by Unknown
Siobhan is giddy with success. She ticked six guys as matches, including Hard Sell. Anyone who tries that hard to impress in a bar, she reasoned, might try that hard in bed. Why didn’t I think of that? ‘Come on, Hannah, let’s go talk to that one – you said he had potential.’
‘I can’t go over there now. Look at all those girls.’ Look at all those cute girls with their nipples pointing straight at him.
‘Get in there, lass, or you don’t stand a chance.’ She clearly doesn’t share my fear of rejection. She’s literally elbowing girls out of our way. This has bad ending written all over it.
‘Hey, hi, American girl.’
He really is cute. Yes, he does have potential. The others are smiling warmly. We hate each other, but smart girls don’t bare their claws in front of a guy they like unless they’re very sure they’ve got him. And given that we all met Potential about seven minutes ago, no one is that confident. Far from being a cruelty-free zone, the barbs will simply fly under his radar. The combatants waste no time.
‘You’re American?’ She’s got poker-straight blonde hair and sparkly powder on her cheekbones. ‘I have an aunt who lives in New Mexico. You certainly have a different sense of style over there. She sends the most god-awful clothes to me for Christmas.’ I’m sure the revulsion in her expression isn’t meant for her beloved aunt. Come on, Hannah, shake it off, it’s just a flesh wound…
‘Nobody’s forcing your aunt to buy shite clothes,’ Siobhan reasons. ‘It sounds like she thinks they suit you.’
The others laugh. Like Komodo dragons, they’re not above eating their own kind.
Sparkle Face feels compelled to fight on. ‘What brings you to London?’
‘I guess I’m looking for a new life.’
‘What was wrong with your old one?’ interjects a stick insect dressed like Baby Spice. ‘Was it sad?’
Ouch. That might need stitches. Possible answers include a) it was boring, b) nothing or c) I’ve slept with all the eligible men in the tri-State23 area. The first answer makes me look pathetic, the second stupid and the third easy. Hello, rock? Hard place? Don’t squeeze too much, please.
‘I guess I outgrew it.’
Potential chuckles. Stick Insect opens her mouth, remembers her manners and closes it. Doctor, the patient has made an unexpected recovery.
There’s a message from Stacy on the answering machine when I get back to the apartment. ‘Hey, it’s me. Did you ever get the Rimmel stuff?’ I’m becoming her illicit make-up connection, sending unmarked packages of British products home. ‘It’s Bonus Time at Clinique again, so tell me if you want the free gift and I can buy two moisturizers. You really should use it, you know, that crap you use is going to catch up one day. How was your day? Oh my god, my boss is definitely having an affair with Kara, can you believe it? He pretty much admitted it to Jeff.’ I don’t have any idea who Jeff is. Or Kara. It’s nearly impossible to follow Stacy’s conversations at times because she assumes you know everyone in the world she could possibly be talking about. Listening to her is best approached like squinting. You get the gist from the blurry outline of the conversation, without any confusing detail to distract. ‘I really wanted to give him the benefit of the doubt but he is, in fact, a complete asshole. And his wife’s so nice too. I’m calling to tell you that I think I am going to go out with Tye. I know, he’s not much to look at, but I’m getting older now.’ We’re the same age, not exactly ancient. ‘And I need to start thinking about my future. So I’m going to say yes the next time he asks. Shame you’re not here, or we could double-date. You thought he was nice, right? And not too ugly?’
Obviously Stacy views the answering machine as a quieter but perfectly valid call recipient.
Shit. Shit, shit, shit. I forgot to tell Felicity about my doctor’s appointment. It wouldn’t be so bad if I was normally on time, but punctuality is becoming a bit of an issue. Despite the best of intentions, somewhere between towelling off and reaching the Tube platform I lose at least fifteen minutes. It’s safe to say my boss and I aren’t getting off to the best start.
I’m not sick, by the way. In my continuing education about London’s rules and regulations I’ve learned that you don’t simply go to a doctor here when you’re under the weather. You make an appointment to register with him when you’re well to reserve your place in his waiting room for when you do eventually come down with the flu. So even in illness the English like to queue.
