Last Chance Saloon

by Marian Keyes

  Agnes came to the phone and spoke to Katherine. Said she was having a grand birthday and thanked her for the two matching silk scarves she’d sent. ‘I’m getting great use out of them,’ she said. Which was the truth. They’d come in extremely handy the evening before when the hinge fell off the hen-house door, and something was needed to re-tether it to the post. How’s London?’ Agnes asked wistfully. ‘Still godless?’

  ‘Absolutely, Granny,’ Katherine said enthusiastically. ‘Worse than ever. Why don’t you visit me, and you can see for yourself?’

  ‘Ah, no,’ said Agnes. ‘It mightn’t be as bad as you say and I’d be disappointed. No, I’m better off here with my imagination.’

  8

  Katherine swung out of the red-brick, converted house in which she had her first-floor flat and a passing motorist nearly mounted the pavement while he gazed intently at her. In her grey suit, she looked fresh and crisp, and not a single hair on her head was out of place – it wouldn’t have dared. At the gate she paused and feasted her eyes on her pride and joy, her powder-blue Karmann Ghia. Katherine loved her car very much and would have kissed it if she hadn’t been afraid that one of her early-rising neighbours might see her.

  People were often surprised that Katherine owned such a stylish car. But what they didn’t realize was that Katherine was the type of person who aimed high. When she chose to aim at all.

  People were also surprised that Katherine owned such an unreliable car. The Karmann Ghia was the one reckless thing in her almost entirely careful life. Though her heart and her bank balance were nearly broken by it, Katherine remained devoted. So frequently was she round at the VW garage, that she joked with Lionel, the mechanic, that she’d call her first-born after him. He was charmed and she felt he didn’t need to know that she had no intention of ever having children.

  Katherine didn’t normally drive to work, but as it was Saturday, and the streets were clear, she did. To her amazement, she was able to park right outside Breen Helmsford, the advertising agency where she was the accountant.

  ‘Praise the Lord,’ she muttered. ‘It’s a miracle.’

  As with the car, people were often surprised to discover that Katherine worked in advertising. They didn’t think she was dynamic and gung-ho enough. She was too serious and reserved. Luckily, as an accountant it wasn’t part of her job description to be wildly enthusiastic all the time, or to bandy around phrases like, ‘Let’s run this one up the flagpole and see if the cat licks it!’ On the contrary, her job was to douse the worst excesses, to be awkward about people’s expenses, to insist on taxi receipts, to question why a bill for a weekend in a double room at a country hotel with nine bottles of champagne was being claimed or to point out that putting through a restaurant bill and the credit-card slip for the same meal constituted claiming twice and might be just the smallest bit fraudulent. Even though, as accountant, she was supposed to be above such mundane tasks, she didn’t trust her assistants to weed out swizz-masters.

  ‘Morning, Katherine,’ Desmond, the porter, called, as she made for the lifts. ‘Bunch of tossers getting you to come in on the weekend, eh?’

  But instead of receiving the bitter tirade of agreement that he’d got from the other employees who were already in, Katherine just smiled noncommittally and said, ‘I suppose someone’s got to do it.’

  Desmond was baffled. ‘An odd fish,’ was how he described her. ‘And no young man waiting for her, that’s plain to see. Else why’d she be happy to come to work on a Saturday? It’s no life,’ he’d say, with a heavy sigh, ‘for a young girl.’

  Breen Helmsford was small by most advertising agency standards, with only about seventy employees, crammed into two huge, open-plan floors, with occasional glass boxes as offices for the higher-ups.

  When Katherine walked in, lots of people were already there. As well as Katherine’s assistants, Breda, Charmaine and Henry, there was a clutch of ‘creatives’, who considered themselves to be the real staff, not like that crowd of awkward bureaucrats who withheld expenses for no good reason. The creatives – a bunch of elaborately trendy New Lads who looked like they’d bought up the entire stock of Duffer of St George – were putting the final touches to a presentation they were giving on Monday to a tampon company. Lots of images of beaming girls landing on the moon and on a yellow landscape that was supposed to be the planet Venus, overlaid with George Michael’s ‘Freedom’. The hook lines they were proposing to use were ‘I bet she drinks Carling Black Label,’ and ‘Possibly the best feminine hygiene product in the known universe.’

  Two hard and fast rules existed for tampon ads: the product is only ever referred to euphemistically; and the colour red must never appear.

