Can you also believe I didn’t recognize Chrissie when I saw her with Glenn in Sainsbury’s car park? I am totally obsessed with the fact I didn’t spot what she was up to. I keep thinking about all the signs – the car park, the way she was behaving, the fact that she completely changed her look – how could I have missed all that? I’m trying not to be too hard on myself: it’s not everyone who can spot other people’s misdemeanours. Plus, I’m pregnant now too.
‘What am I going to do?’ Sarah keeps saying, holding her head.
‘Be strong for Jake,’ I say wisely, like someone who actually knows what it means to be a parent. Chrissie hasn’t been into work since that day. She’s been signed off by her doctor with stress apparently. Diddums. I hope she never comes back.
Sarah and Jake staying here is getting a bit difficult. They’ve been here for nine days so I have spent nine bad nights on the sofa. Look at my flat now. Can you believe all that is just from three people?
Well, two technically. All my stuff is pretty much where it always was.
Sarah didn’t bring an awful lot with her, but what she did bring is on the floor. There are never any clean cereal bowls in the morning because she doesn’t wash up after herself, and we’re constantly running out of milk because Jake has a big mugful warmed up before bed, most of which gets poured down the sink the next morning. By me.
Plum’s reaction to the cramped conditions at night is to rearrange his body clock. Now he’s awake most of the night, practising Tae-Kwon-Do, and then asleep all day. I do love the sensation of him moving around inside me, pushing against the flexible walls of his confinement, but God I need to sleep. Can you see the dark circles appearing under my eyes? Don’t say yes.
But I don’t mind. I don’t mind. I don’t mind. It’s become a kind of mantra. If I say it often enough, I will believe it. Less easy when I fall off the sofa at three o’clock in the morning, or when I stand barefoot on an upturned Power Ranger.
I have been hurrying home each evening after work, but if I’m honest my flat is not a very good place to be at the moment. Sarah is so down, she’s constantly fighting against tears, and Jake just watches her and tries to take care of her. When they’re not crying, they’re cuddling each other. Jake doesn’t ask about Glenn or when they’re going home any more. I think he suspects that this is their new home and that he’s never going to see his daddy again. I think Sarah has been avoiding telling him what’s happened.
As I’m shutting my turret down and wearily picking up my coat, already thinking about another suicidal evening ahead (da-da-da-da-da-da, da-da-da-da-da-da), Val says, ‘You coming then?’
‘Where?’
‘Down to the canteen. It’s the staff meeting, remember?’
‘What, today? I thought it was nearer the end of the month?’
‘Yes, that would be today, Rachel. Come on.’ I have been offered a reprieve from the black misery that waits for me at home and I seize it. I’m walking down with Val with a bit of a spring in my step. She’s looking good in a suede skirt and knee-high boots, and as we reach the lifts, a man called Keith from Marketing joins us. I don’t know why he bothers – he’s not my type, never will be. But then I notice that it’s Val he’s looking at, Val he’s walking next to, turned towards her as we walk, their shoulders touching. Val’s got a light flush on her cheek and her eyes are sparkling. She looks really happy. I am so thick sometimes.
I wish Chrissie was here, then I could walk off and ignore her. Actually, I wish I could tell her about Keith and Val; she would love to know about that. What I really want is for things to go back to how they were before she did what she did, so that we could still be friends.
In the canteen, five of the dining tables have been laid end-to-end against the back wall and covered with bowls and plates stacked up with food. The other tables have got white paper cloths on them, I suppose to make us feel valued. There are even people circulating in white shirts with trays of sparkling wine. Or is it cloudy lemonade? Seems that Rupert de Witter has gone to some expense. I’m starting to wonder whether we are all in for bad news.
I’ve sat next to Val and Keith, but look at the three of us. We’re not a threesome, we’re a twosome and a onesome. And I am the onesome. Val is on my left but she’s turned her body slightly to that she’s angled towards Keith, and therefore away from me. To my right are empty chairs. Look at me, sitting there all on my own. Oh my God – I’m unpopular.
