by Louise Voss
He seemed cool about me turning him down, though, so I’m sure he’ll just move on to his next conquest. He probably doesn’t even like me all that much; probably is just impressed that I’m a ‘faymuss awfor’. Or, rather, an ‘awfor.’
I noticed that he’s sent me a friend request on Facebook, which I hardly ever go on. Kathy sent me one too, which was nice. But I am not going to confirm Alex because there are various shots of me on there in my bikini in Malta last summer with Phil. Don’t want one of my male students perving over them, do I? Though maybe I shouldn’t have accepted Kathy either…
And bloody Phil has unfriended me on there! I know because I tried to visit his profile to see whether he was still listed as ‘in a relationship’ and I couldn’t get onto the page. Guess I must have hurt his feelings more than I thought.
Friday
Dead flowers. Phil has actually left a bunch of dead flowers on my doorstep. I can’t believe it. That’s a really horrible thing to do to somebody. I don’t blame him for feeling fed up – he’s been rejected by me and Lynn – but how could he stoop to something so cowardly and pathetic?
It must be Phil. All these weirdnesses can’t be coincidence. Has he totally lost it? It’s so unlike him. There was the graphic postcard. Then hang-ups when I answer the phone, six or seven times in the past couple of days. And now the dead flowers.
The more I think about it, the more angry it makes me. He knows I hate lilies. And these have got brown spots all over the petals, and slimy stems. They stink. What’s that sonnet where Shakespeare talks about how bad lilies smell?
Just looked it up, it’s:
“For sweetest things turn sourest by their deeds;
Lilies that fester smell far worse than weeds.”
That just about sums it up, Phil, you nutter. I feel like going into his office and ramming them up his –
Maybe I’ll just ring him instead. Tear him off a strip on the phone. It’s not worth the energy I’d expend in going down there myself.
I stuffed the lilies into the bin under the sink, snapping the stems in two, trying to cram them in without letting any of the woody ends rip the bin bag. All the petals immediately dropped off, and that atrociously sticky pollen fell all over my hands, the kitchen floor, the top of the bin. By the time I’d cleaned it all up (which took ages because at first my attempts just left yellow swirly smears everywhere, and I had to practically bleach all the surfaces) I was in such a rage that my best being-rude-to-estate-agents voice came completely naturally:
‘Phil Harmony, please.’
‘Sorry, he’s on holiday. Can I put you through to his secretary?’
This somehow made me even more furious. I can’t bear idiots who give you the wrong information on the telephone. Of course he wasn’t on bloody holiday, his holiday had been cancelled. That receptionist always had been dim.
‘Hello, Siobhan,’ said Diane when I got through to Phil’s office. ‘He’s not here, I’m afraid. He’s on holiday.’
Oh – well, of course, he’d have already booked the time off. I felt bad for mentally slagging off the receptionist. She wasn’t to know. She wasn’t to know I’d mentally slagged her either, so I suppose I didn’t need to feel guilty. I invited the anger back. ‘Don’t worry, I’ll try him at home,’ I said, about to hang up.
‘He’s not at home,’ Diane said, sounding half-puzzled, and half-impatient; sort of, what part of ‘on holiday’ do you not understand? ‘He’s gone to Portugal.’
Suddenly the hand I was holding the phone with began to shake a bit. I’d been chewing gum at the time, and shock made it slide towards the back of my throat, giving me a moment’s panic. I had to suck it back into my mouth again. I grabbed it and pulled it out of my mouth, then rolled it around between my finger and thumb, feeling it change consistency, becoming harder and smoother, like a small lump of fear personified, sticking to my skin.
‘When, exactly?’ I asked, having a weird feeling that the gum was still in my throat, choking me.
‘They – I mean, he flew out yesterday morning. He rang me from the airport.’
‘They? He went with Lynn?’
There was a silence.
