Chapter 25
? Bad news piles up
I swung into my parents’ driveway and sat there with my music still
blaring for a minute or so. I’d turned it up loud when I’d started
driving east out of Scarnbrook, letting the We Are Scientists frontman
do the expressing for me through his anguished vocals. I switched off
the engine and sat in the dark interior of the vehicle, trying to figure
out my next move. The obvious first step was to establish contact with
Elle and figure out what the hell had possessed her to do this to me. I
tapped out a message to her from the driver’s seat:
Mally:
Call me. Please. I’ve left Scarnbrook. I know you set me up.
Two blue ticks. I waited in the car for a few more minutes but there was nothing in return.
It was approaching seven o’clock. If it hadn’t been for Elle’s accidental message, I could’ve been happily re-enacting The Notebook ’s fireplace scene with Tom right now.
The thought made me feel both violated and miffed, which was an unusual combination at the best of times.
God, I’d been such a moron. I felt disgusted that I’d allowed myself to be swept along with everyone’s retrospectively obvious ruse. It was all so humiliating.
It was the stuff with Tom that was confusing me most. I was pretty sure I hadn’t imagined the chemistry between us last night.
But I couldn’t rule out the possibility that Elle had somehow guilt-tripped him into asking me to spend Christmas with him and his mum.
A relationship based on a foundation of pity and saviourism? No, thanks.
I mentally flicked whatever version of him I thought I’d got to know away as I clambered out of the car with my luggage and let myself into the cottage.
I immediately felt calmer as the low ceilings and creaky floors enveloped me.
With instant clarity, I knew that I would hide out here for Christmas, instead of travelling back to London to deal with Elle.
I relaxed into my new plan a little. It was what I’d actually wanted to do after I’d taken my parents to the airport, after all.
I lugged my suitcase upstairs, grabbed the heavy duvet from my bed and let it tumble down the narrow staircase before descending behind it.
I bolted the front door, closed all the curtains, lit the fire and put the telly on to fill the silence.
A quick rummage in the kitchen’s understairs pantry proved productive: a full packet of mince pies and some mini bottles of whisky I’d found in an unfinished boozy advent calendar from a couple of years ago, which I was sure wouldn’t be missed.
I took the comforting sustenance to the sofa with me and buried myself deep in togs.
The timing was perfect – a Christmas movie had just started on Channel 5 and they were broadcasting them back to back for the next six hours.
Evening sorted, mind instantly occupied, nerves soothed.
During the first advert break, I checked my work emails to see if Elle had replied to me there, instead. I had zero desire for my article to see the light of day now I knew the layers of manipulation that had led to its conception.
There was no email from Elle. But the state of my inbox made every hair on my body stand to attention with alarm.
A barrage of unofficial all-staff emails had been doing the rounds over the course of the last couple of hours, the first of which had been sent from one of our most high-profile writers. He’d circulated a link to a national newspaper article with a subject line that merely read WTF?
I tapped on the link and gasped. The headline read:
THE HELIX UK STAFF FACE REDUNDANCY AS LONDON OFFICE CLOSES DOWN
What the hell?
I read through the news story, discovering that the reporter had been tipped off about a commercial letting listing for The Helix ’s entire West End office.
She’d gone on to speak to numerous ‘sources’ who’d confirmed the publication was pulling out of the UK.
I guessed that explained the early December shutdown, no doubt to spruce the place up ready for its next tenants.
The journalist had approached The Helix ’s UK and US representatives for comment but had been ‘unable to reach’ anyone.
But a ‘source close to the publication’ had been quoted stating that ‘324 UK staff at its London-based office would soon be receiving emails informing them that they face losing their jobs’.
I’d worked with HR long enough to know that ‘face losing their jobs’ was a legally compliant way of saying ‘are going to be made redundant after a perfunctory consultation period’.
This was an internal – and external – comms disaster.
I did some quick mental sums based on the regular status of my bank accounts.
I figured I had two – maybe three – months of savings to tide me over before my finances would get hairy.
I called my co-manager Lauren in the hope she’d be able to provide me with some reassurance, but it went straight to voicemail:
‘You’ve reached Lauren Rollinson at The Helix . If you’re a reporter seeking a comment, please call my counterpart in the US because I know absolutely fuck-all. If you’re not a reporter, leave a message.’
Oh God. This wasn’t good at all. I left a quick voicemail. She called back within minutes.
‘Mally, hi. Sorry: you’re on my list of people to call but as you can imagine my phone hasn’t stopped ringing. How are you doing?’
I was tempted to tell her about all the shit that had gone down in the space of the last few hours. But she probably had enough on her plate already.
‘I think I’m in shock.’
‘Yeah, me too.’
‘You had no idea?’ I asked.
‘Well, I think lots of us could sense something fishy was going on. But not to this extent. Plus, no one had bothered to bring me in on any of it. If they had, we could’ve managed this shitstorm a whole lot better.
But they decided not to trust us to be actual professionals about it all.
Some smart alec at The Helix decided to leak the story to get a head start on their job hunt.
So we’re completely on the back foot and have got absolutely nothing lined up to tell employees – or anyone, for that matter. ’
‘Do you reckon we’ll ever get to go back to the office?’ It seemed like the last thing that should’ve been on my mind, but I couldn’t stop thinking about my favourite umbrella lying abandoned under my desk.
