by Lynda Renham
‘I must go,’ I say, standing up.
‘Of course,’ he agrees. ‘Thanks for coming.’
‘Thanks for asking me,’ I say and feel myself blush.
He leans forward to kiss me on the cheek and a very awkward moment follows. Bella looks up at us and I sense Harry’s lips are heading towards mine. Oh God, what to do. I feel myself lean forward. What am I doing? I hover stupidly for a second. Half of me wanting the kiss and the other half horrified at the thought. Instead I lean down to stroke Bella and hit my head on Harry’s arm.
‘Oh,’ I cry.
‘Sorry,’ he apologises, looking as embarrassed as I feel.
‘It was a lovely lunch,’ I say, grabbing my phone and heading for the door. ‘I just remembered I promised to phone my mother.’
I struggle with the door knob.
‘Hang on,’ he says, turning the lock.
‘Thanks,’ I mumble. ‘Bye.’
Oh God, how embarrassing was that? Still at least I won’t have to cook anything later. That will save some electricity.
Chapter Twenty
I’ve decided to keep a countdown calendar. I have five weeks and four days to find a date for the Guildhall ball. I’ve decided that Iain most certainly isn’t a candidate. Rita and Jeremy had the right hump about it all.
‘You might have told me he had a word count limit,’ I snapped.
‘I didn’t know,’ said Rita.
‘But everyone knows you shouldn’t chat to a pilot. Poor Iain couldn’t concentrate,’ said Jeremy.
‘He had a word count problem even before we took off,’ I argued.
‘You’ll never get a husband like this,’ said Jeremy.
What a bloody cheek. You could tell my mum had been talking to him. I don’t want a husband. I just want a date for the Guildhall. At this rate I’ll be booking Mohammed whats-his-face at a hundred and eighty quid. I did ask if Malcolm was available but he is booked for the whole of March. Just as well really as I don’t think my credit card can cope with the battering. I’m not sure how to explain Malcolm’s absence at the Christmas party on Saturday. I may well have to kill him off otherwise it will look like I can’t keep any man for five minutes. I really can’t believe I’m going to another big works do without a date. I’ll be asking my dad next. And I still can’t believe that Imogen had the nerve to ask Harry Bloom to take her, and that he agreed to it.
‘Ooh that’s so sweet of you,’ she had gushed.
‘No problem,’ he’d said, with that cocky grin of his.
You can tell he is in the property business. They all have that smarmy smile don’t they? So, there is nothing left for me to do except trawl through Tinder again for a hopeful date for myself. I’d had a couple more likes this morning. There must be someone who is free on Saturday and who isn’t a total dick. Best not to hold my breath. With an egg mayonnaise sandwich in one hand I flick through the local paper with the other, but there’s no mention of our protest.
So there I am looking at the ads when Henry strolls into the staffroom. I inwardly groan and doubly groan when he pulls his tomatoes out of his lunch box, and no, that isn’t a euphemism. Henry has a big thing for tomatoes. Not only does he have a big thing for them, he also has a disgusting ritual when he eats them. I now know why I’m the only one in the staffroom. Clearly everyone else is aware of Henry’s lunch break, except moi, who is so preoccupied with getting a date for the Guildhall ball that she can’t think beyond that.
Henry leers at me, his eyes feasting on my breasts.
‘You’re looking lovely,’ he says smugly.
I’m wearing my Lynworths uniform which makes me look dowdier than a nun.
‘Thanks,’ I say, turning back to the paper.
From the corner of my eye I see him line up the tomatoes and then one by one he removes the cores, spraying tomato juice over the table. I sigh but he’s oblivious. And then the slurping and sucking noises start as he eats them. It’s impossible to ignore. Tomato juice dribbles down his chin and I grimace. I push my egg mayonnaise sandwich to one side.
‘Looking forward to Saturday?’ he asks through a mouthful of tomato. I watch in disgust as tomato juice drips on to his tie.
‘Yes, should be good.’
‘You going to wear that black dress you wore for the New Year’s Eve party? Your tits look great in that.’
‘I really don’t think it is appropriate for you to talk to me in that way Henry,’ I say.