I sagged against the back of the sofa, nearly dropping the phone. I didn’t give a stuff that he and Lynn appeared to have got back together – let them babytalk their way around the Algarve, Philly-willy and Lynny-winny– but my mind was racing, and even while part of me was in denial and trying to figure out why he was still ringing me and hanging up from Portugal, with Lynn there too; or how the flowers could have turned up on my doorstep today…. another more cognisant part of me realized where the fear was coming from.
Because if Phil went to Portugal yesterday, he couldn’t have left the lilies. And if he didn’t leave the lilies, then he most likely didn’t send the card. Or make those silent phonecalls.
But if it wasn’t Phil …
Who the hell was it?
I don’t know. Maybe it’s my hormones. I’ve got that weird, slightly unreal feeling that I sometimes get with PMT, like I’m inhabiting a parallel universe, one not dissimilar to this: but hazier, more painful. More frightening. A universe where I want to curl up and sleep and let someone look after me. I keep losing things, too. I lost my keys again, turned the place over looking for them (although ‘turned the place over’ isn’t really the right expression. ‘Picked up, looked, and replaced neatly’ would be more apposite. Dr. Bedford said I have issues with cleanliness and tidiness. I disagree. I think it’s more to do with growing up in a big messy household that nobody could ever find anything in. I never could stand that, even as a little girl).
But the weird thing about the keys was that I’m sure the first thing I did when I realized they were missing was to check the front door, and they weren’t there. I suppose I was a bit distracted, trying to stop Biggles from running out into the street again, but I definitely checked. Went back upstairs, cleaned out the fridge, fed Biggles, checked again to make sure – and there they were, dangling from the lock. It was bizarre. And that was when I found the flowers.
I’d been thinking what a wuss Phil was, to leave the flowers and run away without telling me that my keys were sticking out of the front door – I mean, anyone could have let themselves in!
But the horrible truth is that it wasn’t Phil. Someone else must have seen those keys. Someone else. The same someone who sent me that card, telling me he wanted to fuck me? The same person who keeps calling and hanging up. When I thought it was Phil it was just irritating. But now …
Oh God. What if I’m not alone now? What if someone’s standing behind one of my doors, perhaps this one…?
I’m all out of breath. Have just run up and down the stairs with the poker, opened all the doors, looked in all the cupboards. Put on Combat Rock at full blast – The Clash make me feel brave. Biggles is disgusted with me. He was chasing up and down the stairs after me with his tail out like a brush. At first, being paranoid, I thought that he could sense something strange. Then I thought, yes of course he can: me, charging around like a maniac with a poker while listening to music loudly enough to make his fur stand on end.
Naturally there was no-one here.
I still don’t understand how I didn’t notice the keys the first time I looked, but it doesn’t really surprise me. I’m getting so scatty now that by the time I’m fifty I’ll probably be completely barking. It happened to that great-aunt of my mother’s. She died in an asylum. God, that kind of thing is hereditary, isn’t it?
I suddenly really wanted to talk to someone. I rang Paula, but one of her flatmates – I never can tell the difference between them – said she’s not back from Thailand till Sunday.
Then I tried Jess, but she wasn’t in either. I didn’t leave a message. Things have been a little strained between us since she had Tom. I know I’m a crap godmother, but really, you’d think she could cut me a little slack here. She lives miles away – how am I expected to go and coo at him on a regular basis?
I think she just wants a free babysitter. Anyway, we haven’t spoken for a few weeks, and I didn’t want to leave a whingeing message.
Probably just as well she’s out, on reflection. She’d only have banged on - about Tom’s chesty cough and his mustardy nappies – urgh, babies. A cat is more than enough for me.
Eventually I rang Mum, and she was out too. Dad answered, but I didn’t feel like running through the whole rude card/hang-ups/dead flowers thing with him, so I just asked him to get her to ring me later. I’m sure if I talk about it out loud then we’ll come up with some logical explanation. Or at least it might help me figure out who it is and what’s going on.
In the meantime I think I’ll do some work. Try and take my mind off it.
