by Niamh Greene
11.51 a.m.
Just got an email from Mr X. Mr Dick Lit isn’t convinced I’m the right publicist to work on his precious book! He suspects I haven’t even read it!! He thinks UC One may be a better fit for him because she seems to really know where he’s coming from!!! The nerve. Just because she was able to quote passages verbatim and told him he should win a prize, he thinks she’d do a better job than me. Well, they’re welcome to each other as far as I’m concerned. And Mr Dick Lit isn’t that promotable anyway: his front tooth has a chip in it that needs seeing to and he definitely needs a haircut. If his fringe flopped into his eyes one more time I might have taken a pair of scissors to it myself.
11.54 a.m.
Just thought. I can’t have UC One stealing Mr Dick Lit. Her press coverage has been quite impressive lately. That new chick-lit author she’s working with is getting a lot of attention in the media, and if she does the same for Mr Dick Lit then people might start to think she’s actually competent.
I’ll just have to persuade Mr Dick Lit that I am the woman for the job. I’ll present him with a well-thought-out press plan – maybe I could even put together a few statistics to convince him that I can get results. Or I could stroke his ego a bit. Writers love being told how talented and special they are, even when most of the time they’re nothing of the sort.
11.58 a.m.
Have sent smarmy email to Mr Dick Lit to ask him to reconsider. Really pitched it so it would appeal to his vanity. Said it would be an honour and a privilege to work on his book, that I feel he is a star in the making and I will dedicate all my time and energy to promoting his brilliant work and ensuring it bags a dozen awards, blah, blah. Am positive he will change his mind – they nearly always fall for the ‘star in the making’ line. Then I emailed Mr X to say I would do an excellent job, have a raft of brilliant publicity ideas and could guarantee a top ten book-chart placing. He’d be a fool to turn me down.
12.54 p.m.
No response from Mr Dick Lit. Have decided to up the ante and send an express luxury gift basket to him – tropical fruit never fails.
3.00 p.m.
Just got email from Mr Dick Lit to thank me for fruit basket – result!!! I’m in!
3.01 p.m.
Oh. Just read last line of Mr Dick Lit’s email – he’s allergic to pineapple so he plans to donate the basket to the local hospital. Allergic to pineapple??? Who the hell is allergic to pineapple? Tosser.
3.05 p.m.
UC One is swanning about looking smug and self-satisfied. Can hear her talking loudly about Mr Dick Lit. Like she’d know anything about it – she hasn’t had a dick in years. Feel like throttling her.
3.08 p.m.
Have decided that being professional is getting me absolutely nowhere. It’s much more efficient to be flirty and physical – that’s always worked for me in the past.
3.15 p.m.
Cornered Mr X in kitchenette as he was getting a cappuccino from the dispenser. Rubbed myself accidentally against him as I leaned in to get the milk, and asked him if he’d reconsider me for the Mr Dick Lit job. Then I sucked my teaspoon for far longer than necessary, just for good measure. We were interrupted when UC Two walked in, but I think he got the message. From the reaction in his crotch area there was no mistaking how he felt.
3.19 p.m.
Email from Mr X:
That was very naughty of you. Bordering on sexual harassment in fact.
3.20 p.m.
Email to Mr X:
I have no idea what you mean.
3.21 p.m.
Email from Mr X:
I think you do.
3.22 p.m.
Email to Mr X:
I simply want to represent the client – and I think I am the best woman for the job.
3.23 p.m.
Email from Mr X:
You think you’re the best woman for the job, do you? Do you want to prove that to me?
3.24 p.m.
Email to Mr X:
Hmmmmm… that’s very flirty – I thought we weren’t allowed to do that any more?
3.25 p.m.
Email from Mr X:
I have no idea what you mean. I was simply referring to your professional prowess, nothing more.
3.26 p.m.
Email to Mr X:
So, you’ll let me keep Dick Lit?
3.27 p.m.
Email from Mr X:
OK, but you better make sure you get the press coverage. You know the drill, if we don’t get the press then the book won’t sell. If the book doesn’t sell then we’re not happy. Make sure it works.
Yay!
3.28 p.m.
Email to Mr X:
Of course it’ll work.
3.29 p.m.
Email from Mr X:
It better. Once people find out about us they’ll be picking over all my past decisions. I can’t be seen to favour you just because we’re in a relationship – your performance will be judged by the sales figures. So get your nose to the grindstone and keep it there.
Eh? Does this mean that I’m going to have to start proving myself to be better than everyone else here? What’s the point of sleeping with the boss if there are no special privileges?? Not that that’s why I’m with Mr X of course. I’m with him because I like and admire him. And I love the way he gets that little crease on the bridge of his nose when he’s concentrating. And the way his chin crinkles up when he frowns is so sexy. And of course I like his personality too – it’s not just his body I crave. That would be very shallow. We have lots in common. Lots and lots.
3.35 p.m.
And I want to prove how good I am at my job – not to impress Mr X though – to annihilate UC One. She’s getting far too big for her boots and it’s time I took her down a peg or two. All I have to do is fax a press release about Mr Dick Lit’s new book to every media contact I have and wait for them to get back to me. Simple.
