One in a Million

CHAPTER FIVE

Thursday, 5 July: Twenty-Nine Days to Go.

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‘Are you planning on sleeping here?’ Brian asked. ‘Because, if you are, I’ll get you a sleeping bag.’

It was late, again. I looked up from my laptop to see him stood in front of my desk, messenger bag slung over his shoulder, clearly ready to leave.

‘I want to stay and finish this, my brain isn’t working today,’ I said, pointing to a half-edited vlog on my computer screen.

‘You are allowed to leave and finish it tomorrow,’ he replied. ‘It’s almost nine.’

I blinked at the time on my watch. So it was. The day had completely got away from me. I’d had a breakfast meeting with one of our mummy bloggers who was writing a book about her first year as a single mother then I’d run straight over to meet Miranda at Apple to discuss a possible TV show they were interested in developing with one of our podcasters. By the time I got back to the office, I had fifty-seven emails to read, three videos to edit and a whole host of Twitter and Instagram posts that had to be checked and scheduled to make sure they came out at just the right time. Running Content meant wearing so many different hats at once, I really could have used an extra head.

‘There’s just a few bits and pieces I want to get finished,’ I assured him, yawning bigger than Bagpuss. ‘I’ve got that event with Lily Lashgasm in a couple of days and I need everything to be perfect.’

Brian gagged at the mention of our least favourite client.

‘The joy of being the boss, amirite?’ he replied, rubbing the top of his closely shaved head. ‘Just don’t stay all night. I’ll be in The Cross Keys with Rob if you want to join us for a pint.’

I did want to join them. Brian’s boyfriend Rob had once been in the chorus for Cats and I had not spent a single night in his company that did not end in someone singing Memory. Admittedly, that someone was usually me and it was possible Rob didn’t like me nearly as much I as I liked him, but still.

I held up my own hand in a Brownie Guide salute. ‘If I get this done, I’ll be there with bells on,’ I promised. Brian gave me a wave as he closed the door behind him, leaving me all alone in the office.

Once I was sure he was gone, I closed up my laptop and sighed. While I did have a date with Lily in the diary, I also had another challenging situation demanding my attention … I leaned back in my chair and pressed my fingers into my temples, staring up at the accusatory whiteboard that stared back at me across the office.

One of the reasons my brain was broken was because I just couldn’t seem to concentrate. In between every single one of my tasks, I had run downstairs and knocked on Dr Page’s door. I must have done it at least ten times over the course of the day and I was sure he was there. The light was on inside and I was certain I’d heard more than one tut and sigh combo, but he refused to acknowledge me. It was going to be very difficult to make him a social media superstar if I couldn’t even get him to give me the time of day. I literally knew nothing about him. I couldn’t find anything solid online. There had to be a hundred different Dr S. Pages in the world and, even with my advanced slightly stalky cyber techniques, I could not seem to narrow them down.

But there was one way I knew would definitely work and now that I was alone, I couldn’t ignore the idea that had been prodding me all afternoon.

Right at the back of my desk drawer was a small, simple, silver key. A few months ago, I’d locked myself out of our office and needed to come in on a Saturday afternoon. Miranda was away and Brian was incommunicado, so the weekend security guard had let me use the master key to get in. He also said I could hold on to it until Monday because he wanted to nick off early and watch the FA Cup Final. Bloody football, causing problems for people, as per usual. I didn’t have a specific evil plan in mind when I ran out to Timpson’s to get a copy of the key made, it just felt as though a master key for the building in which I spent 75 per cent of my time could be a useful thing to have.

And right now, as devious as it seemed, I needed a helping hand. Was it wrong to break into a very antisocial person’s office and have a little poke around to see what you could see? Well, yes, of course it was, but desperate times called for desperate measures and a quick peep around Dr Page’s office might give me some pointers on who he was and how we could work together. And, it had also occurred to me that he might only be using the office as storage space, which would mean he wasn’t really a tenant at The Ginnel which would mean I could probably convince Martin and Charlie to let me trade him for someone else. Anyone else, really, I wasn’t fussy at this point.

