Hidden Hours Read online

  For Kaz

  Thank you

  for lifelong friendship

  for your steadfast belief in me

  And for always knowing how to make me laugh

  prologue

  April 2010

  Tim Willis collects the manila folder and sees his last client of the day is Eleanor Brennan. Fifteen years old, with two overdoses and some self-harm under her belt already. His notes convey the weeks he’s spent sitting patiently with her, getting nowhere. Her determination to shut the conversation down had proved a match for anything he could offer. She’d told him, more than once, that she was only here because her mother had begged her to come.

  Until last week. They had been going through the same motions when he had pressed her for a happy memory. To his surprise, she’d suddenly started to talk. She’d told him a sweet story about her family, how her father had a party trick he’d learned as a kid. A Japanese friend had taught him how to make paper cranes, and he often used to fold them while Eleanor slept, leaving them on her pillow. She had vague memories of them in her cot; clearer recollections of them appearing next to her in her first big bed.

  However, her father had stopped doing this when he lost his job, she’d explained quietly. Although by then her older brother Aiden had learned to copy him. For a while, scruffier cranes would sometimes land next to her while she slept, the white paper blotched with thumb prints. Then Aiden had stopped too, when they moved.

  ‘Did you ever feel that these birds were their way of telling you they loved you?’ Tim had asked gently.

  Eleanor had gone rigid at the question. Her face paled; her hazel eyes widened. She had stared at him wordlessly for a moment, before letting out a guttural groan as she folded into herself and sobbed with her forehead on her knees. Hallelujah, Tim had thought as he watched her fragile body quivering, finally we’re getting somewhere.

  His step is light today, as he clutches the folder and heads towards the waiting room. He rounds the doorway and sees Eleanor and her mother sitting next to one another. ‘Hello,’ he says in his friendliest tone.

  Gillian Brennan responds, but her smile is forced. Eleanor ignores him. As soon as Tim sees her stiff posture and averted gaze he knows they have somehow gone backwards.

  ‘Ready, Eleanor?’ he asks brightly.

  She still won’t meet his eye as she gets up to follow him. Damn, he thinks, as he closes his office door and they take their seats. He tries not to show his disappointment, readjusting his focus towards this traumatised girl in front of him, who still desperately needs his help.

  ‘All right then,’ he says, his mind busily searching for new ways to reach her. ‘It’s good to see you, Eleanor. How are you today?’

  1

  an announcement

  December 2016

  The body bobs lightly against the grey stone wall, ensnared by something unseen, resisting the current. A police diver slowly untangles it, and gently pushes it towards the waiting boat. People watch from the footbridge, transfixed. Some cover their mouths with gloved hands, pointing, gasping, retching. Others clutch their phones in a chokehold. One woman takes furtive pictures. They are all relieved it hangs face down in the cold, murky river. No one wants to see the person to whom that long blonde hair once belonged.

  The body floats towards waiting hands. A tiny crab scuttles down the slim line of one of those ghostly white legs and disappears into the gloom.

  Three hours later

  Eleanor joins the back of the crowd and waits. She is shivering, desperate to sit down; her head pounds and her legs ache. The air is rife with murmurs and confusion. No one wants to be here. Only a handful of people are already aware of the chain reaction of events that began at dawn.

  The message had pinged up on screen five minutes ago, summoning the entire workforce to the courtyard immediately. Eleanor had grabbed her bag then followed the group from her office, eavesdropping, with no one to talk to. She had prayed this wouldn’t take long, because she couldn’t shake the nausea that had been there since she woke up.

  The last of the morning’s frost still glitters on the ledges of doors and windows. Bulging grey clouds obscure the sky, and the cobblestones are slippery from overnight rain. Eleanor hugs herself, wrapping her cardigan tightly around her, in part to keep her warm but also to hide her unironed cheap white blouse, as she shifts apprehensively from foot to foot. She is still getting used to the eviscerating coldness of London in December.

