A Distraction of Lies Read online

  A long sigh falls from my lips, neck straightening so I can pull myself together again. This isn’t helping. I should leave. Go back to the apartment and start packing his things up. That’s what people do I suppose. Touch things for the last time before handing them over to charity. Clothes can go. His bathroom bits and pieces. Shoes. Books. There isn’t much else really. We lived from place to place. Only the boxes still full of things we brought with us. I’m not letting them go. They’re things we brought together, things that made a home out of the places we stayed in.

  The tissue falls from my grasp as I stand and back into the dark recesses of the box to leave. I need those things now. I want to touch them, remember him with him in my grip. My unsteady steps ease me along the corridor, my hands lifting my dress and the heels beneath me finding their way somehow. Every step away from the sounds hurts, as if the entirety of my situation beds in with each footfall I make towards a barren apartment.

  This was a diversion. A change of thought for a while. It’s not changing my reality, though, and it isn’t the same without him beside me. It was cold in the box, lonely. I always thought they were small spaces, but without him in it with me it feels cavernous.

  The wide, red, elegant stairs loom up on me, as I keep moving slowly, gold rails lining the way out. I hover at the top, one hand reaching to the banister for support, and then I just feel lost. It suddenly floods me in a wave of gloom, making my heart clench and my breathing become winded.

  I cling tighter to the banister hoping it might make the feeling disintegrate, or lessen, but it seems to escalate further with each breath I try for. Both hands grab for the rail, my body pulled towards it as I keep trying to pull in air. There’s nothing, though. My mouth only gasps in movement, endlessly attempting to breathe as if it’s an alien concept.

  My legs give in under the torment, the little strength I’ve got left pulling me to the gold balustrade to keep me upright to some degree. My vision swims, body panting and quivering under whatever this is. I snatch at the choker I’m wearing, ripping it from my neck in the hope that it helps. It doesn’t. The feeling carries on and on, all of it filling me with anxiety and more panic. The gloves get dragged from my skin, too, and I end up leaning my head on the balustrade, desperately trying to draw air in slowly and calm my racing body back to normal.

  I stare through the two supporting pillars, focusing on the lower ground floor entrance and waiting for someone to help me. There’s nothing down there but more red carpet and more extravagance and luxury. Gold doors. Doormen in gilded livery standing outside, three of them looking into the road instead of noticing me in my panicked state. And then movement.

  Two men sweep the corridor, both with their hands at their ears. I gasp in a breath and try getting words from my lips. “Help me,” whimpers out. It’s not enough. Neither notice me, nor seem to care as they carry on swiftly. “HELP!”

  One looks back, quickly surveying me, and then carries on moving as the other one walks backwards towards a corner. The second he arrives there he comes back out with another man, directing him towards the door. I’m about to shout again, about to try at least, when the man at the back tilts his head and looks up at me. The vision is enough to steal what little breath I have left. It sends a new sense of fear through me to counter the panic, this time filled with dread and foreboding rather than simple breath issues.

  Everything in me stills, then tries to hide behind the balustrades, as he stares up towards me and keeps walking. I can only see the sharp angles of his cheeks in the shadows below as he goes, the low cut of his frown sitting so comfortably on his face. I turn and lean my back on the gold work, perhaps trying to avoid the intensity, as I keep pulling in short breaths. At least I’m breathing again.

  I focus on the wall, running my gaze over the patterned wallpaper to try finding some calming influence, and eventually haul myself back to my feet. I need to go. No one’s helping me, and no one’s coming to my rescue either. I’ll get myself out of here and back to the safety of my apartment. Not that it is mine, but it’s better than this place and whatever this feeling is inside me. I take a hesitant look back at the ground floor, making sure those men have gone, and then fumble down the staircase down to the doors.

  The moment I’m out into the fresh air I nearly collapse onto one of the doormen, my voice calling for a cab. He obliges and walks me forwards to the road, his hand aloft for one.

