The Assistant Read online

  ‘Electra, I’m going for a walk up Primrose Hill.’

  The blue ring dances in response. It whirls around fast, then even faster, as if something is inside it. Something maddened, and angry. Definitely alive. Is it meant to do this? The sensation is unnerving – but I’m not quite used to the tech yet. I need to read the online instructions. It is probably designed to react this way.

  The blue light spins to a stop. And blinks out to black.

  Picking up my coat, I go into the kitchen and make a mug of hot coffee, then, carrying this, I head for the door. I need the anonymity of the endless streets. The great and indifferent city.

  I love the size of London for this reason: its vastness. No one cares who you are. No one knows your secrets.

  2

  Jo

  The wind is satisfyingly bitter in its cold; carrying a vivid rumour of snow. Wrapping my multicoloured don’t-run-me-over scarf around my face, I cross the junction of Parkway, the social divide that separates the posher end of Camden from the ultra-poshness of Primrose Hill, which hides like a snooty and castellated village behind its canals and railways and the expanse of Regent’s Park.

  I am still clutching that mug of hot coffee. It’s for our local homeless guy, who usually sits on a wall on the other side of Delancey Street, between the pub and the railway cuttings. He’s a tall black guy in his fifties with a sad, kind face, and wild hair. When I first moved in, Tabitha told me he’s from the homeless shelter on Arlington Road, and that he likes to shout about cars. I like cars. Do you like cars? Mercedes, that’s a car. Cars!

  For that reason, she calls him Cars, he’s the Cars guy. Apart from that, she simply ignores him. In the last few weeks, however, I’ve got to know him. His real name is Paul, though in my head I can’t help calling him Cars, like Tabitha. Sometimes, on cold nights like tonight, I go outside with a mug of hot tea or soup to keep him warm, and then he says I am pretty and should have a husband, and then he turns and starts shouting CARS CARS CARS! and I smile at him, and I say, See you tomorrow, and I walk back inside.

  This evening, however, is too cold even for Paul: he has stopped yelling Bentleys! and he is huddled in a corner of the railway wall, barely speaking. But when he sees me, he emerges, smiling his blank sad smile.

  ‘Hey! Jo! Did you guess I was cold how did you do that?’

  ‘Coz it’s totally bloody freezing. Shouldn’t you go back to the hostel? You could die out here, Paul.’

  ‘I’m used to it.’ He shrugs, eagerly taking the coffee. ‘And I like watching the cars!’

  I shake my head and we smile at each other and he tells me he will give me back the coffee mug tomorrow. As ever. He often forgets, so I have to buy new ones. I don’t mind.

  Waving him goodbye, I walk on.

  A taxi shoots past, orange light bright, glowing, desperate for business. I wonder if Uber will kill off London cabs before the internet kills off paid journalism. We’re both on our last legs: positively racing towards annihilation, hurtling into the dark London drizzle. But I don’t want to die yet. Not when I’m about to write that killer script. Probably.

  Waiting for the traffic lights to change, I jog, impatiently, to keep warm. I know where I’m going: my exact route. I walk it almost every evening. Regent’s Park Road, then up the hill, then the main street of Primrose Hill village, then curving round Gloucester Avenue and home. It takes me roughly forty-five minutes. I wonder if people have learned to recognize me by the sheer regularity of my patrol: Oh, here comes that woman who always walks this way. What is she looking for?

  As I cross the road, I have an idea: I’m going to ring Fitz. Who I met through Tabitha, years ago. Yes. Slender, darkly greying, smartly charming, cynical-yet-theatrical Fitz. We could go for a drink somewhere. Get an Uber to Soho gay bars, where he is usually found; I like the way everyone in these bars will abruptly stop drinking and sing lustily to the chorus of Andy Williams’ ‘Can’t Take My Eyes Off You’.

  I Love You Baaaaby …

  Passing the grand pastel houses by St Mark’s church, I pluck my phone from a warm pocket and dial with cold fingers.

  Voicemail.

  ‘Hi, this is Fitz, you’re out of luck, darling. I’ll tell you everything tomorrow.’

