Consent Read online

  Sorry, I know it’s none of my business. Is there anything you need? Is there anyone I can call?

  It’s OK. I … It’s OK.

  I understand. Whatever it is, I’m sorry.

  Thank you.

  It’s probably the last thing you want, some stranger trying to be nice. It just felt heartless to ignore you.

  Don’t worry. I’ll be fine.

  [She wants to be left alone but you can hear her smile.]

  I didn’t want to be, you know, the Bad Samaritan. Or whoever the person is at the beginning of that story. The one who walks past on the other side?

  [A garland of her laughter. Hard to tell if she’s amused by my gaucheness or likes my style. I don’t know myself if I was trying to be funny. I just know her cheeks bunched like apricots. And something else. Something I’m only remembering now. It was hard to keep leaning over and I was careful to give her space, but I had to put my hand on the edge of her seat to support myself. I’d forgotten that. Throughout our meeting I gave her smooth leg the respectful distance she was entitled to expect. Some men would have brushed against her on purpose. I don’t do that kind of thing.]

  A high priest, I think, she says.

  I’m not religious or anything. I just mean it felt wrong that people might see you and no one would show they cared.

  Well, thank you. I’m not religious either but I’ll be fine. You’re free from your dilemma.

  [My laugh this time. I don’t like my laugh.]

  Oh believe me, I say. I’ve got more dilemmas where that came from. That doesn’t mean you have to ask me about them.

  [I sound like I’m straining a little. Maybe that’s when I put my hand on her seat.]

  Good. Thank you. And look, if you’re curious. It’s just a work thing, OK? Nobody died. I’m not dying. I don’t get upset usually. It’s just people being arseholes, you know. A hard couple of days but I’ll be fine.

  People are arseholes. Definitely. That’s more or less a rule, I think. Everybody’s decent inside, but we’re all arseholes out here. We are sometimes anyway.

  The guy I’m thinking of, my boss, he’s an arsehole pretty much continuously.

  [My laugh again. She says something but a blast of steam from the kitchen covers it. Something something overconfident, or over on people.]

  When the steam stops I’m saying, like a really bad one. I don’t think I’ve met many as bad as that.

  Lucky you.

  Lucky me.

  What do you do?

  [She sips her tea. You can hear the suction as the cup approaches and the silence when it meets her lips.]

  I’m a writer.

  [This is what I always say to people. I’ve found it’s a way to explain not having a job.]

  What do you write?

  [This is what people always ask.]

  Oh lots of different stuff. Whatever comes along. I make a lot of notes.

  Will I have read anything you’ve written?

  No, no. I shouldn’t think so.

  I’m Frances by the way.

  I tell her my name.

  *

  She feels that it’s at least partly a show of attraction, and she partly doesn’t mind. She’d rather be an object of lust than an object of pity, if that’s the choice, although it is odd to be approached while crying, not exactly slick or tactful. The man seems nice, a bit klutzy and buffoonish, which might innocently explain his hobnailed timing. And it cheers her up. His embarrassment gives hers company. It’s also interesting that he’s a writer, interesting that that’s his answer anyway. She gets the feeling it’s more of a hobby, really. He’s probably embarrassed about his real job. She knows how that goes.

  Listen, she says. It’s been nice meeting you. It really has. You’ve definitely been the Good Samaritan today, but I have to run.

  OK. Sure. Of course.

  He looks a bit deflated.

  Sorry. You really have helped. I think I know now what I need to do.

  Hey, no problem. I come here quite often so maybe I’ll bump into you again.

  Maybe. Absolutely. Look, here’s my card. No, wait.

  She crosses out the office number and scribbles her mobile in its place. When they shake hands to say goodbye it already seems too formal for them. They smile like they both know.

  *

  I’ve been re-reading Montaigne’s Essays recently. Do you know them? Among those few of us with the means to spend our time considering how to spend our time, Montaigne gave my favourite answer: shut yourself up in a tower and write about the impossibility of the whole thing. He’s been a comfort and an inspiration. I read the Essays and I think, I’m not alone alone, which itself justifies the writing, for me if not for him. In my most hopeful moments I imagine passing on the favour.

