4
Imogen
I mogen switched off her computer and yawned. It had been a long day, and she still had to put together some ideas for a client’s centenary celebration the following summer, but she didn’t want to stay any later because the walk from the station to her home became steadily less safe as the evening progressed.
“Imogen?” Rosalind called to her from her office. “Can you come in for a moment?”
They were the only two people left on the floor. Desks were deserted, and beyond the windows the city stretched, tall buildings glittering against the night sky.
Far beneath them the River Thames snaked its way past Tower Bridge and down toward Greenwich. It was a stunning view of London, showcasing all the best parts, and sometimes Imogen wondered if anyone would notice if she tucked a sleeping bag under her desk and lived here. It would be so much better than her current accommodation, which was an example of London at its least appealing.
Imogen paused in the doorway of Rosalind’s office. She felt the usual flash of envy. Rosalind was the only person who had her own protected space. She had a door (an actual door!), although to be fair she rarely closed it.
Imogen sometimes imagined how much more work she could get done if she had her own office. No more chitchat. No more having to be creative about her life. No more trying to fit in. What would that be like?
She’d hate it.
She was lonely at home; she didn’t need to be cut off and lonely at work too.
“Is everything all right, Rosalind?”
“Couldn’t be better. I have good news, and as you are a large part of the reason for the good news, I thought I’d share it with you first.” Rosalind sat back in her chair and slid on the glasses that gave her the look of a serious academic. “We won the Noop account.”
Imogen felt a surge of triumph. “We did?” This was why she worked all those hours. Nothing beat that adrenaline rush that came with winning a big piece of business.
“We did. And it was a six-way pitch, so even more impressive. They loved you. Congratulations, Imogen.”
“It was a team effort.”
“But you headed up that team.” Rosalind beckoned her into the office. “Come and sit down for a moment. I want to talk to you.”
Imogen walked into the room and sat down opposite Rosalind.
Yes, she was going to be very late, but it was almost worth being mugged on the way home to savor this moment of achievement.
“That is great news. When did you hear?”
“Just now. The CEO called. There’s just one condition. They want you to handle the account personally.”
“No problem.” Imogen didn’t hesitate and Rosalind leaned forward, studying her closely.
“Are you sure? I must admit I’m concerned. You already have almost twice the number of accounts as Danny, and he told me this week he is too stretched to take on anything else.”
“Danny has two kids and a busy homelife.” Imogen didn’t mention the gym or the after-work drinks. “He has a lot on.”
“Danny also has a wife who does most of it,” Rosalind said dryly, “but we’ll ignore that. I’m not one of those bosses who thinks that employees should have no homelife, although I suspect Danny’s contribution in that department is minimal. But it does make me wonder how you manage to handle so much.”
“I’m single. It helps. Also, I love my work. I enjoy every moment. I suppose I’m a bit of a workaholic.” With no homelife, work was her priority, not least because she had no choice but to be financially independent.
Rosalind narrowed her eyes. “I thought you had a boyfriend. Jack, wasn’t it?”
Damn. She’d forgotten about Jack, which would have been a red flag had the relationship been real, but like most things in Imogen’s personal life, Jack wasn’t real. Having listened to all the ups and downs of Janie’s love life, Imogen was almost relieved he wasn’t real.
“We’re casual. He works for one of the big management consultancy firms. You know how it is. The main job requirement is that you have no life outside work.”
“Even so, you’re already over capacity,” Rosalind said. “Don’t think I haven’t noticed. It’s a heavy workload for anyone, even someone with your talent and work ethic. I don’t want you to burn out.”
“I don’t know what that is, Rosalind, but I can assure you I’m nowhere near burning anything.” She perched on the edge of her chair and tried to project an aura of high energy.
“You’re sure you’re handling everything?” Rosalind persisted. “You’d tell me if you were struggling?”
“I would.” She definitely wouldn’t. If she found herself struggling with workload she’d go to bed later to give herself more time to get things done. “I’m not sure why you’re asking. Is there something I haven’t done? Something I haven’t delivered?”
“No. You deliver every time.” Rosalind looked at her steadily. “In fact, you usually overdeliver.”
