High Pressure Page 7

  Anna frowned. She was quite sure that the challenges of blending the essential elements in soup wouldn’t be overly taxing to a woman with a first-class science degree from Ireland’s top university. But perhaps his wife wrote, or found other outlets for her skills.

  Before she could ask, Steve continued.

  ‘She’s there tonight actually. I usually pick her up when she’s finished.’

  Anna wasn’t sure how she should follow that statement.

  ‘She doesn’t drive?’

  ‘No need. Tube’s down the road and I usually have the car.’

  There was something about the way Steve said it that made the hairs stand up on the back of her neck, and for once Anna found herself stuck for words. She tried to find something constructive to say.

  ‘The homeless crisis is as bad in Dublin as it is in London. The charities who provide outreach services are always short-handed. It’s marvellous she can help.’

  ‘They do a great job – they run a bit of a shelter and provide hot meals. You know the thing. It’s run by an Irishwoman actually. But then she can probably relate well to a lot of them.’

  He said it without a trace of irony.

  Anna had lots of things she could have said to that, but, taking a deep breath, she kept them to herself.

  ‘It’s a shame she couldn’t come today. This scholarship is a major step forward to get more women into science – women just like her.’

  Steve looked surprised for a moment, as if the idea that his wife might have an interest in the award had never occurred to him. He shrugged.

  ‘She’s busy today, lunch and – no doubt – shopping.’

  He laughed in that way men do when they are despairing of their wives’ expensive tastes, but somehow showing off that they can afford to maintain them. It didn’t wash with Anna.

  ‘I’d love to meet her … your wife – Marissa, is it? It’s always lovely to hook up with fellow Irishwomen, especially anyone who’s been to Trinity.’

  Steve nodded noncommittally, then glanced at his phone.

  ‘Still no signal.’

  He turned it to Anna. She couldn’t see the signal bars, but his screen saver was of a stunning blonde woman in a beaded white evening dress, a glass of champagne in her hand.

  ‘That’s your wife? She’s beautiful.’ Anna paused. ‘I think the blackout could last several hours. Does she know you’re here?’

  ‘She does. I was talking to my head of technology there briefly before the signal went. He’d probably be the first person she’ll call if she can’t get me, so she’ll know I’m fine.’

  ‘Maybe he’ll think of contacting her when he hears the news?’

  Anna kept her voice light. It was time to change the subject in a big way. Steve’s attitude to his obviously very intelligent wife was irritating and baffling to her in equal measure. Anna could feel if she said more, she would end up causing offence in some way. She and Steve obviously came from very different places when it came to female autonomy. Anna knew it was none of her business, but she suddenly wanted to talk to Marissa Hunt very much.

  Chapter 14

  ‘Hello again. How are you feeling?’

  Standing on the landing outside the reception room, Anna turned around to find Brioni coming up the grand staircase behind her. She’d slipped away for a few minutes’ peace and to try and get some cool air, had been checking to see if her phone had a signal yet and Rob had texted again.

  ‘Much better, thank you – and thank you for stepping in. Something happened …’ Anna tried to find the words, but there was no easy way to say it and she didn’t know Brioni well enough to start explaining. ‘I’m not good with explosions.’

  Brioni shrugged. ‘Don’t worry. We all have moments.’

  Anna thought back to how she’d seen Brioni react in the reception room; something had happened then, too.

  ‘Are you OK? I saw you earlier, you looked like you had a shock.’

  Brioni avoided her eyes for a moment, fiddling with her cuff. Then she lifted her head and grimaced.

  ‘I did a bit. It’s a bit of a long story but Steve Hunt, the CEO of Cybex, is my brother-in-law. I’ve been trying to get hold of my sister Marissa since I came to London and she’s not answering my messages.’ Her voice wavered. ‘I’ve no idea why. She sent me a weird message saying she was busy.’

  ‘And you don’t think she is?’

  ‘Well, I’ve been travelling for over a year. I haven’t seen her since I left. We’ve messaged, I sent her photos but …’ She hesitated. ‘It’s just that our father isn’t well and we’ve only got each other. I wanted – need – to touch base with her before I start college.’

  ‘Your sister is the Trinity graduate?’

