Those people next door, p.9
Those People Next Door, page 9
But of course she was pregnant now. Willa had always wanted a second child and he did too, of course. But he remembered how Willa had ballooned when she fell pregnant with Jamie. She wasn’t like other fine-boned women whose weight dropped off instantly. Hers stuck to her thighs for years, and though she was glowing and luminous, his libido genuinely struggled. Tom had never been unfaithful though, despite the opportunities. In advertising, there was a steady stream of pretty young things. Unlike some of his colleagues, Tom firmly resisted. He was tempted only once, by a girl who looked like a poor man’s Willa: blonde but from a bottle, a little bit chunky but with gorgeous lips. Such gorgeous lips. They had flirted but it never went beyond that. The last he heard, she was shacked up with a divorced ex-colleague of his. Lucky bastard.
There was a knock on the door and Susie, his fellow interviewer, led in a young woman: petite, Chinese-looking with straight black hair cut into a bob. Her calm manner and tailored suit immediately won his respect. Case in point, he thought. Tom’s colleagues hated recruiting but he thoroughly enjoyed it. He liked probing interviewees beyond their practised answers to uncover the person beneath. The company had a rule in place imposed by Susie, their diversity lead. For every role, they had to interview at least one non-white person. Person of colour, he corrected himself. They were underrepresented in advertising and this, they were told, would deliver an uptick. She had faced some pushback but so far it had worked. Tom, for one, didn’t care as long as they hired the best person for the job. It didn’t matter if they were white or Black or purple or dotted. As long as they pulled their weight, he was okay with it.
He nodded at a chair. ‘Please sit.’
The woman unbuttoned her blazer and sat, her feet neatly perched together.
‘Ms Chou?’ he said. ‘Can you tell me a bit about yourself?’
‘Please, call me Jennifer,’ she said, revealing a row of shiny white teeth. ‘I grew up in Greenwich,’ she said. She stopped and grinned. ‘Actually, I grew up in Deptford but I say Greenwich because it sounds better.’
Tom instantly warmed to her. ‘I’m from Barking so I know the feeling,’ he told her.
She smiled, cheered by their comradeship. ‘I studied PPE at Oxford and did an internship at D&AD.’
Tom stiffened. It was to be expected in the context but he always did hate it when people wielded their university as if it were a medal. It reminded him of Willa’s friends. He hated Willa’s friends. ‘What do you do for fun?’ he asked, straying from education.
‘I play piano. I ski and I’m currently learning Russian.’
It took all his might not to roll his eyes. Deptford or not, Jennifer had hit the grand slam of privilege: elite university, instrument, sport, language. ‘That’s impressive,’ he said flatly. For the rest of the hour, he listened to her polished answers, not bothering to probe as he might usually do. Women like Jennifer Chou had readymade answers for everything. He took a final look at her CV then thanked her and bid her good luck.
The next candidate was a scrawny young man in an ill-fitting suit that put Tom’s teeth on edge. He introduced himself as Pete and told them about his Graphic Design degree from London Metropolitan University. Tom weighed up the two candidates. He strongly believed that merit should be measured by the distance travelled. Most people focused on who finished further, but if you measured distance instead, you could uncover true gems. A girl like Jennifer, albeit a person of colour, was privately educated and had had a far better start than Pete.
Tom put a tick next to his name and a question mark next to Jennifer’s. The third candidate was their final one: an older woman who wore a fusty tweed suit. She was nice enough but lacked the spark she needed to thrive. Halfway through the interview, there was a knock on the door and Isabella, Makinson’s PA, looked in.
‘We’re in the middle of an interview,’ said Tom.
‘I’m afraid Mr Makinson wants to see you now.’
Tom felt a skittering unease. Makinson rarely summoned staff to his office – and only if it was urgent. He excused himself and followed Isabella. ‘Everything okay?’ he ventured. She nodded diplomatically, never one to be indiscreet. Tom knocked on Makinson’s door and waited nervously. The man was known to be gruff and abrasive. When he was angry at someone, he would send them an email with a single character:? If you received the dreaded question mark, you had to shield your jugular.