On the plus side, at least the train’s not crowded now that it’s past rush hour. There are maybe twenty people in the carriage with me. Despite this, it is completely silent. People don’t talk on public transport if they can help it. If they must communicate (for instance if a companion’s hair catches fire), they’ll only do so in a church-like murmur. All foreign residents probably make the mistake of speaking normally once, until the full weight of indigenous condemnation bears upon them and they are silenced. If you want to pick out the tourists, just listen for conversation on a train.
I know the English aren’t silent out of polite regard for their travelling companions’ privacy, because reading is a team sport underground. On any given morning, half the passengers hold the books, magazines and papers while the other half crane their necks to read them. This is no stealthy over-the-shoulder reading either. They practically rest their chins on their neighbour’s lapel. Every morning I’m treated to the coffee breath of the commuter next to me. She’s apparently as enthralled with InStyle’s spring fashion tips as I am. When I try to shield the article, she just climbs further into my lap to read it. If she tires of reading other people’s magazines, she’ll think nothing of looking everyone up and down, eventually settling her eyes on some body part or accessory, perhaps as an alternative to taking a nap. I’m sure Londoners don’t mean anything by staring so obviously; it’s a national habit, like our impulse to introduce at least one sports analogy into every conversation.
I like knowing I can assess everyone’s wardrobe without worrying about giving offence here, particularly since London has the most stylish women in the world, in the truest sense of the definition. I realize this is a controversial statement, especially to women in New York, but hear me out. London’s glamour pusses aren’t all clad in designer labels (it’s easy to be rich and stylish), and they don’t have that French je ne sais quoi. Instead, women here mainline fashion magazines. As a result, the average woman might sport one of at least a dozen distinct trends, from skinny jeans/stripy jacket to bubble skirt/shoe boots, and everything in between. The amazing thing is that most women do. Trendy women aren’t the exception here. They are the rule. Case in point: even in workwear, the women manage to stand out. Though bundled up in their winter coats, those coats are trendy, if disappointingly unimaginative in colour. In fact, there’s not a bright coat in the carriage. Grey. Black. Blue. Tan. Penis. Blue. Camel…
Penis?
No, I’m not seeing things. Yes, the man sitting diagonally to me has his dick in his hand. He’s holding a newspaper with the other, the Telegraph, I think. Unbelievable. Who does this? On a train? At 10 a.m. on a Tuesday? He’s behaving as if he’s simply holding his morning cuppa. He must be mentally ill. Maybe he doesn’t even realize he’s done it…Great, now I’ve been staring at the offending organ for at least a minute. People probably think I’m a pervert. But all seems perfectly normal. Come on, it’s not possible that nobody else sees this. We’re sitting less than five feet from each other. Everybody stares as a matter of course. I know people must have noticed.
Ah-ha. I see you, sir. A man two seats away just glanced up, stared straight at the guy and looked back down at his neighbour’s paper. Then another, and another. Everyone on the train sees the flasher, they’re just ignoring him. I bet he does this every day. Why wouldn’t he, if nobody stops him? I should say something. What if there are kids on the train? They shouldn’t be subjected to this. None of us should, for that matter. It’s outrageous that he’s getting away with this. So say something. Why
don’t I say something? Because I’m a chicken. And I know the rules…But wait, that’s the old Hannah. I’m no longer the woman who will be intimidated by a pervert. I’m going to tell him exactly what I think of him. ‘Um, excuse me,’ I whisper.
He concentrates harder on his article.
God, I hope he’s not deaf. This is going to be really embarrassing if I have to mime my outrage.
‘Excuse me,’ I say louder. ‘Uh, that’s not very nice. Do you mind putting, ah, yourself away?’ I don’t mean to be so harsh but he must be told in no uncertain terms.
At least he’s tucking himself back in his pants. He’s still sitting in his seat, by the way; this guy has balls…as we’ve just witnessed. Now everyone is staring at me like I’m the one with my bits out on the train. I’m not exactly expecting high-fives, or hooked pinky fingers or whatever they do here as a congratulatory gesture, but you’d think there’d be some acknowledgement that I’ve briefly made the world a better place. They look embarrassed. Worse, they look embarrassed for me. The English clearly have a misplaced sense of propriety. It seems they’d rather cut off their own arms than call attention to themselves. It’s my mother’s worst fear realized. In the early dawn, in Hartford Connecticut, she awakens with a shiver without knowing why.