  Brioni looked surprised. ‘Yes, she got a first in biochemistry. How do you know?’

  Anna nodded slowly; Steve Hunt hadn’t even got his wife’s degree right.

  ‘I was chatting to Steve. He mentioned she was from Ballycastle – said she does a lot of volunteer work.’

  Brioni rolled her eyes. ‘That’s us, Ballycastle, County Wexford, the beating heart of rural Ireland. And yes, Mar pretends the volunteer work is all she wants to do, but how can it be? She’s always been so successful, she wanted to go into cancer research. Our mother died … and, well, she got her J-1 and the next thing we know, she’s getting married in America. My dad wasn’t well enough to travel. It was mad.’

  ‘Did you go?’

  Brioni nodded. ‘I was a bridesmaid, one of about twelve with Steve’s nieces and cousins and God only knows who. But I hardly saw her. I was only fifteen and I stayed at his sister’s house. I hardly went out or saw anyone – Mar seemed to have so much to do and Steve had so many friends she had to meet, and there were parties. His family are very wealthy. And very southern. His mother never worked, it’s like the only women who work in his world are domestic servants.’

  Anna grimaced; she’d pretty much got that impression.

  ‘I was talking to Steve about her. He said she had a lunch date today and then went shopping.’

  Brioni shrugged. ‘She should have been here, Trinity is her old university.’

  ‘It does seem a bit strange she isn’t, under the circumstances. Have you said hello to Steve?’

  Brioni opened her eyes wide, shaking her head. ‘I got such a start when I saw him, I sort of legged it. I don’t think he saw me. Actually, the last time he saw me I looked pretty different so he might not even recognise me.’

  ‘Your hair wasn’t pink?’ Anna smiled.

  ‘More a sort of reddish mouse. And there was a lot more of it. And I was pretty chubby.’ She smiled. ‘I don’t know what I’m worrying about. I suppose I don’t want him to confirm that Mar doesn’t want to see me.’

  ‘Why would she do that? I’m sure she’d have time to meet you, even if it was only for a coffee before term starts. And you’ll be living in London, she won’t be far away.’

  ‘You’d think so, wouldn’t you? I think Steve might have other ideas about us meeting up though. I’m the free spirit – he wouldn’t want me talking to her and giving her any ideas. He probably wouldn’t even tell her he’s seen me.’

  Anna screwed up her face, thinking for a moment. She liked Brioni and this sounded like an impossible situation.

  ‘Would you like me to get in touch with her – with your sister? I can find out what the situation is and tell her I bumped into you. I won’t tell her we’ve talked, obviously, but I might be able to find out why she hasn’t replied to your messages.’

  Brioni’s face lit up. ‘Could you do that? That would be amazing. I don’t want to hassle her, but I really can’t believe if she knew I was here, she’d not want to see me. It’s not like we’ve had a fight or anything.’

  Chapter 15

  When Brioni finally got home to the semi-detached house she shared in Stratford, it was past eight o’clock, but she didn’t care. She hadn’t been blown up, she’d met Anna Lockharte and s
he’d avoided her brother-in-law. And if Anna could contact Mar, it would be fantastic.

  Deep down, Brioni was sure Steve was blocking her calls somehow, that he was telling Mar not to contact her. Maybe he was reading her WhatsApp and Facebook messages himself and deleting them? He kept such a close eye on her, Brioni really wouldn’t have been surprised.

  Brioni hooked the bag with her jeans and T-shirt in it on to the end of the banisters, the paintwork chipped, dark wood showing through the white. She’d take them up when she’d had a cup of tea and a sit-down. Her whole body felt weary and her legs ached from standing – and, much as she needed a shower, she needed some quiet and a cup of tea more. She paused, listening to the sounds of the house. There was no one else in. Bliss.

  Brioni headed into the kitchen. Predictably, the sink was full of dirty plates, glasses and cutlery spilling onto the draining board. She reached up to the window and opened the small top pane, went over to the door to open that, too, to allow some of the slightly cooler evening air inside. The house was stifling.