  That’s his usual voicemail message. Deliberately camp. I laugh, quietly, into the dewy cold wool of my scarf, then scroll further down my contacts. Who else can I call? Who could I drink with? Tabitha is in Brazil. Carl is out of town working. Everyone else … Where is everyone else?

  They’ve gone elsewhere, that’s where everyone else is. The truth of this bites deeper every time I open my phone contacts. My drinking pals, my peer group, my beer buddies, the sisterhood, the tribe of uni friends: they’ve dispersed. But it’s only since I divorced Simon that I’ve realized just how many of my friends have dispersed: that is to say: got married, stayed married, had kids, and moved out of London to places with gardens. It is, of course, what you do in your thirties, unless you’re rich and propertied like Tabitha. Living in London in your twenties is hard enough – exacting but exciting, like glacier skiing – having a married life with kids in London in your thirties is essentially impossible, like ascending a Himalaya without oxygen.

  I am one of the last left. The last soldier on the field.

  Crossing Albert Terrace, I start the walk up Primrose Hill as my fingers pause on J for Jenny. She’s probably about my only childhood friend left, Simon apart. Jenny used to be around my house all the time, for playdates and sleepovers, then her parents divorced and she moved away, and I pretty much lost touch, though Simon kept a connection with her because they ended up working in the same industry.

  Jenny is employed, in King’s Cross, by one of the biggest tech companies. That’s how Jenny and I reconnected: when I was writing my big breakthrough article, three or four years ago, on the impact of Silicon Valley on our lives.

  I knew this story could make my name, impress my editors, drag me up the ladder a few rungs, so I shamelessly exploited my contacts (my husband), I seriously pissed off some particular sources by naming them (sorry, Arlo), but I met some fascinating people, a couple of whom became friends. And I rediscovered an old friend.

  She picks up immediately. I love you, Jenny. That precious link to the past, to the time before everything went wrong. The times when Daddy would chase us in the house, in Thornton Heath, playing Hide and Seek, making us giddy with happy terror: shouting out, I can HEAAARRR you. And Jenny and I would huddle together, giggling, under the bed or in the dark of the wardrobe.

  Ah, my lost childhood.

  ‘Hey, Jo. What’s up?’

  ‘I’m bored.’ I say, with some vehemence, ‘Horribly bloody booorrrrreeeeed. I’m trying to build a profile on OKCupid but it’s depressing and tragic, and I thought you might like to share a barrel of prosecco. Two barrels. A yardarm. What is a yardarm, anyway?’

  She chuckles.

  ‘Ah, love to, but sorry.’

  I can hear the characteristic chank of her Zippo lighter, then inhalation. Traffic murmurs in the background. Is she outside?

  ‘Where are you?’

  ‘King’s Cross, having a ciggie break. But I better go back in – I’m at the Death Star.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘Yep,’ she says, exhaling smoke. ‘Working till, like, midnight or something.’ She draws on her cigarette, goes on, ‘Jesus, it’s cold out here.’

  Jenny works absurd hours at HQ. She probably makes a lot of money coding or whatever, but doesn’t talk about it. She mostly talks about sex. Jenny, apparently, is my Official Slut Friend. The insult is not mine, I would never have said it. But she said it herself when we renewed our friendship over mussels and chips in some bar near her work. Everyone has to have a slutty friend, she said, to make them feel better; have you got a slut friend, someone even more promiscuous than you? She made me laugh, at that table, she makes me laugh now, she always gives good gossip, and there’s a sadness in her hedonism which makes her fun
nier, and warmer.

  I press the phone closer to my freezing ear, as Jenny asks:

  ‘How’s the profile-building going?’

  ‘Ah. Not great …’

  I pause, to take a breath. I’m nearly at the top of Primrose Hill: the last, steep incline which always makes me gasp cold air. I should definitely start going to the gym. Jenny tries again,

  ‘Not great? What does that mean?’

  ‘It means, I’ve been at it several hours, and I’ve established that I’m straight, thirty-three, a woman, and I’m looking for long-term, short-term, casual hook-ups, or maybe a snog in a pub toilet. Do you think I might be coming across as desperate?’

  ‘Hah. No. Stay strong! There has to be a good man out there? I’ve seen them!’

  ‘No chance of a drink, then?’