  Everyone automatically looked up at Katherine. Then looked away again when they saw who it was. Katherine wasn’t terribly popular with her colleagues. She wasn’t unpopular either. But because she didn’t go on the piss several nights a week or sleep with all her male co-workers, she didn’t really exist.

  Sex was very high on the list of activities at Breen Helmsford. As the staff regularly found themselves in the position of having slept with all their colleagues of the opposite sex, the arrival of a new temp caused more excitement than the landing of a new account. Luckily, the creatives were sacked and replaced at dizzying speed, so there was always new blood being brought into the company, fresh bodies to sleep with.

  Katherine was called the Ice Queen. She knew about this, and her only objection was that she thought an advertising agency might have had a bit more imagination.

  The tampon-account director, Joe Roth, was in the thick of the five lads, who were passionately saying things like ‘Everyone knows you can do a bungee jump while you’re wearing a tampon,’ and ‘Yeah, bungee jumps are yesterday’s news,’ and ‘Space-landings are so now!’ He watched Katherine as she walked over to her desk and switched on her PC. ‘Nice piece of work, boys,’ he praised his team. ‘Personally speaking, I’d buy these tampons. Hell, I nearly wish I got periods.

  ‘Now, if you’ll excuse me,’ he said, his sights on Katherine, ‘it’s time for my daily knock-back.’

  Joe Roth was intrigued by Katherine. He’d only been at Breen Helmsford three weeks – in other jobs this would mean he had barely started, but advertising years were like dog years. Three weeks was usually long enough to win a major account, be promoted twice, written up in Campaign, caught in bed with the MD’s wife, lose a major account and get fired. Certainly Joe thought that three weeks was long enough to have made some progress with Katherine, but he wasn’t sure if he was getting anywhere.

  On Joe’s first day, Fred Franklin, the overweight, fortyish, heavy-drinking Lancastrian who was to be his boss, had taken him aside. First he’d established what football team Joe supported – Arsenal – then gave him some words of avuncular wisdom on his new post. Where the coffee machine was, how to fiddle his expenses and, most importantly, the best women to pursue. ‘Martini, there,’ Fred told Joe, indicating a tall, toothy redhead. ‘Goes like the clappers.’

  ‘I thought her name was Samantha,’ Joe said.

  ‘Aye, technically speaking it is,’ Fred admitted, ‘but we call her Martini, because anytime, anyplace, anywhere, she’s up for it.

  ‘She’s great,’ Fred said, with a fond smile. ‘She’ll do anything. Anything. And she never wants those daft things women always want.’

  ‘You mean flowers and chocolates?’ Joe asked.

  ‘I mean phone calls, remembering her name, that kind of thing. She’s just in it for the sex. She’ll even let you watch the footie while you’re at it.

  ‘She’s great,’ Fred said again, then delivered the highest praise he could give any woman. ‘She’s like a bloke with tits.

  ‘Now Flora there,’ Fred indicated a little woman with blonde bubble curls. ‘Does a great stunt with a bottle of baby oil and a cold flannel, but she’s a bit of a handful, rang my wife and told her –’

  ‘I thought her name was Connie,’ Joe interr
upted.

  ‘Oh, it is,’ Fred agreed. ‘It is, but we call her Flora because she –’

  ‘– spreads easily,’ Joe finished drily.

  Fred gave Joe a face-splitting beam. ‘Got it in one! I think you’re going to like it here, son.’

  Joe wasn’t so sure. ‘What about that… er… Katherine, the accountant?’ he asked casually.

  ‘Who?’

  ‘You know, the skinny cute one who wears the suits.’

  ‘Cute?’ Fred was perplexed. ‘Skinny? Do you mean Lolo?’ He pointed at a dark-haired girl, who was so emaciated her legs were nearly as narrow as her arms. ‘Don’t fancy yours much. But get her to do the thing with the toothpaste when she’s sucking your knob. She won’t swallow, though, I’m giving you fair warning now. She’s too afraid of getting fat.’

  ‘I thought her name was Deirdre,’ Joe said.

  ‘It is,’ Fred confirmed. ‘We call her Lolo because she’s always depressed. Moany cow. But at least when she’s got your knob in her gob she can’t go on much.’

  ‘I see,’ said Joe. ‘But I don’t mean her, anyway. I mean the little Irish girl.’

  Fred was so shocked he could barely speak. ‘Her!’ he finally managed. ‘That dried-up old bag.’

