A Three Dog Problem

Sir Simon was still at his desk, on the phone, when he saw Rozie walk past. This struck him as mildly odd, and then, as he thought about it more, very strange indeed. Why was she carrying a massive torch? Why was she even still here?

‘Hello?’ the Prime Minister’s Chief of Staff asked over the phone. ‘Are you there, Simon?’

‘Er, I’ll call you back,’ he said. His hackles were up. He didn’t know why exactly, but something was wrong.

When he got to Rozie’s office, she was slumped in the armchair near the window, in stockinged feet. She looked utterly drained.

‘I thought you’d gone home. What happened?’

‘Don’t worry about it,’ she said flatly.

When she spoke, he noticed redness on her teeth. Her lip was bleeding. ‘What happened?’ he repeated.

She didn’t want to tell him. His fear was suddenly of something truly dreadful. If she’d been attacked – assaulted – he wouldn’t let her go through it alone. Funny, he realised: he’d always thought of Rozie as indestructible. He pitied any man who might come up against her. But, right now, he saw a vulnerable young woman. Whatever resentment he still felt towards her melted away. His instinct was to hold her, which was obviously inappropriate, so he stood like a lemon and waited for her to talk to him.

‘I was downstairs,’ she admitted eventually. ‘In the cellars.’

‘What, near the kitchens?’

‘No. The ones underneath. The ones we’re not supposed to use. It was . . . something to do with that picture for the Boss.’

‘The navy’s one from the summer? Really?’

‘Yes.’ Rozie sat up a bit. She looked slightly less queasy. ‘I thought the original might be there. Stupid, really. But two of the Ops men came and found me. Said I was trespassing. That’s all.’ She smiled and shrugged, getting up as if to go.

‘It’s not all,’ he said, motioning her back down. ‘I know you, Rozie. Being shouted at wouldn’t even register. What did they do?’ His gaze fell on her bleeding lip again. ‘You look like you’ve been in a fight. Or . . .?’ He tried to give her the space to talk, to say the unsayable, if that’s what it was. He saw her eyes cloud with confusion, but they brightened again.

‘Oh, Simon, no. They were just a bit threatening, that’s all. And I hit my head on the ceiling and bit my lip. I think they were more scared of me than I was of them. It was nothing.’

He kept scanning her face, looking for signs that she was lying or making excuses to avoid describing something unspeakable, but the longer she talked the more she came back to her old self. She wouldn’t lie if the men had done something terrible, would she? Simon didn’t know. He felt out of his depth, which was rare.

‘I just think you ought to know . . . I’m here,’ he said. How inadequate that sounded.

The smile that spread across her face was slow and genuine, and good to see after such a long time. ‘I do know that,’ she said. ‘I’m OK. Really. Thanks for checking on me.’

He felt he was being dismissed. If it were the Boss, she’d say, That’s very kind.

‘I’ll, er . . . Right. I’ll leave you to it. See you in the morning.’

As he walked the short distance to his office, he wondered about the boots. Why did you wear wellies to go and inspect some cellars? Were they leaking? Oh, God – not something else for the bloody Reservicing budget, surely? Back at his desk, he poured himself another cold coffee and settled with his feet up, phone in hand.