All That Mullarkey

by Sue Moorcroft

  Discovering her mobile phone in his bedroom had temporarily broken his mood and he’d thrown his head back and laughed in gleeful anticipation of her efforts to retrieve it.

  Later, he’d felt a deep, malicious satisfaction at giving her a right bollocking in that shop doorway. He had been so pissed off with the way she’d twisted the truth regarding her married status. He’d enjoyed turning his back on her; he wasn’t accustomed to being used by women and it didn’t sit well.

  But he was also half regretful that she hadn’t agreed to sex. He would’ve abandoned the Mr Angry stuff in a moment.

  Cleo’s voice cut into his thoughts. ‘OK, if you’ll all sit down …’ She was careful with her just-on-the-knee dress as she took the chair that gave her six inches of height above everyone else.

  He looked at her legs.

  She flicked a glance at him. ‘We’re all guilty, sometimes, of not listening to each other. We’re busy. Our thoughts are elsewhere. We’re not interested.’

  She smiled around, engaging every member of the group. She was the moon and they were the waves, Justin thought: she could draw them along with her. ‘A general understanding of co-workers promotes ease and helps dispel time-wasting antagonism. You don’t have to like a colleague but you do have to communicate effectively with them to get your job done efficiently, and tolerance is part of team building. Harmony promotes respect. Not that I’m suggesting four-hour gossips on the firm’s time, nor a barrage of deeply personal enquiries!’

  Laughter, and Phil pointing accusingly at Holly.

  Cleo grinned. ‘It’s a question of good business practice and achieving objectives, higher morale and increased levels of satisfaction. You spend too much time at work to make it miserable for yourself.

  ‘And now we’re going to explore how we feel giving a minute’s thought to a colleague, to learn a little more about them than we already knew.’

  She crossed her knees. He dropped his gaze back to her legs. She uncrossed them and colour touched her cheeks. But her eyes were amused. She turned to one of the web design girls, Fran. ‘This concentrated exchange of information might feel a bit scary at the beginning – but it’s a fun activity, honest.’ Fran laughed and Cleo grinned back. ‘Everyone will take their turn to ask someone a question, one to which you won’t know the answer. The person who’s answered will be next to ask. And I’ll begin … can you tell me about any part-time job you had as a teenager? Speak for about one minute.’

  Fran pinkened, wriggled about and said ‘um’ five times before faltering into an account of working in Woolworths as a Saturday girl, growing more articulate as she described the nylon overall, sadistic till rolls and stroppy customers. Two other women, alight with shared memories, exclaimed in recognition of the days they were Woolies Saturday girls, too.

  Cleo moved the activity on. ‘Brilliant! Your turn now, Fran. Choose somebody, then ask them a question. Try to be specific.’

  After a moment’s thought, Fran addressed Phil. ‘Can you remember something that made you sad when you were twenty-one?’

  Phil clutched his chest theatrically. ‘She was twenty-three, blonde, sexy and beautiful – and going out with my brother. When I asked her out, she laughed. I was so heartbroken I almost joined the Foreign Legion.’ He was greeted with laughter from the men, aaah’s from the women.

  As the chain progressed, Phil asked Bernadette what she expected to be doing when she reached forty. Bernadette asked Holly how her family had reacted to news of her pregnancy.

  Every time Justin looked at Cleo, she was listening intently. Encouraging a few more words if an answer came up short, nodding at exclamations of experiences in common, neatly curtailing responses that threatened to ramble. Cool, quietly authoritative. Good at doing her thing.

  Then it was Holly’s turn. ‘Justin. What do you do in your spare time? Keep it clean!’

  Lovely. Good old Holly, he couldn’t have scripted a better question. ‘I’ve got a part share in a jet-ski. Me and my mates go out to a lake.’ He described the speed, the plumes of spray, the carving of patterns in the surface, the noise, how it felt to be carrying a passenger, warm arms around his waist like a seat belt. He smiled at Cleo, who was looking down at her notes, cheeks pink. ‘My question isn’t it?’

  She nodded.

  ‘Cleo.’ Her head jerked up, eyes horrified. ‘Cleo, tell us about the last time you got drunk and regretted it.’ He grinned. Couldn’t help it. Her flush became a scald and a sheen broke out below her eyes and his grin stretched until he must look like The Joker.