  “Let it go, Barney,” a smooth yet grumbled voice says. “My driver will take her home.”

  I lull in the doorman’s hold, eyes looking for where the voice came from. He’s leaning on the wall, one leg kicked back on it and smoke blowing out of his mouth. I stare at both him and the two men he’s with, wondering why he would offer help now when he gave me such a vile look inside.

  “Of course, Mr Rothburg. Mam, shall we?” the doorman says, trying to move me.

  I flick glances between the man and the blacked out car idling at the side of the road. Rothburg? As in Annox Pharma Rothburg? His bow tie’s draped around his open collar, the tux cut is sharp and tailored, but smoking? It can’t be him. No pharmaceutical company’s founder would let that poison inside him, surely? It can’t be Grayson Rothburg.

  “It’s alright, Mrs Tanner. Take the car. It’ll come back for me after it’s taken you home.” My eyes widen at his recognition of me. We’ve never met as far as I’m aware. And from what I know of him hardly anyone ever meets him.

  “You know me?” I stammer.

  “Wife of my recently appointed head of finance, Richard Tanner. Freshly deceased. Interesting outing for a grieving widow,” he says resentfully, looking out into the night.

  “I’m … I was …” I close my mouth, unsure why I suddenly feel the need to explain a damn thing to him. It’s enough to make me forget all form of pathetic interludes I was just in. I straighten myself, picking up my dress again. “I’ll take a cab. Barney, if you could please.”

  “Yes, Mam.”

  He goes to the road again, hand up in the air, as I walk with him. I’m not taking help from someone who thinks they can berate me for my situation. I might be in the pits of despair, might even be having some sort of breakdown, but I’m not having anyone question why I’m doing what I’m doing to cope with the loss.

  It’s another few minutes of waiting before I hear the clatter of footsteps coming up behind me, the two men with him opening the door to the car and shielding him from the rest of the world. I try not to look, choosing anything but him and them, but he gets in front of my face, effortlessly turning his body to look me over. No words as he stands there taking his time to scrutinise me. He’s just large and looming, strange coloured eyes easing over my face.

  I look away again and let the hem of my dress fall to the floor, my arms wrapping around me for some sort of protection against his cold stare.

  “Are you sure, Mrs Tanner?” he rumbles.

  “Yes. Very much so. Thank you.”

  Eventually he grunts and turns away, his body moving to the car rather than keep looking any longer. A breath leaves me the moment he does, my shoulders finally relaxing as I see him slide into the car without another look back. It pulls away within seconds, smoothly gliding out into traffic and away from me.

  Another breath falls out of me as it goes, my arms losing their clutched grip, and I watch the car weave traffic into the distance. Strange. I shiver, still not sure what colour those eyes were or what the hell he was suggesting about me being here.

  “Mrs Tanner?”

  I look sideways at Barney, suddenly noticing the cab waiting for me that’s arrived out of nowhere. “Thank you, Barney,” I murmur, as he opens the door.

  Home.

  Chapter 6

  Gray

  B oard meetings. They’re not something I’m vaguely absorbed in, but today I need to be here. I gaze at the greyed out, glass walls around me, swivelling back and forth in my chair while I wait and calm myself. I’m anxious, uncomfortable with being he
re. It’s away from my normal existence, and the others will be here soon, their voices making me listen to other opinions and thoughts.

  “Gray?” I level my stare at Harrison, waiting for whatever he’s got to say. “You could just sign the papers and leave. We don’t need you here.”

  “You don’t? I thought it was my company.”

  “I didn’t mean that. I was simply suggesting that if you would rather be elsewhere then …”

  “Shut up, Harrison.”

  He looks down at the table, and then eventually gets up and walks to the view rather than acknowledge me other than that. I’m not surprised. I’ve become hard for him to deal with over the years. We were friends once. Golf at the weekends. Business trips. Evenings out at casinos, both of us enjoying the merits of my success. That’s done now. No friends. No existence other than the world I create for myself.