Open Forum
From Broken Hearted: You see? The emotional games have begun already. One minute he’ll ignore her, the next he’ll be all over her like a bad rash – the guy is toxic – she needs to walk away.
From Shaz: Sounds like a sexual discrimination case to me. Julie, if I were you I’d start journalling everything now – could be useful if it all ends up in court.
From Hot Stuff: Hey, Julie, who’s Mr Dick Lit? He sounds gorgeous!! I love guys with floppy fringes – that whole Hugh Grant look is hot!
From Broken Hearted: This is going to get messy. Things can only go downhill from here, you know. She might think she has it all under control, but she doesn’t know what she’s getting herself into, believe me.
From Devil Woman: He does sound pretty anal about his shirts.
From Broken Hearted: Before she knows it, he’ll be taking her for granted and she’ll be picking his smelly boxers off the floor and ironing his vests.
From Sexy Girl: Yeah, he sounds like a bit of a control freak to me – be careful, Julie!
From Hot Stuff: But isn’t it so romantic? He loves her so much he left his new wife for her!
From Angel: It isn’t romantic – it’s immoral, and you’d do well to remember that, Hot Stuff.
From Broken Hearted: Imagine how his wife must feel. This is a total disaster and it’ll all end in tears, mark my words.
From Hot Stuff: Hey, Broken Hearted, that sounds like something my mother would say!
From Broken Hearted: Mothers are usually right at the end of the day.
From Shaz: Julie, if you need legal advice, click on this link.
From Devil Woman: I can’t believe you’re hawking for business on someone’s personal blog – that’s really low.
From Shaz: I’m only saying – the girl might need legal advice and I’m here to help.
From Devil Woman: Let me guess, you can give her help for 500 euros an hour, right? You’re scum.
From Shaz: Be careful what you say, Devil Woman – that’s libellous.
From Angel: Yes, name-calli
ng is offensive.
From Devil Woman: Not half as offensive as you, Angel.
From Broken Hearted: Listen everyone, we’re losing track here. The main thing is, Julie needs to get rid of this Mr X, not have him move in with her.
From Hot Stuff: Well, I think it IS romantic – true love will win out in the end.
From Broken Hearted: The only person Mr X loves is himself.
From Cupcake: Hi, Julie. Those chocolate and orange muffins sound divine! Any chance you could post the recipe online?
From Graphic Scenes: Hey, everyone! Did I miss the hot sex part??
Eve
Dear Charlie,
Today was not a good day. I was walking back from the shop, munching on a mint Cornetto to reward myself for finishing another relationship quiz for Her, when I bumped into Mrs Clancy from three doors up. I had been trying to avoid dairy products because of my sinus problem, but Mary the therapist says it’s important to be kind to myself, and what’s a little nasal congestion between friends? In fact, I think her exact words were ‘If you’re not going to be kind to yourself, then who will?’, which I found a little depressing quite frankly. I mean, I’d much prefer other people showering me with kindness than having to search through my small change for a Cornetto covered in freezer burn.
Anyway, I was strolling leisurely along the path back home, eating and trying to block out all thoughts of you and how much you used to love the tiny mint chocolate chunks on the top, when Mrs Clancy sprang out of the hedge, as if she’d been lying in wait to catch me. I was so busy trying to lick the dripping ice cream off my fingers that, before I knew what was happening, she was blocking the path and I would have had to leapfrog over her or throw her to the ground to avoid having some sort of conversation. It was exactly like the time that she hid behind the recycling bins and then pounced out and asked you to start a compost heap for her. I was caught completely unawares. She grabbed hold of my arm and said she’d seen your wedding photo in Hiya! and wasn’t your new wife a lovely-looking girl? Didn’t she just glow in the picture? And didn’t you look so happy together? It was all I could do to stop myself from blubbing all over my Cornetto there and then. Thankfully I managed to just nod and grit my teeth in a kind of forced smile. I’m hoping she didn’t notice that I didn’t actually speak at all. You know her – she loves the sound of her own voice so much that replying isn’t usually necessary. I held it together long enough to get into the house, and then I burst into tears in the hallway, because I knew she was right. You and your new wife do look so right together. Much better than we ever did in any of our photos. I’d put all of those away of course – I hid them in the cupboard under the stairs ages ago. But then I started thinking to myself – had we ever looked that blissful? Like we were literally glowing with happiness? I think it’s one of the things that’s been bothering me most since I saw your wedding picture – aside from the fact that you exchanged vows in a medieval chapel dripping in scented honeysuckle, that is. When we were together did we ever look that happy?
So, in a fit of unusual energy, I dug out the box of old photos and went through them, one by one. I had to search for quite a while before I found it – it was right at the back, wedged up against the wall beside the blue and red striped deckchairs that we bought in Brighton when we went to visit my brother Mike that time. I seized it like a gun dog pouncing on his prey (not that I would know what that looks like, but I can imagine), and then I went through every single snap, desperate to find a really good one of us. There was one of us at Anna and Derek’s wedding – I look depressed and you look relieved and slightly drunk. There was another of us on that mini-break in West Cork when I asked the old fisherman to take a quick snap of us on the pier and you said you didn’t want him touching your prized camera. The look on your face says it all – you’re terrified he’s going to drop it in the harbour by mistake. Then there was one of us with Tom. We’d set up the camera on timer to take it of all three of us, do you remember? He’s curled up on your lap gazing up at you, you’re looking down adoringly at him and I’m looking longingly at you. It’s like the two of you are locked in your own secret world and I’m just a hanger-on, good for opening cans of cat food and pouring milk into saucers, but that’s about it.
