NOW
‘Well,’ I gesture at the four walls, ‘they haven’t.’
‘This is starting to get weird.’
‘Starting?’
Marianne gives me another one of those looks. I knew being stuck in a tiny lift with a claustrophobe would end badly.
‘You really don’t know what I do for work?’ she asks me.
I stare at her, trying to figure out what she’s really asking. ‘How would I?’
‘I’m a book publisher,’ Marianne says, and it’s like she’s expecting fireworks to explode over her head or a banner to unfurl itself.
‘Congratulations?’
‘An important one, too,’ Marianne adds. Does she know this makes her sound like a wanker, or is that the point? ‘A lot of people want to pitch me their book ideas.’ I still don’t say anything; what can I say to this? ‘Have you ever heard of an elevator pitch?’
‘Uh, maybe?’
‘It’s shorthand for a snappy book pitch. The idea is that the writer could sell their story in the time it takes to ride an elevator.’
I look around the lift, still acting like I don’t get what she’s saying although I’m not a complete idiot. ‘We’re not really riding this one anywhere, though, are we?’
‘My point,’ Marianne says, ‘is that this story you’re telling me is very detailed. I wondered if you’re … this isn’t an elevator pitch, is it? Because, I’ve got to tell you, that would be wildly unprofessional.’
I frown. ‘You think I’m pitching you a book?’
‘Are you telling me you’re not?’
‘You think I hang around in lifts hoping they’ll break?’
Marianne’s mouth goes flat. ‘Was it a coincidence that the lift broke down?’
I’ve always been a bad blusher. I blush when I’m embarrassed.
I blush when I’m pleased. I blush when I’m nervous.
I blush when I’m trying to flirt or being flirted with (not ideal).
And I blush when I’m angry. I can feel it start to happen now: first there’s a prickling on my neck, and then I can feel the heat like bubbles rising to the top of a boiling kettle. ‘You think I broke the lift?’
‘Did you?’
We can’t go on like this, swapping questions instead of answers.
So, instead of saying something like why would I do that?
, I stand up and mash the intercom button.
‘It’s me again. The other woman in here needs to talk to you.
Her name’s Marianne. If you could just reassure her that I haven’t sabotaged the freaking lift, that would be great. ’
While the lift guy reassures Marianne that I’m not a criminal mastermind seeking a book deal, I sit back down and take out my useless phone, flicking through the camera roll: the slideshow of faces, smiles, outfits and screenshots recommending books I meant to get around to reading, scrolling faster and faster until I find the photo I’m looking for.
My own face next to that of a smiling man.
His hair is cropped so close it makes his eyes look huge.
He’s nearly a foot taller than me and so tanned it makes his teeth glow.
Marianne sits down next to me a couple of minutes later. ‘Who’s that?’
‘Doesn’t matter.’ I angle the screen away from her.
‘Is that your brother?’
‘Yes.’
‘Can I see?’
I think about saying no, just to be petty, then pass the phone across to her.
Marianne studies the photo. ‘You look younger. When was this taken?’
‘Three years ago. I don’t have many photos of the two of us together.’ I hold out my hand for the phone, then scroll until I find the other image I want. ‘Here.’
Marianne takes the phone back. She’s now staring at a screenshot of a news story: MAN PLUNGES TO DEATH DURING PARTY. There’s a photo of a house on a scrub-covered cliff and an inset of a young man – the same one from the photo.
‘Just in case you still think I’m secretly angling for a bestseller and a three-part Netflix series,’ I say.
There’s a long silence; long enough to stretch the length of the lift shaft, long enough to run from one end of St George’s Terrace to the other, long enough to calm a racing mind.
‘Sorry,’ Marianne says. ‘If you knew publishing, you’d understand why I had to ask. The things people will do to get their manuscript out of the slush pile and into my hands is, well, a lot.’
I look at those hands, the nails of which are painted fluorescent orange. Shellac, I think, the kind that’s impossible to get off. I did it once and had to chip it off, flake by flake.
Marianne isn’t finished. ‘Once somebody parked me in and waited for me to come back. They wouldn’t move their car until I took their manuscript from them.’
‘That sounds—’
‘I was in the toilet at a party – a party – when someone slid their manuscript under the cubicle door. It’s a cliché in the industry, you know, but it does happen. One writer got a job as a cleaner in my office, just to put his manuscript on my desk.’
‘Were they any good?’ I ask, because she’s clearly not ready to let this go.
‘Trash.’
I’m not sure if she’s talking about the authors or the manuscripts, but I let it slide.
‘You see why I had to ask,’ she says.
‘Uh huh.’
‘But the man,’ she nods at the lift intercom, ‘says there’s no sign of tampering. Something about an electrical surge and some work being done in the building. Apparently it’s happened before.’
I close my eyes and tilt my head back.
‘It might be another twenty minutes,’ Marianne adds.
How slowly would twenty minutes pass, I wonder, if we sat here in silence, letting the seconds strangle themselves?
‘Do you want to keep telling me the story?’ Marianne says. She’s probably asking herself the same question.
‘How about no.’
‘I’ve already said sorry,’ Marianne says, apparently shocked that a single word can’t work miracles.
‘I don’t think so.’
There’s a beat, and I can hear Marianne’s breath speeding up.
‘Tell me the end then. Who did kill your brother? You said he was murdered, so who did it?’
I don’t say anything.
‘I’m not going to beg,’ Marianne says, although I think she might.
‘I don’t feel like it.’
Marianne starts up with the breathing again. Short, shallow breaths, which I’m pretty sure is the opposite of what she should be doing. It’s like being trapped in a small space with someone attempting to blow out the candles on an invisible birthday cake.
‘Do you need to do that?’ I ask.
‘It’s. This. Or. You. Distract. Me,’ Marianne says.
I only pretend to be disappointed.
‘Okay.’
‘You didn’t really break into a doctor’s office, did you?’ Marianne asks.
‘Break in? Hardly. We had a key.’