  Trying to ignore the dirty dishes, she filled the kettle, thinking about Steve Hunt. She could see the attraction, Steve was clever and wealthy, well educated, had a great job and was very good looking. But he was also in Brioni’s opinion, a total shit. Mar hadn’t been able to see it when she’d met him; it had all been such a whirlwind. They’d kept in touch better in the early days, when Brioni was at school, and Mar had always been on the end of the phone during her Leaving Cert, so what had happened now?

  Turning to get the milk out of the fridge, Brioni saw a Post-it Note stuck to the door, a note scrawled on it, the last part in capital letters: ‘Creepy dude with weird fake accent called pretending he was council tenancy assessor. Good-looking, tan. Told him to fuck the fuck off. CHECK ALL WINDOWS CLOSED IF YOU’RE THE LAST ONE LEAVING.’

  Brioni rolled her eyes. Someone had tried to break in the day after she’d arrived as well. Malachi had said the crime rate in Stratford was pretty high, to be careful walking home from the Tube or the bus, but she was starting to think East London was bandit country.

  At least she wouldn’t be here for too long.

  Pulling out the milk, Brioni looked for a cup among the chaos on the drainer. She’d bet they didn’t have this level of crime where Mar lived – or this level of washing-up. The pictures she’d sent of her house when they’d first moved over were pretty impressive.

  Brioni had been sure Mar had been homesick after she married, although she’d never say it. Once Steve had decreed that she couldn’t work, she’d thought sure Mar would see what he was really like. But maybe a five-star lifestyle was fair exchange for your freedom. She certainly didn’t think so.

  Her tea made, Brioni leaned on the counter, a gentle breeze coming in through the door, and closed her eyes, sipping it, enjoying the moment. She’d really missed a good cup of tea when she’d been away. It was like a connection to home.

  Sighing, Brioni finished her tea and headed to the stairs, collecting her bag and hauling herself up to her tiny box room. She stripped off her uniform. She needed to get it into the wash – she was never sure when Siobhan would call.

  Pulling on a T-shirt and a pair of striped navy pyjama bottoms she’d borrowed from Malachi, Brioni felt relieved all over again. Siobhan might not like her space buns, but she’d been brilliant. Brioni would scrape enough together from her hours with Celtic Hospitality and a few shifts in a pub in Camden, also courtesy of Malachi, to get by. It all added up. She’d learned at the start of her travels not to worry about money; when things got a bit tight something always came along. It was as if the universe was looking after her.

  Now she needed the universe to look after her and connect her with Mar. She rubbed the tattoo on the inside of her wrist for luck.

  It was like this room – Malachi had come straight to her rescue when she’d called him and explained, and now she had it rent-free while its regular resident was on holiday for two weeks. And when Andrea came back from Ibiza, Malachi was heading home to Clare for a few weeks and was happy for her to move into his room.

  In an ideal world, she’d be in Marissa’s spare room, of course, but being relaxed and flexible had been one of the biggest lessons Brioni had learned while travelling. She just wished she could tell her heart to relax and stop worrying. Why hadn’t Mar got back to her? What was going on?

  Bundling up her clothes, Brioni headed down to the kitchen to put it all in the machine. She wanted to watch the news. Despite being in the middle of it, with everything happening today, she hadn’t really got a clear idea of what had been going on. As Siobhan had let them out of the embassy, someone had said something about a second bomb on a bus on Oxford Street. The very thought made her shudder. Every time she’d ever walked up Oxford Street she’d wondered what would happen if a bomb went off in one of the shops – where would all the people go?

  She put the TV on in the living room and, her arms still full of clothes, flicked through with the remote until she found a news station. They were just finishing the weather report; apparently the high pressure was set to continue.

  That was all London needed.

  The screen flicked straight over to an interview with a terrorism expert. Inset into the screen was a box showing helicopter images of a bus, its roof blown completely off.

  ‘Jesus Christ.’ Brioni hadn’t even realised she’d said it out loud as she watched.

  The screen changed to Belgravia, to an overhead shot of the road outside the embassy, the blackened remains of a vehicle crashed into the side of another bus. Men in brightly coloured suits were all over the scene like multicoloured ants. Brioni closed her eyes. She didn’t know if she was ready to see more right now. Turning it off, she headed for the kitchen.