  She attempted a shaky laugh. ‘Oh, I regret it every time I get drunk!’ As if in the throes of a hangover, she clutched her head.

  But the group waited expectantly, gazes fixed on her. And Justin added calmly, ‘Come on. Be honest.’

  Chapter Eight

  She bit her lip and shot him a glance. The expectant silence dragged on. She squared her shoulders. ‘OK. A couple of weekends ago I was upset and came into Peterborough to find my sister, to cry on her shoulder.’ Her voice was thin, tight, artificially casual, a verbal shrug as if to make the story unimportant. ‘I couldn’t find my sister –’ She looked at him again. And this time he read her eyes.

  Betrayed. Reproachful.

  He cut across her. ‘I’m sorry, I was supposed to be asking another staff member, wasn’t I? Ian, when did you last get drunk and regret it?’

  Ian groaned. ‘Yesterday! Regretted it this morning when the alarm went off. Don’t you just hate alarms? Yeep, yeep, yeep! I couldn’t face breakfast –’ Laughing heads turned Ian’s way. But Justin looked at Cleo and saw that her eyes were swimming. She rifled through her handbag, found a tissue and shook her hair forward whilst she blew her nose.

  Balls, balls, balls.

  They filed out at the end of the day, chattering, stowing pens, calling cheerio, fishing out car keys. Cleo responded brightly, flashing her best smile. ‘Thanks for attending! I hope you enjoyed your day.’ Collapsing her flip chart, binning pages covered with coloured headings and emphatic arrows.

  At last the door shut and she halted, sagging against a table. Her professional smile flicked off. Slowly, she rubbed her temples. Bastard Justin. Backing her so publicly into a corner, making her heart pump as she broke out into a sickening all-over sweat. Bastard.

  ‘It was meant to be funny. And then I realised it wasn’t.’ His voice, from the doorway, startled her upright.

  She wanted to turn to him coolly, arch an eyebrow and say, ‘Oh that? Don’t worry, I can handle your pranks.’ But a ball had jumped into her throat and her eyes burned. She pushed her finger and thumb against her eyelids to stop the tears from spilling over.

  His footsteps rustled over the nylon carpet tiles. The table moved as he perched beside her, his arm sliding around her shoulders. ‘Sorry.’ One arm became both and he pulled her against him, his cheek hot against her hair.

  And when her breathing evened, when she had fought the silly tears and won, he tightened the hug momentarily, kissed the top of her head, and left.

  The motorway was Friday-evening hell. Lorries and coaches lumbered nose to tail in the inner lanes and the outside lane was infested with headlight-flashing maniacs. By the time she reached her in-laws’ pebble-dashed home, Cleo had developed a pounding headache.

  It went with the pain in the neck when Yvonne opened the door, beaming. ‘Hello – I’m just leaving!’

  Cleo waited for her sister-in-law to step back and allow her into the house. ‘Not just because I’m here, I hope?’

  Giggle. ‘’Course not! Oh, I’m stopping you getting in, aren’t I?’ Giggle. ‘Gav and Mum are at the hospital. I’ll get you a cup of tea before I go.’ Yvonne checked her watch.

  ‘No thanks, it’ll hold you up.’

  ‘Won’t take a minute.’

  Yvonne could never resist trying to make Cleo the guest. She bustled importantly towards the kitchen. Instead of following, Cleo strode upstairs, calling, ‘I’ll make one when I�
��m ready.’

  The guest room was scattered with Gav’s stuff. Shirts on hangers hung from the picture rail; his bag stood on the dressing table with jogging pants hanging half out – probably Pauline would allow no one else in the world to stand a sports bag on that beautifully polished surface – and an electric razor sat on top of a Bernard Cornwell paperback on the bedside table.

  Cleo stepped out of her skirt, shrugged off her jacket and slotted the hanger into the otherwise empty wardrobe, balling her blouse back into the bag for washing. A bath would be nice but other people’s hot water arrangements were delicate; one unscheduled bath might sabotage the household routine. Maybe she’d wait and ask Pauline. She sure as hell wasn’t going to ask Yvonne, who’d find a way to say no, subjecting her to an earnest, apologetic explanation of the timer and the cylinder capacity.

  It would’ve been far better, she realised belatedly, if she’d showered and changed at home rather than coming straight from the office. Gav and Pauline would have been home and Yvonne wouldn’t.