  ‘She’s gorgeous,’ Joe said, in surprise.

  ‘Gorgeous is as gorgeous does,’ Fred retorted. ‘And she doesn’t do anything! I wouldn’t waste your time with her, son. Not when you’ve all these great goers to pick from. I reckon that Katherine lass is a lesbo.’

  ‘So she wouldn’t go out with you?’ Joe asked, sympathetically.

  ‘Not just me,’ Fred roared. ‘She won’t go out with anyone. She’s just a pigging waste of space. And take a look at her clothes. She’s like a frigging nun!’

  Katherine always came to work decked out in slim, professional suits and crisp white blouses. Some of the other women at Breen Helmsford also wore suits, but with heavy irony. Theirs were sexy, fashionable ones, in bright colours, with short skirts. By contrast, Katherine played it very safe, with her skirt invariably ending just above her knee.

  But Joe had noticed giveaway signs of the woman underneath. A slight bunching under her tailored skirt that indicated she was wearing stockings and suspender belt, rather than boring tights. The absence of the little seam up her belly that confirmed his suspicions. Or sometimes, as he sat in front of her, being bollocked for not keeping restaurant receipts, he caught a glimpse of something lacy under her neat white blouse, and resolved to lose even more receipts. So for the eleventh working day in a row he strode over and perched on the edge of her desk.

  He was very tall – about six one – and lean with it. But the consensus was that it suited him. Clothes kind of hung on his lanky frame, looking languid and stylish. Today he wore black combats and a long-sleeved T-shirt. To see him properly Katherine had to lean back so much that her face was almost parallel with the ceiling.

  ‘Morning, Katie,’ he said, a huge smile on his thin face. ‘What’s got you in on a Saturday?’

  Katherine was stunned at the ‘Katie’ bit of ‘Morning, Katie.’ At work she cultivated a definite, deliberate distance. No one called her Kathy or Kate or Katie or Kath or Kit or Kitty. She was always Katherine. In fact, she’d have liked it to be Ms Casey, but she knew she was pushing her luck. Breen Helmsford was too contrivedly informal to stand for surnames. Even the managing director Mr Denning insisted on being called Johnny. (Although his name was actually Norman.)

  Only the cleaner was addressed by her surname. A hard-faced chain-smoker, afflicted with a hacking cough, who complained bitterly about the mess. Everyone was terrified of her, and wouldn’t dare get over-familiar. She had probably been born Mrs Twyford.

  Katherine gave Joe her Scary Look, grade four. This was a terrifying glare that flooded men with unexpected, shocking fear. It was only a couple of grades below the Medusa Look, and she’d sometimes nearly frightened herself as she honed and perfected it in front of her bedroom mirror. But before she could tell him in icy tones that no one was allowed to abbreviate her name, Joe asked, a twinkle in his friendly brown eyes, ‘Ooh, toothache? Nasty! Or have you got something in your eye?’

  ‘Um, neither,’ Katherine muttered, liberating her face muscles from their narrow-eyed, teeth-baring rictus.

  ‘And why are you here today?’ Joe asked.

  ‘I don’t normally work weekends,’ she said politely, looking up at him, ‘but it’s the end of the accounting year so I’m very busy.’

  ‘I love that accent of yours,’ Joe said, with a sunbeam smile. ‘I could listen to it all day.’

  ‘I’m afraid you’ll never get that opportunity.’ Katherine gave a chilly smirk.

  Joe looked mildly shocked, then soldiered on. ‘Is there any point asking you to have lunch with me, then?’

  ‘None,’ she said, shortly. ‘Why don’t you leave me alone?’

  ‘Why don’t I leave you alone?’ Joe mused. ‘I’ll tell you. As a very wise man once said, let me see, what was the exact phrase…?’ Joe stared thoughtfully into the middle distance. ‘Oh, yes!’ he said. ‘ “I’ve got you under my skin.” ’

  ‘Is that right? Well, in the words of one of my heroes, the great humanist Rhett Butler…’ Katherine retorted crisply ‘…“Frankly, my dear, I don’t give a damn.” ’

  ‘Ach, she’s cruel, so cruel,’ Joe gasped, staggering around in front of her desk, as though he’d been stabbed.

  She looked at him with steady contempt. ‘If you’ll excuse me, I’ve got work to do,’ she said, turning to her screen.

  ‘How about a drink after work, then?’ he suggested, brightly.