‘Come in,’ said a voice that Tom didn’t recognise. Makinson would have barked enter! The old man had taught Tom a few of his tricks: ‘when leading a meeting, stand up so that you’re physically looming above your subordinates’, ‘stand with your legs apart but not so much that you look like that Tory twat’, ‘those who report to you are not your friends. Treat them like they’re lower than you’.
Tom entered and was surprised to find that Makinson wasn’t there. In his place was Vanessa, an executive at the agency who also happened to be Makinson’s daughter. Her elbows were spread on the walnut desk and her lipstick cracked when she smiled, mean and brief as it was.
‘Tom,’ she said curtly.
‘Vanessa,’ he said with a nod. Then, ‘Where’s your dad?’ He couldn’t help but highlight the nepotism every chance he got, which was no doubt why Vanessa disliked him.
‘Please take a seat.’
He rested a hand on the chair wing. ‘Did you and I have a meeting booked?’
‘No,’ she said airily.
So he had been summoned here to see Vanessa? He felt the heat in his cheeks, but shrugged nonchalantly as if accepting an impromptu coffee date. He sat, annoyed that he couldn’t spread his legs in the narrow seat – another of Makinson’s gambits. He waited in silence, refusing to speak first and yield his power to Vanessa.
She laced her fingers on the desk. ‘Do you know why you’re here?’
‘I have no idea, Vanessa, but I’m sure you will enlighten me.’
She studied him coolly. ‘Tom, are you friendly with your neighbours?’
He froze. ‘Friendly enough.’ He was dismayed by the give in his voice. ‘Are you?’
‘Tom, can we stop the bullshit for a second please?’
He swallowed his unease. The animosity between them was always unspoken, swapped mainly through passive aggression. That Vanessa had voiced it now filled him with alarm. ‘Okay,’ he said.
‘Have you ever made a racist remark to your neighbours?’
Tom felt a slingshot of panic.
‘Specifically, that your Asian neighbours “stink up” your clothes with their cooking?’
Blood rushed in his ears. Desperately, he rifled through his options: denial, dismissal, anger, apology. ‘It wasn’t like that,’ he managed.
‘It wasn’t like that,’ Vanessa repeated. She stood and looked out at the horizon. ‘Do you know how my dad came to accrue this? He’s not the smartest, the strongest, the most inventive or nimble. What he can do is read the room. He can look at the current climate and’ – she clicked her fingers – ‘adapt to it. Some call him a populist, but what’s wrong with being popular?’ She turned. ‘You’re a fucking idiot, Tom.’
He couldn’t think how to respond.
‘You should have read the room. It’s all bleeding hearts and wokerati out there and you – big lumbering oaf that you are – tell your Indian neighbour that she stinks up your clothes and have the fucking stupidity to have it caught on film?’
So it was true. The video was out. ‘It wasn’t like that,’ he insisted.
‘No?’ She was seething now. She whipped her laptop towards him. There, on-screen, was his hulking figure looming above his petite neighbour, her shoulders tensed defensively. He was shouting at her: ‘I’d tell you to shut up that fucking dog of yours. I’d tell you to fix that fucking fence. And I’d tell you to keep your windows closed so you don’t stink up our clothes with your cooking!’
And then, just as bad: ‘I’m not being funny. I’m just telling you the truth.’ An aggressive finger in her face. ‘If you can’t tell the objective truth anymore, then this country really has gone to the dogs.’
Tom was shocked that it was him up there, spitting those words at her. His father had taught him better than that. ‘It’s not what it looks like,’ he said feebly.
‘How the fuck is it not what it looks like, Tom?’ Vanessa jabbed the screen. ‘This is a fucking publicity nightmare. It’s the last thing we need after that fucking car ad. It looks like we actively employ bigots.’
‘Oh, come on, that’s ridiculous.’
‘What’s ridiculous is you marching over to your tiny little neighbour’s house and telling her that she stinks.’