  But a wash and a change of knickers would have to do for the moment.

  ‘Here’s your tea … Oops!’

  ‘Don’t bother to knock.’ Cleo, knickers in hand, raised both eyebrows at Yvonne with her best ‘You’re a total arse’ look.

  Blushing, Yvonne cast about for somewhere to deposit the steaming mug. ‘But I did shout!’ she protested. ‘Your tea was getting cold.’

  ‘And now my bum is.’ Cleo stepped into clean undies and unfolded her jeans.

  ‘Anyway’ – Yvonne studied the doorknob as Cleo dressed – ‘I don’t know what’s the matter with Gav.’

  Armed with a clean T-shirt and her sponge bag, Cleo waited.

  Yvonne shot her a look from under her eyelashes. ‘He’s been really funny. Even Mum’s noticed how moody he is, always wanting to be on his own. Half the time he doesn’t answer when I speak to him.’

  Not everybody did want to hang on Yvonne’s words, of course, and particularly not Gav, who still had a very adolescent relationship with his sister. ‘Maybe it’s his time of the month,’ Cleo cracked. Oh yes, her own period was due. That probably explained her headache. And she’d brought nothing with her. Shit. Hopefully it would hold off until tomorrow when she could shop. And then, seeing her sister-in-law’s uncertain frown, ‘It was a joke, Yvonne! I know Gav doesn’t really have periods.’

  Yvonne’s face cleared. She giggled.

  Despite the fact that he’d been commissioned to fetch a takeaway, Gav stretched on the silky quilt and watched Cleo brush her hair. ‘How about going home tomorrow?’

  ‘Fine. Are you going to fetch the food soon? My head aches.’

  Gav didn’t move. ‘Mum says she’ll be OK. Dad’s coming home on Monday. Best to leave them alone.’

  ‘Maybe we could do them a big shop before we go.’ Lunch was ages ago. Visions of prawns in black bean sauce were making her salivate. Her headache was worsening as her stomach felt more and more hollow.

  With the toe of one foot, Gav prised his trainer off the other. It clonked onto the rose-splashed carpet.

  Cleo trod into her own shoes and picked up her keys. ‘I’ll go for the food.’

  With a sigh, Gav rolled to his feet and retrieved his shoe. ‘OK, OK, I get the message! Heaven forbid I should chill for a minute.’ Dull colour heated his face.

  Cleo jingled her keys. ‘The only message is that I’m very hungry. I’m quite happy to go. Chill as long as you want.’

  ‘I said I’ll go!’ He brushed past her, shaking his head.

  Down in the kitchen, when Cleo clattered in and slid plates into the oven to warm, Pauline roused herself from sitting in the rocking chair and stared gently at nothing. ‘Was that Gavin going? I’m sorry I didn’t have a meal ready for you, Cleo. Whatever must you think?’

  Cleo studied the lines of anxiety and fatigue on Pauline’s face. ‘Don’t worry. You’re shattered. Let’s just be glad George is on the mend.’

  Pauline knocked hastily on wood. ‘Thankfully. I’ll be OK when he’s home and all the toing and froing is over. It took poor Gavin forty-five minutes to drive the thirteen miles today. What with the lights and the ring road.’

  Cleo wiped the table and went to the cutlery drawer. ‘We’re thinking about going home tomorrow, leaving you in peace. Or do you want us to stay to drive you to hospital?’

  ‘I’m quite happy to go at my own pace and bring George home on Monday. You get off, it’s probably best. I think Gavin’s had enough of us. He’s been a bit …’ Pauline ended with a vague wave of her hand. Her hair was flattened at the back and Cleo missed her motherin-law’s usual combed and lipsticked smartness.

  She hunted for the salt and pepper. ‘I thought we could do a big shop, before we leave. One less thing for you to worry over.’ She tracked the condiments down to a narrow cupboard, on a plate to collect spills. Probably a spot of Yvonne reorganisation; only Yvonne would reorganise someone else’s kitchen.

  Pauline heaved herself up and slid an affectionate arm around Cleo. ‘You spoil me. Thank you, darling. And I haven’t even asked how you are or if the motorway was awful.’

  ‘I’m fine.’ Her headache would go when she’d eaten. Or when her period began.