‘You girls love it, you know you do,’ he smirks.
What I wouldn’t do to shove one of those tomatoes up his arse.
‘Yes, right,’ I say, grabbing my things. ‘If you’ll excuse me, the sexism in this staffroom is stifling me.’
‘You fancy me, you don’t need to play hard to get.’
‘Christ Henry,’ I mutter.
‘Are you on your period or something?’ he asked between slurps.
‘If I had to bleed to find you annoying, I’d be anaemic,’ I snap and march from the staffroom.
Seriously is it me? Is there something lacking in me that I can’t attract a decent man? My phone bleeps and I hurriedly check it to see if a Tinder match had responded. It is a text from Rita.
‘Jeremy says he is happy to escort you to the Lynworth Christmas party if you’re still desperate. Would give me a sodding break. Although I feel sure you’ll have someone. Just let us know. At least now you don’t have to worry about finding someone to go with.’
This has to be the ultimate in desperation when you end up taking a vicar as your date. I’ve finally reached rock bottom.
*
Monday 29th January: 7 pm
Oh God, can’t believe that Henry made a pass at me in the stock room. I’m being sexually harassed at work. Slightly disappointed that I couldn’t have pulled someone better than Henry though. Worse still, I’m not even in the union. I knew there was a reason I should have joined. Can now sympathise with all those women who get sexually harassed at work. Us women need to stick together. We don’t have to put up with this.
I’d been looking for carrier bags when I’d felt a hand on my bum and horror of horrors another hand sliding up my thigh. For a moment I thought it might have been Ashby. Silly Phoebe, as if Ashby would ever do something like that. Henry said I’d been giving him the come on. He called me a dirty bitch and said he knew what I wanted. Carrier bags were what I’d wanted. Was totally shocked. I knew Henry could be smutty but I never thought he would take things as far as that.
I’ve never been sexually harassed before. I’m not sure whether to be ever so slightly complimented. No, that would be very wrong wouldn’t it? What a weird week. Spend my days trying to find a man and when I’m not looking there is one with his hand up my skirt. Honestly, I just can’t seem to get it right.
I’d pushed him away and asked him what on earth he thought he was doing. Henry claimed it was my Lynworth top that drove him mad. Blimey, couldn’t believe it. Seriously considered wearing it to the Guildhall ball and forgetting the designer clothes if it had that kind of effect. Told myself the important thing was to keep calm. It was only Henry. Remembered reading somewhere that when being sexually harassed it is wise to treat the man like a school child. Of course, it could have been something else entirely. My mind was spinning. I knew that I couldn’t stay pinned up against boxes of Valentine cards forever. It was also very depressing because it just reminded me that I had no one to send a card to this year. No idea why I was worrying about Valentine cards. It was probably far better than worrying about Henry’s protruding appendage. It was surreal to be standing in the stock room with Henry’s hand squeezing my breast.
‘Henry, this really is not on,’ I’d said.
Couldn’t believe that was the toughest I could get. Henry said he bet I’d done it with Ashby in the stock room. As if. Clearly I’m sending out all the wrong signals if Henry thinks I have sex in the stock room. Chance would be a fine thing. I don’t even get to have sex in my own bedroom.
<
br /> Reminded him he was married but I don’t somehow think he had forgotten. He said it was a bit of time off. That all married men need time off. What a pervert. And then there was a sharp ‘Phoebe’ from behind us. Henry turned in surprise and his trousers fell to his ankles. It was so Brian Rix as to be unbelievable. I only needed Ashby to walk in and we would have made good television. It was Giles from Books. He had only come in for some string. Poor bugger got a lot more than bloody string. I was in such a state of shock that I couldn’t say anything. Just grabbed the carrier bags and headed for the door.
I shall avoid Henry at all costs. Best not to report it. Might cause all kinds of trouble and really don’t want to lose my job. Wonder if Jane Austen had these problems?
ChapterTwenty-One
I look very Amelia Earhart in my flying suit photo. The suit certainly hid my bulge. I check again to see if Ashby has commented but there’s nothing. Imogen sent an invitation to my WhatsApp. It’s all very odd. I’ve come to the conclusion that Imogen has finally lost it. She’s invited Mak and I round for ‘drinks and nibbles’ (her words). Usually she invites us for a ‘drunkalanche’ or a ‘let’s get shit-faced night’ but drinks and nibbles … never.