The only photograph that even came close to how you look in your wedding photo is that shot of us on the terrace of that restaurant in Cyprus. The sun is behind us and we’re smiling into the camera like we haven’t a care in the world (which we hadn’t in fairness – we’d drunk at least three bottles of wine between us at lunch, and some cocktails as well).
In every other snap of the two of us together you look uncomfortable, as if you want to be somewhere else, and I’m sort of squatting behind you, doing my best not to look too tall. In almost all of them my shoulders are hunched up, I have a stupid grin on my face and it’s really obvious that I’m trying hard not to lose my balance and topple over on top of you. I know you always denied it, but I do think you hated the fact I was so much taller than you, even in flat shoes. Looking at the photos now, it’s so clear you weren’t happy. Maybe I should have known something was wrong, just from the body language between us. Maybe your expression was saying ‘I want to be anywhere but here’ and I just didn’t realize.
I was just putting all the photos away when Mum arrived. I knew it was only a matter of time before she heard about your designer wedding, but I thought I’d have another day or two to prepare for her reaction – she’d only just got back from her Caribbean cruise with the retirement society. I was starting to hope that she might take an extended break in Antigua – maybe fall for a toy boy and decide to stay there for a while – because I knew she wasn’t going to take the news that you’d got married at all well. But then I should have known that Mrs Clancy would be itching to tell her everything. Turns out that, just after she accosted me, she’d dashed straight over to Mum’s with the photo from Hiya! that she’d had the foresight to cut out and keep especially.
Even though Mum had only just arrived back, she immediately dropped her suitcase in the hall and raced over here to quiz me about it. She was still wearing her cruisewear – front-pleated linen Bermuda shorts and a cream-coloured straw fedora – when she burst through the door demanding an explanation.
She’s absolutely furious of course, but not with you. She maintains that I am the one to blame for what she called ‘an utter disaster’. You see, I brought it all on myself because I was foolish enough to engage in sexual relations with you before I had a ring on my finger. That, according to my mother, gave you the wrong impression. The impression that I had loose morals. And men do not want to marry girls with loose morals, or, as she said, ‘Why buy a car that’s already been round the block and could have engine trouble?’ I wasn’t sure what she was alluding to there, but I tried to tell her that this was the twenty-first century and that the idea that women should save themselves for marriage was a bit old-fashioned – men don’t have to do that, after all. But she just said that the world would be a much nicer place if everyone kept their bits to themselves like they used to in her day, before sex was invented.
Then she said that, if I’d been thinking straight, I would have given you an ultimatum. I should have insisted that we get married. I told her that, as far as I could remember, you didn’t want to get married so there was very little I could have done about it. (I am right about that, aren’t I? Didn’t you always say that we didn’t need a piece of paper to prove to one another how we felt? That marriage was an outdated, old-fashioned institution that meant nothing and that we were already married in every meaningful way? I could have sworn that you used to laugh at other people’s wedding plans. In fact, I’m sure you once said that a white wedding was a middle-class expression of vulgarity and that you wouldn’t be seen dead in a morning suit – or did I imagine that conversation? It’s hard to tell. Sometimes I think that this whole thing might be just a dream and that I’ll wake up like Pamela Ewing did in Dallas and discover Bobby singi
ng and soaping himself in the shower.)
But Mum said that was not the point at all. No man ever wants to get married. It’s the woman who must do the persuading and that’s the way of the world. I tried saying that it would have been very difficult to persuade you, not unless I forced you to get down on bended knee against your will. But she said, judging by the current state of affairs, that your arm obviously could have been twisted and that if I had been a little more forceful then everything would have turned out for the better and she would have had the comfort of knowing that her only daughter wasn’t doomed to be an old maid and would be looking forward to becoming a glamorous grandmother when the time was right (just not before she was at least seventy-five – she wouldn’t have anyone call her Granny before then). I said that surely if I had to twist a man’s arm to marry me then it wouldn’t be an equal partnership, but she said partnership didn’t come into it and that if she had been concerned with that she never would have got Daddy up the aisle. I knew it was useless to point out that getting divorced from Daddy ten years later meant that her theory was flawed – there’s no point antagonizing her when she’s in that kind of mood.
Sometimes, though, I do wish I had just told her the truth about what had happened from the very beginning, instead of saying that we’d broken up because we’d simply drifted apart. Maybe then she’d be easier on me. But at the time it just seemed wiser, because I knew that if I told her the real reason you left me she would have hunted you down. I still remember the time she found the dog poo on her front lawn – she wouldn’t rest until she caught the perpetrator. Imagine what she’d do if she knew that you’d had carnal knowledge of another woman for most of our relationship.
