‘OK,’ she said.
Donna, having left Scott in bed that morning with what she felt was admirable sophistication, found that she couldn’t concentrate at work. It seemed that the price of being mature enough to leave a sleeping lover without a word of affection from him was that the maturity was only temporary, and the need to be reassured came back later, in double measure, as a result of being initial y repressed. So, after two hours of fiddling about pointlessly at her computer, Donna made a plausible excuse to her nearest col eague, and headed for what she hoped would be the reward for her early-morning restraint.
Scott shared a room at work with two others. The room was at the back of the building – only the senior partners’ and the boardroom looked out on the river – and they needed to have the lights on, even in summer, on account of the new building behind it being constructed so close that Scott and his col eagues could see if the people working across the way were playing games on their computers. They had been provided with blinds, heavy vertical panels of translucent plastic, but by tacit agreement the three of them found it more amusing to have the blinds at their widest setting, giving a clear view into the opposite office. In any case, there were some good- looking girls in the opposite office, and, for Scott’s gay col eague, Henry, there was a particular guy, who, Henry knew, just knew, was aware of being watched and liked it.
When Donna came into the office, it was empty. She had checked that both Henry and Adrian were at the Law Courts that morning, and she had reckoned on finding Scott alone. She had spent ten minutes in front of the mirror in the Ladies on her floor, and was planning to breeze in, kiss Scott’s cheek, wink, say something like, ‘Just fabulous,’ and then swing out again, leaving a seductive and tantalizing breath of Tresor on the air, which would drive him to seek her out later in the day and hint that she might like to cook him supper.
But Scott’s chair was empty. His jacket was not even on the back of it. But his screen was on, and his mobile – not one she recognized – was lying in the chaos of papers across his desk. There was also a tal takeaway cup – cold, when she touched it – and a half-eaten Snickers bar, the wrapper peeled roughly back like a banana skin. Donna sat down in his chair. The document on his screen showed a series of mathematical calculations, one column entirely in red, and was no doubt something to do with one of the VAT cases in which he was becoming something of a specialist. If Scott had taken his jacket, he’d gone to do more than have a pee, but if he hadn’t taken his phone then he hadn’t left the building.
Donna sighed. If he came back and found her in his chair, he would be able to assume the initiative in any future development between them, and that was absolutely not what Donna wanted. From past experience, Donna knew that, if Scott had the initiative, he just left it lying about without using it until it ran out of its vital initial energy, and simply expired. She lifted one leg and flexed her foot. What a waste of spending al morning in four-inch heels it might turn out to be.
On the desk in front of her, Scott’s phone beeped twice and jerked itself sideways. Donna leaned forward so that she could see the screen.
‘One message received’, the screen said.
Donna hesitated. She glanced at the doorway. Then she stretched her arm out and touched Select.
‘Amy’, said the message box.
Donna uncrossed her legs and sat straighter. She touched again.
‘Sorry about that,’ Amy had written.
Donna peered at the screen. That was al there was. ‘Sorry about that.’ No signing off, no x’s, no initial. She scrol ed down. Nothing but a mobile number and the time of the message. Sorry about what? Donna put the phone down. She stood up. She felt, abruptly, sick and angry and guilty. She also felt consumed by disappointment, waves of it, rol ing and crashing over her in just the way they had when Scott had told her that she was a fantastic fuck but that didn’t mean he loved her, because he didn’t.
She walked – with difficulty, her knees seeming to have locked rigid with shock – to the window. Ten feet and two windows away, a girl in a short skirt and knee boots was perched on the edge of a man’s desk, and he was leaning back in his chair with his fingers interlaced behind his head, and they clearly were not talking about the cost of insurance of cars with two-litre engines. Donna felt hot tears spring up and flood her eyes. She swal owed hard and tossed her hair back. No crying, she told herself. No crying and no softness over what her Irish father would have cal ed feckin’
Scott Rossiter.
‘Oh, hi,’ Scott said from the doorway.
Donna whirled round. He was in his suit, but looking slightly dishevel ed, and he had a plastic cup of water in each hand. Donna glared at him.
‘Who is Amy?’ she demanded.
‘Look,’ Scott said later, stretched on his sofa and replete with a Thai green curry Donna had made with real lemon grass and kaffir lime leaves purchased in her lunch hour, despite the four-inch heels. ‘Look. That was great, last night was great, but I am completely bushed and you’ve got to go now.’
Donna had kicked her shoes off. She had removed the jacket of her work suit and replaced it with a little wrap cardigan that tied meaningful y under her bosom, of which she was proud. She looked at the remaining wine in her glass.
‘I’m not suggesting a repeat of last night,’ Donna said.
Scott repressed a groan.
‘But it’s nice,’ Donna said, stil looking at the wine and not at Scott, ‘to have a bit of support at family times like this. Nice for you.’
Scott said nothing.
‘It’s a comfort,’ Donna said. ‘It’s a comfort not to be alone.’
Scott closed his eyes. Then he made a huge effort and swung himself upright. He looked directly at Donna.
‘I want to be alone,’ Scott said.
Donna regarded her wine in silence.