  Pauline dropped her cheek onto Cleo’s shoulder for a weary moment. ‘I’m just desperate for everything to be normal again. It doesn’t seem much to ask.’

  But sometimes too much. ‘I know what you mean.’

  The night was close and Cleo woke up clammy, Gav’s arm hot, heavy and trapping her, his body touching hers all the way up. She tried to ease away but found herself already at the edge of the bed. Gav inched closer, mumbling sleep language, his breath scalding her neck.

  She tried to remember the dream that had just broken. Skidding images of holding something and being frightened it would be seen but not knowing how to conceal it. And a feeling of being trapped.

  ‘Give me a bit of space, Gav,’ she whispered.

  Chapter Nine

  Usually Gav liked the friendliness of his parents’ street, but the neighbours had driven him nuts with their constant demands for up-to-the-minute George-bulletins. And he’d been stuck with his mother’s claustrophobic half-a-car, little heap of shit.

  Still, his dad seemed to be on the mend, that was the main thing. He was grateful.

  And he was free to come back to work. He locked his Focus and glanced up at the endless windows of the Clyde, Rhode & Owen offices. Standing in the car park in the sweet unidentifiable smell of the CR&O flavourings plant, he shrugged into his jacket. But, instead of heading straight for the office, he wandered towards the brook that idled at the edge of the industrial estate past their building. Climbing over the two-bar fence, he pushed through the cool fronds of a willow tree and joined the dog-walking track beside the water.

  The sun dappled through the elders and a lacy edging of cow parsley almost made the olive water pretty. He kicked stones into it as he walked. Birds, seemingly uncaring that their home was only an overgrown patch no one else wanted, sang liquid songs to the pale-blue sky. A cloud of gnats danced infuriatingly around his face and he swatted at them futilely.

  He dropped sticks into the water to see how fast they left him, watched leaves dance with the sunlight, nodded at two dog walkers and let time go by.

  What was he going to do about Cleo?

  Her picture slid easily into his mind. Dark hair thick to her shoulders, a long and wispy fringe sweeping above her beautiful eyes, the generous mouth he’d possessed a million times. Her curvy body. The body he’d held, stroked and loved, been faithful to for so long. His playground.

  Fear was a monster in his guts. Bad things were happening and, even whilst he hid them from her, Cleo’s apparent inability to see them was making him unreasonably angry with her.

  Things were tense at home, but he didn’t want to go to work. Lillian would be back. With Lillian’s holiday and his hurriedly taken week in Yorkshire, he’d avoided her for a fortnight
. But now she’d be back with her cocky one-upmanship. The fear monster stirred. Sometimes he hated Lillian and could envisage changing jobs to get away from her sharply styled hair of red and blonde streaks, her tight skirts.

  But sometimes he fancied her absolutely dead rotten, despite loving Cleo. And that made him feel guilty. Which made him mad at Lillian. And, improbably, again at Cleo.

  He turned for the office, feeling no better about his life for having taken ten minutes to reflect on it.

  Crossing the marble foyer floor, he swiped his security pass to open the lift door, forcing encouraging and motivating phrases into his mind to reassure himself that Lillian was no better than him. ‘We’re the same grade, both tens.’ Ten. A junior management grade. Gav a 10A and there weren’t too many people who merited an A. And only one who merited an A (Special). ‘Bloody Lillian. Same grade, same sodding grade, I do my work just as well, she isn’t actually my senior. Only a “special”, not Superwoman. Lillian is not Superwoman. Lillian is dangerous.’

  His section was at the far end of a floor so enormous that some of the young headcases brought micro scooters to whiz up and down on. Often, members of a section had no idea about the function of other sections. The flavourings industry was secretive about what it did and how it did it and the hierarchy of privileges and passwords would do MI5 proud.

  His quadrants were sketchily separated from the others with wood-edged screens. His section had grey desks and blue trays; Lillian’s section black desktops and red trays. The section members got mid-backed chairs; section leaders high-backed chairs with arms. And larger computer monitors. The trappings of success.

  Lillian filled her corner with a huge, frothing asparagus fern. Gav had a wooden tidy with little compartments for paper clips and staples.

  Gav was on time; Lillian looked as if she’d been at her desk for hours. He nodded as he passed on to his own section of twelve women and four men, all with groovy names like Daryl, Rowan and Erin, scrolling through their call lists and unwinding headsets.