C3 Chapter 2

Nancy Grayman is the owner, my boss, and my aunt, for all intent and purposes. She was the first person who had taken a chance on me ten years ago when I had turned my back on my old life at the tender age of fifteen.

Waiting for the computers to load up, my mind drifts back to those dark, lonely days.

I had been offered a ride from California to New York. I arrived with nothing, except the clothes on my back, and what I had managed to salvage in those last desperate minutes, after running away from the hospital, the Social Services, and the California police department. I had no idea what I was going to do. My first plan of action was to find a women’s shelter and take it from there. I knew they would call the authorities once they discovered I was underage, but at least I would have a warm, safe, bed for the night.

Needless to say, that didn’t quite work out as well as I had originally planned.

After roaming around the city for long, lonely hours, I had run into some other teenagers who were squatting together in an old, derelict house, which was definitely not fit for human habitation. As in any normal situation, I had been wary at first and tried running from them. One of the girls, Chloe, took me under her wing, and she became my friend. The others warmed to me slowly. I was grateful when they shared their food and gave me a place to sleep. Even though I was off the streets, it wasn’t safe. I saw things that were no different from the estate I had grown up on.

Most nights, I slept fully clothed with a knife clutched to my chest in fear that I might be raped.

Again.

Every day was a struggle, a battle to stay safe and whole, and to ensure there was enough to eat. The other teens I lived with managed to steal enough food on a daily basis, and somehow, kept the water at the house flowing – albeit it was cold. They had also hacked into the electricity supply from the street level, I don’t know how, but we never went overboard with it. A surge in electricity at a condemned house would’ve had the authorities crawling all over us, and we all knew what that would result in. Regardless, it still couldn’t compare to a proper hot meal and constant warmth.

Then one night, my life changed completely. I met Nancy.

I was waiting with intent in an alleyway at the back of a plush hotel. There was some function going on that night. According to the sign on the placard outside the main entrance, it was a gala for the rich and famous to get wasted while emptying their pockets of any excess change. I waited for ages in the cold night, watching the kitchen staff regularly come and go for a quick fag or a drink. The grand plan of execution was to sneak in and sneak out with my pockets full of food, preferably without them noticing. It didn’t quite play out that way, and fortunately for me - or unfortunately, depending on your point of view - Nancy caught me in the act before the hotel manager did. Although I didn’t come across as it, I was terrified. She was observant enough to notice that I was homeless, cold and starving. After ordering me to stay put, she kindly gave me my first proper humand meal, followed by a stiff talking to. She made it clear she would call the police unless I gave her a good reason not to. My reason was damn good. Softening towards a teenage girl with a painful past and little to no future, she gave me a place to stay. She made me go to school.

She gave me a chance to live as a human, and I will always be grateful and indebted to her for it.

Now, Ten years later, I’m her assistant, except she always introduces me as her office manager, which is actually a more accurate description, considering these four walls are pretty much my domain.

Reaching my small, but perfectly coordinated desk with a fresh coffee in hand, I glance at my effects. My flat might be messy at times, with various levels of clean and dirty, but my desk is immaculate.

Opening my calendar, I trawl through my diary to see what is scheduled for today. There is a meeting at eleven at the Benahillz Hotel for a function being held there in a few months’ time. Digging into the filing cabinet, I shake my head when I see she has forgotten to take the bloody file with her. This is so typical of Nancy – always disorganised.

I remember the day I first walked into the office. It was the day after I left college, and the sheer dread that I was faced with was insurmountable. Initially, I was pleased when she told me she had a nice job for me over the summer since I was still undecided whether or not I was going to university. I thought I would just be sitting around, answering the phone, ordering sandwiches and reading magazines. My heart sank when she dropped a two-foot stack of paperwork at my feet and told me to organise it. I thought I was doing very well by day four, seeing as I had miraculously managed to clear it all and categorise it correctly. You can imagine my horror when she pointed into another room, and I saw more of where it came from.

It still makes me smile to this day.

Quickly scanning through the Benahillz file, I let out a frustrated breath. She always manages to mix up my bloody files. I have a system in place, it’s not hard, but it’s one she still fails to abide by. She forgets it’s me who has to book and pay for all the stuff that gets ordered. Reorganising the folder to my liking, complete with my colour coordinated wallets, I elastic band it and put it back in the filing cabinet.

I quickly type up a text to let her know I still have the working file here, and, in bold, shouting capitals, I admonish her for the state of it, and also for thinking she could sway my resolve in such a deceitful way. The truth is, she was actually hoping I would go with her. By leaving the file behind, she probably expected I would hot-foot it over to the hotel, but we both knew that wouldn’t happen, considering my preference of existing under a cloak of invisibility.

As far as I was concerned, I answered the phones, dealt with any queries, and God forbid, any complaints. I booked the five-course dinners, and made sure the free champagne was delectable and supplied on tap - she did all the leg work!

Opening the monthly accounts spreadsheet, I quickly start to input the figures from the last two functions. My fingers glide over the keys furiously, and I bite the inside of my cheek, praying to all that is holy the numbers add up. If they don’t, I will be paying a grovelling trip downstairs to our friendly accountant, who seems to avoid everyone in the small building at all costs.

“That’s not right!” I mutter to myself, dropping my head in my hands. I swear if she messes up the formulas on my spreadsheets again, there will be some matricide being committed in this office.

Glancing at the clock, it has gone ten, and the numbers are still not adding up. Frustrated, I throw my pen on the desk and pick up my mobile. I ponder to myself if it is too late in the morning to be arranging lunch in a few hours’ time?

