Captured Page 4

  She surveyed the office emotionlessly on her way to the exit: the endless warren of glass walls had begun to feel like a prison during her final months there. The kitchenette was where she had been collared into corporate small talk on a daily basis, and the row of glass-walled rooms along the wall held only memories of appallingly frustrating conference calls where nothing was ever really said.

  In the corridor, she pressed the lift call button repeatedly -- eager to escape now that she was so close -- drawing an irritated glance from the besuited man waiting beside her in the lift lobby. She looked away from him smiling. She fought to contain the growing euphoria within her; the ‘Friday feeling’ magnified a thousand-fold. Skipping into the lift, she punched the G button with glee; the only obstacle still standing on the path to freedom was her leaving party.

  “There she is, the intrepid adventurer herself!” boomed a ruddy-faced Richard, as Kirsty walked into the bar.

  It was standard fare for Canary Wharf: groups of men in shiny Italian wool suits, colourful shirts and loud ties; and women in smart tailoring, stood in loose circles around their reserved tables, alternatively braying with sycophantic laughter and speaking seriously in their jargon-heavy dialect.

  Kirsty’s own group was no exception. Forcing a smile, she promised herself that she could leave after two hours, and approached the bar to start a tab. Company tradition dictated that the departing employee paid for drinks for the night. The bank had indirectly contributed a significant portion in the past via expense accounts, but this input had become minimal in recent years, with the increased scrutiny of expenses.

  Richard was deep in conversation with Stuart MacKinsey at the group’s periphery when Kirsty returned with a glass of wine. As she arrived, several colleagues eyed her expectantly, waiting for the polite moment when they could make a dash for the bar tab without giving the appearance that that was their main reason for showing up.

  She listened attentively as MacKinsey and Jones discussed an upcoming offering for British Foods. She nodded and tried her best to look enthralled as she listened to her colleague Susan’s seemingly endless story about the seventeenth floor receptionist and some old guy from the compliance team. She had several perfunctory conversations with various other colleagues, all roughly following the same script.

  When she had spoken to everyone, Kirsty pushed her way to the bar for the second time. People had been ordering drinks for her all evening – they were all very generous when she was footing the bill. There she found Daniel, sitting on a stool and sipping what looked like a whisky.

  “Didn’t feel like joining the party?” she asked with a slight slur. She scanned the room before discreetly reaching out and stroking his lower back.

  He smiled. “Long day,” he murmured, slipping his arm around her waist and pulling her towards him.

  “I’m ready to leave when you are,” she whispered in his ear, as she signed her bar tab.

  “You’ve moved on pretty quickly.”

  Kirsty spun around, shocked.

  “Simon! I didn’t think you were coming,” she stammered. She had included him on her farewell email, but hadn’t received a response. She hadn’t seen him since that day in the canteen weeks before, and had not expected to hear from him before she left.

  She smiled at him awkwardly. So much had surfaced since they last saw each other that she didn’t know what to say. “I’m glad you made it,” she said inanely, playing with the receipt in her hand.

  He turned his lips upwards and flashed his teeth; it should have looked like a smile, but his eyes were blank. “I thought it’d look weird if I didn’t see you off.” He swayed on the spot, looking at Daniel with undisguised loathing. “Don’t let me delay you.”

  “Simon, it’s not...”

  Daniel looked awkward. “I’ll wait for you outside Kirsty, shall I?”

  She looked at him and shrugged.

  “Look it’s not what it looks like, it’s nothing...” she continued once Daniel had pushed through the crowd away from them.

  “Shut up Kirsty,” Simon hissed.

  She squeezed her palms against her temples. “God Simon, you broke up with me, remember?”

  “I know,” he slurred. “But you don’t understand.”

  “Well help me understand then?” she looked around the bar, glad that no one was paying them any attention. “Come on, let’s get you a cab.”

  He shook his head, scowling. “You’re sleeping with him, yeah?”

  “No, I...I’m not. Look, let’s just go.”