  The courtyard is surrounded by red-brick office blocks, hidden from the street, connected to the main road by one narrow, high-walled passageway with security gates at either end. The open space is lined with huge trees set in man-size pots, silver tinsel winding down each trunk, and on the northern side a wide flight of stairs marks the entrance to Parker & Lane, one of the book industry’s darlings, already crowned Children’s Publisher of the Year for the third year running.

  There must be well over a hundred people now, and more keep arriving as the minutes tick by. They are a jittery bunch, huddling together, waiting for someone to tell them what is going on. It’s a far cry from the pictures of this courtyard that line the foyer walls just inside the entrance to Parker & Lane – famous authors holding wine glasses, a blur of smiling faces just out of focus, and the backdrop of tall trees festooned with multicoloured lights.

  Eleanor’s gaze drifts over the crowd, but she doesn’t recognise anyone. She’s only been working here for three weeks, there has not been much time to form friendships, but from what she can gather, this company-wide summons is unheard of. Snippets of speculation swirl through the air. An emergency drill? A company collapse? A takeover, maybe? Immediate redundancies just weeks before Christmas? Surely not.

  Each conversation begins to float away, one after another, until the only sound is of someone clearing their throat. Eleanor follows the collective gaze and looks upwards. The black-and-white sign for PARKER & LANE stands proudly above the triplet revolving doors, and just above that, on a small balcony, is Caroline Cressman from HR, wringing her hands as though she has forgotten her lines. Eleanor has a horrible urge to shout, Deny thy father and refuse thy name! as she had once needed prompting herself in high school. She stays quiet, but her heart is restless – every few seconds she feels it stall and tenses, willing the next beat. Everybody is hushed, waiting.

  ‘I will only keep you a moment – this is the one place we could gather you all together at once.’ There’s a discernible tremor to Caroline’s voice. She takes a deep, shaky breath. ‘I am so very sorry to tell you all . . .’

  Eleanor’s thoughts tip, beginning to gain speed. Something big is coming.

  ‘. . . that Arabella Lane has passed away.’

  Shock steals the air from Eleanor’s lungs. The scene before her disintegrates; she is powerless to stop it. This cannot be true, she thinks. It cannot be true.

  She waits for the collective gasp, but there is nothing, absolutely nothing. Perhaps it doesn’t seem real to anyone else. Perhaps they are thinking, as she is, that only a few hours ago their Director of Marketing and Publicity had been very much alive at the Christmas party – drinking and dancing, working the crowd, her face animated, her body in constant, seamless motion.

  A few images strobe through Eleanor’s mind. Arabella is dead, and Eleanor knows what a dead body looks like. Parched in places and purple in others. A waxen effigy of a real person. Nothing like Arabella.

  A distant memory rises swiftly, like a vulture startled from carrion. It draws closer, and closer, until Eleanor can feel its black wings beating against her neck and she ducks away, terrified, her legs buckling from under her. Coins tumble from her pocket as she hits the cobblestones.

  For a moment she is no longer twenty-one. Instead she is nine y
ears old again, standing in a small room in the middle of the Australian outback. A body swings in front of her, his face obscured by flies, and the tips of his toes skim-kiss the floor, as though he were almost through a jump when that rope twisted and caught him, slicing across the bulge of his neck.

  Without realising, she flings her arms over her head, trying to protect herself from the memory, before the vision can fully claim her. Nevertheless, she begins to dry-retch.

  ‘Eleanor,’ someone is close by, talking to her. ‘You okay, Eleanor?’

  She remembers where she is.

  Arabella is dead.

  Elegant, graceful Arabella, who plays with her hair while she talks, whose bangles jangle when she moves, whose laugh can make you smile even when you haven’t heard the conversation.

  Arabella is dead.

  She opens her eyes. It’s Will Clayton, the art director, leaning over her. His thick eyebrows frame his concerned expression. She’s got to know him a little over the past few weeks, has enjoyed their flirtatious banter, particularly in contrast to the disinterested glances of others. However, now his face is grim and pale as he offers her a hand and sets her on her feet. He picks up the loose change and hands it to her, his fingers cold but his touch a reassuring link to reality.

