woman waved it in the direction of the seat Cass had so recently left. ‘Only it was on the floor where you and your husband were sitting,’ the woman said.
‘My husband?
The woman nodded. ‘Yes. It was under the seat. It must’ve fallen out of his bag or his pocket.’
‘Oh – oh thank you.’ Cass looked out on to the platform, trying to spot her travelling companion, but there was no sign of him. Nothing, zilch. He appeared to have vanished into thin air. Maybe he had managed to catch the Stansted train after all.
The woman was still holding the phone out towards her and, without really thinking, Cass took it, thanked her again and dropped it into her handbag. She would ring him later, tell him that he’d lost it but that it was safe. Maybe it was fate; he was very cute. Cass reddened as the thought took hold and caught light. It felt so much better than the dull David-shaped hurt she’d had in her heart.
Outside the station, with one eye on the time, Cass grabbed a taxi and headed out towards the science park instead of taking a bus as planned. In the back of the cab she ran through the menu on the man’s phone.
She moseyed on down through names, numbers and text. In the phone book section she scrolled down until she found ‘HOME’ and pressed call. After three rings a BT callminder answering service cut in.
‘Hi,’ said Cass. ‘I just wanted to let you know that you left your phone on the train this morning. It must have dropped out of your bag or something. But don’t worry, I’ve got it and it’s safe, and –’ she laughed nervously – ‘it was nice to have your company. I hope your trip goes well…’ Cass hesitated. ‘I’m not normally so snappy. Things are a bit rough for me at the moment.’
What the hell was she saying?
‘So, anyway, I hope you managed to catch your connection, and have a great time…’ Cass paused. He was nice; he had been kind and funny and – OK, so maybe she had fancied him just a little even if it wasn’t the right time and didn’t make any sense at all. ‘If you’d like to give me a ring when you get back, we can arrange for you to pick your phone up.’ Cass laughed again. ‘Who knows, maybe I can return the compliment and we can have an impromptu picnic on the train or something. Anyway, you know your phone number, although I’m a bit worried that the batteries on your mobile might go, so I’ll give you my home number and my mobile…’
When she was done, Cass dropped the phone into her bag, paid the taxi driver and headed up the very impressive canopied shiny steel walkway into the huge glazed atrium of Caraway Industries, which appeared to be planted with a miniature rain forest.
‘Hi, and welcome to Caraway. So glad that you could make it,’ said an American guy coming out from behind the front desk to greet her. ‘You must be Cas-san-dra,’ he said, lingering lovingly over every syllable.
Before she could reply, he continued, ‘If you’d like to follow me, I’ll take you down to meet Artie and the rest of the guys. My name is Nathaniel T. Coleridge. I’m vice co-ordinator on our Human Resources initiative.’ With this he offered her his hand – as cool and limp as a dead eel – before clasping hers in a presidential handshake, all the while dazzling her with a smile honed to a sharp social point in California. Cass winced, indiscriminate gushing was so much worse than the Moustache woman’s barely veiled indifference.
Nathaniel, making deep meaningful conversation about planetary issues, global warming and the ozone layer in response to her casual remark about how much she liked the trees, led Cass down a huge spiral stone staircase – a homage to the nautilus shell and the genius of Fibonacci, apparently – to an impressive conference room with one glass wall overlooking a Japanese rock garden. The twenty or so other applicants for the various positions Caraway had on offer were arranged in a horseshoe of chairs around their host, who was standing behind an onyx-and-steel lectern, his great hands holding tight to the sides as if he was delivering a eulogy.
‘How-dee and welcome, Cas-san-dra,’ said Artie, waving her in. No quietly slipping in at the back with this lot. ‘Why don’t you come on down and take a seat with the rest of the guys. We were all just getting acquainted.’ A big bluff Scandinavian-looking man, Artie looked as if he would be more at home at a barn-raising in Minnesota than in Fenland’s answer to Silicone Valley.
Rather self-consciously, Cass took up her seat, arranged the little flip-up flip-over desk thing on the side of her chair, opened the complimentary Caraway introduction and orientation pack, all the while watched by her fellow job seekers. When she was finally settled, Artie began to speak. ‘Okeydokey, now, as I was saying…’
Artie’s voice was low, soft and even, with barely a flicker in pitch or tone or inflection. The sun shone in through the wall of glass, warming the room to a cocoon-like heat. After fifteen minutes or so, despite eating the complimentary mints and doodling on the complimentary notepad with a zippy Caraway complimentary roller ball, it was taking a colossal act of will on Cass’s part not to slip down in the chair and fall asleep.
Alongside her, a plump blonde woman in a trouser suit the colour of ripe plums had given up the struggle. A thin glistening guy-rope of drool clung to her bottom lip and tethered her head to her lapel.
Cass winced; it could so easily be her. She could feel herself starting to nod, just as the woman alongside her began to snore softly. It was like a siren call. She needed this job; she couldn’t afford to drop off. Cass snapped her attention back to Artie, who was now in full, albeit soporific, swing, giving an almost evangelical presentation on the benefits of working for Caraway – not merely a company but a caring family – when somewhere close by a phone started to ring. There was a little flurry of activity as everyone nervously tapped their pockets and bags and looked round to try and track it down. It rang and it rang and then it stopped for a few seconds and then it rang again, and then again. People started to move. The woman in the purple suit woke up with a start.
From the lectern Artie leaned forward. Breaking off mid-flow, he said, ‘Guys, would you like to check your cellphones?’
Cass looked round. Smugly. And still the phone kept on ringing and ringing, and then an icy finger of doubt tracked down her spine. Bugger. It couldn’t be, could it? Very slowly she opened her handbag. The ringing got louder. Not from her phone but from Mr Humbug-and-Peaches-Gone-to-Rome’s mobile. Home was phoning.
All eyes slowly turned and fixed on her.
Cass reddened and smiled sheepishly, mouthing apologies to the other applicants and Artie, whose perfect fixed smile made it look as if rigor mortis might well have set in.
‘Err, sorry, I – I think I really ought to take this,’ she said, making a break for the door. ‘Emergency. Family stuff,’ she lied. ‘I told them it would be OK to ring – I didn’t think they would – well, you know, obviously –’ Art lifted a hand and managed to widen the smile another notch.
‘Whatever it takes,’ he said, sounding as if he meant it.
Bloody Americans. Cass scurried across what felt like a mile and a half of shiny blonde wood floor to the nearest exit; she could feel the attention of the whole room following her. God, there was no way she could work for a company like Caraway, the people were far far too nice and way too squeaky clean.
‘Hello,’ Cass said, taking the call the minute she was through the door.
‘Who is this?’ a cultured female voice demanded furiously.
Female voice?
Cass hesitated.
‘And can you tell me exactly why you have got my husband’s phone?’ the woman growled.
‘I –’ Cass began.
‘There’s nothing you can say, is there? I told James that if this ever happened again it was over. Do you hear me? Do you understand? Do you? Over – no more chances. No more second chances. What did he tell you about me? Did he say that I’m cold? Difficult? That I don’t care? Did he? Did he? The bastard.’
‘Well,’