  “You’re lying, just go. He wins again. The one time I’m anyways happy and that bastard ruins it, he’s... I’m going to kill him, I’ll...”

  “Simon,” Kirsty interrupted, inching backwards. “I have to go. You should go home.” She turned and walked away.

  “Oh darling, I don’t know why you had to leave that good job, and for what? To gallivant around the world? What are you going to do when you come back? The economy’s not in very good shape you know.” Kirsty’s mother didn’t share her friends’ enthusiasm for her resignation.

  “Mum I need to do this. Anyway, it’s not like I was doing brilliantly there, maybe I’ll find a better job when I come back with my head cleared, I might be more excited about the job.”

  “Can’t you take a career break or something?”

  Kirsty hung up the phone in frustration, not in the mood for the conversation that had become a ritual since she’d announced to her parents that she was leaving. Her parents had left the poverty of 1980s Glasgow for London. Although they were reasonably well off now and had retired to a house beside the sea near Brighton, their earlier struggle still resonated, and they couldn’t understand Kirsty’s willingness to leave a well-paying job.

  She tip-toed back into her bedroom, and searched the bedside table for aspirin. Picking up her handbag, she noticed a light flashing on the clunky older model phone she’d borrowed from her brother. She unlocked the keypad and noticed that she’d missed several calls since putting in her SIM card the evening before.

  Daniel stirred beside her as she sat on the edge of the bed and dialled her voicemail. She listened to four messages from Simon, which became increasingly incoherent. He had obviously ignored her advice to go home.

  “What is it?” Daniel sat up and sleepily nuzzled the back of her neck, pulling her back into bed.

  “Stop,” she laughed, standing up. “I need to finish packing.”

  “What’s the matter?” he asked, noticing her expression.

  “Nothing, just some weird voicemail messages from Simon.”

  He frowned. “He’s still bothering you?”

  “He was just drunk, I think,” she smiled and leaned across the bed to kiss him. “Look at you, all big and angry! I don’t need you to fight my battles; I can take care of myself. And now, I need to go pack.”

  Daniel smiled. “I can take a hint. I should probably get out of your way,” he said, reaching to the ground for his shirt.

  “Here. Drink this,” Grace said, handing Kirsty a glass of spitting purple liquid as she walked back into Grace’s tiny kitchen.

  “Ugh, what is it?”

  “Alka Seltzer, with Ribena to mask the taste,” Grace chimed back.

  “Nice. Thanks. I can’t believe we stayed up so late,” Kirsty squeezed her eyes shut and downed the fizzing concoction.

  Grace laughed. “Who knows when we’ll see each other next; we had months’ worth of talking to do.” She opened the fridge. “Who was that on the phone?”

  “Just Daniel calling to say goodbye,” she replied, placing the glass down on Grace’s kitchen table. “I was supposed to meet him for coffee before I left but something’s cropped up.”

  “You alright?”

  Kirsty nodded. “Yeah, fine. I knew I was leaving. I just wish my head didn’t feel like someone was hitting it with a hammer. I need to be at the airport in three hours.”

  “You’ll be fine,” Grace returned to the table with t
wo steaming mugs of coffee and a plate of butter-soaked croissants. “Listen, I’ve been thinking a lot about what I said. About flying over to visit you?”

  “And?”

  “I’m going to try and get some time off.”

  Kirsty clapped her hands together. “Brilliant!”

  “I don’t know dates yet, it’ll depend on our workload, but if I can get the time then I’ll try and take it. I’ll keep you posted.”

  “I won’t hold my breath but it’d be so much fun if you did!”

  “Final call for flight 437 to Singapore.” Kirsty raced through Departures, wondering if she had time to stop at one of the newsagents. She and Grace had dawdled and left Grace’s flat far too late, with Grace insisting on accompanying her all the way to Heathrow.

  Deciding she had a few minutes to spare, she stopped and began to flick through some of the magazines on display, wondering what she was going to do to amuse herself on the fourteen hour flight. It took her a few moments to realise that the unfamiliar ring tone she could her was coming from one of her numerous bags. She hurried out of the shop and dropped them on the ground, lifting each one to her ear in turn.