Chapter 8
Alex
Thursday
I felt happy this morning. Really happy, endorphins fizzing and popping in my bloodstream. I could feel Siobhan’s key in my pocket; the metal warm where it touched my leg through the thin cloth. I kept stroking my pocket, a silly smile on my face, not caring what anyone thought of me, ignoring the looks I got on my way to work. I was so far over the moon I was about to collide with Venus.
So why did they have to fuck it all up?
I was just thinking maybe it wouldn’t be too bad, talking to customers today. I mean, sometimes I do have a laugh there. Although you only ever remember the bastards, 95% of the punters are alright. Of course, it isn’t my ideal job, but, I realised as I strolled from the Tube to the office, it would suffice until I wrote my novel and hit the big time.
As soon as I got in, I knew something was wrong. Across the floor, I saw several people look at me then look away. As I walked towards my desk, the carpet tiles felt spongy and vast, and Jackie – mein call centre Kommandant, old Hitler-with-halitosis herself – stepped into my path.
‘Martin wants to see you.’
‘Is this about my sick leave?’ I said. ‘I was only off for two days. I was genuinely sick. I can get a doctor’s note.’
The vicious expression on her face was replaced by something that looked very much like pity. She told me to just go and see Martin.
So I did.
Martin is only a year older than me, but he’s managed to become the biggest fish in this cramped tank. This is despite being dumber than the average football player. A triumph of ambition over talent, rather like Victoria Beckham’s career. He often treats us with jokes that he picked up at Sunday’s rugger game and we all pretend to be amused. I guess you could say I don’t have much professional respect for him. But he’s the boss, so I had to try to stay on his good side. Because of our similar ages and the fact that we’re both in possession of a penis – well, I assume he is – he often affects a fake bonhomie with me, asking me if I watched the footie at the weekend and pretending he’s heard of the bands I like. Our conversations make me want to weep with despair.
‘I was only off for two days,’ I said as soon as I sat down in his office. There was a picture of a golden retriever on his desk. His best friend.
He shook his head slowly. ‘This isn’t about your sick leave, Alex. Everybody’s entitled to go off sick from time to time. Even I had a day off last year, when I had that infection.’
I waited. I was starting to get a bad feeling.
He folded his arms, a classic defensive gesture. Bad news was coming. The kind of news that made him fear that I might attack him. Even just seeing him then, this ‘oh isn’t it awful being a manager when we could be great mates on the outside?’ look on his stupid face, I did feel like slapping him. Punching his fucking nose through the back of his head.
‘We’ve had a report from the IT department that you broke one of our most important rules, Alex. We know that…’ he closed his eyes, as if the very concept of what he was about to say, this thing that I’d done, was too awful for him to bear. ‘We know that you looked up a customer’s personal records.’
I didn’t speak.
And I don’t even want to recount the rest of it. I don’t want to have to write about how a random spot-check had revealed that I had taken an unauthorised look at a customer’s details. How the call-monitoring computers confirmed that this customer hadn’t called that day. How the IT department recorded every message that we sent from our email accounts and that they knew I had pasted this customer’s details into a message and sent it home.
How he had no option but to let me go. With immediate effect.
And I certainly don’t want to recount the details of how I asked him, as he sat there with his arms still folded, unable to meet my eye, what the hell I was supposed to do to pay the bills now. How a cold sickness crept through me at the thought of being jobless and having no money. I couldn’t believe that I’d been caught on the spot-check … It wouldn’t surprise me if Martin had told IT to monitor everything I did because of my recent poor stats, so the bastards would have an excuse to get rid of me.
But I have to face it. How will I pay my rent? How will I eat? The only bright spot is that – thank God – I paid for Siobhan’s writing classes up front.
I left Martin’s office and pushed open the double doors to the main office, feeling, once again, all those eyes burning into me. Jackie avoided my eye too. What is it with these people? Why are they so gutless? Suddenly, I was an embarrassment, something that made them feel awkward. I was a failure and they wanted me gone.
I pulled open the drawer of the pedestal beneath my desk and began clearing out the contents. There wasn’t much in there. A couple of books, a computer magazine, scrappy paperwork, stationery. I found a carrier bag and scooped this pitiful selection into it. Then I turned round to find Sally, the girl who sat next to me, staring at me.