“Good. I’m a fast worker, you know that. And if I need to work a few extra hours to get things done, then I’ll do that.”
Why was Rosalind asking all these questions? Imogen resisted the temptation to check her reflection in the mirror. Did she look tired? What was going on? Maybe she needed to wear more makeup. She’d talk to Anya about blusher.
“You’re already working more than a few extra hours.” Rosalind tapped her keyboard with her finger to wake up her computer. She checked the screen. “I couldn’t help noticing that you sent me an email at three in the morning last week. And another the following night at four. As a matter of interest, when do you sleep?”
“I’m one of those lucky people who don’t need much sleep,” Imogen assured her. “And if something comes to me in the night, then I’d rather just deal with it right there and then.”
“Mmm.” Rosalind looked at her over the top of her glasses. “Do you have a time when you switch off?”
“Of course.” Never. “I do yoga, meditate, walk the dog...”
“Ah yes, Midas.” Rosalind removed her glasses. “Janie mentioned that he’s sick. Have you had news from the vet?”
A fictitious boyfriend was manageable. Boyfriends were notoriously unreliable so there were no end of options for getting rid of them quickly without raising eyebrows, but the dog had been a mistake. She could see that now. She should have picked a less complicated pet like a rabbit or a hamster. Maybe even a stick insect, although it was hard to be appropriately gooey about a stick insect and having that particular photo on her desk would not have endeared her to Janie.
Basically, she should have picked any pet that would have allowed her to bond with the staff, without creating all this complexity.
“The vet says Midas is going to be fine.”
“Right. So when are you picking him up?”
“Picking him up?” As the web of lies tightened around her she felt a flicker of panic.
“I assume the vet isn’t going to deliver him to you personally?”
“Oh—no, of course not. I’ll be going there myself. Although now you mention it, it would be great if they could deliver. Like pizza.” Stop talking, Imogen. “I’m going tomorrow. They want to keep him for one more night. To be sure.”
“To be sure of what? What was wrong with him?”
“They still don’t know exactly. They said they’d give me a full report when I’m there in person.” She made a mental note to research a few doggy illnesses sufficiently serious to require observation, but not life-threatening.
“If you need to work from home on Monday so that you can look after him, that’s fine.”
Work from home? If a fictitious dog was this demanding, it was a good thing she didn’t have a real one.
“I don’t need to work from home, Rosalind. I have a brilliant dog sitter and she is always happy to help me out with situations like this. I have three events on Monday, so I’ll be zipping around London trying to be in three places at once. You know how it is.” Actually, Rosalind probably didn’t know how it was, because Rosalind never attended events in person anymore. She’d set up her own company and proceeded to recruit good people who did the bulk of the client-facing work.
“Your dog sitter sounds like a treasure. You must give me her details,” Rosalind said. “It’s a constant struggle to find anyone reliable. The last dog walker I used was a disaster.”
Imogen made a sympathetic sound, as if this was a topic she understood. Ask an open question , she thought. That way she wasn’t the one doing the talking. “What happened?”
“She walked so many she lost track. And sometimes she lost the actual dogs. Fortunately, they’re all tagged. But I’m on my fifth this year.”
“Your fifth?” Imogen was about to say that was a lot of dogs to get through, when she realized Rosalind was talking about dog walkers. “Right. Well, yes, it’s always hard finding good people.”
“Do you think yours might be able to fit my Daisy in? She’s good with other dogs. Usually. Bites very rarely.”
“I think the person I use is full at the moment,” Imogen said quickly, “but if she gets a space, I’ll let you know.”
“Yes, do that.” Rosalind smiled at her. “Well, if you’re sure about the account.”
“I’m sure.” Imogen saw the time and realized how late it was. She was approaching the time when mugging might become murder. She stood up. “Thanks, Rosalind. I’ll see you on Monday.”
“Yes. And I hope Midas is okay and your vet bill not too scary!”
At least fictitious dogs were cheap. That was one thing. Complicated, but cheap.
Imogen left the office feeling buoyant. They’d won another account!
She smiled as she took the stairs down to the ground floor (Janie’s obsession with her step count had rubbed off on her). Her footsteps echoed in the stairwell as she headed down to street level, thinking about the conversation with Rosalind.
