by Tanith Morse
I switched on the kitchen light, dropped my bag wearily on the table. My mood had blackened considerably. Had David genuinely left his money at home or had he planned this ruse from the start? Perhaps he didn’t like me all that much. Perhaps he’d only come to the cinema out of a sense of duty. Had I been too forward and scared him off? Had he read hidden meaning in my terrible Jane Bloggs synopsis and decided that it was a thinly veiled account of my own life story? Why hadn’t he accepted my invitation for coffee? Suddenly, all of my old insecurities came flooding back, and I went to bed miserable.
Chapter Seven
I opened the microwave and took out my Weetabix. It was sweet and slushy, just the way I liked it. I closed the microwave door and walked across the staffroom to my usual corner. At the adjacent table, Margery and Caroline were huddled together like the witches from Macbeth. As I ate, I overheard snippets of their conversation: ‘Can you believe it? She’s a real dark horse. She kept that very quiet, didn’t she?’
‘Yes,’ Caroline replied in a scandalised voice, ‘but it’s always the quiet ones that surprise you, isn’t it?’
I wondered who they were talking about.
Sabina entered the room with a face like thunder and made a beeline for Margery to complete their ghastly trio. ‘I can’t believe it, I just can’t believe it. I’m so pissed off. This doesn’t make any sense. How the hell could she have got it?’
‘I know, pet, I know,’ Margery tutted. ‘But that’s why I didn’t bother applying. They never give jobs to the people who deserve it. It’s not what you know – it’s who you know. Let them stuff their job.’
My ears pricked up at this. Now I gathered that they were talking about the person who had been appointed to the new management post.
My body tensed. They couldn’t be talking about me, could they? Angela had promised to let everyone know by today, but as I hadn’t checked my emails, I wasn’t yet in the know.
For a second, I dared to hope.
Then Alice came in carrying a plastic bowl of instant porridge oats. Without looking at anyone, she made for the fridge, took out a pint of milk and stirred it with the cereal. Then she put her smoothly blended mixture into the microwave. Never looked at us once, like a woman with a shadowy secret.
Margery traded frosty glances with the others. Then, as soon as Alice was gone, Sabina said in a loud whisper, ‘How the heck did she get the management post? I mean, she a temp for Christ’s sake, only been here five minutes. What experience has she got?’
‘Well,’ Caroline replied, ‘I heard she was an assistant manager at Topshop so maybe that helped.’
‘Yes, but it’s not the same as managing an office of forty people, is it?’ Margery said darkly. ‘I’m telling you; she probably shagged William or something. There were much stronger candidates than her. There’s no way that kid got the job legit.’
I almost spat out my Weetabix. Alice got the job? Quiet, timid little Alice? Alice who came in late everyday and barely raised her voice above a whisper. Alice who couldn’t handle rowdy customers, who burst into tears at the slightest provocation.
That last spoonful of weetabix was particularly hard for me to swallow. Yet somehow, as the initial shock subsided, I found that I didn’t feel as resentful as the others. I had always had a little soft spot for Alice. Perhaps it was because I had taken her under my wing when she first started. It wasn’t fair of the others to be so bitchy, I decided. True, she was inexperienced, but who were we to judge her suitability for the job? She might have been just what Angela Towner was looking for – a yes person. And Alice Graham had ‘yes Madame’ written all over her.
I picked up my bowl and took it to the sink, turned on the hot tap and washed it slowly, methodically, thinking about what had just happened. When I got to my desk, I checked my emails and found one from Angela. It was very nice, very carefully worded, but the message was still the same – I didn’t get the job. Despite putting on brave face, deep down I’ll admit I was hurt. Rejection of any kind is never easy to take, and this in conjunction with David’s rebuff, made me feel pretty low.
I clipped on my headset and logged into the system. ‘Good morning, Parking Services, how can I help?’
‘Hello, is that the council?’ The woman sounded frail, agitated.
‘Yes, it is,’ I replied.
‘I tell you what love; you’ve got to get someone down here right away. There’s a Triffid in my garden.’
‘Excuse me?’