The first floor was already empty when I stepped out of the lift. The strip lighting in the hallway buzzed quietly but the darkened offices were silent. Even though there was absolutely no need for stealth, something about the deathly quiet building demanded it and I tiptoed along, ignoring my racing pulse and screeching conscience. Once outside the doctor’s office, I stopped in front of his papered-over windows and pressed my ear against the plywood door.

Silence.

Sliding the key into the lock, I opened the door very, very, very slowly. He seemed just the sort to booby-trap his office with some Home Alone-style shenanigans and the last thing I needed was a night in A&E. Even though the sun was only just setting outside, down here on the first floor with only one tiny window that faced our infamous alley, I couldn’t see a blind thing. As dark as his office had been in daylight, it was pitch-black now.

Until something moved.

‘Fuck!’ I shrieked, grabbing for something heavy from the desk and hurling it in the general direction of the noise.

‘Ow!’ a voice grunted as my missile struck its target.

I fumbled frantically against the wall until I felt a click and the overhead light sparked into life. In front of me stood Dr Page, naked apart from a pair of boxer shorts, holding a heavy hardback awkwardly in front of his crotch.

‘Sorry!’ I cried, clapping my hand over my eyes and turning around. ‘I’m sorry, I’m leaving.’

Before he could reply, I turned quickly, bumping into his desk and then his bookshelf, like a human pinball machine. I reached out to make a grab for the door and the bright lights of the corridor, but before I could make my escape, I stepped on a stray piece of cardboard and felt my right foot go skidding along the carpet while the left one stayed firmly planted. I was certain I could catch myself as I swayed back and forth on the spot, but the yoga class I’d taken that one time had done nothing to improve my centre of balance. Grasping at absolutely nothing, my legs went out underneath me and before I could right myself, I fell flat on my back in the middle of the room.

‘Christ almighty,’ I heard Dr Page gasp. ‘She’s dead.’

‘Not yet,’ I choked out, winded. ‘But give me a minute.’

I wasn’t dead but I was in quite a lot of pain. My backside throbbed and, as hard as I tried, I didn’t seem to be able to sit up under my own steam. I turned my head to watch as Dr Page’s feet padded towards me and spotted a blow-up mattress and accompanying tartan blanket wedged in behind his desk.

‘Do you know what day it is?’ he asked as he knelt down beside me and slid a hand underneath my head. A shiver ran down my spine as his fingers caught in my hair. ‘Can you taste pennies? Do you know who is prime minister?’

‘It’s Thursday,’ I said, forcing myself on to my side and shuffling into an uncomfortable sitting position, shaking his hands away from my head. ‘No, I can’t taste pennies and honestly, I’d rather not talk about politics.’

Dr Page stared into my eyes but all I could see was beard.

‘I’m calling an ambulance,’ he decided. ‘Do not move.’

‘I’m fine,’ I told him, sitting fully upright with a gasp and not at all enjoying the shooting pain in the bottom of my bum. ‘Winded and bruised but fine.’

‘Your pupils look normal and you didn’t crack anything open, but you could have a concussion.’

He stood up and took a noticeably big step backwards as I heaved myself up to standing. I pressed a hand against my bum and winced.

‘You should go to the hospital.’

‘I think a bag of frozen peas taped to my arse will do it,’ I mumbled, unsure where to look. He seemed to have forgotten he was wearing nothing but a pair of Bart Simpson boxer shorts and some very elaborate red-and-green striped socks that looked as though they’d been knitted by someone’s blind nan. Until he saw me staring. ‘Sorry to bother you, I’ll be off.’

‘How did you get in?’ He fumbled for an enormous V-neck jumper and pulled it on quickly over what looked like a surprisingly buff pair of pecs, a deep crimson blush growing in his cheeks. ‘I’m sure I locked the door.’

We both looked down at the floor at the same time. A shaft of light from the hallway shone through the door, lighting up my ill-gotten key like a diamond.

‘I heard a noise and I had to come and investigate,’ I replied, reaching down on unsteady legs to pick it up and tuck it away in the pocket of my jeans. ‘Because I am the fire marshal.’

I was a quick thinker but a terrible liar.

‘You’re the fire marshal?’

‘A responsibility I take very seriously,’ I confirmed in a grave voice. ‘I was afraid there was a fire. Or a burglar.’