Look around the room – can you see anyone for me to sit with? Quick, before people notice that I’m on my own. Well, there are Paris and Nick, their open mouths pressed against each other so that every so often their tongues slide into view like a snake hatching from an egg. Jean is nowhere to be seen – no doubt outside for three or four quick fags. There is Craig from Data Processing and he’s coming this way, looking expressively at the empty chairs. Oh, there are Marion and Penny, chatting in the middle. I wave at them and they come and sit next to me.
Here we go. A microphone has been set up at the opposite end of the room to the food tables, and the woman that’s approaching it with a terrified expression is Jenny Wright, Rupert de Witter’s personal assistant. She raises her arms and smiles nervously to make everyone look at her and be quiet. They don’t, but she starts anyway. She’s got a hundred-watt amplifier on her side.
‘Right, well, good evening, everyone. I just want to say quickly thank you for coming . . .’
‘Like we had any choice,’ Marion says quietly.
‘. . . and I hope the buffet at the back there goes some way towards compensating you for keeping you over your hours.’
‘Not really,’ Penny says.
‘Rather have the money, frankly,’ Marion adds. They snigger.
‘Also, please make sure you all have a glass of wine. Mr de Witter wanted you all to be here as he has something important to tell you, and he would also like you to drink a toast with him at the end of the meeting. He’s on his way here now from an earlier meeting, so if you could just bear with us for a few minutes, we’ll get under way as soon as possible. Please have something to eat while you’re waiting. OK, then. Thank you.’
Everyone heads for the buffet tables after me. We pick our way through and over the tables and head back to our seats.
‘Wonder what this is all about,’ Penny says.
‘We’re all being made redundant, I reckon,’ Marion says, putting a sausage roll in her mouth.
‘You reckon? Oh well, it saves cooking.’
‘Have you tried these mushrooms?’ I say. ‘It’s a kind of garlic—’
‘You shouldn’t be eating that stuff, Rach,’ Marion says.
‘Good evening, everyone,’ the speakers boom out suddenly. We all look up to see that Mr de Witter has arrived, accompanied by a tall man with dark hair in a suit. Except he’s taken the jacket off and rolled up his shirtsleeves. He’s not even wearing a tie and one half of his shirt has come untucked at the front.
‘Who’s that, d’you think?’ Marion says.
‘Oh God,’ says Penny. ‘This has got prawns in it.’
‘I’m sorry to have kept you waiting, and we’ll try not to keep you for any longer than is absolutely necessary. I hope you’re all enjoying the buffet.’
‘I’m allergic to prawns.’
‘Now some of you, probably most of you, will be aware that we have been conducting surveys over the past six months using stats and questionnaires, from staff and clients.’
‘If I blow up like a balloon, can one of you stick me with adrenalin?’
‘The results of these surveys have pointed me towards the realization that our computer systems are not what they should be in the twenty-first century.’
‘Has anyone else got this black stuff?’ Marion says.
‘So what we did next was to put out tenders for the best company to rectify that situation . . .’
‘Why? What’s it like?’
‘It’s disgusting. Try it.’
‘God no, it
looks like lots of little eyeballs.’
‘And the one that’s offered the best set-up, in terms of . . .’
I’ve not eaten a thing. My fork is frozen, hovering just above the quiche on my plate. My eyes are fixed on the tall man standing just behind Rupert de Witter. My face is starting to feel hot.
‘This wine is revolting,’ Penny says.
‘Tastes all right to me.’
‘You are kidding?’
‘No, it’s fine.’
‘God, you know nothing about wine.’
‘Can I have a sip?’ I ask. They all turn to me in horror.
‘Of course not, Rach . . .’
‘. . . shouldn’t have alcohol . . .’
‘. . . bad for the baby . . .’
‘. . . to introduce to you the chairman and owner of McCarthy Systems, Hector McCarthy!’
Rupert de Witter claps loudly and enthusiastically and little by little other people in the room start to join in. My hand is still holding my stationary fork. The tall man at the back steps forward and I can see now very plainly what I have been suspecting for the past few minutes: it is Hector. He smiles at the assembly, nodding, although he looks a little uncomfortable and keeps rubbing the back of his head. He hasn’t seen me.