  I watch his back, taking in the lines of his wrinkled features in profile. He’s turned into an old man over time. Not quite the hustler he used to be. It’s probably because of the work he does to compensate for me not being out here to do it. I turn my gaze away to look at the glass instead of him. He gets paid well enough for it. Thrives healthily under that fortune I’ve made for him. My concerns don’t lie with any thought he might have of me. They lie with research at home and profit in these walls around me now. That’s it. No kindred spirits any longer. No clinking glasses as the next big deal rolls in.

  A bustle of noise begins in the rooms outside, the door handle quickly clicking open soon after. I watch each one walk in, a sea of grey and blue suits taking their places at the table. Harrison is quick to start the meeting, leaving me out of any conversation unless absolutely necessary. I use the time to analyse my team, looking them over to check for anything that seems off. Nothing does. They’re as good at doing what they do as they always are. Jovial even. I suppose they should be. They’re all wealthy. We’re doing well, as always, and they’re all doing their jobs in the manner that’s expected of them. However, because of a dead head of finance this meeting is one member short. I look at the empty chair in the room, wondering why the thought of Richard Tanner entering my head means his wife should join my thoughts.

  I scowl and cross to the window, trying to push her aside. Everything hushes down the moment I move, all of them waiting for me to interject or offer some insight I haven’t shared with them yet. I don’t. I’m lost in reddened eyes again, perhaps trying to assimilate why they were of interest to me. Silver dress was nice. Tight. Sculptured. Not black, though. It wasn’t until the flash of silver in the box moved that I realised I’d been staring at her box for most of the first half of the performance. I stood with her, more engrossed in the dark recess she was in than the show on stage, and watched as she left. Why I followed, though, I don’t know.

  “Gray?” Harrison says.

  “What?”

  “Did you have something to add?”

  “No. Carry on.”

  The drone begins again immediately, all of them with slightly less joviality about them now. Good. They’re not here to enjoy themselves. They’re here to make me money so that I can keep existing how I choose to. Although, we do need a new head of finance.

  “Who do we have to replace Richard Tanner?” I ask, across the noise.

  Milton Butler answers. “Deborah Collier could do it,” he says. “If we’re desperate.”

  “We brought in Richard because Deborah wasn’t capable. Who else are you looking at?”

  “We have three on file from when we hired Richard. I’m already looking at it,” Harrison says.

  I nod and think back on the other candidates, reaching for a glass of water. Only one was close to his standard. “Offer it to Tom Henchforth. He was a close second. We’ll buy him out from Triscal. Call Paul tonight and offer him terms. We need someone in by next week.”

  “Alright,” Harrison says.

  It’s quiet for a moment or two, alleviating the strain on my sense of charisma. I pull in a long breath and listen to the nothingness for as long as it lasts, wishing I wasn’t here, and then tense again as the noise begins to build again. Laptop keys rattling. The buzz of the lights. People talking and mulling over new strategy. My fingers squeeze the glass in my hands, the grip shaking around the delicate object. I’m done with here for today, forever maybe. I know myself well enough, and this, today, is too much for my own anxiety to deal with.

  The glass gets put down and I make my way across the room for the door, no glance at the team. Home. Silence and space. Harrison is at my back before I’ve made it across the small lobby outside the meeting room, his hands holding a bunch of papers. “Gray. I need you to sign these first.”

  I nod and take them from his hand, making my way over to the reception desk. The woman there moves her stack of folders so I can begin signing documents I read a week ago. They’re not of interest, other than the fact that I’ll be making more money because of them. My signature scrawls repeatedly, fingers flicking through the sheaths one by one. He was right earlier, regardless of my attitude with him. I don’t need to be here for this. Don’t want to be either. I’m best out of this life these days. I’ll go home. Where I can continue searching for answers. Other than that, I’m done.

  “Thank you,” I offer, handing over the finished pile.

  “What for?” he asks.

  “All of it. You’re a good man, Charles,” I reply, moving to leave. He is. Always was. “Look after it for me.”