For a moment there she’d been afraid that Rosalind wasn’t going to give her the account, which was ridiculous because she was fine . And she definitely wasn’t burned-out, or even on the edge of burning out.
She had no idea what had stimulated that conversation, but she needed to be more careful.
She’d stop sending emails in the middle of the night. It drew attention that she didn’t want or need. Same with sending emails on Christmas Day. It seemed that normal people didn’t do that. At least, not people with the type of life she pretended to be living. If she was really who she pretended to be, she’d be walking Midas in the crisp cold winter air and returning to the big house in the country to gather round the kitchen table with her loved ones. It was family season and she wouldn’t even think about work because she’d be so caught up in the festivities.
That was a slip on her part, but she wasn’t going to slip again.
This year she’d write all the emails she needed to write and save them in drafts. Then she’d send them on January 2. Anya would still return to the same number of emails, but it would raise fewer eyebrows.
She walked across the foyer, said good-night to the staff at the desk and did the dance of death with the revolving glass door that threatened to end people’s careers and lives on a daily basis.
The cold punched her, and she buttoned her coat and wrapped her scarf around her neck.
They were forecasting an exceptionally hard winter. The bookies had stopped taking bets on the chances of a white Christmas in London, even though such a thing was a rarity.
Maybe she should get a real dog to keep her warm. But given that she didn’t have a family who would step in and help when she needed them, that wasn’t an option. She kept her life as simple as possible.
The train was crowded and she stood squashed between commuters, avoiding eye contact. She was wedged between the metal pole and a man in a suit, and it occurred to her that this was the closest she’d been to a man physically in a long time. Maybe she should try dating again, although last time that hadn’t worked out so well. It seemed easier not to.
The train rattled its way through dark tunnels under the city, spewing out passengers at different destinations. As they drew farther away from the glamour and wealth of the city of London with its glass offices and sense of purpose, the crowd thinned a little and Imogen was finally able to sit down.
She stared straight ahead, careful not to look at anyone. Careful not to attract attention.
Finally, the train reached her stop and she was one of only a couple of people left on the train.
She left the station and buttoned her coat over the bag she wore across her body. She’d been mugged two months before and had her bag stolen, so now she stayed alert for the five-minute walk between the station and her home. The contrast between the glitzy glass building where she worked and the area where she lived couldn’t have been more marked. Even the overoptimistic letting agent had choked on the words “up and coming” as he’d shown her around. It said a lot that the apartment had even been available for her to look around. The rental market in London was so hot that the moment something became available, desperate people offered up overinflated deposits in order to secure it, often without even viewing. No one had viewed Imogen’s place. Apparently, even desperate people had limits.
She picked her way along the street, past the rubbish that hadn’t been collected, past the two houses that were boarded up and the shopping trolley that someone had abandoned. A streetlight flickered, throwing dark shadows across her path. The temperature had plummeted during the day, and it promised to hit freezing overnight.
Heading down the steps that led to her tiny studio flat in the basement, she wondered what her colleagues would say if they knew the truth about her life.
She didn’t live in a pretty garden flat with room for Midas to run around. No self-respecting dog would have set a paw inside her cramped living accommodation.
But that was all fine because she’d chosen to live here for a very good reason. Financial security. She could have afforded somewhere closer to the center of London, but that would have taken a large bite out of her salary. This place enabled her to save a good amount each month and, in her opinion, it was worth the sacrifice. She already had almost enough for a deposit on a modest place, but she was more ambitious than that. She wanted to fall in love with somewhere. She wanted a home. Somewhere that was all hers. Whenever she had doubts about her accommodation, she checked her savings account and felt a surge of pride and satisfaction.
She bolted the doors and took off her coat.
Living here wasn’t so bad. It was a step up on most of the places she’d lived as a child, and she was used to surrounding herself with things that made her feel soothed and safe. She’d painted the walls green and bought two large plants so she could pretend she was in the countryside and not living alongside an abandoned parking lot and a railway line. The plants were fake, like most other things in her life, although in this case they’d been chosen not to deceive but because there was too little light in her flat for a real plant to survive. One entire wall was taken up by her bookcase, stuffed with books she’d bought at markets and charity shops. Knowing that someone had owned the books before her gave her a sense of connection. Someone else had turned those pages. Someone else had lost themselves in the same worlds she escaped to when she was alone.