He did not look convinced.

‘And you decided the best course of action would be to assault me with my own book?’

‘What if someone had been stealing all your …’ I looked around his office. Wall-to-wall, floor-to-ceiling bookcases. Nothing but books. More books than you could shake a stick at. ‘Well. What if someone had been breaking in?’

He looked around at his mini library as we both tried to work out what anyone might want to break in for.

‘Imagine,’ he said, attempting to yank his jumper down over his boxer-short region in a casual fashion.

‘We haven’t been properly introduced,’ I said, holding out a hand. ‘I’m Annie Higgins, I work upstairs.’

‘As you mentioned yesterday,’ he replied, looking down at my hand as though I’d just offered him a turd on a stick.

‘I’m sorry,’ I said, gingerly poking at my lower back. ‘I didn’t catch your first name?’

‘Because I didn’t tell you,’ he replied brusquely. ‘In the event of a fire, where are we supposed to meet?’

‘Down the road and under the arches,’ I replied, absently waving a hand towards the door. It was almost as if he didn’t believe I was really the fire marshal. ‘I work at Content on the second floor. Co-own it, actually.’

He continued to stare at me. Red jumper, Bart Simpson undies, nana socks and a man bun. It was like a Fashion Wheel gone very, very wrong.

‘We’re a digital marketing agency, work with social media influencers mostly,’ I said, trying desperately to start a conversation. ‘Pair them up with brands, help them develop their content, that sort of thing.’

Nothing.

‘And what do you do?’ I asked in an encouraging tone of voice I usually reserved for actual children.

‘I’m writing a book,’ he replied with great reluctance.

‘Ooh, that’s exciting!’ I exclaimed. He was a writer! Maybe there was something we could do with that.

‘About a politician.’

‘Oh.’

‘In the eighteenth century.’

‘Christ.’

‘He’s a fascinating chap, actually.’ For the first time, something sparkled in Dr Page’s eyes as he scanned across the assorted books, filled with bookmarks, that covered his desk. ‘George Nugent-Temple-Grenville, the first Marquess of Buckingham. He was foreign secretary for four days in 1783. It’s a hell of a story.’

‘Sounds like it,’ I said, feigning as much enthusiasm as possible. ‘And what brought you to The Ginnel? Was he from around here?’

‘Grenville?’ he pushed his fist into his lower back as he spoke and squinted up towards the splinter of street light that snuck in from the window. ‘His father was prime minister, so he certainly spent some of his youth in London, but he was educated at Eton and then Oxford, of course.’

‘Oh, of course,’ I agreed readily. Who wasn’t educated at Eton and Oxford? Apart from everyone I’d personally ever met. ‘Then what brought you to this particular office?’

He pushed his glasses up his nose.

‘The man who showed me round promised me it would be quiet,’ he replied. ‘And that I wouldn’t be disturbed.’

‘Oh really?’ I replied innocently. ‘My aunt wrote a book.’ I picked up one of the hardbacks from his desk which he promptly pulled from my hands, only to put it right back where it came from. ‘But she worked from home. It wasn’t the same as yours, mind, more of a Fifty Shades of Grey type thing. Really wish she hadn’t given me a copy for Christmas.’

‘I can’t write at home, the last time was a disaster, too many distractions. Plus I’m preparing a lecture on Grenville for a PhD research symposium at my old university and I needed more space,’ he said, finally giving up and taking a seat behind his desk. In his pants. ‘We only have one bedroom and my books take up too much room. My girlfriend doesn’t like the clutter. Or me talking to myself all night.’

He had a girlfriend? Knock me down with a red stripy sock.

‘Then this isn’t your first book?’ I asked, wondering what she made of the man bun–Simpsons undies combo. It really would be quite the specialized fetish. ‘You’re already a published author?’

Dr Page half nodded, half shook his head and, if I wasn’t mistaken, he was blushing.

‘I self-published,’ he replied, pulling a heavy hardback book with a beige jacket from the shelf behind him and holding it up so I could see the cover: Lord Lieutenants of Ireland 1171–1922. ‘It hasn’t exactly been a blockbuster bestseller.’