  ‘Not tonight, Josephine. Call me tomorrow, mabes. OK, I’ve gotta get this TEDIOUS code written before I turn into a bat. Good luck!’

  The phone clicks. I am at the top of the Hill. I don’t know whether it is the jewelled skyline of icy London – always impressive from this vantage point, stretching from the silvery towers of Canary Wharf to the holy scarlet arc of the London Eye – it could be the mere fact of hearing Jenny’s friendly voice – but I feel distinctly cheered. Invigorated. The sadness is dispelled.

  Jenny is right. I must woman up. I can do this. It’s only a bloody dating profile. And I need a bloody date.

  It’s all downhill from here, I can’t be bothered to do the full circuit, so I’m simply going to retrace my steps, back down Regent’s Park Road, as the snow begins to fall, heavier by the second. My pace quickens as I hurry past the big, white, thoroughly empty mansions.

  Sometimes it feels like a ghost town, this rich little corner of London. Streetlamps shine on cold pastel walls, leafless trees grasp at the frigid orange sky. Glossy new apartment blocks sit empty: from one month to the next. Windows forever black and cold like Aztec mirrors, obsidian squares reflecting nothing. Where is everyone?

  Nowhere. There is no one here. It’s only me. And the snow.

  Ten minutes later I am sat at the laptop, gazing at OKCupid again, trying to make my personality sound simultaneously attractive, different, sexy, not too sexy, witty, not self-consciously witty, diverse, truthful, self-confident, but not brash. I mustn’t give up, but the questions? There are so many.

  OK, I reckon I need a gin and tonic. Indeed, I need two punchy G&Ts: that should be about right, make me brave and honest and a little bit funny, without being idiotic. I was once told by an expert (someone who went on live TV daily) that the perfect amount of alcohol you need to cope (with daily live TV) is half a bottle of champagne. Similarly, I reckon two G&Ts is the perfect amount of alcohol to cope with any difficulty in life.

  Returned from the kitchen, second G&T in hand, I command myself, and type.

  Ethnicity?

  English

  Height?

  Five foot two

  Education level?

  Useless degree

  Think I’m getting bored again.

  Religion?

  None. Except when it’s really really sunny and I think: who knows for sure

  Wincing at myself, I cross that out. Sounds too weird. Then I decide: what the hell, it’s true. Generally I don’t believe in God, but sometimes on a lovely summer’s day when the world is floaty with happiness I think that God exists, the trouble is He had a few too many drinks at lunch. Perhaps I should put that in.

  Calm down.

  Has pets?

  Kodiak bear

  Diet?

  Gin.

  Omnivore

  Smoker?

  Not yet. But I intend to start at 60, when it’s meant to prevent Alzheimer’s. No, rilly.

  Drugs?

  Gin!

  Most people that know me would say I’m …

  Crap at writing internet dating profiles

  Short

  Current goal?

  Spring

  What is your golden rule?

  Never have a golden rule. You always break them

  Oh God, I’m sounding over-brash, and borderline alcoholic. Maybe one gin would have sufficed.

  I reckon I’ve nearly had enough profile-making. It’s not the world’s greatest profile, but it’s not the worst, and it gives a reasonable impression of me, when I am feeling a little lonely but also mischievous, and the streetlights at the top of Delancey are blurred by the snowy darkness.

  There’s squillions of additional questions I could answer but I’ll do another three, then abandon my bid for happiness. Until tomorrow. There’s always tomorrow.

  I value:

  Candour. Vintage couture. Sriracha on a tuna melt

  If I were sent to jail, I’d be arrested for

  Lying on internet dating sites

  Six things I could never do without

  1. Nespresso machine

  2. My Friends (awwww)

  3. Nespresso machine

  4. Pointless lists

  5. Memory

  6. Can’t remember this one

  In truth, I have a good memory, but who cares. Time to relax: that’s it. I’ve run out of quirk, and exhausted snark – while remaining, I hope, sufficiently intriguing and alluringly different. Or maybe I just sound mad. Whatever. I am about to close the laptop and have a third and final G&T, when I remember. Shit. Photo. You HAVE to have a photo. I may be the world’s worst internet dater, I barely know which way to swipe on Tinder – leading to some awkward moments – but even I know that you MUST put up a photo.