  She’s alert enough to nod, although she’s not okay at all. She feels for her bag, pats the strap looped over her shoulder, and clutches it close. Those in the vicinity have all turned to watch them. She wants them to stop looking at her – she wants to go back to being invisible.

  Luckily, Caroline helps out. ‘There will be an investigation,’ she wails above them, hiccupping her words, seemingly ignorant of what’s happening below. ‘Her body was found near Waterloo Bridge at dawn.’

  There are sobs. Someone cries out. It’s real now.

  ‘The police will be here shortly to take statements about Arabella’s last few hours, and we ask you all to cooperate fully. There will be rooms made available for the process, and we will also have places set aside for those who need somewhere to take a breather.’ She takes a big breath herself. ‘Or if you would like to pray. Please come and see us, or talk to your manager and tell them what you need.’ She pauses. ‘Our hearts go out to Nathan . . .’ Her voice breaks. ‘And to all of Arabella’s family and friends. There will be further announcements shortly as to how we might best support them in the terrible days ahead.’

  Nathan. Eleanor feels a stab of horror at the mention of Arabella’s husband. It’s been hard enough temping for him these past few weeks, but she has no idea what the duties of a PA might involve for a grieving man. She tries to soften the antipathy she has felt for him, reminding herself of what he must be going through, but all she feels is numb.

  Will hovers beside her, until a colleague leans forward and whispers in his ear. He nods, gives Eleanor a brief pat on the arm. ‘Are you all right now?’ As soon as she nods, he turns to leave.

  Quickly, Eleanor turns her focus to the day that looms ahead of her, and is overcome with dread. Instinctively, she searches the melee for Susan. She will help, won’t she? But Eleanor can’t see her anywhere among the crowd, or on the balcony. Surely, as the company CEO, Susan Mortimer should be here?

  Caroline has gone as suddenly as she appeared, and people begin to disperse. Most walk in stunned silence – a few have their arms around one another, holding on tight. Some go towards the main entrance, while others head around the side of the building for the fire exit that leads to an internal set of stairs. Eleanor decides to follow the latter group. She needs to drag out every second she can while she tries to wrap her thoughts around what this means. She feels feverish, gripping the banister tightly as she makes her way to the second floor. Her bag bangs against her side with its new weight of guilt, as though she were concealing a murder weapon.

  She attempts to recall the previous evening from start to finish, but there are hot knives in her brain, pressing against half-formed memories that fail to trigger. She knows she talked to Arabella for a while, but her last recollections of the party are hazy, recalled through a blur of dry ice and spinning faces.

  In a daze, she interrupts a small group that has congregated in the stairwell, two women leaning together, crying heavily, while another woman clasps a tissue in a shaky hand and pats one of her pals on the back. ‘She was planning her thirtieth birthday just last night,’ one sobs. ‘She said she wanted to go to Paris.’ Eleanor almost apologises for the intrusion, then realises they are absorbed in their grief. She passes by them unnoticed, a will-o’-the-wisp lost in daylight.

  As she makes her way through the office, some people are already back at their desks, frowning at their screens, looking for answers, or just an escape. Or perhaps they have no choice but to carry on. In the brief time she’s been here, Eleanor has come to understand that daily deadlines and crazy hours are part of most people’s work ethic.

  She passes the closed doors of management, aware of stricken voices and low murmurs. She glances past the hanging Christmas decorations – oversized baubles gently twirling as the heat from the radiators rises – and instead keeps her gaze fixed on Nathan’s door at the far end of the office. Just to the left of it, behind a partition, is her own desk. She hurries past giant cardboard cut-outs of Smoky the Cat and The Pig That Could Fly – two of Parker & Lane’s recent acquisitions. Their strong lines, clear colours and gaping smiles don’t seem to belong here anymore. Her legs feel weightless and hardly under her control as she staggers towards refuge. She needs to hide awhile and try to compose herself.