‘That’s not—’
‘Do you know what they’re saying? I’ll tell you.’ She spun the laptop back round. ‘“Another vile racist at Sartre & Sartre. No surprise it’s the same agency that made that disgusting car ad.” “Racism? In advertising? Sounds about white.” “No doubt Sartre & Sartre are ‘horrified’ and will do much ‘soul searching’ before it’s trebles all round at The Wolseley.”’ Vanessa watched him icily.
‘That’s not fair,’ said Tom. ‘It was—’
‘You’re fired.’
Tom reared with shock. ‘You can’t do that.’
She crossed her arms.
‘Vanessa, I’ve worked for your dad for fifteen years. You can’t just fire me.’
‘You did this to yourself.’
‘This is outrageous. Vanessa, come on.’ He stood up to implore her. ‘Willa is pregnant. We’ve got a baby coming.’
‘You should have thought about that before you behaved in that way.’
‘It was one comment. I was angry.’
‘Maybe our true colours are shown in anger.’
‘Oh, come on, Vanessa. You’ve never left an Indian restaurant and worried about the smell on your coat?’
‘I’ve not been filmed on camera yelling it at the waiter.’
Tom clasped his hands together. ‘You can’t do this. I want to speak to your father.’
‘He’s aware of my decision.’
‘Can I at least talk to him?’
‘Think about it from his perspective. You’ve got to go, Tom.’
He felt strafed with panic. He and Willa were already in so much debt. One month without his salary and they could easily sink. He would die before he went begging to her father. ‘This is ridiculous,’ he shouted. ‘You’re firing me for something so fucking trivial.’ He was infuriated by her indifference. ‘At least I had the balls to say it straight to that woman’s face. As if you fucking weasels don’t think twice about who you’re renting your flats to. Didn’t Daniel say just the other day that his tenants had turned the walls yellow?’ He raised a finger at her. ‘You say you stand for freedom of speech, but you’re being a fucking coward.’
‘You need to learn when to stop, Tom.’
‘Fuck you, Vanessa.’
‘Oh, that’s really mature. Well done for handling this like an adult, Tom.’ She buzzed her intercom. ‘David, Tom is ready to go. Please escort him to his desk.’
Tom was numb with disbelief. ‘So that’s it? After fifteen years, it’s just—’ He brushed his hands as if wiping off dirt. ‘It’s “fuck off” without even the dignity of Scott telling me personally?’
David, the security guard, opened the door and loomed at the threshold.
‘So that’s it?’ said Tom. ‘This is really how we’re doing it?’
‘I’m afraid so.’ She nodded towards the door. ‘Goodbye, Tom.’
He burnt with humiliation as he followed David out of the room and packed up his desk in full view of his colleagues. His thoughts turned to Salma. That bitch. That fucking uppity bitch.
The lunchtime bell sounded and Salma’s students sprang to life, rushing to gather their books and bags. A knock on the door cut into their chatter. Fareena, the head teacher’s assistant, hovered at the threshold as students streamed out around her.
‘I’m sorry to disturb you, Ms Khatun,’ she said in that official tone that teachers used in front of students. ‘Can you pop over and see Ms Newton?’
On hearing the head teacher’s name, the remaining students raised a chorus of oohs. Salma waved to shush them. ‘Yes, of course,’ she told Fareena. ‘Do you know what it’s about?’
‘Um, I’m not sure.’ Fareena’s gaze shifted to the students and Salma knew that she was lying.
‘I’ll be there in five minutes.’
Fareena thanked her and left.
‘What’s going on, miss?’ said Ritesh.
‘Can we hurry up please?’ she said tartly, waving at his desk. She waited for the room to empty and wondered why the head had summoned her. Salma had recently requested more funding for the clinic, but that was standard practice and wouldn’t call for a personal meeting. She locked her classroom and headed over.
Georgina ‘George’ Newton was a lean woman; a marathon runner with grey hair that she always wore in a bun. She had an efficient manner that Salma had tried to emulate when she first joined the school. Alas, Salma was just too soft. A giveaway smile would curl on her lips when a student cracked a good joke. There was no such weakness in George.