  Brioni threw her clothes into the washing machine and set the dial. In this heat she reckoned she could put everything on the line in the overgrown yard and it would all be dry by the morning.

  She’d decided she was going to find Mar tomorrow, whatever her reaction might be. As Brioni turned on the tap to tackle the washing-up, she pushed away the deep feelings of sadness that lapped at the edges of her mind like waves, threatening to overwhelm her. It had been a long day and she didn’t want to dwell on negative thoughts now. There had to be some simple, rational reason why Mar wasn’t replying. There had to be. Right now she needed to keep busy and focus on the things she could control, like sorting out the kitchen. She needed to deal with tomorrow’s issues as they arose; worrying really didn’t help.

  In the busy, smelly chaos that was Kolkata, she’d found a Buddhist temple and a young priest who had explained the pillars of his faith to her. Dressed in his cherry and saffron robes, he’d told her that worry was one of the Five Hindrances to Enlightenment. Hindrance was right. She picked up the washing-up liquid. Worrying didn’t change whatever was going to happen, and it didn’t help anyone.

  Chapter 16

  Brioni didn’t know what it was that made her look up from the washing-up. The bowl was full of suds and she was rinsing the last plate when she heard something outside. And almost lifted off the floor.

  She glanced out of the open back door, her stomach knotting with anxiety. Just over a week ago she’d been heading out for a drink with a bunch of girls and her whole life had basically fallen apart. She really wasn’t ready for anything to happen again this soon.

  Moving quickly, Brioni pulled the back door closed, turning the key in the lock and shooting the bolt at the top.

  The garden wasn’t much more than a concrete yard, the slabs cracked where weeds had pushed through, wild buddleia sprouting along the fences. It was in full flower, the scent like perfume, rich on the evening air. The washing line had been slung across the yard, assorted T-shirts, jeans and towels hanging from it, blocking her view of the end of the garden. She listened hard, waiting for another sound.

  Nothing. Except the sound of her own heart.

  Brioni looked nervously over her shoulder, but sh
e couldn’t see anything through the frosted glass in the window behind her. For reasons she hadn’t been able to grasp, the window overlooking the passage running up the side of the house was opaque, and she couldn’t see anything outside through it. Perhaps it had been a cat or a scavenging fox? She’d seen them several times already, even though she’d only been here a few days. As she’d walked home from the Tube at night, they’d run across the streets ahead of her, looking for open dustbins to forage in.

  Brioni tried to shake away the anxiety balling in her stomach. It had been a long and crazy day; she was sure it was all in her head. She’d been halfway around the world on her own, for God’s sake. She glanced at Malachi’s note, still on the fridge door.

  Was someone planning to try and break in again?

  They’d hardly wait until someone was in, would they? She shook the idea away.

  Stacking the last plate onto the pile of saucepans and mugs already on the drainer, Brioni reached for a tea towel to dry her hands, her heart beginning to calm. Turning, she leaned on the sink, trying to blank anything happening outside from her mind. Thoughts of the day orbited in her head like satellites gathering information. Steve, full of laughter and chat, talking to an older man; Anna Lockharte’s strained face as she’d fought what could only be a panic attack. Brioni bit her lip, thinking. How did someone as confident and attractive and successful as Anna get panic attacks? What was that about?

  On the way home on the bus, Brioni had googled her, but she’d only been able to find her professional page on the Trinity College website and nothing else – no social media or LinkedIn page. Was that weird, or was she very safety-conscious? Didn’t everyone who lived away from their people use Facebook?

  Perhaps Anna was like Steve, and was part of the tinfoil hat brigade, determined that their data wasn’t mined by tech giants. Granted, he worked in cybersecurity and probably had a better grasp of the information-gathering capabilities of the major social media corporations than most of them – but Anna? Maybe the research she’d done as part of her job had convinced her that there was some sort of threat out there. She wasn’t far wrong; the sheer variety of the ads credited to Russian sources during the US presidential election had been shocking, each one subliminally designed to influence and targeted at specific users based on their preferences and likes. Brioni shivered; if the tech giants ever got together to share the big data they had, anything was possible – and if one of them was hacked? They already followed your every move, eavesdropping on conversations and scanning your emails to target ads and promote ‘relevant’ accounts you might be interested in following.