What the hell, it can’t hurt to ask.

I send a text to Isabella to see if she wants to meet. Her response is almost immediate: Yes! Ned 2 tel u sumten. 08 x

Re-reading the message again, I consider myself lucky that I can actually decrypt and understand it. I flaming hate text talk and she is the worst offender for it! She knows how much I despise it, and thus, she makes it all the more cryptic at times. But I do love her, so I allow her the indiscretion of forgetting every now and again.

Isabella stones was the first girl I met when Nancy made me to school. She had taken me under her wing, much the same way Chloe once had, and we became inseparable she had same origin as myself and knew all about me. I’m glad that we have remained close friends ever since and not drifted apart. She now works for a large firm of solicitors in the city. She is the personal assistant to, in her words, the biggest arsehole walking, but she tolerates it because there is nothing else out there at the moment. Far too many in her sector are unemployed, and as much as she dreads going to work each morning, she also has to keep a roof over her head. Many nights have been spent debating the pros and cons of being unemployed over a bottle of wine or two.

Putting the phone back down, I slouch in my seat, thinking about what she is so desperate to tell me. I’m more than aware of the rumours circulating lately, and they all come back to the same person: Maxwell. Shaking the thoughts of him from my head, I bury myself in work.

Time flies by, and the next time I glance at the clock, it’s nearly midday. I can feel a tension headache starting to build due to staring at the screen for long periods, and my coffee has long since turned cold and stale. This morning has actually been quite productive after I finally managed to balance the books and reinstate my well-formatted spreadsheets to being golden again.

Stretching in my chair, I feel the pressure building uncomfortably in my lower body. I pad down to the shared ladies’ toilets and lock the door behind me. After doing what I need to, I stare at my reflection in the mirror while washing my hands, noting that my appearance is very lacklustre as of late. Not that it has ever sparkled in the past.

My long, medium brown hair is in need of a trim and maybe even some colour. My skin is still dry looking and chapped, from the long winter that has finally come to an end. And my green eyes look dull, even under the harsh fluorescent lights. I remember back to the time they used to glow, and were more emerald than the drab moss shade staring back at me.

I smile at my pathetic reflection and feel satisfied. My aim to achieve invisibility in life has succeeded.

This is exactly as it should be, and exactly as I want it to be. I’m nothing special. I don’t stand out in a crowd. I rarely attract anyone, and in equal measure, I’ve never really been attracted to anyone. Not to mention humans, the fact that I avoid physical contact like the plague. These are also the reasons why I have seldom dated in their world, and the few times I have, well, they proved to be disasters of epic proportions. I guess it doesn’t help me cause that I can’t stand to have anyone within a few feet of me else I may let loose my true self, or to some I come across as an asexual being, and not worth the time or effort. The only thing the past, mentally demeaning, disastrous dates had afforded me was the ability to still feel something, even if it did hurt to let someone try and touch me. I roll my eyes, thinking back to the many times I’ve been called a tease or a slut. The few times arseholes thought no really meant yes when I was unable to give them more than I physically or emotionally could.

I’m consciously aware this isn’t the best way to exist, but it is another layer of the wall that blocks out everything and everyone. I’ve been told on more than one occasion I have underlying issues. Each time I would wave it off because I knew exactly what those issues were. I live with them every second of every single day. They defined me, they shaped me, and they have made me what I am. I didn’t need some overworked, underpaid NHS funded shrink to spell it out to me. I’ve frequented more one-on-one therapy sessions than I care to admit to. Some might think I need sectioning, and the Almighty knows there have times when I’ve felt the need to sign myself over, but truthfully, I just want to be left alone.

Permanently.

I stare down at my wrist, and the light catches my scar.

It hasn’t been easy.

Life, that is.

Everyone thinks I’ve finally achieved peace, and therein found my place in the world. But it’s all lies. No one knows; not Nancy, not Isabella, and definitely not maxwell. They don’t realise that the darkness of my life is still so deeply ingrained in me, that some days I fear I won’t make it through if I allow the truth to consume me. They don’t know the truth. They don’t know what I lived through, and the worst part of it all, I don’t either.

I made sure I would never remember.

Over the last ten years, I have carefully constructed invisible walls to keep myself safe inside, and to keep everyone else out. I can still remember it like it was yesterday when the first brick fell into place - the second the foundation became set in stone. There is no going back now – I couldn’t even if I wanted to. It’s beyond the ridiculous and extreme, and I’m well aware that I’m setting myself up for a fall later in life, but I can’t go back there again. I can’t.

I won’t be that girl I desperately want to forget.

The one crying in pain in the darkness.

The one begging for God to take her because surely death has to be better than living.

Quickly and harshly, I brush away the stray tear and the memory that accompanies it. I hate myself for having such a moment of weakness. Weakness equals pain in my book. My father’s weakness brought about my pain.

Straightening up and taking a few deep breaths, I collect my things from the office and pull my coat on. I swing my bag over my shoulder and grab my umbrella - since the heavens have opened heavily outside - and make my way downstairs for a social lunch.

The five minute walk to meet Isabella is an effort in itself. The rain is unforgiving against my face but my marks well protected against the rain, and I can already feel the burn of the cold against my cheeks. My hair is now more than a little damp, due to the long queue at the cash machine, and the fact that my brolly wouldn’t stop blowing inside out. Needless to say, it now resides in a bin since it was about as useful as a chocolate fireguard. Then again, you do get what you pay for, and a one-pound umbrella was never going to stand the test of time against the wind and rain.