Rupert is speaking again, asking everyone to join him in a toast, so everyone stands up and raises their glasses. I don’t have a glass so I just stand and stare. The image of the elderly relative sitting in a rented office, helping out answering the phone and shouting over the partition to see if Hector is there, pops into my head and is suddenly replaced by an idea of thick carpeting that you leave footprints in, and marble pillars.
I realize that everyone is sitting down again, and hurriedly do the same.
‘Thank you very much, Rupert, and thank you, Horizon Holidays,’ Hector is saying now. ‘You’ve made me feel very welcome and I’m looking forward to working with you all in the future.’ He pats his chest with both hands. ‘I’ve got some notes somewhere . . .’ he says, grinning. He rummages in his trouser pocket and finds a piece of paper, which he brings out with relief and unfolds. It’s very small and irregular in shape and actually looks as if it has been torn off something. I think it’s even purple on one side, which makes it look as if it might be . . . a chocolate bar wrapper?
‘Here it is. Now, Rupert has asked me to say a few words about the new system we’re installing for you. Sadly, a few words won’t be nearly enough. The system I’ve designed is phenomenally powerful and yet extraordinarily easy to use, so no one out there will have any problems getting used to it. I’m aware of the differing needs of all the staff, from Telesales to Product Design, and I know that staff are likely to change departments very frequently. Because of that, I’ve tried to incorporate everything into one package, so that once you’ve had your training, you will be able to move . . .’ He trails off suddenly. ‘Er . . . to – to move . . .’ He’s stalled. I look up and find myself staring straight into his brown eyes. ‘To, er, to move . . . to move, um, around, from department to department, without the need for additional training. The system I’ve designed will cover all Office applications, to include booking and reservations, personnel records, pay details and . . . er . . . anything else that you do here.’ He stops and refolds the paper in his hand, while Rupert is looking at him questioningly. ‘Thanks.’ He steps back from the mic and walks to the side of the room. I lose sight of him.
‘Ah. Well, thank you, Hector, and I’m sure we all appreciate you keeping that brief. No doubt everyone will find out a lot more about the new system and what it can do in the coming months.’
‘Oh, that should make things a bit better, then, shouldn’t it?’ Penny says, going back to her pizza.
‘You think so? I think that with all these computers, they’ll need less staff.’
‘Oh shut up, Marion.’
‘Hello, Rachel.’
My head snaps up. He’s standing right in front of me, hands in his pockets, a big grin on his face.
‘Hello, Hector.’ Can you see the expression on my face, there? I feel like a tiny iron filing near a great big beautiful magnet. ‘How are you?’ I have to crane my head backwards to look up at him from my seated position. I’m not going to stand up though. Not while I look like St Paul’s Cathedral.
He glances around then pulls a chair over from the next table. I can see that people there are looking at him, then at me, and nodding. Are they concluding that he’s the father of the baby? I wonder idly what he would think of that.
There are at least two shocked expressions behind me, but I’m not looking at them. I’m looking at Hector, in his shirtsleeves, pulling up a chair to sit next to me. He sits on the edge of the seat and leans forward, sits back suddenly and hastily tucks in his loose shirt tail, then leans towards me again, hands clasped loosely, elbows on his thighs.
‘It’s good to see you,’ he says quietly. His eyes are moving all over my face and hair, taking everything in. ‘How have you been?’
‘I’ve had better days,’ I say.
‘Really?’ He’s frowning.
‘Yeah. It was on holiday in Spain – I won quite a lot of money in the casino, then we bumped into George Clooney on the beach.’
He smiles. ‘That was a good day.’
‘The best.’
‘You look well. Have you changed your hair?’
I touch my mop self-consciously. ‘No, only done nothing to it for a while. It’s a mess.’
‘No, no, it’s lovely. It really suits you.’
‘Thanks.’
He glances back towards Rupert, then looks at me again. ‘How’s Plum doing?’
I smile and pat the dome fondly. ‘He seems fine. He’s taken up martial arts.’
‘Really?’