‘There’s a Triffid in my garden. Two nights ago, this enormous bush appeared and now, every morning when I wake up, it keeps getting closer and closer to my window. I’m telling you, love, I’m at my wits’ end. What’s going to happen when it gets into my bedroom? It’s going to strangle me. You’ve got to get someone down here right away!’
I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. ‘Madame, are you saying there’s a Triffid, as in an alien plant, in your garden?’
‘Yes! That’s right. A Triffid.’
I rolled my eyes, unclipped my headphones and sought advice from Jaiman. He was buried as usual in his pile of Excel spreadsheets. Without looking up, he muttered, ‘Yes, what is it Maddy?’
‘This woman says there’s a Triffid in her garden.’
‘A what?’
‘A Triffid.’
‘What the heck’s that?’
‘An alien plant from a 1950s Science Fiction movie.’
Jaiman didn’t bat an eyelid. ‘Isn’t that an issue for the trees department to deal with? It’s not even a parking enquiry. I’m so sick of the public calling us for everything. Just send it through on a complaints form to trees.’
I struggled to retain my composure. ‘But Jaiman, the woman said it’s a Triffid. Isn’t that a bit crazy?’
‘If that’s what she says it is, then who are we to judge? The customer is always right. Take the complaint and transfer it to trees.’
And that was the end of it. As I slunk back to my desk, I could still hear Jaiman muttering about the unfairness of it all. Never mind that we were now taking complaints about extraterrestrials. If I weren’t in such a foul mood, it would have been hilarious.
At lunch, Beth phoned me to talk about the arrangements for Phil’s birthday party.
‘Darling, I don’t know what to cook. It’s a toss up between monkfish and roast lamb. What do you think?’
‘Er, I’m not sure . . .’
‘Phil says I should do my signature dish – the lamb. But I’m dying to go all exotic and try the fish. There’s this wonderful Gordon Ramsey recipe I found and - ’
As she continued to yap, my mind drifted back to another of Beth’s kitchen ‘experiments’, when she had attempted to cook wild mushroom risotto. The finer details of that particular nightmare escape me, but suffice to say it was one of the most horrendous pieces of muck I’ve ever tasted. The only saving grace was that after we’d all finished throwing up, Beth admitted that she hadn’t used real wild mushrooms – she’d got them from Waitrose. Thank God for that. If she’d gone for the real deal, we would, in all probability, have been dead.
‘So darling, this monkfish. What do you think? It’s one of -’
‘Just keep it simple,’ I cut in sourly. ‘Stick to the roast lamb. It’s what you’re good at.’ I hadn’t meant to sound so cold, but she was starting to do my head in.
‘What on earth’s the matter, Maddy? You don’t sound like yourself.’
I hadn’t told her I’d gone for the management job, so there was no point enlightening her now that everything had gone wrong.
‘I’m fine. Everything’s fine,’ I lied.
‘How did your date with David go? Is he still coming to Phil’s birthday?’
‘Actually, I haven’t told him about it.’
‘Why not? Darling, I told you about this party ages ago. Robert and Pauline are coming, Jane and Tom are coming; you’ve simply got to bring someone. You can’t play gooseberry again. Besides, I’ve already told them you’re bri
nging your boyfriend.’
‘You did what? He’s not my boyfriend, Beth. We’ve only been on one date, and even that, judging by the way things turned out, came to nothing. Oh, this is brilliant! Just typical of you. You had to open your big mouth, didn’t you?’
Beth had gone very quiet. I could tell when my sister knew she had overstepped the mark. When she spoke again, her tone was sickly sweet, nurturing.
‘Darling, I’m sorry. I’ll admit, I may have jumped the gun a bit. But really, was it so wrong for me to assume that you two are an item?’
‘Yes, it bloody well was! I haven’t heard from him in five days. Five days, Beth. If he was interested, don’t you think I would have heard from him by now?’
‘Oh.’ The line went silent. ‘Did something happen between the two of you?’
I rubbed my aching temples. ‘Look, Beth, let’s just leave it, okay? It’s not you, it’s me. I’ve had a shitty day, and I’m not in the right frame of mind to talk. I’ll call you later.’
