to the square. She sat on a bench in the cool winter sun, took a newspaper out of her bag, and read while she ate her sandwich (crayfish and rocket—she had dithered about between that and ham, brie, and honey mustard while Helen looked on, wondering what she was doing there and pretending to be interested in the writing on the side of a tuna and cucumber baguette).
Helen didn't know what else to do other than go and sit on the next bench along and keep an eye on her. To what end, she had no idea, but it felt defeatist to turn around and go back to work. Sophie was flicking through her Metro and Helen took the opportunity to have a good stare at her as she walked past. It seemed so bizarre that she had a whole life of her own, a whole independent way of being that existed outside of Helen's vision of her in her head. It was almost like seeing Harry Potter walking up Camden High Street or Shrek in the corner shop, buying tea bags. She knew she shouldn't stare, in case Sophie glanced up and caught her gawking, but she couldn't drag her eyes away. Consequently, she didn't notice the overgrown tree root poking out of the pathway in front of her, or the fact that her left foot was heading straight for it.
"Aaagh!"
Helen lay sprawled on the frozen ground, clutching her ankle, which was throbbing and swelling up all at the same time. In her memory of it later, she was all Kate Winslet in Sense and Sensibility but, in reality, she was red in the face and slightly snotty and tearful, as much from the embarrassment as from the pain. She was trying to see if she could haul herself up without drawing any more attention to herself when she noticed that Sophie had lowered her paper, and was looking at her concerned.
"Are you OK?"
Oh, God, she's talking to me. "My ankle. I think I've sprained it. Aaagh."
"Here, see if you can walk." Sophie helped to pull her to her feet and Helen winced as she put the weight onto her foot.
"No…it hurts. Sorry, I'm sure you've got things to do. I'll be OK, I just need to rest it for a bit, I think."
"Well, you can't do that out here," said kindhearted Sophie. "My office is just over there. You can sit in there for a bit and then if it doesn't get any better we can get you a taxi to casualty."
Oh my God, oh my God, oh my God.
All Helen's impulses were telling her to run away, that this surely couldn't lead to anything good, but she really had twisted her ankle, she really couldn't walk, it really would be foolish to sit out in the cold waiting for it to feel better, and besides, how could she resist a look inside Sophie's office?
"Ouch," she said as she hobbled toward the red-stuccoed front of the May and Co. building. Sophie gave her her arm and Helen leaned on her for support.
12
H ELEN WAS LYING on the sofa in Sophie's office, taking it all in. It was disconcertingly tidy and well organized, with neat piles of paper in labeled trays, and books graded according to height on the dark wood shelves.
There was no personality in the room, Helen thought, no pictures on the wall or photos on the desk—not that Helen was a fan of those women who plastered their offices with pictures of their children as if they were advertising them for sale, but there ought to be something, even if it was just a lipstick, lying on the desktop.
"I know. I'm a control freak." Sophie had clocked her looking around. "It's the only way I'm able to keep on top of everything. I can't afford the time to indulge myself in any distractions. Plus, I work in finance, so I'm probably autistic."
Sophie's assistant had made Helen a mug of tea and Sophie had propped her foot up on a cushion. Helen had a sneaky look at her watch: twenty-eight minutes past one. She ought to leave now to get back to the office by two.
"I'm Sophie, by the way." Sophie extended her hand to shake.
"Helen…a…Eleanor…" stuttered Helen.
"Do you work round here?"
Oh, God. Think.
"I'm a publicist. Freelance. I work from home. I live just round
Helen didn't know what else to do other than go and sit on the next bench along and keep an eye on her. To what end, she had no idea, but it felt defeatist to turn around and go back to work. Sophie was flicking through her Metro and Helen took the opportunity to have a good stare at her as she walked past. It seemed so bizarre that she had a whole life of her own, a whole independent way of being that existed outside of Helen's vision of her in her head. It was almost like seeing Harry Potter walking up Camden High Street or Shrek in the corner shop, buying tea bags. She knew she shouldn't stare, in case Sophie glanced up and caught her gawking, but she couldn't drag her eyes away. Consequently, she didn't notice the overgrown tree root poking out of the pathway in front of her, or the fact that her left foot was heading straight for it.
"Aaagh!"
Helen lay sprawled on the frozen ground, clutching her ankle, which was throbbing and swelling up all at the same time. In her memory of it later, she was all Kate Winslet in Sense and Sensibility but, in reality, she was red in the face and slightly snotty and tearful, as much from the embarrassment as from the pain. She was trying to see if she could haul herself up without drawing any more attention to herself when she noticed that Sophie had lowered her paper, and was looking at her concerned.
"Are you OK?"
Oh, God, she's talking to me. "My ankle. I think I've sprained it. Aaagh."
"Here, see if you can walk." Sophie helped to pull her to her feet and Helen winced as she put the weight onto her foot.
"No…it hurts. Sorry, I'm sure you've got things to do. I'll be OK, I just need to rest it for a bit, I think."
"Well, you can't do that out here," said kindhearted Sophie. "My office is just over there. You can sit in there for a bit and then if it doesn't get any better we can get you a taxi to casualty."
Oh my God, oh my God, oh my God.
All Helen's impulses were telling her to run away, that this surely couldn't lead to anything good, but she really had twisted her ankle, she really couldn't walk, it really would be foolish to sit out in the cold waiting for it to feel better, and besides, how could she resist a look inside Sophie's office?
"Ouch," she said as she hobbled toward the red-stuccoed front of the May and Co. building. Sophie gave her her arm and Helen leaned on her for support.
12
H ELEN WAS LYING on the sofa in Sophie's office, taking it all in. It was disconcertingly tidy and well organized, with neat piles of paper in labeled trays, and books graded according to height on the dark wood shelves.
There was no personality in the room, Helen thought, no pictures on the wall or photos on the desk—not that Helen was a fan of those women who plastered their offices with pictures of their children as if they were advertising them for sale, but there ought to be something, even if it was just a lipstick, lying on the desktop.
"I know. I'm a control freak." Sophie had clocked her looking around. "It's the only way I'm able to keep on top of everything. I can't afford the time to indulge myself in any distractions. Plus, I work in finance, so I'm probably autistic."
Sophie's assistant had made Helen a mug of tea and Sophie had propped her foot up on a cushion. Helen had a sneaky look at her watch: twenty-eight minutes past one. She ought to leave now to get back to the office by two.
"I'm Sophie, by the way." Sophie extended her hand to shake.
"Helen…a…Eleanor…" stuttered Helen.
"Do you work round here?"
Oh, God. Think.
"I'm a publicist. Freelance. I work from home. I live just round
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