  ‘Which part of the word “no” is it that you don’t understand? The N or the O?’

  ‘You’re breaking my heart.’

  ‘Good.’

  He stared, in admiration. ‘You’re the most intriguing woman I’ve ever met.’

  ‘You’d want to get out more.’

  Joe, an intelligent man, knew when he was wasting his time. ‘No further questions,’ he said crisply, like a young, keen, cross-examining attorney. He’d hoped Katherine would laugh. She didn’t. Joe took his leave. ‘I ought to go and see a man about some tampons. But as the great savant and philosopher Arnold Schwarzenegger once said…’ he paused for emphasis, leant close to Katherine, then whispered hoarsely ‘… I’ll be back…’

  With a twinkly smile, he walked away. Yes, she was definitely loosening up. Much more chatty, no doubt about it. At this rate of progress, in another ten years she might smile at him.

  Katherine watched him go. She knew she’d been gratuitously cruel. But she had to admit she’d enjoyed it. Guiltily, she thought about having a quick drink with him. But, no, she decided. Look at what happened the last time she’d gone out with someone. And the time before that.

  ‘You go, girl!’ Katherine heard Charmaine say. ‘He’s a babe!’

  She turned to berate her.

  ‘I know.’ Charmaine beat her to it. ‘Shut up and get back to breaking rocks on the chain-gang.’

  Later that day, Joe saw Katherine approach a Karmann Ghia, open it, swing her little bottom into it and drive away. He stared after her, transfixed, his admiration increased tenfold. A woman with a good body was a thing of beauty, but a woman with a good car, well…

  9

  ‘Wear your red dress,’ Thomas coaxed, ‘you look right sexy in that.’

  ‘But we’re only going to the pictures.’ It was a while since she’d last worn it and Tara strongly suspected she’d put on a lot of weight since then.

  ‘Ah, go on.’

  ‘After we’ve eaten,’ she promised, hoping he’d forget about it. ‘Dinner is served!’

  She ushered him to the candlelit table.

  ‘Shepherd’s pie?’ Thomas asked suspiciously.

  ‘The surprise,’ Tara said happily, ‘is that mine is 127 per cent fat-free and yours is the standard issue fat-bastard one.’

  ‘Champion.’


  ‘Turn off the telly, please.’

  ‘But it’s Gladiators.’

  ‘So it is.’

  With the candles flickering, they watched Gladiators and silently ate their dinner. When Thomas didn’t grumble wistfully, ‘That Ulrika Johnson, she’s right fit,’ it was safe for Tara to beam, ‘This is romantic. We should do it more often.’

  After their individual blackcurrant cheesecakes (Tara’s 210 per cent fat-free, Thomas’s the normal one), Thomas once again asked Tara to put on her red dress. With mild foreboding, she went to the bedroom where she discovered that, as she’d feared, she’d expanded somewhat since the last time she’d worn it. Pulling in her stomach and holding her breath, she displayed herself to Thomas.

  ‘Let’s have a look at you,’ he said proudly.

  His eyes flickered over her, and Tara noticed that he lingered slightly too long on her stomach. She glanced down and saw that the dress was ruched across her too-big belly. But she couldn’t suck in any further. Desperately she hoped that Thomas wasn’t going to go into one of his troughs on account of her weight. Tara’s size depressed her, but it depressed Thomas even more, and Thomas in a good mood was fine, but in a bad mood, he was very bad indeed.

  ‘It looks different,’ Thomas declared, confused and annoyed.

  Two years before, when he got off with Tara, he hadn’t been able to believe his luck. Top marks for her blonde hair, generous bosom and slim waist, hips and legs. Like many tabloid-indoctrinated men, he had high standards and rigid ideas about what ‘qualities’ his ideal girlfriend should have.

  But as soon as Tara settled back into being someone’s girlfriend, the horror of Alasdair’s rejection receded, and she began to eat again. She’d put on weight much more quickly than she’d lost it, and Thomas was bitterly disappointed. Why did women always let him down? In an attempt to recreate that perfect era, he spent a lot of time and energy trying to streamline Tara. Urging her to go running, suggesting that she join a gym, making her feel guilty whenever she ate something. Although he was no Twiggy himself. ‘Watch him,’ the dinner ladies at his school warned each other. ‘Especially on a Thursday.’ (Jam roly-poly day.) ‘He’d have the kids’ share if he thought no one would notice.’