by Alam, Donna
‘You said girl. Miranda is a woman, not a girl.’
Well, fuck me for a feminist. Who is this man, and where has Beckett gone?
‘Okay, so Miranda. She’s older, right?’
‘A little,’ he answers in a clipped and painfully concise tone.
‘How much older than nineteen?’
‘I neither know nor care.’
‘About Olivia’s age, would you say?’
‘Harry, for the love of God, stick to your usual type. Consider the consequences.’
‘The consequences of falling in love? It’s a bit late now to be experiencing cold feet. What is going on between you and Olivia?’
‘Nothing,’ he bites out. ‘I’m done with this conversation. But let me tell you I neither want to know nor sanction what you have in mind.’
‘Thanks, Dad. Just give me the address of the office Miranda works out of.’
‘No.’
‘I can look it up. I was just doing you the courtesy—’
‘You look it up, then because I’m not about to smooth the path for you in any way.’
‘What’s crawled up your arse and died since last night?’
‘I’m serious, Harry. Miranda works for Olivia. If you make my wife’s life any more difficult than it currently is by indiscriminately dipping your pen in her company’s ink, I will swing for you.’
I don’t recall Beckett ever threatening me before. Firstly, we’re friends, but also, it’s not his style. He’s more prone to action than threats and hot air. But what strikes me more about his response is the note of regret his angry words expose.
‘Beckett, whatever it is you’ve done or said, go home. Throw your arrogant, self-serving arse at her feet and apologise.’
‘I have no idea what you’re talking about,’ he answers in that insufferable tone of his.
But that’s fine. If he can’t take the stick out of his own rectum, I’m not going to do it for him. It’s not imperative that I involve him in this. What is it they say about the various ways to skin a cat?
Or get your hands on the skin of the cat-sitter, as the case may be.
15
Miranda
I go into the office late Monday morning, glad that I didn’t need to be in earlier today. I’d accrued a little time off in lieu of working my butt off on Friday, which is just as well as I couldn’t get out of bed this morning. In fact, I’ve been ill all weekend.
I had started in James’s bathroom that morning, and so far, there had been very little letup all weekend. In fact, I was so ill, I think my parents called a temporary truce. Or maybe it’s just hard to argue effectively over the noise of your daughter retching.
I don’t suffer in silence when it comes to illness.
Anyway, I thought I wouldn’t be able to come into work this morning because I’d vomited again. But since about nine o’clock, I’ve been okay. I’ve also managed to keep a cup of tea and some toast down, so while I’m as weak as the runt of a litter of newborn kittens, I’m definitely on the mend. I also can’t afford to hide at home this morning after my behaviour on Friday night.
On the drive in, I consider the conversation that’s probably waiting for me and the justifications of my actions. Who am I kidding? There’s no justification for being drunk at work. But maybe Olivia will listen to my explanation, and if I grovel enough, I might get to keep my job.
On Friday, I’d worked so hard, and I was so excited. The culmination of months of work was coming to a head. I’d started at seven in the morning, working right through until the evening. I didn’t even take a few minutes to eat lunch or even go home to get changed when Heather and Olivia did. I just had too much to do, existing on a nervous, excited kind of energy. The only time I managed to grab for myself was a few minutes right before the attendees arrived, and I used that time to change into my dress and fix my makeup.
But as an excuse, it’s a poor one. I’d dearly love to blame my schedule and a lack of food for my drunken behaviour, but I can’t. Best-case scenario, I’m looking at some kind of disciplinary action this morning.
Maybe? I don’t know.
Between bouts of vomiting on Saturday, I’d tried calling Olivia to apologise, but her phone must be switched off. Maybe I shouldn’t be surprised, her being a newlywed and all, but since I started working at E-Volve, she’s been available to talk work almost twenty-four seven. I’d also called Heather to apologise, who questioned me so hard, she made the Spanish Inquisition look like part-timers. So I told her about my fake diamond to go along with Cameron’s devotion. As for the rest, the official timeline of events, as far as she’s concerned, it looked like this:
Beckett’s friend, no name used, had followed the cab to the club after her panicked entreaties.