Now I officially hate the commute.
‘Felicity I’m so sorry I’m late I forgot to tell you about my doctor’s appointment but I’ll stay late and make up the time I promise.’ Maybe speaking without pauses will keep her from unleashing the fury that’s playing across her face.
‘Hannah.’
I knew it wouldn’t work. ‘Yes?’
‘What time is it?’
‘Eleven o’clock.’
‘And what time are you contractually obliged to be here?’
‘Eight-thirty.’
‘In what dimension is this eight-thirty?’
‘I said I’m sorry, Felicity. I really did forget to tell you.’
‘I’ve had to ask Siobhan to make my tea this morning.’
Mental note: buy lunch for Siobhan today. ‘I’m really sorry.’
‘I was going to ask you to help me at the party on Friday –’
‘Ohmygod, thank you, yes, I’d love to –’
‘But I couldn’t wait around wondering if you planned to show up, so I asked Anne instead.’
‘Oh. Oh, yes, well, okay, of course. I understand.’
‘Hannah?’
‘Yes?’
‘My tea?’
‘Okay.’ At this rate I’m never going to get in that closet.
Mark has definitely followed me into the kitchen. He can’t be this interested in my brewing techniques. Granted, the receptionist just unlocked the forbidden for-clients-only cookie cupboard and freed a packet of Jammie Dodgers, and that kind of news spreads like wildfire through the office. And he’s also making tea (as are Sam and Henry and one of the girls from the other side of the office), but it’s not like he had to have a cup this very second. There’s still a chance he followed me.
‘I’ve been meaning to tell you, Han, you’re doing a great job here.’
He’s so good-looking when he smiles. And I love the Paul Smith shirt he’s wearing. It takes a confident man to wear circus stripes to the office. I catch Sam grin in what I assume is a congratulatory fashion.
‘I am?’ Other than poring over the magical files, my biggest challenge has involved boiling water. You’ll understand if I interpret this as Mark being subversively flirty.
‘Yeah, Felicity’s really happy with you.’
I know this is a lie. Felicity isn’t happy with anyone. ‘You don’t say.’
‘Absolutely. You’re going to do very well.’
‘I hope so. I really want to thank you for giving me the chance.’ Let me count the ways I want to thank you…
‘Just keep up the good work. See you later.’
Either he’s developed a facial tic or he just winked at me. That was definitely a coded message. He means he’s really happy with me. This is amazing.
‘Way to go. It sounds like you’re in with the boss.’ Sam raises his mug to clink with mine.
‘Thanks!’ Isn’t he everything I’ve ever looked for in a guy? Literally perfect?
‘I’m sure it doesn’t have anything to do with the fact that you’re a pretty woman.’
‘What?!’ Quite aside from the truth of this statement, which Sam has no way to know is the truth, what an ass. ‘Thanks for assuming that I only got this job because the boss wants to sleep with me. That’s a very nice thing to tell somebody!’
‘I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to insult you. I guess I meant to insult Mark. His hiring practices have been…consistent in the past. That’s all I meant.’
‘Whatever. Don’t you have somewhere to be?’
I will not let Sam’s judgement dull this moment. Not when I might even be a little bit in love. Am I? I don’t have much experience with this. I’m in excitement, at least. Desire, naturally. Admiration, affection…Is that the beginning of love? How would I know? Everyone says you just do, but maybe I’m one of those people who wouldn’t recognize it, like the girls who don’t know they’re pregnant until they go to the doctor with a stomachache and come home with an eight-pound infant. I hope I’m not that stupid, but you never know until you’re in the situation. I thought I might be in love once, in high school. At least I got flustered and blushed and felt sick to my stomach every time Jake came near me. I assumed that was love. Being older now, and wiser, I don’t feel like throwing up, but all the other feelings are there.
A monumental realization like this can’t go uncelebrated. ‘Siobhan, want to go to Selfridges at lunch?’
‘For what?’
‘Free make-up.’
‘Do you have a voucher?’
‘Wha–? No. I’ll explain on the way.’ How can such a trendy woman not know about free makeovers? Suddenly I feel like Yoda, so happy my wisdom to impart I am.
