4. Stoke-on-Trent, April
STOKE-ON-TRENT, APRIL
It was dark by the time of my interview at Anna’s home.
Gusts of rain blew about, falling into the top of my shoulder bag and threatening to spoil the portfolio of my recent work I’d hurriedly printed out.
As I turned onto Glass Street, a quiet road filled with beautiful old Victorian factories, my footsteps slowed.
I took steady breaths, but my stomach—all my organs—felt knotted together.
Anna’s entrance was marked by stylish cylindrical lights on either side of her front door, and a camera crouched above them like a tiny gargoyle.
I checked up and down the street in case anyone had seen me.
The door opened almost as soon as I pressed the bell. Someone had been watching.
Anna’s assistant, Clover, must have been in her mid-forties.
She was dressed in the comforting way of artsy women her age: a turquoise boxy jacket; wide-legged, ankle-skimming trousers; a striped Breton top tucked into them.
She blinked at me through her tortoiseshell glasses for a few moments.
Her tired expression melted into relief.
“Thanks for making it,” she said, extending a warm hand to mine and leading me inside.
The hallway had a seagrass matted carpet and smelled overpoweringly floral, like one of Anna’s shops.
We climbed up a narrow, curved staircase into a vast open-plan living space which ran long and narrow beneath a vaulted ceiling.
There were framed photographs of Anna’s family everywhere, aligned meticulously in rows on every surface like chess pieces.
I was desperate to stop and look, but Clover led me toward its very end, where the kitchen was separated off by sliding glass doors.
A light sprang on as we entered: a huge Murano glass chandelier which hung down over a moon-colored marble countertop.
I made an involuntary sound of recognition; this was where Anna’s festive cookery shows were filmed.
For the last three series, she had baked and broiled, her tattoo peeking out of her sleeve as she whisked egg whites in her own range of glazed bowls.
“Anna will be with you soon,” she said, fetching me a glass of water and bringing me into the living area. “She’s finishing a call.”
I nodded. Then I noticed Clover’s coat in her hands. “You’ve already provided references, haven’t you?” she asked, looking distractedly for her bag. “We need emails and phone numbers.”
“Sent them earlier,” I lied.
Clover made a murmuring sound, which made it unclear whether she’d actually heard me.
Glancing down again at her phone, she swore.
Her husband was going to be late. She needed to get home and put dinner on for the kids.
As she began to make excuses, she kept looking nervously toward a doorway at the end of the living space. Anna’s office, I guessed.
“I can wait,” I said, in a voice that was too high-pitched to be casual. The prospect of sitting alone in Anna Finbow’s loft apartment could never be casual. Clover wavered as she looked me over, her eyes agitated and uncertain. “But do you have any advice for me?”
She sighed wearily. “The magic word is yes. Always agree with her. Whatever it takes. And don’t mention the legal nuisance. Not unless she brings it up.”
“Of course I won’t,” I reassured gently. “That’s private.”
Clover departed, and I sat on the sofa for several minutes, stunned.
With its cathedral proportions, the living space looked more like a museum than a home.
I loved the wide openness of the room. How the kitchen evolved effortlessly into the lounge, and the gorgeous way it was all knocked through.
For several moments, I took it in: the Francis Bacon on my left, the Lucian Freud to my right.
With my fingertips, I pressed down onto the tightly sprung plushness of all her upholstery, thinking of how cold it was in my own studio.
Inside my head, there was a voice announcing and re-announcing itself: I’m here. I’m actually inside her home.
And then, the study door opened and Anna strode in.
“So wonderful of you to come so late!”
I rose quickly from the sofa, goose bumps flooding my skin.
She was wearing slim black trousers and a long, sleeveless cardigan that billowed as she approached.
By the hearth, we faced each other, and she held my gaze.
I wondered then if there was a flicker of remembrance, whether she recognized me, too.
For a moment, my legs, my knees—my entire lower half—turned to air.
Then her stare melted into a wide but vacant smile.
Of course, she had no idea who I was. People like her never do.
“Clover’s an angel to have let you in,” Anna said, letting the small dog who followed her run over and lick my hand.
I cast my eyes over her face. There was an old-fashioned aspect to her beauty.
It was in the soft waves of her dark hair and the way her features aligned so evenly, like a five on a dice.
But, up close, Anna also looked pale and under-slept; you could tell from the red rims of the lower lids and the slightly swollen bags under her eyes.
I didn’t pity it. Part of me enjoyed the signs of suffering and fatigue that were legible in her face.
“You weren’t waiting long, were you?” she asked.
“Hardly five minutes.”
“Well, that’s a good start,” she said, grinning sappily as her dog jumped up against my legs. “He likes you. Pick him up, will you?”
I did as I was told. Quill was the dog’s name. Anna constantly posted pictures of him. He was a stout and beady-eyed little dachshund, with russet-colored rings of fat that collected in rolls along his front legs like Indian bangles.
Anna turned and went into the kitchen, expecting me to follow. I carried the dog through to where she lingered by the wooden dresser, absently flipping through some paperwork.
“Clover assured me she vetted you, but I always like to meet people first, just to check they’re not a loony.” She laughed heartily; somewhere beneath the sound was the smoking habit I knew she hadn’t kicked. “And vice versa, I expect. Did she get the agreement across to you?”