  Relief washes over her as she reaches the partition. Until she sees the CEO of Parker & Lane sitting in her chair.

  Susan’s right elbow rests on the files that Eleanor was meant to stow back in the cabinet yesterday, while her left hand has crept across to open Eleanor’s sketchbook, and she is flicking through the pictures, her head down.

  Eleanor is furious at this breach of privacy. ‘That’s private,’ she says, before she can help herself.

  Susan looks up, her eyes red and weary. She stands up, fingertips smoothing the sides of her sleek black hair, which is pulled tight into a bun. She closes the book without a word, straightening her Chanel suit jacket, while Eleanor’s throat burns with the abruptness of her words. She swallows, trying to absorb her anger into something more palatable. She knows that Susan holds virtually all the cards to her life right now. She’s not only her boss, but also her landlord. And her aunt.

  They have had an uneasy relationship from day one. When Eleanor’s uncle had invited her to stay in their Notting Hill home when she arrived in London, she hadn’t expected such a frosty reception from his wife. They had known of one another for over ten years, but had never met until three weeks ago, and Susan was not at all what Eleanor had expected. She suspects the feeling might be mutual.

  Susan is scrutinising her, making no attempt to smile. Eleanor can’t think of the right thing to say, but she tries. ‘I’m so sorry about Arabella.’

  Susan sighs and looks away for a brief moment. Then she fixes Eleanor with a stare. ‘You look dreadful. Do you want to go home? I can get Priscilla to take over here today, there will no doubt be phone calls from the press, and from authors. I don’t expect you to have to deal with all that. We’ll figure out something else for you to do on Monday.’

  She doesn’t know, Eleanor thinks. She doesn’t know I spoke to Arabella last night, or she’d tell me to talk to the police.

  And yet, unintentionally or not, Susan is throwing her a lifeline. This is her chance to escape, to gain time, to think over what to do before she has to tell anybody what she’s concealing. Instinctively she pats the cloth of her bag, wondering if she has made this up. Can it really be happening?

  ‘Thank you, Susan.’ She reaches over and grabs her sketchbook, slipping it into her bag. She’s about to turn to go when Susan says, ‘Oh, and Eleanor . . .’

  Before she can reply she hears heels clacking quickly down the corridor. She turns at th
e noise and finds Caroline hurrying towards them, faint streaks of mascara on her cheeks.

  ‘Susan, Sky News are setting up outside the building,’ Caroline says breathlessly, eyes shining like a startled animal.

  Whatever Susan was going to say to Eleanor is forgotten. She smooths her hands over her knitted jacket, then says softly, ‘And here we go.’

  Eleanor watches them leave, before collecting up the paperwork on her desk and pushing it back into her in-tray. Then she grabs her coat and hurries towards the stairwell, anxious to be gone before any more news crews arrive. Her temporary status requires her to sign in and out at reception, and once downstairs she heads quickly across to the logbook, which is left permanently open at the front desk. Two of the receptionists are deep in discussion.

  ‘I just cannot believe she would jump off a bridge,’ one of them is saying.

  ‘Me neither,’ the other replies. ‘She was always such a happy person.’

  For a moment, Eleanor cannot move the pen in her hand. Not last night, she wasn’t.

  Before they can engage her in the gossip, she turns towards the doors. She sees a cameraman screwing something on to the front of his camera. The reporter clutches his microphone to his chest like he has just caught a bridal bouquet. Two lackeys have been tasked with holding umbrellas over the men, to protect them from the persistent rain.

  They all look at Eleanor as she exits the building, but before they can decide if she is important enough to accost, she has hurried down the passageway, waved her key card at the exit gate and continued towards the main road beyond. She pauses a moment, her head spinning in this shining world where the shops twinkle with Christmas lights and an accordionist plays ‘Jingle Bells’ and the cars are adorned with reindeer antlers and all is merry and bright. She takes a few gulps of air to steady herself, and then she sets off for the tube, for Uncle Ian, for some semblance of safety.