‘I don’t know, I think it looks fascinating,’ I lied. ‘My grandad was from Dublin, on my dad’s side. I bet he would have loved this.’

‘Probably not,’ Dr Page replied. ‘The role was usually seen as a stepping stone to a more prominent position in British government, or a sort of punishment. And the Irish mostly detested whoever was in power as the people appointed to the position tended to abuse their role to control parliament. In 1777, when Lord Buckinghamshire was lord lieutenant, he promoted five viscounts to earls, seven barons to viscounts and then created eighteen new barons, all in one day.’

‘I used to love Viscounts,’ I sighed. ‘The little chocolate biscuits, not the members of the aristocracy.’

Dr Page slowly placed the book down on his desk and picked up his glasses, unfolding them carefully and sliding them onto his face.

‘You still haven’t told me your name,’ I reminded him.

With a very heavy sigh, he turned back to face me, pushing his glasses up his nose.

‘Samuel. Dr Samuel Page,’ he said.

Samuel. Sam. Sammy Boy. Doctor Sam. Hmm. I’d need to work on that.

‘Do you go by Sam or Samuel?’ I asked. ‘I’ll add you on Facebook.’

‘Samuel. And I don’t use Facebook,’ he said, pulling a face. ‘I don’t use any of that, it’s too distracting. Who cares what some random person they went to secondary school with is eating for lunch? No one, not really.’

I heard myself actually gasp out loud.

‘I hope you don’t mind me asking …’ I peered around him at the airbed on the floor. The blankets were all upset and, given his ensemble, I was almost certain he’d been sleeping when I walked in. ‘But why is there a bed in here?’

‘Because, ah, as a writer …’ Samuel replied, eyes shifting from side to side as he spoke. ‘Sometimes, for me, as a writer, it’s easier for me, as a writer, to think like this.’

I sucked in my bottom lip and nodded slowly.

‘In your office?’ I asked. ‘In your pants?’

He nodded, clutching at the edge of his jumper.

‘On an air mattress?’

Another nod.

‘Right,’ I said, folding my arms in front of me. ‘I thought maybe you were working late and it was easier than going home.’

‘That would have made a lot more sense, wouldn’t it?’ he said with a low moan. ‘This is what she’s talking about, I make things too difficult.’

‘She?’

‘My girlfriend,’ Samuel clarified. ‘Ex-girlfriend now, I suppose.’

‘Oh,’ I replied, sucking the air in through my teeth. ‘Bugger.’

‘Yes, quite,’ he said.

‘Do you want to talk about it?’ I asked.

‘Absolutely not,’ he said.

I couldn’t say I was entirely surprised. He folded his arms and stared at me.

‘Can you go now please?’ he said bluntly. ‘There’s no fire as you can see and no one is breaking in, other than you.’

‘I should probably get off home,’ I said, gently massaging the sore spot above my bottom. ‘Let you go back to …’

I gave his blow-up bed a half-hearted wave.

‘Thank you very much for popping in,’ Samuel said, picking up seemingly random books and stacking them on his shelves, as though it was exactly what he’d been planning to do before a complete stranger let themselves into his office in the middle of the night when he was fast asleep on the floor. ‘And please don’t be offended if I don’t answer the door next time you knock.’

‘Well, you don’t always hear people, do you?’ I said, still struggling with the idea of a man with no online footprint. ‘When you’re concentrating or if you’ve got headphones in, you can be off in your own little world.’

‘No, I just don’t answer the door,’ he said, still busying himself with his shelves. ‘Wouldn’t waste your time.’

‘So you were here all afternoon when I was knocking?’ I asked, for some reason, surprised.

He turned and gave me a look as though I was the odd one.

‘What if the building really was burning down?’ I asked. ‘You still wouldn’t answer?’

‘Perhaps you could push a little note under the door,’ he suggested.

‘And what if you don’t see it?’ I asked. ‘And you die and the newspapers are all, Ooh, if only the fire marshal had tried harder to get him out?’

‘I shall make an addendum to my will,’ Samuel replied, turning his back to me. ‘Goodnight, Ms Higgins.’

‘Goodnight, Dr Page,’ I said, quietly picking up his book from the desk and letting myself out of the office. ‘So nice to meet you.’