“Yup,” I said tightly, feeling a coldness settle in my chest. Botching references to Clover was one thing, but did Anna mean an employment contract or an NDA?
“Good. Because we need absolute discretion. Okay?” She discarded an envelope and fixed her attention back onto me. “Now, a couple of questions I always like to ask my team. What’s your single biggest passion? Clover told me you’re a potter?”
I thought back to one of the phrases I’d once used in a cover letter to her.
“I make pots to live. Ceramic sculptures to breathe,” I said, smiling warily as it came back to me. “I’ve actually printed a few photos of my—”
Anna interrupted me with a hand. “And what would you say is your best attribute?”
Ignoring a flare of irritation, I answered her. “My loyalty. Not only to the projects I work on, but also to people.” There was a terrible thinness to my voice.
“And now your worst?” Anna barked, quick-fire style.
I hesitated.
“Go on,” she goaded. “I actually love this question, and I’ll tell you why. We humans, we don’t reflect on our faults enough.”
I stared for a moment at Anna’s pointed finger, before the perfect answer appeared.
“I always speak my mind. If you were to ask my opinion on something, I’d easily give it. I actually find it very difficult to lie.”
Anna softened. “That’s good. I’m surrounded by too many people who only tell me what they think I want to hear. It’s imprisoning.” She got up from her stool then and offered to show me round. “It might be a little premature, but we may as well go over it now. Come on. Over here.”
To my surprise, she led me further into the kitchen, to a cupboard beside the fuchsia-colored Aga. “Here’s where we keep Quill’s lead,” she said while I nodded, feeling totally lost.
Then she showed me the glass jar containing all his Bonios, his cod-liver oil supplements, and the plastic bags I was to use to pick up his shit. Slowly, the reality dawned. Anna wasn’t looking to resource her design team; she needed a dog walker.
His bed was there, by the Aga, she said, and over in the main living space was a cage I could shut him into, if he was getting chewy.
The instructions went on for so long, I couldn’t bring myself to interrupt her.
When she had finally finished, I opened my mouth to explain that there had been a mistake.
I didn’t walk dogs. I was a ceramicist. Once again, Anna silenced me with a hand.
“Hold on, we’ll get to your questions in a moment.
I’ll just show you how the alarm works while it’s fresh in my mind.
We’ve had to get it changed because of all the photographers,” she said grimly, tapping her fingernails against the alarm keys.
“And the fact I keep breaking it.” She leaned in and whispered theatrically, “I’m actually number dyslexic. ”
“How often should I come?” I asked carefully, half-frightened by how fast things had spiraled away from my original intention. I couldn’t conceive of a job that was further from what I wanted to do. Briefly I reflected: But could this access actually help me?
“Will Quill be staying up here a lot?” I went on to ask tactfully.
I knew, like the rest of the country, that Anna’s trial was expected to take place later this year.
The fact that I was already worrying about her return to London told me then what I needed to know: This was a good opportunity.
As her domestic help, I could boast of a far more intimate relationship with Anna than I might have gained at work.
I would become part of her home, which might lead to something better.
Anna glanced downward. A strand of dark hair fell in front of her face and she brushed it aside modestly, with the heel of her palm. “I plan to be here rather a lot. So, assume I’ll be needing you, rather than not.”
My heart skipped at that word, needed . There was a vulnerability to it that I couldn’t help responding to.
I found myself smiling at her. Briefly, she returned it, then looked pointedly at her phone: a subtle gesture of dismissal.
I gathered my things. But then, when I was halfway out of the door, she called out sternly.
“Hang on. Just a moment.”
My chest froze. Had she remembered something? I turned and looked upward. Anna was standing at the top of the stairs, holding the dog and pouting.
“You haven’t said good night to Quill.”
My footsteps were light, both from the rush of our meeting and embarrassment at her ridiculous charade.
I ran my fingers over the cold, black button of Quill’s nose, telling him that I looked forward to working together.
Anna nodded her approval. There was a hierarchy in her household and, evidently, I would sit on the lowest rung of it.
Now that this had been established, I was free to go.
Once I reached the end of Glass Street, I collapsed against a wall and shut my eyes.
I was taken aback by Anna’s instant trust, by that daffy sentimentality, and the strange force of our whole interaction.
But, at the same time, when I thought of the background checks, and the legalities I had pretended to have signed, a sense of panic closed in.
Not long , I soothed myself, counting six seconds for the in-breaths, six for the out.
And if you do it right, and give her what she wants, it’ll be worth it.
“Grip the earth,” I muttered aloud, flexing my toes in my boots.
“Name the sounds.” A siren nearby, the slick crawl of car tires across wet tarmac.
But louder than the outside world was the recent echo of Anna’s frantic instruction.
“Do not let Quill off the lead,” she had warned, her tone suddenly shifting.
“Whatever you do. Do not undo him, okay?” I understood then that behind that fear was the loss of her daughter.
Knots of pain loosened in my chest as I grew aware of it.
“He’ll just run away,” Anna continued, wide-eyed with worry.
“Either that, or someone will take him. Promise me?”
We had locked eyes, there in her magnificent kitchen, and I had promised her. She had made me promise, as if he were the last thing she had left.
“You won’t let anyone carry him off?”
“I swear, Anna,” I had said, remembering The magic word is yes. “Don’t worry. You have my word. He’ll be safe with me.”