‘Okay darling. Love you.’
‘I love you too. And, like I said, go with the roast lamb.’ I hung up, trembling. It was all getting too much.
When I got home I went straight to bed. I felt so drained, so dead inside. Everything seemed pointless. I lay in the grey half-light, looking up at the ceiling, thinking about David. His snub bothered me more than I dared to admit. I had spent days replaying our conversations over and over again in my head; analysing my behaviour, his behaviour; my reactions, his reactions. Trying to decipher where it all went wrong. Surely I must have done something to put him off. But what? Perhaps he’d sensed my desperation and decided to jump ship before it got too intense.
About eight o’clock, I got up and wandered over to the mirrored wardrobe. Pulling open my dressing gown, I ran a critical eye over my decidedly plump and saggy body. Sometimes when I looked at my reflection, I was cheered by what I saw, comforted by the idea that my curves were my greatest asset. Not today. Today everything looked wrong. My skin looked dull, my thighs massive, my shoulders far too broad, my breasts like humongous white watermelons. How could David, or any man come that, find this body attractive? Who was I kidding? This wasn’t a body to be desired, it was a body to be escaped from, a labyrinth of flesh and cellulite.
I thought back to my years of thwarted sexuality, of the barren wasteland that was my sex life had become, and wondered how I had survived for so long untouched, unloved, and unfulfilled. I closed my eyes, thought of David’s laugh, his smile, the touch of those warm, capable hands. I wanted him so bad it hurt. But I knew it was useless, pointless dreaming. Why would he want an ugly middle-aged woman with debts up to her eyeballs and no discernable career prospects?
I turned off the bedroom light and went into the living room. I switched on the stereo and slotted in Sade’s greatest hits as a soundtrack to my misery.
I wandered around the kitchen, my chest tight with tears. Hang on to Your Love enveloped me in a sad symphony of depression. I went to the fridge, poured myself some orange juice, and downed it in one gulp. Then, out of sheer frustration, I smashed the glass against the wall.
Everything went still.
I stared down at the broken shards and began to sob. Loud, unashamed sobs. I was such a loser, completely hopeless at everything – men, jobs, family, the lot. What was I here for? What was the point of my life?
I collapsed to my knees and started picking up the glass. The room swam before me. I couldn’t see properly. Everything became a blur of colours lights.
Then a piece of glass cut into my hand.
‘Damn.’ I stood up, ran to the sink and put my bleeding fingers under the cold tap. The sharp cool sensation helped to bring me back to my senses. Helped me to reason with myself.
Suddenly, the doorbell rang.
Hastily wrapping my hand in a piece of kitchen towel, I raced to the bedroom and threw on a baggy t-shirt with tracksuit bottoms. Then, psyching myself up, I answered the front door.
It was David. Under his arm he carried a large square package wrapped in brown paper. He saw my mottled face and his smile vanished.
‘Have I come at a bad time?’
I shook my head. Couldn’t speak, couldn’t move.
‘You’ve been crying, haven’t you?’ David closed the door behind him.
I looked down at the floor, shuffled my feet.
His eyes fell to my bleeding hand. The makeshift bandage had fallen off. He sprang into action. Placing his parcel against the fridge, he raced back to his flat and returned with a roll of gauze.
‘Show me your hand,’ he commanded.
Reluctantly, I gave it to him, feeling like a naughty schoolgirl being told off by her teacher for having a scrap in the playground. David marched me to the sink and washed the blood clean. Then he took a strip of gauze and bandaged my hand up.
Placing his palms on my shoulders, he looked me directly in the face.
‘What happened, Madeline? How did you cut yourself? Is there anything else I can do?’
I burst into tears. I just couldn’t hold it in anymore.
David wrapped his arms around me. Being so close to him had an immediate calming effect on me, the fold of his embrace warm, tender, comforting. I nuzzled my head into his chest and marvelled at how strong and firm his arms were. Another surprise. I breathed in his scent - masculine and inviting.
My saviour was here.
Eventually we drew apart. David’s face was clouded with worry.
And his eyes. Those eyes. Bret’s eyes. They looked so compassionate.