‘I’ve never been anywhere for drinks and nibbles,’ says Mak. ‘Is it a euphemism for something else, do you think? Only Jasper is very clean living, flower, and I don’t want him finding out.’
The only other person I know who invites for ‘drinks and nibbles’ is my mum, and the nibbles are normally Twiglets. I just can’t imagine Imogen with Twiglets. When Mak and I arrive we find the flat stinking of incense and lit with candles. It’s like being in a coven. Imogen opens the door in a long black velvet dress, electronic cigarette in one hand and a wine glass in the other. She is clearly pissed.
‘Have you had a power cut, petal?’ Mak asks.
Mak sneezes from the moment we walk through the door. The place is strewn with bridal magazines.
‘I’m giving him an ultimatum,’ Imogen says, sloshing wine into glasses. ‘I’ve booked the hall.’
‘She’s totally pissed,’ whispers Mak.
‘Doesn’t he need to get divorced first,’ I say. ‘Or were you thinking he could commit bigamy?’
‘She’s a minor detail,’ she says in one of those scary voices you hear in movies. ‘I’ve made cake,’ she mutters as she holds up a gunky chocolate mess. ‘It got stuck in the tin,’ she slurs, ‘but I managed to get it out. It’s okay. I’ve had some.’
‘Looks lovely petal,’ Mak lies.
‘I’ve booked the hall,’ she repeats, spooning chocolate cake into bowls. ‘I’ve chosen my dress. I’m having it made especially.’
‘How can you have chosen it, if you’re having it made?’ Mak asks.
‘Here’s the design,’ she says and lurches towards me with a drawing pad.
‘Can we have some lights on,’ says Mak, ‘It’s feels like an opium den in here.’
It certainly smells like one with the smouldering incense sticks. I wouldn’t like to imagine what she’s put in the cake.
‘Gem,’ I say softly, ‘you really don’t want to marry that dickhead do you? Let’s face it, if he can do this to his wife, he can do it to you too.’
‘He’s always letting you down petal,’ says Mak, sniffing the cake.
‘I’m twenty-nine, I’ve been waiting four years for him,’ Imogen sighs.
‘Six years,’ corrects Mak.
‘Really, that long? He isn’t going to leave her, is he?’ she says and then bursts into tears.
Love can be so painful. I can’t believe how many times Imogen checks her phone, while I fight the impulse to check mine. There’s still no comment from Ashby on my microlight photo. I’ve posted it four times now. Surely he hasn’t missed every post. I really can’t believe I almost died in a microlight and Ashby can’t even click the ‘like’ button.
‘What am I going to do?’ asks Imogen.
I sigh. I feel like I’d been telling Imogen what to do about Daniel for most of my life.
‘Get wasted darling,’ suggests Mak.
And that’s what we did.
Chapter Twenty-Two
It’s the day of the Christmas party and I’m seriously considering not going. I don’t have a date. Well, that’s not strictly true. Jeremy is taking me, but that’s not really a date. I will spend the evening watching what I drink and checking everything I say. I’m also anxious that Imogen may say ‘O. M. G.’ Worst of all, Harry will now see how desperate I am if I can only get a man by borrowing my sister’s vicar husband. I don’t know why I’m so worried about Harry, but I really don’t want him seeing me at a Christmas party with my dog-collared brother-in-law. There is one consolation. At least Henry will behave himself. Surely even he will have some respect for a man of the cloth. The only person thrilled about all this is my mum.
‘That’s the kind of man you should be seen with, not …’
‘Yes, okay,’ I interrupted. ‘Just don’t forget he is also Rita’s husband.’
‘Maybe he can introduce you to someone in the church. I’d be so proud.’
And I’d be so bored.