  The tiny screen read ‘private number’. It was Simon, she realised with a jolt. She didn’t know anyone else who repressed their number, and it was Sunday afternoon. She had tried calling him twice in the two days since her leaving drinks. Despite her revulsion at his actions, she desperately missed his friendship, and wanted to share her excitement about her new adventure with him.

  “Hello, Simon?” she yelled, trying to hear over the cacophony of the departures terminal. She was still breathless from running the length of the terminal from the security area. There was silence on the other end. She frowned as the non-stop PA system suddenly registered with her.

  ... Anderson please make your way to Gate 32, your flight is waiting to depart.

  “Shit, my flight,” she muttered. “Simon, are you there?”

  “Kirsty...Simon...I...”

  “Simon the line is terrible, I can’t hear you. It’s really noisy here.”

  The phone crackled in response.

  Kirsty could see her gate fifty meters away, and the only people there now were two cabin crew. “Simon?” she said again, scrambling to pick up her things with her free hand.

  The line was silent now. Panicking, Kirsty hung up, picked up her bags and ran to the gate.

  Chapter 6

  Grace’s boss was alarmed by her request for leave, assuming the worst.

  “Is everything alright, Grace? You can... ah... talk to me, you know.” Daniel Simmons, one of the partners, shuffled uncomfortably in his leather chair. His eyes darted from the crammed bookshelves to the large sash window and back to his Victorian mahogany desk: everywhere, it seemed, but her eyes.

  “What? I just want to take some...” she started defensively, before noting his increased discomfort. “I just need a holiday!” She had sent him a calendar entry for the weeks she wanted, and he had called her immediately, and asked her to come to his office.

  Simmons nodded, mystified but relieved. Calder & Simmons usually worked their young associates like donkeys, but Grace tended to push herself even harder than they expected.

  “My workload should be reasonably light for those weeks,” she continued. “I’ll check and respond to emails when I’m gone of course, and—”

  “You can take those weeks.”

  Grace smiled and stood up. “Great.”

  He watched her walk to the door. “But I trust that you won’t drop the ball, Grace. Try and get your hours up before you go.”

  Grace’s mother, Jan, who called her religiously every Sunday evening, didn’t react with enthusiasm when her daughter told her of her plans that Sunday.

  “Mum you’re always telling me that I should take more time off,” Grace admonished. “Now you’re telling me I shouldn’t?”

  Her mother tutted. “I’d like nothing better for you to get some time away and recharge.” She sighed. “but I don’t understand how you can let that lovely man slip through your fingers and then turn around and follow that missy—“

  “Mum!”

  “But she’s so unreliable, love,” her mother continued. “And a bit cold. Mrs. Rogers agrees with me.” Jan sighed again, something Grace had grown accustomed to hearing on their weekly calls. “Why don’t you go and tell Neil you’re sorry and go somewhere nice with him. You could use the break.”

  “Mum, stop!”

  “I’m just telling the truth sweetheart. Remember Barcelona?”

  Grace took the bait. “Like it was yesterday. We had a great time.”

  She could hear the smile in Jan’s voice. “Remember the nightmare you had trying to plan it? And then she didn’t even bother showing up for the flight!”

  “She was late and she missed it. She got on the next one and we had a brilliant week. She’s just a bit more spontaneous than me, she—“

  “She’s a flake,” Jan said triumphantly. “I bet she’ll leave you stranded in the middle of nowhere. I’m telling you love, call Neil. I’m sure he’d take you back if you didn’t work so much. Is that company going to look after you when you’re old?”

  “No, Mum,” Grace conceded.

  “I worry about you, that’s all, love. I’m not trying to ruin your holiday; I just want you to have a lovely time. God knows, you work yourself hard enough.”

  “I know, I know. I have to go now. Love you Mum, I’ll speak to you next week.”

  A loud crackling sound erupted near Grace’s ear when she lifted the phone. After a beat, she heard Kirsty’s distorted voice.