  Montaigne claimed to rejoice in his appalling memory, saying it was the one thing he deserved to be famous for, and writers who edit as much as he did certainly have fame in mind. People with bad memories are less tempted to be dishonest, he says in ‘On Liars’, because they know that they’ll have trouble keeping track of their fabrications. He elaborates the point with tales of cunning courtiers who eventually wind up in a dungeon or without a head. As so often with Montaigne the essay is marked as much by the messiness as by the originality of its thinking, and as so often this is its great joy, his preference for an honest muddle above false smoothness. For one thing, the lying courtiers he mentions might have carried off their intrigues if they’d just kept better records, a point he does not address. Indeed knowing they can’t remember things reliably might make people more organised deceivers, whereas the good rememberers get overconfident and trip on their mistakes. I can only say might, and so should Montaigne, because of course it is impossible to know, by definition, how many liars succeed. Moreover I dispute his diagram of the knowing liar’s mind in which the truth lingers hazardously at ankle height. The knowing liars that I’ve known, and known about, generally grow so accustomed to their invented version of events that it overwrites their memory of what happened. Some I think even knowingly rely on this to comb the knots out of their conscience and thus make them better liars. None of us can know, by definition again, whether we’ve convinced ourselves of falsehoods in this way, but I think most of us realise that there exists a mechanism by which repetition hardens into instinct. Think, say, of how true reading or driving only emerge once you’re unconscious of them. I actually type faster without any awareness of the keys.

  An inconvenient result of this is that you often can’t make the distinction that Montaigne does between the innocence and the knowingness in our behaviour, although you can see why Montaigne would want the distinction made. As he says, he has hurt the feelings of many friends down the years by forgetting promises and favours. They bring my affections into question upon the account of my memory, and from a natural imperfection make out a defect of conscience, he protests as if it were impossible for him – a man surrounded by servants and obsessed with writing things down – to arrange to be reminded of anything worth the trouble. Knowing that he was indeed letting down his friends, and perhaps feeling bad about it, he had good reason to wish fame on the merveilleuse défaillance of his mémoire and thus remove the conscious part of himself from guilt. Indeed I fancy that Montaigne began as just the kind of conscious liar that he advocates pursuing with fire and the sword, before graduating to the unconscious kind who truly believes he has the authority to make such advocations. He lied about loving his friends, then about his memory being to blame, then repeated both lies so often that he thought they were true. This makes him little different from the rest of us. We live instinctively, for the most part, and afterwards decorate the behaviour with rationales. Knowingly or unknowingly, Montaigne may even have invited this reading of ‘On Liars’. It is certainly a true picture of the liar that he was.

  This stuff matters to me. I can’t help it. I want to explain what happened and answer questions, yours and mine. I want to understand the choices that
have marooned me here and it makes me a student of the journey. Did entering her house mean that I was bound to end up talking to Frances in that cafe? Did interfering with my subjects’ lives mean that I was bound to end up trapped in her house? Did following Laura mean that I was bound to end up interfering? Or is this just me? Was I bound to end up doing all of this, things being what they were, me being who I am? Have I travelled down a slope, off a cliff edge, or by my own effort along flat ground? I can only consult my memory in search of answers, and like Montaigne write everything down, though I know that as well as a machine for writing I am one for remembering conveniently. This is how we survive, by getting used to things. Time drags us from our wreckage.

  I knew I would have to study Frances from a greater distance after meeting her, and perhaps less frequently, or with radical and reluctant countermeasures like a disguise. I thought about this carefully on the way home, still a professional, giving due diligence to the paths I wouldn’t take. That’s if I remember rightly. Perhaps I’d already decided everything and wanted the appearance of deliberation. Sometimes you don’t want to know what’s next.

  She is heavy with sleep. Sleep clogs her skin. She reaches out for water but must have finished it in the night because her glass is all light and empty and only a trickle makes her tongue. She’s heard that people sleep in waves or cycles so perhaps she’s swum up suddenly from sleep’s depths. Strange on a day with no alarm.