There he’d talked some much-needed sense into me, poured some equally necessary caffeine in me, acquired via a McDonald’s drive-through or some greasy spoon, maybe, then taken me home, where he’d left me unsullied and contrite at the door.
I’ve had the whole weekend in bed to think on the trajectory of my life, and I’ve decided I’m like one of the ducks I sometimes see as I drive by the local park, serenely gliding across the murky waters, despite the sunshine. But dip beneath the surface and my little ducky legs are working overtime to keep me afloat. To keep me moving forward. To keep up the appearance of competence.
I’m determined my existence isn’t going any farther south. I’ve decided to view the consequences of owning a worthless ring from a pragmatic standpoint, rather than an emotional one, which means I need to find some other way of getting my hands on a little more cash in my efforts to save enough for a rental deposit.
No problem. I’ll just have to give up sleep or something.
The afternoon is warm and bright as I make my way from the carpark and into the darkened building, avoiding the rickety lift by taking the stairs. Unusually exhausted by the climb, I pause as I reach the floor that E-Volve calls home as a paper aeroplane sails out of the open door to meet me. I follow the arc of its trajectory before it lands at my feet, the sound of Heather’s voice following it.
‘God, Jorge, I don’t know.’ By her tone, she sounds like she neither knows nor cares . . . whatever that was in response to.
I can’t be arsed with their arguing today.
I bend and pick up the plane constructed from a sheet of A4 lined paper. In Heather’s jagged hand, the word HELP is scrawled along one wing and a doodled stick man image on the other, tongue hanging out of a grim line of a mouth and crosses where the eyes should be. I’m guessing Heather has had a long morning. Or else she’s planning on murdering Jorge.
A sick feeling of worry and dread wash through my stomach as I step into the office. A physical manifestation of an emotional concern this time. I haven’t felt this terrified since I’d got on the school bus at aged fifteen to find the local bad girl sitting there. She also happened to be the same girl I’d mouthed off to while hanging out in Leicester Square the previous weekend. In retrospect, potentially losing your job seems worse than two years of being tortured.
The golden beams of the sun dance merrily through the grimy windows, cutting lines across the floor and giving dust motes space to dance. Heather and Jorge sit at their desks at opposite ends of the space, both tapping away on their respective laptops.
‘But you said you forwarded it to me,’ Jorge grumbles, lifting his specs from his nose before almost pressing it up against the screen.
‘Yeah, I did.’
‘Well, I can’t find it.’ His answer betrays his barely concealed exasperation, and he doesn’t so much slam his mouse down as put it down very forcefully. ‘This is ridiculous.’ Pushing away from his desk, he stands.
‘Have you checked your junk?’ Heather’s reply is oh, so innocent. Too innocent. Something is up . . . or down as my gaze dips to his crotch where his fly is blatantly open.
Juvenile, Heather. Very juvenile.
‘Where’s boss babe?’ I ask as I put my b
ag on the back of my chair, but not before pulling out my phone.
‘She’s not in yet,’ she answers as I start my laptop, the sick feeling dissipating at a rapid rate, only to resurface almost immediately as Olivia’s name flashes up on the screen of my phone.
Shit.
‘Hi, Olivia.’ My voice is so high it could probably summon canines.
‘I’m not coming today.’ She launches into why immediately without a greeting or a question. ‘I’m ill.’
Two words. A lifeline. My silver lining to her great grey cloud.
Abstractly, I consider the fact we’re both ill as a worrying coincidence. What if it was something in the hors d’oeuvres, and more people are sick? That might get E-Volve into the newspapers for no good reason. I decide not to mention the fact that I’m ill, too. There’s no need for both of us to be worrying right now.