He was possibly the rudest, most insufferable man I’d ever met.

And somehow, I had to find a way to make him famous.

CHAPTER SIX

Friday, 6 July: Twenty-Eight Days to Go

‘I still can’t believe you agreed to this.’ Brian leaned back in his chair, pointing an accusatory pencil at Miranda. ‘The two of you made a bet with the idiot twins and now we have to find a way to make this creature popular? We’ve already got more work than we know what to do with, are you planning on adding a couple of extra hours into the day or something?’

My gaze wandered over to the picture on the back of Dr Page’s book. A small black-and-white photo of the man himself squinted out at me from the back cover, a constipated expression on his face.

‘It’ll be a good exercise for us,’ Miranda said. She was the queen of putting a positive spin on things. ‘We’ve never had to work with someone so … social media averse.’

‘In that we’ve literally only ever worked with people who are prepared to cut off a leg to be successful,’ I agreed. ‘Where’s the fun in that? This is a challenge, it’ll be great.’

An instant message popped up in the corner of my laptop screen. It was a gif of a dancing Leprechaun holding a pot of luck from Charlie. A second message popped up underneath it: ‘Thought you might need this’. I closed the app and turned my attention back to the meeting.

‘Whoever he is, all his accounts must be set to private,’ Brian said, scratching his armpit. Boys were gross. ‘I couldn’t find him on Facebook, Twitter or Instagram. Not even LinkedIn. I hope he’s hiding something good.’

‘He’s not hiding,’ I replied, turning Samuel’s book over in my hands. ‘He’s not on there. Or rather he’s not using his account. At all.’

‘This is ridonkulous,’ he protested. ‘Even my nana has Facebook and Twitter and she’s eighty-nine.’

‘I know, I follow her,’ I told him with a regretful grimace. ‘And I want to believe she doesn’t understand what she’s posting, Brian.’

‘Oh, no,’ he said, sadly shaking his head. ‘She does.’

‘I suppose he’s not the only human being in the world who hates the idea of posting his entire life online.’ I pressed my palms against my face, careful to cup my hands away from my mascara. We’d only just started and I was already exhausted. ‘You don’t see David Attenborough on Snapchat very often, do you?’

‘I’ve heard he’s got a secret Instagram account dedicated to snacks that look like Jesus,’ Brian said confidentially. ‘But you’ll never prove it.’

‘I think the social aspect of this is going to be a bigger challenge than the media bit.’ I ran my hands over the dull beige dust-jacket of Sam’s book. ‘He’d rather be with his books than posting on Instagram. Or brushing his hair. Or talking to humans. Or possibly anything else in the entire universe.’

‘This is truly all we have to go on?’ Mir asked, taking the big, heavy book from me and flipping through the pages. ‘“The official residence of the Lord Lieutenant was the Viceregal apartments in Dublin Castle where the Viceregal—” Oh my god, I’m so bored I just went blind.’

‘Maybe it’s a horcrux?’ I suggested. ‘It definitely feels evil.’

‘That photo is evil,’ Brian agreed. ‘Who took it?’

‘Someone who really hates him.’ Mir squinted at the unfortunate portrait. ‘It’s the most unflattering picture I’ve ever seen. Brian’s racist nan could have done a better one with her phone. Photo copyright Elaine Gibson?’

I tapped Elaine Gibson, photographer, into Google and came up with nothing.

‘Let me try Facebook,’ Brian said, swiping up on his iPad.

Immediately, FB produced seven results for Elaine Gibsons in London. Four were considerably older than our new neighbour and none of the remaining profile pictures really screamed photographer. One was a cartoon of a flying pink elephant and one was an actual baby. Which just left the slightly artsy, half-face photo of what looked like a thirty-ish woman but could just as easily have been the Turin shroud for all the filters she’d applied.

‘Info is private but her photos aren’t,’ Brian said, clicking through. ‘Schoolboy error.’

Two seconds later we were seven years deep in carefully framed selfies and Snapchat filters. There was no way this woman was a professional photographer.

‘Open that one,’ I said, pointing at an album labelled ‘The Worst Christmas Ever’.