‘Yeah, I’m sure we will – even if it’s just to box up our stuff.’
‘Does Maggie know about any of this?’
I could barely bring myself to think about my co-manager Maggie, who’d been a loyal staffer at The Helix since the very start of its UK expansion. She was meant to be having a peaceful post-op recovery at home before a quiet Christmas with her first grandchild.
‘Yeah, I spoke to her just now. She’s beside herself. She wanted to call you but I insisted that I’d do it since she’s still on leave.’
‘So what can we do now, comms-wise? Should we be sending out something to staff?’
‘That’s the thing: I’ve been instructed to say nothing.
They’ve apparently got some fancy-pants New York PR agency lined up to handle all internal and external comms. But their contract wasn’t meant to start until the new year, when all of this was supposed to be communicated.
Frankly, they can have their Christmas ruined, too, for all I care.
I just can’t believe how badly they’ve handled this. ’
A selfish thought flew into my mind: At least everyone else will also be having a shit Christmas, now . I was a bad person.
‘So there’s literally nothing we can do?’
‘Nope. I’m so sorry I don’t have much to tell you, Mally. As soon as I’ve got any more information I’ll be in touch. Have you got someone with you?’
I looked around the empty room, my eyes landing on the muted Christmas movie on the telly, which had now resumed after the ad break.
A blandly attractive man and Christmas movie legend Lacey Chabert were decorating a Christmas tree.
I thought about tree-dwelling Marmalade back in Jo’s living room, my eyes welling up once more.
‘Don’t worry about me, I’m good.’
After hanging up and messaging Maggie, I gave social media a quick search.
The consensus seemed to be shock at the timing of the non-announcement-announcement, and how poorly The Helix ’s hundreds of UK staff were being treated with complete silence from the top.
Tons of my colleagues were sharing their own disbelief and anger, tagging the online publication’s US editors and execs to demand answers – all of whom had, so far, said absolutely nothing.
In short, it was a complete mess.
My personal drama with Elle now seemed trivial in comparison to this latest lightning bolt of information.
I knew she’d be devastated about her job and would already be hustling for employment elsewhere.
In fact, it wouldn’t have surprised me if she’d been the one who’d leaked the story.
If that was the case, however, she could’ve at least had the decency to tell me, first.
Regardless, the situation had gotten beyond the realms of WhatsApp. I took a deep breath and called her instead. It rang out and went to voicemail.
I sighed and waited for the message tone. ‘Elle, it’s Mally. I just found out about The Helix closing down. Let’s forget about all the Scarnbrook stuff for now. Please call me back. I need to know you’re OK.’
I sank back down on the sofa and yanked the duvet over me.
As I did so, it caught my tumbler of whisky.
The heavy-based glass clattered to the floor, somehow not shattering, the amber liquid making a beeline for a small collection of presents under the Christmas tree.
I leapt off the sofa and brushed the gifts aside in the nick of time.
But something about a couple of them caught my eye.
They were the ones from Josh, which Mum and Dad must’ve opted to leave here to open when they got back.
The two fabric-wrapped parcels bore those beautiful calligraphic labels…
which were tied to the presents with a distinctive mustard twine.
I grabbed my phone and zoomed in on the photo I’d taken of Livvie’s grave yesterday.
The twine was exactly the same. Had Josh been in Scarnbrook, too?
As I absorbed the puddle of whisky with a few sheets of kitchen roll, my heart pounded in my ears. Why on earth hadn’t he said anything if he had?
I sent him a message.
Mally:
Were you in Scarnbrook? I saw the flowers you left for Livvie and
recognised the string.
The amount of time the dots next to his name were wiggling about indicated he was either composing an essay, or kept writing and deleting various replies.
Josh:
Yes, I was.
Well, that was an anti-climax.
Mally:
When were you there?
…
Josh:
A quick visit last week.
Mally:
Why????
…
Oh, FFS. Enough of this cryptic shit. I pushed the ‘call’ button.
He rejected the call instantly.
Josh:
I’m with a client right now and can’t talk.
…
Josh:
Saskia will be in touch.
Saskia?
Josh:
Sorry to hear about The Helix btw. Gotta go.
Saskia did indeed message me a few minutes later – I didn’t even have her number saved in my contacts.
Saskia:
Hey, Mally. Are you back from Scarnbrook yet? Josh and I wondered if
you wanted to come over for a (long-overdue!) lunch soon. Ideally before
Christmas if you could squeeze us in?! S x
What the hell was happening?
Mally:
Sure, when works for you guys?
Saskia:
How about Monday at 1ish?
Mally:
Yep, that’s good for me. Is everything OK?
Saskia:
Everything’s fine, but would be good to chat about things. Have a
lovely weekend and see you next week :)
I re-examined the exchange again – our very first messages to each other.
Chat about what? This month was getting more perplexing by the day.
I checked my train app and found one that’d get me into London Bridge at 11.
37 a.m. on Monday, which would give me just about enough time to negotiate the awkward Underground / Overground journey to Imperial Wharf without having to drag my suitcase – and myself – home, first. I’d never once stepped foot in their Chelsea Harbour apartment – I couldn’t work out if I was intrigued or terrified by the prospect.
More than anything right now, I was monumentally shattered.
I unmuted the film, resolving to move from this position as little as possible for the entire weekend.