  “hellooooooo? Grace can you hear me?”

  “Hi!” Grace said. “You’re faint, but I can hear you. Where are you?”

  “Danang. In Vietnam,” Kirsty’s distorted voice responded after a few moments of static. “Sorry the connection’s really slow here.”

  “I can sort of hear you,” Grace replied. “Guess what? I booked flights!”

  “Oh wow, really? When do you arrive? And where?”

  Grace heard the hesitation in her friend’s voice. “Don’t worry. I fly into Bangkok and I can get a connecting flight and come and meet you. I arrive in three weeks, on the twenty-sixth. Where do you think you’ll be?”

  “Don’t be crazy, I can come meet you in Bangkok”, Kirsty replied quickly. “So how long have you got?”

  “Three weeks.”

  “Wow! How did you manage that?”

  “I’ll have to do some work while I’m there,” Grace admitted. “But it shouldn’t be too much.”

  “Well I have no plan yet, but I’ll aim to be in Bangkok then. What date did you say you arrived?”

  “The twenty-sixth. At 7am local time. So, I’ve been looking into hotels and I think—”

  “Grace, hotels are kind of out of my budget right now.”

  “I know, but I need some pampering so it’s my treat! I’ll book the Imperial hotel, have a look at the website and tell me if you like it.”

  “I like the sound of it already. A hotel. Wherever you want. You should see some of the places I’ve been staying in,” Kirsty shouted over the background noise. “I can’t wait to see you, you know.”

  “I’ve been looking at possible itineraries too—”

  “Oh my god, it’s a holiday Grace! We’ll just go where we feel like going!”

  “I only have three weeks hon, we’re going to have to make some kind of plan.”

  “Look, if you want to make a plan I’m happy to go along with it. Just places though, no detailed hour by hour timetables.” Kirsty laughed. “I have to go, my train to Hanoi leaves in an hour. See you soon!”

  Chapter 7

  Grace was livid. Her excitement about seeing Kirsty had kept her going on the fourteen hour flight – the longest she had ever taken. It hadn’t taken long for the anticipation to dissolve into rage when she discovered that the hotel had neither seen nor heard from Kirsty. She hadn’t even left a messa
ge to say that she’d be late.

  Grace collapsed onto the king-size bed, exhausted. Bangkok had seemed chaotic and exciting from the window of the taxi. Despite all of her planning for their holiday together, she hadn’t developed any preconceptions about the place. The humidity had smacked her in the face the moment she left the airport terminal and its frigid air-conditioning. It was sensory overload: the dripping, humid air; people yelling at her in Thai, presumably something about the taxi queue they were all standing in; the unfamiliar smell (she wondered if it was the smell of pure heat); the cabs honking and jostling for space in the set-down zone. She was relieved when she finally slid into the back of a car and handed the driver the little receipt that listed her destination.

  She had leant her head against the fabric window frame, watching in awe as the car made its way off the highway into a spider’s web of narrow streets and lanes. Ramshackle stalls sold food, clothing, homewares; everything imaginable it seemed. Dirty, poorly-clothed children chased each other through dusty alleys, as fires blazed at the edge of the bumpy road. It was a world away from Farringdon, where she had lived for several years now. Working barely a mile away, she hardly ever left its comfortable radius.

  She had been amazed moments later when the poverty gave way to sleek high-rise buildings and upmarket shopping malls. The streets still bustled with activity, but obvious affluence had replaced the stricken poverty. The little food stalls were still dotted along the streets, but they were shaded by luscious green trees now, instead of rusting corrugated iron. The cab spat her out onto a side street, where her hotel nestled between an expensive-looking hair salon and a karaoke bar teeming with Japanese businessmen.

  Grace rolled onto her back and leaned across the bed for her handbag. She fumbled for her phone, hoping that it worked here: she could at least catch up on some work while she waited. There was still nothing from Kirsty. She typed an angry email, toned it down, and hit send. Then she gathered the four huge squishy pillows together and sank into them.