  She slops downstairs and clears herself an area among the debris, makes tea, and eats. Toast helps her head but not her stomach. Outside another bright morning has been arranged. Quarrelly blackbirds, mooing collared doves, all that. Clouds cast and uncast panes of sun on her plate. Gilded and dulled crumbs, gilded and dulled. Nowhere to go today.

  The one good email on her phone comes from James, a lawyer and briefly a boyfriend. He has enclosed the letter he proposes to send to Jenny, the director of legal services, the executive chairman, and Will. On behalf of my client … remind you of your responsibility under … seek redress using all legal means as described … It is too much for her. She taps out her approval and thanks and returns to bed.

  *

  Awake again, better, she puts on sturdy underwear, leggings and a T-shirt with more past than future. Her hair she ties back in a ponytail before seeking out the running shoes like forgiven friends. The day’s gone flat and cold but she is soon warm again, breath rhythmical. The road bends east. Where it begins to scoop uphill she wades against it hard, proud and impervious, lost in her machine. She’s running. She is running. She is winning. She is winning the war on mass.

  She’ll turn back at that tree. That is the decision. She’ll get there and she’ll run home. And again tomorrow. And again. Her head and arms flap, tiring. She hasn’t the strength to keep her strides long during the descent and her feet stamp their landings. Her mouth’s gone gluey. Were she a spitter she would spit. On. On home through the rain’s first whisperings.

  *

  Morning! Been running?

  Steph is reading her phone with a mug of tea. There are now two plates of toast crumbs on the table.

  Yes.

  Frances breathes.

  I have.

  Good for you.

  I could. Have gone longer but. I thought it better just to. Build up gradually. I haven’t run much recently I. Haven’t had time.

  Yeah, yeah, yeah. It’s so important to make a habit of it. That’s why I joined the gym. You know the money’s coming out of your bank account and that keeps you going. I really recommend it. The treadmills are sprung, which is much better for your joints, and they’ve got TVs to watch. Otherwise it gets so boring, you know? And you can have a sauna afterwards. I really enjoy it these days.

  Steph’s rather eagerly grasped the role of adviser now that Frances is the one whose life is going wrong, now that Frances is the straggler. Besides, this isn’t why she joined the gym. She joined because Greg chivvied her with regular light-hearted remarks about her shape, and paid. They discussed it all about six months ago. Obviously there’s a deal now that the discussion is forgotten.

  You’re right. I keep meaning. To get around to it.

  She takes an apple, and is in the bathroom when Steph yells.

  What?

  There was a phone call for you!

  Who was it?

  Jeremy Hafford? Is that right?

  Hapgood. Shit, you mean Jeremy Hapgood?

  The executive chairman. She leans out across the bannisters, a towel around her.

  That’s it.

  You mean his PA called?

  No, he did. He was very nice. He wanted to know if you could go in to have a chat with him today. It sounded important.

  Shit. Yes, I bet it did. He’s the boss of the whole company, Steph. I was telling you about him last night.

  Very plummy?

  Yes. Jesus. What did he say?

  He’s the actual boss?

  The thought of Stephanie, half-dressed, hungover, the phone in her hand, her toast in the other, Hapgood on the line …

  Yes. What did he say?

  Oh, well, just that really. He said he wanted to have a chat with you, and when I said you were out he left a number.

  How did he sound? Was he tense? Annoyed?

  No, I wouldn’t say he was annoyed.

  What would you say? Jesus, Steph!

  Oh, quite cheerful really. Quite relaxed.

  And it is true. Frances finds a voicemail message. Hapgood sounds genial and calm, almost doting. He asks if she’d have time to visit him today to talk about all this.

  *

  She is taking her best suit to the cleaners. She couldn’t see much wrong with it herself but Steph carried it out into the daylight, gave it backhand scuffs to the lapels and pronounced it failed. They were on the point of disagreeing, when a man arrived with pizza. They hadn’t ordered pizza. That’s what they told him, and he didn’t take it at all well, but his struggle to be rude to them in a second language made them laugh and afterwards Frances relented. The dry cleaner says that the Executive Express service guarantees the suit’s return within two hours. He says it again when she explains it is important, she has a meeting at five. He has a young face and tired eyes, but she only sees his mighty beard and the knitted kufi on his head. They reassure her. You expect a fundamentalist to be prompt.