In her office, George pushed her phone across the desk. ‘Salma, is that you?’ She fiddled with the play button, pressing it three times before it obeyed.
There, on-screen, were Salma and Tom. He was shouting and she was standing impassively. It was odd to see herself as a stranger might. In the moment itself, she had thought she was standing firm but here, she looked small and scared.
‘Who sent you this?’
‘A colleague who saw it on Twitter.’
Salma wilted. Oh, Zain.
George watched her. ‘So it is you.’
The question was a formality. Salma’s face was clear in the video. She waited, expecting a rebuke, although she wasn’t sure why. The public nature of this seemed like a trespass; a breach of their professional code. ‘Am I in trouble?’ she asked.
George looked confused. ‘No, of course not.’ Her features softened. ‘I wanted to check that you were okay.’
Salma leaned away from the phone. ‘I’m a bit taken aback to be honest. I didn’t put it on social media.’ She felt it was important that George understood that.
‘We’ve had several phone calls from media outlets wanting to talk to you.’
Salma covered her mouth. ‘Oh my god, I’m sorry.’
‘Will you be addressing it publicly?’
‘No,’ she said. ‘Why? Do you think I should?’
George grimaced. ‘From my point of view, I’d prefer to keep all coverage mentioning the school positive and this is clearly… not positive.’
Salma understood but it felt like a reprimand. She didn’t want to address the video but wished that George had given her the right to do so. ‘In that case, I won’t say anything.’ She motioned to the door. ‘Should I say something to the pupils?’
‘I suspect they’ll say something to you.’
Salma nodded grimly. The thought of her students seeing her like this, stripped of authority – a precious commodity in her job – made her feel ill. A more dreadful thought followed on its heels: Tom. Salma had promised his wife that she wouldn’t share the video. How would they retaliate?
‘I think the best thing to do is to let it blow over – but you are okay, aren’t you?’
‘Yes, I am.’
‘This man. Is he… dangerous?’
‘No,’ said Salma instinctively. It seemed melodramatic to assert otherwise, but as she said it, she realised that she didn’t really believe it. There was something in his tone and the way he spoke to her that teetered on the edge of violence. But would he really act on it? Tom had a good job. Surely, he wouldn’t put that in jeopardy.
Chapter 5
The call came through precisely eight minutes after Salma left school. Her battery was about to die when Zain’s name flashed on-screen. She prepared to lay into him for sharing the video but stopped when she heard his voice. He sounded strange: hollow, like he was standing in an empty stairwell.
‘Mum, I think you need to come to the restaurant.’
She heard him swallow – a thick, sickly sound. ‘Why? What’s wrong?’
‘Please come now.’
‘Zain—’ The battery died.
Salma clung to a rope of calm; coiled it tight around her hands to stave off thoughts of trauma. Zain was okay. Of course he was, or he wouldn’t have been able to call her – but what was he doing at the restaurant? She turned and bolted in the direction of Jakoni’s, which was half a mile from her school. Cars zoomed by on High Road, spitting up water from the rain. She huddled into her coat, then broke into a run when she saw the open shutter of the restaurant.
‘Zain?’ She climbed the stairs and waited at the threshold. She heard a bark she recognised. ‘Molly?’ She stepped inside and it took her a moment to understand. The fresh white walls were daubed with graffiti in garish reds and pinks; colours that were made to scream. The carpet squelched with moisture and the booths were ripped apart, foam spilling out like pus. There was a mess of empty beer cans, cigarette butts and tobacco dust dotted across the room – and the kitchen was even worse. When she smelled the stench of ammonia, she burst into tears. Molly whined and padded over, but Salma was disconsolate. She couldn’t make sense of any of this. She and Bil were on a financial precipice and this had snatched their safety net. She looked across at Zain and a question occurred to her.
‘Zain, why are you here?’
He hesitated for just a split-second but it was enough to stir her suspicion. ‘I was walking Molly and I thought I’d swing by and check on the restaurant.’
