got great career prospects and he’s a good cook.
And he’s not Darren.
I glare at Mum but she won’t be intimidated into shutting up. Instead she says, ‘I’d hate to think that all I’d taught you was sacrifice.’
I put Mum in a taxi, which very nearly spoils the day because she thinks a taxi is frivolous and sees it as yet another example of my decadence and ‘odd ways’. I simply think it will save her hat box from being crushed on the tube. We all but have a stand-up fight, but we are reunited when the cab driver is rude to us and tells us to get ‘bloody in, or bloody out, the bleedin’, bloody cab’. I take another cab and rush back to the studio in time to sit in on the interviews of a couple of possible candidates for next week’s show. The interviews finish at 7.45 p.m. and when I return to my desk I find the department empty, except for Fi.
‘You’re here late,’ I comment.
She doesn’t reply directly but grunts and glowers. I remember my mild, but public, rebuke earlier this morning and calculate that she’s probably still sulking with me. I try to restore departmental harmony by telling her about the interviews.
‘There was this archetypal Essex girl…’
It may be that she wasn’t from Essex at all, but from Edinburgh or Exeter or anywhere in-between. But it’s shorthand that Fi will appreciate. The girl had been describing her ex-lover. His CV read like the admission book to the Priory. A compulsive womanizer and gambler, whose idea of a day’s work was a sticky-fingered sweep round the local shopping centre; a louse in every way but redeemed in her eyes because he was ‘a real salt’.
I stared at the girl, non-comprehending. ‘An Essex term, I presume?’
‘Salt. Salt of the earth. The real thing. A fucker,’ she elaborated.
‘Quite,’ I smiled. Knowing she’d make great TV and the warm-up act would be able to wallow in innumerable Essex jokes.
‘Hey, Fi, what does an Essex girl say after her eleventh orgasm?’ Fi shrugs. ‘Just how many are there in a football team?’
It’s an old gag, but Fi appreciates my effort and finally allows herself to smirk. I know I’ve won her round when she says, ‘I’m just packing up. Fancy a drink? We could go to the Brave Lion.’
I’m about to decline, as is my habit, and explain that I have thirty plus e-mails to clear, when I suddenly think of my mother’s fretful face in Selfridges.
If only I could leave it there.
I know that if I stay in the office on my own she’ll haunt me, so I shut down my PC and grab my bag.
‘Are you all right?’
‘I’m fine.’
I’m not. But what can I say? How am I going to explain it to Fi, of all people? We clink glasses and sip our G&Ts.
I wonder what she meant? Sacrifice?
Fi is using her fag to orchestrate the tune playing on the jukebox. It’s playing ‘Always Something There to Remind Me’, which seems poignant. Fuck, I’ll be reading horoscopes next. I wish pubs would stick to ambient music. Sentimental lyrics and alcohol are a lethal combination. I charge towards thoughts of work, and away from ones of my mum, or Josh or the wedding.
‘So tell me, Fi, if
Fi looks shamefaced. ‘Er, sorry about this morning. I got wound up. I was being ridiculous. As you said, I should choose my battles.’
‘Apology unnecessary,’ I grin. ‘It’s good you are so passionate about your work.’ Or at least I think it is. ‘Tell me, what do you think of the show at the moment?’ I ask this to give the impression that I value her opinion. It’s a motivational thing I learnt on a course. Fi sucks the lemon slice from her drink.
‘Honestly?’
Suddenly I
‘Yeah, honestly.’
I’m indignant that she’s implying that I like to hear anything other than honesty. Then I remember that I often accept half-truths, exaggeration, insincere compliments and uncalled-for criticism, knowing that they are blatant lies. It’s the oil that eases the wheels I call my life. Exaggeration – of anything from quoting the sales figures to qualifications on a CV – is routine. Insincere compliments and uncalled-for criticisms are always the result of someone else having an agenda. Usually the three Ps: promotion (securing theirs, ruining the chances of mine), pay rises (earning theirs, negotiating mine), promiscuity (all of the above).
Half-truths.
This is more uncomfortable.
This is horrendous.
I drain my G&T. Issie and I are dealing exclusively in half-truths at the moment. I find it totally impossible to be frank with her or, for that matter, with my mother or Josh. To be frank with them I’d have to be honest with myself and, although I have briefly considered this, I’ve rejected it as the lunacy it so obviously is.
‘Want another drink?’ Fi is up and halfway to the bar before I nod my response.
The full truth is I have not forgotten Darren. I had expected that by now his name, if mentioned, would call a blank. That momentarily I’d struggle to place him and on placing him I’d be indifferent, cool, unconcerned.
I think of him more or less continuously and a fleeting thought sends me into a flurry of, of, of… happiness.
Pure unadulterated happiness. I’m happy he’s on this planet somewhere. Even if that where isn’t anywhere near me. All this and I’m marrying someone else in four weeks. I force myself to return to Fi. What were we talking about? Oh yeah, honesty.
She puts the drinks on the table.
Tes. Honestly, what do you think of the show at the moment?’
‘Well, it’s fine.’ I raise an eyebrow. ‘Very good,’ Fi corrects. I raise the other eyebrow. This doesn’t create such a fetching effect but at least my expression corresponds with my thoughts. Fi sighs. ‘It’s lost its bite. There are no surprises.’ She’s right.
‘Any ideas?’
‘A few.’ I wonder if she’s going to share them. She must have invited me for a drink just for this opportunity. The opportunity to say, ‘Actually I’ve sketched out a couple of ideas and a business case,’ and then to reach for her satchel. I pause. She doesn’t do this. I’m surprisingly relieved. Frankly a ten-hour day is enough for anyone.
‘Another thing.’ Fi hesitates and examines her nails. I notice that, somewhat out of character, her nails are bitten, stubby runts of nails. I wonder what’s making her nervous. Or has she always bitten her nails? I can’t remember.
‘Go on, what other thing? Actually don’t, I’ll get the drinks in then you can tell me.’ Odd that our glasses are already empty. I engage in that necessary hand-to-hand combat with other pushy, over-aggressive and well- dressed Londoners. Luckily I’m served immediately. It takes a rare barman to ignore me (and a rare barwoman to serve me). I squeeze my way back to Fi. I feel as though I’ve just spent six weeks in army training. Sensibly I’ve bought us both two G&Ts; two doubles, actually. Well, it saves having to tackle the assault course for at least another fifteen minutes.
‘Go on. The other thing?’
‘You.’
‘Me?’
‘You. You’ve changed.’
‘I’m wearing eye shadow – maybe that’s it. I read that eye shadow was in again,’ I defend.
Fi stares. She can’t decide if I’m being deliberately obtuse or uncharacteristically thick. The truth is, I’m nervous. I neck both my drinks as though they are water. Fi pushes her spare one in my direction.
‘Maybe it’s the engagement but—’ she’s steeling herself. Deciding whether to be brutally straight or not. She ploughs on. All I can do is admire her stupidity. ‘You just don’t seem as interested.’
‘I’m very busy,’ I snap with indignation.
‘Of course.’ Assuring.
