start of ***Ghost Of You***
👻 A lot of trepidation goes along with keeping someone at bay, anticipating what might be, trying to keep one step ahead. Neil had respected the lengths Brian had gone to, and recompensed by returning to the office just a few days after his visit. Fuck any rumours or whispers - he was the boss after all. Immersing himself in work seemed to be fairing well, and the first few work-dominated days passed so quickly and lucidly he hardly felt them happening. Until today.
How she knew he had returned to work he didn't know, but an unprecedented amount of mapping out your daily regime so as to avoid any unpleasant clashes or upsets, had to be put in place. There had been calls to his office in his absence - of which Brian directed were not to be logged or disclosed - and four days had passed with no further attempts.
Initially, the begging and apologies had started to come thick and fast; by letters to his home, some to his work or by email - all of which were sent back or office staff deleted. Then she'd started using other mobiles after he'd blocked her number, but any unrecognizable number got blocked too; Saskia didn't expect forgiveness and open arms, but she didn't bank on him being quite so thorough at warding her off either.
Last week in particular, she'd tried fruitlessly at Balfour Complex to gain entry to his flat, but never making it past reception. She'd run out of options; only his workplace left to target, and today - in person - was the day. First checking his car was in the lot, she brazenly marched through the doors and entered the building, a huge smile plastered her face for greeting the woman at the desk. That was as far as she got.
Neil was tipped off by reception and left the office quietly. A nervous flurry was rising in his chest as he went to the corridor window to tilt the blinds, catching the scene at the exact moment the peaked hatted and shoulder-patched security guards were turfing her back outside. What started with female charm and pitiful lies soon led to shouting, before turning into a tussle. Her undeterred dodging and weaving forced pedestrians (some vying for the best vantage point to watch this brand of city entertainment) onto the road lest they risk a slug from her flailing arms - and by the looks of it she was proving to be some challenge. But the uniformed heavies - one now uncapped - had chastened her, sitting her down on the low, decorative wall that edged the building.
Neil's heart pinched when one of the men squatted to her level, and put a hand on her shoulder while exchanging words; he'd been too high to hear the words the commotion had contained, and he wondered what she might be saying as streaky wet mascara, plummeted her heart even further down into those clumpy shoes. Moments later, she accepted defeat and with head down, hands in pockets, she sauntered off.
It was the first he'd laid eyes on her in weeks, and though it had been rather pitiful to watch, the antics of her ignoble, ignominious display had coaxed the corners of his mouth up ever so briefly; the girl had fought her corner to a helluva degree. But all it took was a millisecond for grim recollections to come flooding back, reminding him that he was still standing there an object of ridicule.
He had expected the apologies and the sob story at some point, but not quite this soon; maybe she felt enough time had passed for him to expunge any hurt, maybe she believed he'd accept her reasons why... But knowing her (and despite it all, he still very much did), he wouldn't put it past her to try again. Any more attempts from her today, bold or booze-soaked, and the police would have to be involved. At least his office staff were very much heads-down and unaware of any chaos down below. Not that they would be stupid enough to make a fuss over it - not if they still valued their jobs.
Once she had disappeared from sight, he turned and leaned back against the window ledge, stuffed his hands in his trouser pockets and closed his eyes for a few moments; the outcome was not to be this, it was to be together whatever. Distance. Lies. Sacrifice. They promised they'd do everything in their power to have some form of future - even if it meant lying to a sick and dying woman. What a farce all that turned out to be. And to think he used to berate himself for considering how easier life would be if Beverly did die. But he had to be thankful for small(ish) mercies. Had they been related, the press could be dining out on his suffering and disgrace, too.
After staring out the shine in the tips of his shoes, he suddenly vamoosed, made a beeline straight out of the building instead of going back to his desk. There was a brief moment's temptation to walk in the direction Saskia headed, ever so annoyingly brief. But his heels turned the opposite way, and his aimless walking found him, for the first time, in the little pub that he'd passed on route for over 20 years. How ironic for it to be named The Thrifty Thinker when his head was loaded and all over the place. Work had seen the last of him today.
* * * * * * * * * *
Next morning, the dominant fear that she would show up at his workplace again today left him weary; the proper shindy she caused on the pavement below - like a drunk trying to re-enter a nightclub - wouldn't be allowed for a second time without police involvement.
He'd only been back at work a few days, and already he was considering taking the day off. Last week's thoughts, prior to Brian's visit, favoured leaving work altogether. Fulfilment had fucked off years ago, and all that was left was inconsequential coming and goings. Even of he did retire, right here, right now, what would he do? Starting again hadn't a ghost in hell's chance, and with this one-sided-incest detriment hanging over him, bringing back his former social life again felt too challenging.
Yet challenging was what life with Saskia had been - quick and anomalous, not knowing what madcap idea would spring to her mind, or tug at your heartstrings. He'd loved her effortlessly as a daughter, and ferociously as a lover; utterly sweet disaster. All he was doing was sliding back down the snake to square one, no matter how many soul-destroying times the dice rolled. But still he drove to work; if she showed up she showed up — he was determined not let avoidance take hold again.
* * * * * * *
Brian was doing his best to look after him, but his wife didn't want him back in her house. She gave no objection to her husband supporting an old friend, but since the old friend had seemed impassioned enough to be sleeping with his own daughter, the lip of her door acted very much as a barrier; he may be cleared but he still played ball. It was a horrible feeling having no-one to turn to; so his home became his sole sanctuary, but he wasn't alone, she still festered and oozed inside him like a sore, her ethereal essence always around.
He tried his best to let only the guest room contain her, piling all her stuff onto the bed. But even out of sight, she still showed up; in single strands of hair that seemed to find themselves everywhere; in the imprint on the chair she favoured, now dipped in the middle where she always sat upon tucked-under feet; from bits of her in the once-organised-but-now-junk drawer; from sticky smears on jars and bottles; from crumbs lodged in various places. It would take a whole lot more than soap suds to wash her away. Maybe once he rids himself from the ghost of her will he find any release. He'd ignored them long enough. Her things had to go.
end of ***GHOST OF YOU***
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