So, here I am. Fake designer dresses slung across the bed, my hair in Velcro rollers and my face covered in a face mask. I want Ashby to see just what he’s missing, Christmas bulge excluded of course. It’s a night for sturdy pants and longline bra, but if I get one dance with Ashby it will be worth it. I’m going to wear the sexy dress I bought in Luxury for Women, with suspenders. Of course, the sturdy pants ruin everything but hopefully if Ashby and I get that far he’ll be so overcome with desire that he will barely notice. I’m hopeful that tonight will be the night that Ashby realises what he’s lost. It’s disappointing that he hadn’t messaged me about Malcolm, or commented on my microlight pic. For all he knows I’m going out with Iain now. I’ve come close to friending him on Facebook, Ashby that is, not Iain. I’d never friend Iain on Facebook. After all we’d never talk would we? I’d exceed my word count in no time. You know how easy it is to chat on Facebook. No, it’s Ashby I’d like to friend but Mak and Imogen said that I would be demeaning myself.
I wonder what Essex Earring will be wearing.
I’m about to take the face mask off when my mobile rings. It’s Imogen.
‘I’m going to kill myself unless you can talk me out of it,’ she says without preamble.
‘Don’t do it,’ I say.
‘Is that it?’
‘Well, obviously I’ll miss you. What’s happened?’
‘Daniel rang. He knows I’m going to the Christmas party tonight. You’d think he would have waited until tomorrow. Anyway, he said he can’t make our anniversary dinner tomorrow night. He said it’s to do with his mum but I don’t believe it. I don’t believe he is going to leave his wife and I have to make a decision don’t I?’
‘He isn’t going to leave his wife and I thought you had made your decision. He’s been leaving her for the last six years.’
‘What shall I do?’ she sobs. ‘I was going to discuss our relationship tomorrow night and end it if I needed to.’
‘Chuck him. Take him by surprise.’
‘Do you think? Maybe the photos of me with Harry will force him to make a decision,’ she says thoughtfully. ‘Yes, that’s what I’ll do. I’ll text him back and say that I’m okay about it because Harry has invited me for Sunday lunch.’
My ears prick up. I was so right about him. He probably has a different woman for Sunday lunch every week.
‘He has?’
‘No not really.’
‘Ah, right. Well I’d better get ready.’
‘I can’t wait to meet Jeremy.’
‘Yes, may be best not to say O. M. G. He has a thing about swearing. He has a thing about words in general.’
‘Can’t believe you’re coming with a priest …’
‘Vicar,’ I correct. ‘Actually the correct term is minister.’
‘Fab, see you later and thanks for chatt
ing, feel heaps better.’
I hang up and wander into the bathroom to wash off the face mask and then I see it. Oh God, my lip is huge. I look like one of those women whose lip collagen treatment has gone all wrong. It’s the Christmas party and I’ve got trout pout.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Oh God, I swear it’s getting bigger. I can’t possibly go to the Christmas party with trout pout. I can’t even leave the flat to get help. I’ll phone my mum, she’ll know what to do. I must keep calm.
‘She’s in the middle of her meditation,’ Dad says. ‘I daren’t interrupt. It breaks the flow.’
Great, I have no choice. I need help and the only one around is Harry Bloom. I search my drawers for something to cover the lip and grab my Gucci scarf, fake of course, and then walk nervously to his door. He opens it and widens his eyes. Then I remember I am wearing a towelling robe, Velcro rollers and the remains of a face mask. I can’t even begin to imagine how unappealing I look.
‘I’ve got a problem with my mouth,’ I mumble.
‘Sorry?’ he says, bending forward. ‘I can’t understand you with that scarf over your mouth.’
It’s mortifying. But I’m desperate.
‘My lip is all swollen. Can you go to the chemist and get something for me?’
I then feel tears well up and I start to cry. This is doubly mortifying.
‘Right,’ he says firmly. ‘Come in and let me take a look.’
‘There’s no need,’ I say. ‘I just need you to go to the chemist.’
‘I need to look at it,’ he insists and before I can stop him he has taken off the scarf.
‘What have you had on your face?’ he asks.
‘A face mask.’
‘Can I see it?’
‘If you have to.’
I rush back to get the tube and stand with my heart racing while he studies it. Finally, he says, ‘Ah.’
‘Can you go to the chemist now?’ I demand.