‘You feeling better now?’
‘Yes.’
He tucked a stray hair behind my ear.
‘Cheer up, Madeline. I’ve brought you a present.’
‘Really? You shouldn’t have.’
We went into the living room where the Sade album was still playing. He picked up the CD cover. ‘So you’re a Sade fan. What a coincidence, so am I! You’ve got great taste in music.’
I nodded feebly.
Then he picked up the brown paper package and handed it to me. ‘I hope you like it.’
I sat down on the sofa and balanced it between my legs. It felt quite heavy and I guessed from the indentations that it was something like a painting. Hurriedly, I tore away the paper to reveal a massive blow-up of one of the photos David had taken of me. Encased in an expensive-looking silver frame, the picture was almost unrecognisable from the original I’d seen in his studio. He had given it a complete makeover: a professional colour grade and beautifully airbrushed skin that made me look like something from Vogue.
I choked back tears. ‘David, this is so . . . Oh I’m speechless. I absolutely love it!’
He smiled gently. ‘I thought you’d like it.’
The music track changed and the sensual melody of Sweetest Taboo flooded the room. David started tapping his feet and moving his shoulders in time to the percussion.
‘I love this song,’ he murmured.
As the music gathered momentum, he got up and started dancing a salsa-type dance around the room. I watched him, mesmerised. His body was so fluid, so rhythmic. I shook my head. So now David was a fantastic dancer too. Was there no end to this man’s talent?
‘Do you dance salsa?’ he inquired, twirling round with an invisible partner.
‘No,’ I replied, ‘and don’t tell me, you forgot to mention that you once lived in Cuba.’
He laughed uproariously. ‘No, I took classes in New York actually. Never been to Cuba in my life.’ He sidled over to me and took my hand. ‘Get up. Let’s dance.’
‘No, no, I’m rubbish.’
‘Nonsense, I’ll teach you. Look, just follow my lead.’ He wrapped one arm firmly round my waist and took my other hand in his. Then slowly, he started grinding his hips against mine. I felt so stiff and wooden in his arms.
‘Come on,’ he whispered, ‘no one’s watching. You can be yourself with me.’
I blushed, feeling increasingly turned on by h
im. I jerked my waist a little, tried to animate myself. He twirled me around a couple of times, and soon I was really getting into it. Perhaps I did have some semblance of rhythm after all. It felt so sexy having him so close to me, like Jennifer Gray with Patrick Swayze in Dirty Dancing. It was one of those moments in your life when everything just fits together, like there is no one else in the world but you and that special person.
Then the music stopped. We stopped. I gazed up into his eyes, wanting so badly to kiss him, my whole body tingling with anticipation.
But the moment passed. David seemed confused and a little shaken. It was like he was holding something back. I couldn’t think what.
I sighed and went rigid again. He was blowing so hot and cold with me. Couldn’t he feel the strong physical connection between us? What was his problem? After all, we weren’t school children in the midst of our first affair. We were two consenting adults. Why was he holding back from expressing his feelings?
‘Um, that was fun, wasn’t it?’ he muttered, not meeting my gaze.
I put my hand on his arm. ‘It was amazing, David. You’re such a fantastic mover, you put me to shame.’
He smiled tightly, adjusted his spectacles. ‘Well, I’m just glad I’ve managed to cheer you up. That was my intention.’
For a second, my mind went totally blank. Then, I remembered what I’d wanted to ask him. ‘David, I don’t know if you’re free this Saturday - the twenty-sixth - it’s my brother-in-law’s birthday. Beth’s having a little dinner party for him at their house, nothing fancy you understand, just a couple of friends round. I wondered, if you were free, if you’d like to come along?’
David fiddled with his pockets. He still wasn’t looking at me. I’d never seen him so rattled before. What on earth had gotten into him?
‘Yeah, Saturday sounds great,’ he said at last.
‘Fantastic.’ I tried not to sound too eager, but inside I was singing. ‘It starts around seven. We can get the Tube.’
‘Where do they live?’
‘Highgate. They bought a new house a couple of months ago. This will be a sort of a housewarming/birthday.’