‘I’m glad you took the job,’ Siobhan says as we settle into the Tube. ‘You’re the only one I like there. The rest of them are gobshites.’
I love Siobhan’s ability to really bring her opinions to life. It must come from having the blood of Ireland’s bards in her veins. And I appreciate that she quickly grasps when I don’t have the faintest idea what she’s saying. ‘Loudmouths who talk out of their arses,’ she clarifies. ‘They aren’t worth knowing.’
‘Ah. I had noticed that.’ The other girls at the company have done little to impress their warmth upon me. They’re not bitches exactly. They’re just unfriendly. And I keep overhearing different pairs badmouthing the rest of the team as they come out of the ladies room. And not one has asked me to go for a drink or a coffee, or even enquired about my day. I guess that means they are bitches. ‘I’m really glad I met you too. You remind me a little of my best friend, Stacy.’
‘Really?’ I can tell that she’s touched. She does though. She’s just as ballsy and sharp, though she has a vulnerable side too. She gets positively weepy over things she reads in the paper (by ‘paper’ I mean the Metro, the city’s journalistic equivalent of olives on the table…you’ll eat them if they’re in front of you but they don’t replace a full meal). Perhaps surprisingly, her tendency to bawl doesn’t come from a negative view of the world or her chance of success in it. No number of epically bad dates, and they all seem to go about as well as her evening with the lawyer, can knock her faith in romance. For Siobhan, the next perfect man is probably just around the corner.
‘Yeah. Stacy and I used to sneak out of work at least once a month to get makeovers together.’
‘Then I’m honoured to carry on the tradition with you.’
I find the secret of success is not to let the saleswomen guilt, cajole or bully you into buying everything they slap on your face. They might promise you lip-plumping kissableness and lashes lovingly wrapped in magical thickening tubes, but don’t be lulled into complacency. Their sales pitch goes straight for
your freshly lifted satin-smooth airbrush-effect jugular. Some of those girls could persuade Stella McCartney into a gorilla-fur coat. Over the years, I’ve perfected a great little noise when they give me the mirror to show off their handiwork. It’s the sound you make when you get a paper cut, followed by the tiniest shake of the head. ‘I don’t know,’ I say. ‘I’m not sure if it’s really me.’ Then I assure them that I’m very grateful they tried their best, and they flatter me in a last-ditch effort to get me to buy, and we part friends. Unfortunately, they singled out Siobhan immediately. Limping gazelles at dusk on the savannah have had better chances. It didn’t help that she blurted out ‘I had no idea I could do this!’ when she first sat down. So she has only herself to blame that she might now have to get a part-time job to pay off this month’s credit-card bill. She looks great though.
Based on Mark’s reaction, I must look pretty good too. He’s actually lingering at my desk. Subtly, of course. His professionalism really is amazing. He hasn’t made a single comment about us or even hinted about wanting to see me again since our second date. No wonder he’s the head of the company. I suppose he’d have to ask me when he’s sure no one at the office could overhear. It wouldn’t do for people to think I’m getting any special treatment. Hasn’t he already told me that he’s confident I’ll be a resounding success completely on my own merit? I love that he’s so supportive. Not all boyfriends are like that. Maybe he’ll send an email, though if Siobhan has access, he might have to be even more discreet. This is so romantic. We’re practically Tony and Maria from West Side Story. The fact that he upholds such standards makes me so proud of him. This is a man of honour.
‘Mark?’ It’s Siobhan stomping down the hall. For a girl who can’t weigh more than a hundred pounds she has the heel strike of a water buffalo. ‘Your wife called again. She says you can get her on her mobile.’
Come again?
9
Mark is married. And not married-in-name-only either. He’s honestly, truly married. Well, obviously he’s not honestly married. I sat at my desk for about two years after Siobhan made her announcement, staring at Mark with my MAC Viva Glam VI mouth open. And do you know what he did? He had the nerve to mouth ‘I’ll talk to you later’ and wink! I can’t believe this. I cannot believe it. Not after the last time I fell for another woman’s husband. I’m not a stupid girl, my married-man track record aside, and I’m generally a decent judge of character. Unfortunately, some men have an extra wily gene that activates when they say ‘I do’.
