be in the front. You’ll have brought one large tarpaulin, six rolls of heavy-duty duct tape, ten metres of ten-millimetre climber’s rope, a pack of ten large plastic cable ties, a hollow plastic garden parasol stand, a box of surgical gloves, a box of surgical shoe covers, a box of surgical masks, a box of surgical caps, a box of large disposable overalls, two small vials of GHB (gamma hydroxybutyrate), a roll of twenty-five clinical waste bags, fifty heavy-duty refuse sacks, a large sports holdall, a packet of assorted bandages, a large tool box containing a hammer, a mallet, small and large chisels, small and large saws, a carving knife, a boning knife, a cleaver, kitchen scissors, a blowtorch, spare gas and a cigarette lighter, three large sponges, one ten-pack of kitchen sponge-scourers, a fifteen-litre plastic bucket, a four-pack of kitchen towel, six large bathroom towels, two packets of baby wipes, unscented, one ruled notebook and a packet of four ballpoint pens. You’ll have decided to wear the glasses again, this time with a beanie hat, hoping it makes you look incurious and low-skilled. You’ll be parked quite close to the front door today. You’ll listen to her sheets until the streetlights give way to the sun. When she’s quiet you’ll play some of your best recordings of her, which you keep on your phone.

  You’ll know that you will audit these hours later in order to explain them to yourself. You’ll go over your plan t
horoughly, change none of it, but give yourself at least the thoroughness to recall. In any case you’ll know that if you do regret what you are about to do, regret can be a phase. You used to regret making Frances suffer with your impetuous email until you realised that her suffering had helped you understand and made you care. Plus you’ll have started to believe that thanks to your accusations she is on the road to something better. Being hurt is good for people sometimes. So is hurting others. Plan a painless life and you only season life’s pain with disappointment. Better to let yourself flow. Be spontaneous. Make pain count.

  Stephanie will pull up in a minicab. She’ll pay the driver and open the front door and call Hello! into the hall. Presently she’ll be met by Frances and they’ll start talking about Stephanie’s engagement, which naturally excites them. They’ll begin work on breakfast.

  The next thing on your list will be to email Patrick, cancelling the job you booked him for this morning. Then you’ll drive over and ring his doorbell. He’ll come to the door and look at you and say,