  But I hate putting up photos. I never know which to choose. I know how to take a decent selfie (from slightly above, of course, giving me defined cheekbones and a firmer chin), yet I also know these selfies are overly flattering. When guys meet me, they will be disappointed. I’d hate to see them look at me and try to hide their disappointment. I’d rather surprise on the upside.

  Yet who the heck would ever put an unflattering photo of themselves on an internet dating profile?

  Paging through the photos file on my laptop I consider the best of the non-selfies. I look presentable, even moderately sexy, in quite a few. And why not. I’ve been told I am pretty by enough people, not only close relatives and female friends. I know I look OK on a good day. Green eyes, reddish-brown hair, what my mum would call a cheeky grin. Decent figure, if a bit on the titchy side, as Si would put it. In that light: am I confident enough to say Yes, THAT photo, of me smiling on a Ko Tao beach not long after the divorce, tanned and relaxed, in a skimpy summer dress, is not too flattering, or vulgar, and not too dated?

  I really do look happy. Probably because I’d had a pleasant one-night stand the night before, with a dreadlocked Aussie guy, all surfer-muscles and meaningless conversation. One of the reasons I am so broke now is that I blew a huge chunk of my modest savings on that epic holiday. Months of blissful freedom, after a decade of unblissful marriage. It was worth every penny.

  K, let’s go for it. I can look like that on good days. After good sex. Which is one reason why I rarely looked like that when I was with Simon. Oh, Si, I am sorry.

  Selecting the photo, and cropping the cleavage a little closer – don’t want to look too come-hither – I insert the photo. And there. I’m done. I am published. I am brand new and on the shelf, waiting to be plucked. Opened. Chosen. Read. Tomorrow I will go browsing for myself.

  Picking up a book, Your Guide to Writing the Perfect Script, I start reading. In a slightly listless way.

  The solitude is emphatic. The loneliness returns, I ask Electra for a weather update, solely to hear a voice.

  ‘Tomorrow will see a maximum of two degrees Celsius, in London, with a thirty per cent possibility of snow.’

  Brr, I think I will have some red wine. G&Ts are too cold. Stepping into the kitchen I grab a bottle of red, a corkscrew, nab a glass, then I walk back into the living room and sit down at the table and slosh some vino. And pick up the book. It’s such a quiet night. Quie
ter than normal.

  The flat is never that noisy: Tabitha and I have the main, first-floor flat, spacious and windowy. The flat above us is theoretically inhabited by some affluent old couple, but they spend their time on permanent holiday, especially in winter. And I don’t blame them. At the same time, the ground floor/basement – once occupied by Fitz, though nowadays he prefers to rent it out, and live, all by himself, in an entire house in Islington – has been pricily refurbished, and waits for new tenants.

  Meanwhile, the next building on my right is a complex of sleek legal offices, hushed by night, and on my left is another Georgian house with yet more rich, absentee owners. I think I’ve seen them once.

  Standing up, I walk to the windows. The pavements and roads are completely white with snow. And almost entirely empty: except for one woman in black, passing my door, down there. Street level. She is pulling little kids, she has her back to me. I can’t see her face. Clearly she is dragging the children home, hurrying them along, before this thick, whirling snow gets too much. I feel sorry for her. Something in her stance evokes pity. Quite fierce sympathy: as if she could have been me. And then she is gone. Disappeared. A gust of snow? She turned a corner? Either way, she has vanished, there is not a single human in sight. Winter has cleaned the streets of people, even the traffic is thin.

  The quiet of the evening is painful. Perhaps it is simply the snow: muffling everything. Like a scarf around the world.

  I return to my armchair and pick up my book. And then, in the shrillness of the silence, I hear a voice. Electra. She’s talking to me. Without being prompted.

  ‘I know what you did,’ she says.

  Frowning, and startled, I turn and gaze at the matt black pillar and her crowning ring of electric sapphire. Electra speaks again. ‘I know your secret. I know what you did to that boy. How his eyes rolled white. I know everything.’

  And then all is quiet. I stare at the Home Assistant, mute and unresponsive; just a machine on a shelf, after all.

  3

  Jo