‘Oh, how awful. I’m so sorry to hear that. Is there anything I can do?’ God, I sound like a creeper. A super creeper. But I’d creep all the way to Hampstead if it meant I got to keep my job. Especially after the morning I’ve had.
‘No. Nothing. I’m going back to bed. If there’s an emergency—’
‘Don’t worry. We’re on it. You can rely on us.’ Even with my super-fake perkiness, the words feel hollow. I wish I could wipe Friday from both our memories. Well, parts of it. There’s one thing for sure; if I get to keep my job, I’ll never let her down again.
‘Great.’ God, she sounds anything but great. But I know how she feels.
‘You’re sure I can’t get you anything? Soup from the bakery?’ Bluergh. ‘Something to settle your stomach?’
‘No. I’m just going to crawl back into bed. But call if—’
‘I will. Feel better soon, boss babe. Relax. We’re on the job.’
With a muttered bye, the call cuts off.
‘On the job?’ Heather repeats. ‘I thought that meant sex.’
‘She sounds awful,’ I murmur, placing my phone next to my laptop, choosing to ignore her ridiculous question. Was it even a serious one? But I meant every word—Olivia can rely on me. I’m going to be the most diligent employee there ever was.
‘Hey,’ Heather almost shouts, making Jorge pause at the door to the tiny office kitchen. It’s eleven o’clock. Times for elevenses. But it’s almost as if it’s eleven o’clock every hour where Jorge is concerned. If there was any justice in this world, he’d be the size of a house. Instead, his skinny jeans are falling off his equally skinny arse. ‘Aren’t you going to ask us something?’ She gestures back and forth between the two of us with a finger.
‘Fine.’ You’d think Jorge would be too old to roll his eyes. Not that he’s old, but that level of violence in an eyeroll is usually reserved for fifteen-year olds, I’ve always thought. ‘Do you want a cuppa, Miranda and Heather?’ he asks, monotone.
I shake my head and suppress a shiver.
‘No thanks, Jorge.’ With a big smile, Heather adds. ‘Oh, by the way, I used the last teabag this morning.’
‘Then why are you making me ask?’
Heather shrugs a sort of one shoulder affair. ‘To replay the favour of you refusing to pick me a box of tampons up from the Co-Op.’
‘Oh, not bloody tampon-gate again,’ he mutters belligerently, referring to an ongoing argument between the pair.
‘I’ve told you,’ she snipes, pushing back her chair so forcefully, it whizzes back on its castors, only stopping when it hits the photocopier. ‘They’re not bloody before.’
‘Can we please dial it down a notch,’ I interject. ‘And there’s a box of them in the back of the cupboard. Tetley’s teabags, that is.’
Jorge’s complexion turns the colour of beetroot before he scurries into the kitchen as he remedies the situation tout de suite as Heather flashes me a look that’s less than impressed, but whatever. Apart from not possessing the bandwidth to deal with their bickering today, helping Heather tick him off doesn’t come under the good employee remit.
‘And Heather?’ I unlock my desk drawer and pull out an unopened box of tampons. ‘Here.’ She catches them, dropping the box on her desk before retrieving her chair. ‘Let’s bury the tampon hatchet, eh?’
‘Until he does something else to annoy me,’ she mutters. ‘Heads-up.’ A blur of colour sails through the air, causing me to fluster as the box of tampons drop to the floor. ‘It seems you’ll be needing these sooner than me,’ she adds meaningfully.
Picking them up, I pull open the drawer again and end up doing so jerkily, almost snapping my fingernail on the metal handle. When did I buy these? I know I bought them right before my period was due. Roughly. I’m not one of those girls who times everything to the day. Up until recently, I was on the pill, and it was all taken care of by that little numbered packet.
Stop it.
Now you’re being ridiculous.
What happened to no more ducky legs?
I drop into my chair and flip over my phone, swiping to the calendar app because, apparently, I can’t help myself. It’s not like I made a note of the date of my last period, but I have noted other things.
‘Where were you this weekend?’ Heather asks.