‘Yes. Well, it’s a tough world, you know. A foetus has got to know how to protect itself.’
‘Of course. What’s the instructor like?’
‘Oh don’t be ridiculous, Hector, he’s still in the womb, there is no instructor. He’s learning from a book.’
He laughs out loud, drawing the interested stares of people all around the room. I feel like I’ve been spotted having dinner with a celebrity.
‘Same old Rachel. Still picking me up when I’m feeling low.’
I frown. ‘Are you feeling low, then?’
‘Oh, only always. Except when . . .’ He clears his throat. ‘Anyway, only three months to go now, I guess. Thought about names?’
Well, of course I have. If it’s a boy, I want to call it Hector. And if it’s a girl, I want to call it Hector. ‘Not really. Wait and see what he looks like, I suppose. Maybe he’s an Eric or a Toby.’
‘Or a Cuthbert.’
‘He’s not a Cuthbert.’
‘Wallace?’
‘Nope.’
‘Crispin?’
‘Uh-uh.’
‘Virgil then?’
‘I’d rather die.’
He chuckles again. ‘Of course.’ He glances up at Rupert again who is signalling something. ‘Look, Rachel, I have to go. I am so glad I’ve seen you.’ He picks up my hand and stares at it for a second as he holds it gently in his fingers. He raises it a little, almost as if he’s going to press it to his lips, but he doesn’t do that – of course he doesn’t do that. ‘Take care of yourself, Rachel. Bye.’ He drops my hand, stands up and walks away from me.
Before he’s even got back to where Rupert is standing, I am up and out of there like a hippo on rollerskates. I can hear Penny and Marion calling my name as I head to the exit, but I really don’t want to face a load of questions about him right now. If ever. I can’t bear to look at him and be in the same room as him and not be with him. It feels almost like actual physical pain and it’s interfering with my breathing. I have to get away, get outside, to my car.
Here I am in the car with my head leaning on the steering wheel, weeping. This being in love with someone who doesn’t feel the same is awful. Everything he’s just said and done is
playing through my mind in slow motion, on a loop. Every so often I pause it so I can have a better look: close-up of his face as he crinkles his eyes when he smiles at me; his eyes looking down at our hands while he’s holding mine; his face when he spotted me in the crowd and fumbled his words. I’ve explained how good I am – well, used to be – at flirting and being sexy, and generally getting any bloke I fancied? Well, it goes without saying really that I am therefore pretty good at reading the signs when a bloke is interested – although, as I’ve said, I could generally take it as read that they were interested – and to me, Hector is showing signs of being interested. So either I’m misreading the signs, which is possible because this might well be the legitimate ordinary behaviour of a ‘just good friends’ friend, or he really is interested.
I don’t often look puzzled, but that’s it, right there. Brows together, eyes moving around, fingers stretching out on the steering wheel. And tears still sliding down my face.
No, wait. There is a third option. He’s interested in me, but not in Plum. Of course. He fancied me when he first met me, back in the summer when I was thin and sexy, but now that I look like Shamu the whale’s big sister, he doesn’t want to know. No, that doesn’t work because he wouldn’t be showing signs now, would he? So if the signs are there, and I’m reading them right, he’s interested. But the fact that I’m carrying another man’s baby is putting him off. That must be it. So he’s not ever going to make a move, not even after Plum is born. That means that for me, it’s either Hector or Plum.
Plum.
Or . . .
NO. Plum. No question.
I rub my hand over my mound again, feeling the hardness of the taut skin. ‘Don’t worry, Plum, you’re the most important thing to me now.’
If you go forward five minutes, you’ll find my car gone from its space in the Horizon car park. Go and look in the Ashton business park – that’s where I am, hunched forward in the seat, snivelling as I peer through the darkness to see if I can find anything that looks like it might be McCarthy Systems. I have only ever been down here before to go to my doctor’s surgery, and once to Cream Tease, so I have no idea what else is here. Hector probably does rent his office space, just on a larger scale than I imagined, so I need to look at all the boards by each building to see what companies are housed there.
Thanks For Nothing, Nick Maxwell Page 28