She asked me what had happened. I told her.
‘They just wanted to get rid of me, and this was their excuse, this cock and bull story.’
‘If you didn’t do it, you should fight them. Surely it’s unfair dismissal?’
I sighed. I didn’t want to tell her that it was all true. I was too ashamed.
I picked up my carrier bag and left, suddenly desperate to get out of there, not able to bear any of it, hearing my mum’s voice in the back of my head, saying, F-A-I-L-U-R-E – that’s what you are and what you’ll always be.
Fuck her. Fuck the job. Fuck them all. I don’t need them. I’ll show them. Because I’ve found somebody to love now. That will give me strength. And think how much more time I’ll have now! This is a blessing. Sure, it’s pretty heavily disguised, but that’s what it is. It’s another sign, isn’t it? A sign that I should devote more of my time to my own happiness. And to Siobhan.
My head was whirling when I left the building, handing in my pass to the security guard on the way out. All these terrors and emotions spiralled through my mind: money, revenge, bitterness, relief, confusion, anger… Spin, spin, lifting me up and slamming me down, making me dizzy and nauseous. And emerging from all this mental noise was a single thought:
I wanted to see Siobhan. I wanted to be close to her.
I was like a moth that had been battered by the weather, and was bewildered and lost. But one thing was clear – the urge to follow my instinct. To head towards Siobhan’s light.
I put my hand in my pocket and felt the key: solid, warm, like a talisman. It gave me strength. It made me feel safe.
I didn’t go straight towards Hampstead, though. First, I came back here. I needed coffee and cigarettes. And there was stuff I wanted to take care of first.
I called Simon’s name as soon as I came through the door, knowing that I was going to have to break the news to him. On the way home I’d stopped at the bank and checked my balance. I had enough to see me through a month and that was it. I’m so crap at saving. There’d been the new computer (and I can’t sell that; I need it to write this journal and my pieces for college, for Siobhan) and my half of all the bills… and the rent here is so bloody high and my wages so pathetic that it didn’t leave me anything to save anyway.
Simon wasn’t in, which was a big relief. I came straight to my room and sat down at the PC, logging straight onto the Web. First, I subscribed Martin to a load of hardcore porn sites. I found these really disgusting coprophagia sites and added his email address to their mailing lists as well. I added Jackie’s too, for good measure. Well, they enjoy crapping on people, don’t they? I felt it was apt. Even if I did make myself feel really sick.
I tried to think of something bigger I could do – something that would really fuck them up… and then realised I couldn’t be bothered. The sick subscriptions were enough – for now, anyway. What’s the point in trying to get further revenge? It will make me feel good for a few minutes, and then it will fade and I’ll still be in the same place. I felt really mature and virtuous coming to that decision. Siobhan would be proud of me.
I wish I could have been there to see her face when she saw the flowers I left her. She must be so intrigued. I can imagine her talking about it with her girlfriends, excitedly wondering aloud who her mysterious admirer is. But she’s so clever, I’m sure it won’t be long before she works it out. And by then she’ll be hooked. She’ll be mine. But before that, I can’t risk telling her how I feel; can’t risk her rejection. Not that it matters too much. Because in the meantime I can still be close to her.
I’ve just had a horrible thought. What if my employer – or should I say former employer – contacts Siobhan to tell them I looked up her records? I’m pretty sure they wouldn’t want a customer to know that their details were not 100% secure. But there’s a chance they might. They might have a legal requirement to do it, to warn her.
Maybe I should talk to her first. Explain why I did it. Because if they tell her it will make me look bad and she might kick me off the course.
I left the flat and headed towards her light. London felt so grey and cruel today, a dry wind blowing between the buildings where all the drones laboured away, chained to their workstations, and for what? I’m not a drone any more – and, thinking that, I felt liberated, momentarily free of my worries. The sky might be dim, the buildings may be bleak, but there’s beauty in this city. And I was going to be near it.