‘Playing referee between the two home teams,’ I answer a little distractedly.
‘What?’
‘I was preventing a murder-suicide. Mum and Dad,’ I add quickly by way of further explanation.
‘Who was killing who?’
‘It’s pretty even. The hate is equally strong.’
‘You should’ve called. I’d have come over. They might’ve played nice with their niece as an audience.’
Oh, now I remember. I helped Heather babysit her siblings one night last month when my period turned up. When was that?’
‘Heth, what did your parents go to see at the movies last month?’
‘What are you talking about?’
‘When I came over, and we ordered pizza.’
‘That was two months ago.’
‘No, it wasn’t,’ I retort.
‘It was late June. They went to see something about birds with Alexander Skarsgård in ’cause Mum has a massive crush on him.’
Pulling out my phone, I goggle the Skarsgård along with the word bird, and Google reveals the name of the movie as The Hummingbird Project. Next, I look at the cinema listings at their local cinema, but it doesn’t show listings retrospectively.
‘Dad said it was rubbish, anyway. ‘If you want me to come over anytime, you know I will, right?
‘I wouldn’t subject you to the tension. Besides, if it helped, I might force you to move in. I’ve reached the conclusion that they don’t care who sees them acting deplorably, so long as each of them thinks they’re winning. They had an open home on Saturday, and they even got into it there—in front of the real estate agent and the first couple who’d turned up to view the place.’ And afterward, I’d dragged myself out of bed to sit in the garden.
‘Any takers?’
I shake my head. ‘They were out of the door at the first opportunity, like the house was on fire.’ I can’t say I blame them. I wouldn’t be there if I had anywhere else to go.
Damn. I wish I’d paid more attention to the dates. I feel slightly sick, but I think I’m just being ridiculous. Seeing things that aren’t there—I’ve only had sex twice in months, and once was last night.
Technically, I’ve had sex more than twice.
Two nights of sex would be more accurate.
Two nights of sex where I had more sex with James than I had in the past three months of my being with Cameron. Damn.
But one of those nights was last night. And while James is a beast in bed, he’s not superhuman. Come to think of it, that would be a rubbish superpower.
Is it a bird?
Is it a plane?
No, it’s Impregnate You Instantly Man!
Up the duff, coming to you soon . . .
His would be a very niche superhero market.
Cue another whole-body shiver, this t
ime revulsion, as I begin flicking through the messages on my phone. Messages from Cameron, though there are no recent one thanks to Heather’s suggestion that I block his number. I haven’t deleted the old missives yet. You never know when I might need them as evidence, should I be hit by a mysterious car or go missing.
Joking.
Mostly.
But I scroll back to the date of Heather’s “I’ve dropped the ring in a bag of clothes donated to Oxfam” prank. And while I realise this in no way helps me work out the date of my last period, I’ve just supplied myself with a conception date.
Shut. The. Flip. Up.
I think I might’ve just swallowed those paddling ducky legs as something begins hammering against my chest.
‘You know what would make you feel better after a sucky weekend? Happy Hour.’
‘I think I had enough on Friday.’ I answer without thought or really paying attention, my mind still working overtime on other things. Like my current and very silent freak-out.
‘Yeah, but now it’s Monday. Last week has been wiped clean from the slate.’
Wiped from the slate but not from memory, relegated to the annals of the history of me. Or something.
‘No, I mean I’ve had enough for the rest of the year.’
‘Yeah, you say that, but pop a glass of prosecco under your nose and—’
Heather’s words cease immediately as I slap my hand to my mouth and go running in the direction of the bathroom.
16
Miranda
I’m not going to think about it.
It’s probably just stress.
Stress of the divorce, delayed reaction to the breakup, finding out about the ring.
Along with a touch of summer stomach flu or food poisoning.
All very plausible.
Add in the use of condoms.
And the fact that I can’t be pregnant because the universe needs to recognise shit needs to be shared around—it’s time to pick on somebody else.