  “Gray,” he calls, as I reach the elevator. “You should come over for dinner.”

  A half smile lands on my mouth. Never going to happen. Hasn’t done for five years since the last time he managed to get me out. Won’t be happening going forward either.

  He knows it as well as I do.

  “Goodbye, Charles.”

  Chapter 7

  Hannah

  Four days later.

  M y head hangs in my hands, mind trying to drown it all out as I heave in breaths. I can’t do this anymore, can’t listen to all the people telling me how sorry they are, how much they’ll miss him. None of them damn well care, not like I do. And I can’t process this, any of it. I just want to be left alone so I can deal with this my own way.

  The sound of the bathroom door opens, a clatter of heels coming into the large space. I press my own heels on the cubicle door, wedging it closed and hopefully giving me some peace from the constancy of it all. There’s been nothing else since he died, other than my attempt at remembering him at the opera. Doctors, nurses. Time holed up in the apartment, touching his things and trying to work out why, sleeping in his pyjamas. And then this wake we’re at. It’s large and ornate and full to bursting point of people and their partners, children even. It’s everything he deserves.

  And nothing I want to deal with.

  “Poor Hannah,” someone says. “They were so good together.”

  “I know. Although, I don’t know that they were that happy. Still, it’s a shame.” My eyes lift, wondering what the hell that middle bit was about.

  “What on earth do you mean, Sally? They were the perfect couple. The real shame of this is that she’s alone now. Why they didn’t get on with having kids sooner is beyond me.”

  “Tate says he was having an affair.” My mouth opens, heels scraping slightly at the words.

  “No. I don’t believe that. He was devoted to her. I didn’t know them that well, but you saw them at the annual company ball last year, they were perfect. And she’s so attractive.”

  “Hmm. Well, she might be, but apparently he’d been seeing Deborah Collier from finance here. That’s why he got the job and that’s why they moved over here from Vancouver. She must have known. All those business trips? It’s not surprising really. I often wonder if Tate is.” My mouth falls open, bile racing up my throat at the continued conversation.

  “I don’t believe it at all. I’ve never seen a happier couple. You saw him at the welcome party the other week. He was all over her lik
e a rash.”

  “Well, he would be, wouldn’t he? Hardly likely to show anything but. Besides, Deborah wasn’t there so he could act accordingly without her interfering. She’s been in Europe for the week for the Horteen amalgamation. Probably why he was all over Hannah. You know? No sex.”

  She giggles a little.

  I grip tightly to my bag, trying to stop the sickness and panic rising up in me and not knowing what to think. An affair? No. Rick wouldn’t have done that to me.

  “What proof does Tate have? Not that it matters. Can you imagine it if she found out now? She’s just put her husband in the ground and then she finds out he was unfaithful. That would be enough for me to end it all. Good lord what a mess.”

  “He said he caught them canoodling at last year’s annual conference. Says he watched them go into a room together at the end of the evening. You know partners aren’t allowed at those events. Easy to get distracted I suppose. And she’s here, too. You think she’d at least have some decency about her and stay away.”

  Who the fuck is Deborah Collier?

  I listen to them for a while longer, unable to resist the words that are pouring out of both of them. More scattered comments about what Tate thinks he’s seen, more tries to defend Rick by the other woman. I don’t even recognise their voices, let alone know what the hell to think about any of this. And I still can’t fucking process this around me anyway, regardless of this information now coming at me in waves. How is he even dead? Gone.

  My throat chokes on unshed tears, part of me not willing to let them break, and then my eyes try to focus on the back of the door. It’s all been a cloudiness of realism since that truck and the sight of him being dragged underneath it. Days drifting passed with nothing and no one, only phone calls I’ve either answered out of necessity or ignored in a haze of alcohol. I can’t cry, though. Won’t. I’ll die if I let the tears come. I know I will. I’ll let it consume me and then I’ll be nothing but a shadow of who I was. I’ll be broken and unable to heal.