The kitchen was tucked into one corner and she’d placed a small round bistro table by the only window. That was where she ate her meals. It was a lonely setup, but it worked for her.
She put her laptop on the table, made herself a slice of toast and sat down to check on the proposal they’d put together for the new client.
It was going to be a lot of work to implement the ideas they’d outlined, but she’d handle it.
Her phone pinged and she saw a message from Anya.
How is Midas?
She groaned and ignored it. Hopefully, Anya would assume she was busy.
How had she ever got herself into this situation? This couldn’t carry on. A conversation was harmless enough, but things were getting complicated.
She needed to get rid of Midas, but how did you get rid of a fictitious dog? Maybe he could die of his fictitious illness. She felt guilty that she was thinking of killing an animal and had to remind herself that this wasn’t a real animal.
No, she couldn’t do that. If she went into work and told people he’d died, they’d be smothering her with sympathy and offering her time off, and time off was the last thing she wanted.
She took a bite of toast and gazed at the wall. Maybe she could give Midas to her “family” in the country. But that just made the whole lie even more complicated.
And then she had a flash of inspiration. She’d say he’d run away. Yes, that was good. That would work. It was clean, neat and no one would be hurt. She could blame the dog walker (she felt bad about that too and had to remind herself that her dog walker was as fictitious as her dog).
She’d be sad for a while to have lost her best friend, but also stoic. It was just one of those things. Don’t give me sympathy or I’ll cry. And no, she wouldn’t be getting another pet. It was just too heartbreaking. Problem solved.
It would be a relief to get rid of at least one of the lies.
Maybe it was time for Jack to break up with her. No, that wouldn’t be good. Losing your dog and your boyfriend in such a short space of time either made you look sad or incompetent. She should be the one to break up with him.
Either way, it was time to simplify her life. She’d keep the family and the family home in the country, because they were useful conversation points at Christmas and other holidays and no one was ever going to find out the truth. But the rest of it was going to go.
Satisfied with her plan, she picked up her toast.
She’d taken another bite when her phone rang. The caller display said “Tina” and her mood plummeted.
Why now? Why today?
She stared at her phone, her stomach tense until it stopped ringing. Despite the freezing temperatures she was drenched in sweat.
It rang again, and she curled her fingers into her palms to stop herself from picking it up.
She didn’t have to answer. There was no obligation. She’d answer it when it suited her to answer it. When she was ready. And right now she wasn’t ready.
The ringing stopped, but then her phone alerted her to a voicemail.
Tempted to delete it without listening, she paused for a moment and then played the message, hating that part of herself that made it impossible for her to step back from it.
“Hi, Imogen, it’s Tina. I need you to call me back as soon as you get this. It’s urgent.”
Imogen played the recording a second time, and then a third, although why she had no idea. It wasn’t as if the words would change.
Hi, Imogen, how are you?
Hi, Imogen, just wanted you to know I’ve been thinking of you.
Hi, Imogen, I know I should have said this before now but I’m sorry about everything.
But of course the message hadn’t said any of those things. She’d known it wouldn’t, but still she felt disappointment every single time. Even though she knew better, she couldn’t totally extinguish the glimmer of hope inside her. And maybe that was a good thing. You had to believe things could improve. You had to hold on to that hope. Otherwise, what was the point? Without hope, you lived your life in the dark, and she wasn’t prepared to do that.
She reached out and deleted the message so that she wouldn’t be tempted to replay it and sink lower than she was already.
This was why she’d invented a fictitious life, because her real life was something it was better to hide. To her colleagues she was Imogen with the dog, and a big loving family who had a swoon-worthy home in the country. It sounded so great that she was starting to feel envious of herself.
Still, she couldn’t think about that now.
Her phone rang again and this time she answered it, as she always did eventually.
“Imogen?” The voice was raspy and hoarse. “Is that you?”
Imogen closed her eyes. She wouldn’t call her Tina. She just wouldn’t. Not on a day when almost everything in her life felt fake.
“Yes, it’s me. Hi, Mum.”