  When she collects the suit she can see that Stephanie was right. It looks beautiful. But dressing makes her nervous. It’s hard to look impressive without picking up the mindset of impressing. She arrives at work in good time, if it is still work, and is glad to see the other security guard on duty today. She has no swipe card and doesn’t want to alert Hapgood to her earliness by calling up from the front desk, so she sits on a green sofa pretending to read the choice of newspapers in several languages. At 4.48 she checks the clock, then at 4.50, then 4.53. At 4.55 she approaches the desk. They were expecting her and have no need to call upstairs. They point to the feared lift. Up on Hapgood’s floor his PA proffers a seat on a blue sofa. Sometimes they do pitches in the meeting rooms up here, and afterwards march back down with their opinions. Frances puts her phone on silent and stares at the doors a while. She wonders whether Hapgood remembers the afternoon subgroup at the summer conference where they’d unleashed their creativity designing stickers. She expects he’s a secretly good rememberer.

  At 5.06 Hapgood breaks through the doors to greet her so cordially, and so close, that she can’t stand up until he’s finished.

  Thank you so much for coming in at such short notice, he says, continuing to shake her hand despite the strangeness of the angle. It’s such a horrid situation and I always feel the best thing is to talk in person.

  He will be about sixty. He has the becoming plumpness of the lifestage. Arms spread wide and waistcoat showing, he goes star-shaped like a teddy.

  I agree, she says, to show she has her own experiences. She’s not been summoned. That isn’t what this is.

  Will, spindly,
quite another species, is already in the office. And poor Jenny again, standing apart from the three chairs at the nearside of Hapgood’s beefy desk. Will weaves over to Frances palms up, head slanted, as though they are such incorrigible old pals the two of them, they really are, to fight like this. Fleetingly it looks like he wants a hug.

  Would you like a coffee? Tea? The pot is fresh.

  This is Hapgood. Sunset glows behind him.

  No, thank you.

  William? Jenny?

  Both shake their heads.

  Very well then. Shall we discuss this?

  He looks at Will and Frances, two looks of equal length, and takes his seat. They sit after him.

  First of all, and most importantly of all, I want to say how sorry I am for what you’re going through, Frances. Truly. The email must have been a nasty shock, and now it’s been followed by this suspension. If you feel let down – and Will said you were very disappointed – then I understand. Indeed I’d expect it. I hope we’ve not given the impression somehow that you should feel differently. I also think it’s quite right that you’ve been talking to your lawyer. This letter, he waves at his computer, seems sensible. What I want to do, if you’ll permit me, is explain the board’s position to you in more detail, and fill in some of the blanks about why we decided as we did. I should have done it sooner, actually. I’m sorry about that too.

  Frances says it’s OK.

  Thank you. That’s very gracious. The board’s position is essentially this: we think the allegations against you are serious, but we can’t see any evidence to support them. We all think that you are innocent therefore, and are eager to prove it. When we discussed the matter during a long meeting yesterday morning it became clear that we had three options: to dismiss the email out of hand as an obvious smear; to ask you some questions and look into the matter casually; or finally, the option we have chosen, to investigate the whole affair as thoroughly as possible, which necessitates your being briefly suspended. Having talked it over, I think we all felt that this was the only way to exonerate you properly. The horrible thing about this sort of situation, as I’m sure you’ve felt yourself, is the no-smoke-without-fire mentality that can take hold. Unfortunately people enjoy repeating rumours, even without evidence. From your point of view, that threatens to darken a very promising career. And it makes you less able to do your job effectively, from ours. We are a consulting firm. Good people are really our only asset, as you know, so your future here is not a trivial matter. Those few staff who know about this email have been asked not to discuss it until we are able to show them evidence to verify or disprove its allegations. And I believe those people have agreed?