The Single Girl’s Calendar

by Erin Green

  ‘You like stationery?’

  ‘You can tap, tap, tap on the computer thingy?’

  ‘You can make coffee without wasting time?’

  ‘Yes, yes, and yes,’ had been Esmé’s eager reply as a naïve twenty year old, in desperate need of work and independence.

  ‘You can start after lunch time then?’

  Her first proper interview and her first proper job after walking out mid-afternoon from her original job in the box factory, where she was used and abused and asked to clean the toilets.

  How she missed Stavros Stylo, with his fatherly mannerisms.

  ‘I assure you there are reasons but it will never happen again,’ pleaded Esmé.

  ‘Your hair, there’s something different?’

  Esmé touched her once lustrous locks, feeling instead the crispy texture of styling product and was reminded, yet again, that her long hair had gone to the big dust pan in the sky.

  ‘Oh yes, a slight trim.’ An understatement, Tristan took ten inches off from all over transforming a glorious young woman into a pantomime page. ‘But that is not the reason I was late…’

  ‘The colour?’ Stylo’s hand flaps around her own head of fine grey hair.

  ‘Yes, I was auburn last week and now…’

  ‘White?’

  ‘Platinum, actually… though if you wish to call it white, then yes, white.’

  Esmé watched as the old lady’s hand absentmindedly touched the nape of her wrinkled neck, and fingered the texture of her own greying locks imprisoned in a severe bun.

  ‘You think such a colour would…?’

  Kill me now. The devil of all bosses wishes to copy my haircut, my life is seriously in trouble.

  ‘I’m not so sure…’ she muttered, not wishing to sound rude but definitely not wishing to gain an aged twin.

  Mrs Stylo frowned, her steel grey eyes bore into Esmé.

  And now I’ve annoyed her twice in one morning.

  ‘Are you having a crisis?’ asked the elderly lady.

  Possibly.

  ‘To be honest Mrs Stylo, life has changed pretty rapidly in recent days to such an extent that—’ Esmé began to explain.

  ‘You want leave Stylo?’

  ‘To be honest no, but…’

  ‘You here with my husband, he called you his top girl and yet you come in here saying you want out, you having crisis – which leads to change, which ultimately means you will be going for the interviews, yeah?’ said Mrs Stylo. She continued to tut long after her sentence. ‘How much?’

  Esmé’s ears pricked up. What did she say?

  ‘I ask you, how much? How much for you to stop having the crisis and stop looking elsewhere for more pennies?’

  Esmé wondered fleetingly if it would be entirely bad manners to jump up and dash from her office for an emergency conflab with Marianne and Penny about the best way to negotiate something she hadn’t even thought about. Instead, she sat tight. Her last pay rise was two years ago and that was only enough to cover the increase in her bus fare to and from work. If her new lifestyle was to be stress free she needed to ask for much more, more than she’d have dreamed of but hey, what had The Single Girl’s Calendar, day five, said ‘a financial make-over’.

  ‘Three thousand,’ whispered Esmé, watching the old lady’s reaction. A figure plucked from the air but at roughly twenty quid a week per thousand before tax that would be a nice amount to cushion the blow should any unexpected bills come her way. Andrew had never been her safety net but he would never have seen her go short, not while they were living together, anyway. But Andrew was history and so was his safety net.

  Mrs Stylo grabbed her calculator and punched buttons for a considerable amount of time.

  ‘Three thousand, you say?’

  Esmé nodded, speaking was not an option.

  After a few more button presses, the old lady gave the tiniest of nods. If she’d blinked, Esmé would have missed it.

  ‘OK, OK, but no more of this crisis and you stop looking for new job, right?’

  You suggested a new job, not me, thought Esmé.

  ‘Oh yes, definitely… right, from this point onwards no more crisis… no more… finished, gone, done and dusted,’ said Esmé, as she scrambled up from her seat and edged towards the office door. Through which she shot, closed and then instantly returned in a fluster to say. ‘Thank you!’

  ‘And my Stavros, he thought you were the best, men, phah!’ muttered the old lady, shaking her head and returning to her paperwork.

  *

  Esmé climbed the office stairs in a state of shock. How could this be happening? She thought she’d been called in for a dressing down but instead walked out with a pay rise. How? Why? When she’d opened door five of her single girl’s calendar she’d imagined the task related to balancing her current account, denial about her overdraft and arranging to sell a whole load of her belongings on eBay purely to make ends meet. Instead, she was entering the shared office with a huge smile on her face.

  ‘What’s wrong with you?’ asked Penny, viewing her stunned expression. Marianne stopped shuffling paper and stared too.

  ‘If I told you, I’d have to kill ya,’ laughed Esmé, slumping into her seat, eager to start work.

  *

  Esmé felt like a survivor for most of the morning but a mid-afternoon break found her weeping in the ladies’ toilets. With damp red eyes, she peered into the wash basin mirror, in need of a pep talk.

  ‘There’s no going back. He’s shown his true colours. He can beg as much as he wants but I’ll put the phone down. I don’t want to hear his sob story. If he calls, I’ll say ‘Andrew, you had your chance and you blew it.’

  Argh! Esmé cringed, bringing herself back to the reality of talking to herself in the toilets.

  She splashed cold water onto her face and vowed not to talk to herself – it only gave the game away.

  ‘Quick, where have you been? Reception want you downstairs,’ cried Marianne across the office as she returned from the ladies. ‘Katrina is all of a flap.’

  Esmé trotted down to the main reception desk to be greeted by a smiley, plump lady in a tabard, holding an arrangement of fresh flowers. Katrina, the receptionist, looked longingly at them over her high desk.

  ‘Esmé Peel?’ cooed the florist, offering her the colourful arrangement.

  ‘No. I don’t think so,’ was all Esmé could muster, before the smiley lady bade her a good day and swiftly departed.

  ‘I’ll have them if you don’t want them,’ offered Katrina, her receptionist’s head-set skewed around her lower jaw.

  ‘I’ll let you know.’ Esmé climbed back up the stairs, her arms quivering with the weight of the delivery.

  ‘Oh, how beautiful,’ squealed Penny, as Esmé entered the office peering through foliage and ferns.

  ‘Predictable,’ muttered Marianne.

  ‘Now what? Accept them and take them home or donate them?’

  ‘I’ll have them,’ snapped Penny, blushing on receipt of a cold stare from Marianne.

  ‘Your shout, but be careful… how many times has he ever bought you flowers, let alone sent you flowers?’ asked Marianne, cautiously eyeing the arrangement as Esmé placed it on the centre desk.

  ‘Never.’

  ‘Exactly.’ Marianne gently touched the delicate rose and lily petals.

  ‘He’s sorry… he’s acknowledging that he messed up,’ offered Penny, her eyes pleaded with Esmé to accept or donate to her. ‘Are you going to read the card?’

  ‘Nah, you can throw it in the bin.’

  ‘Esmé,’ said Penny, looking to Marianne for reinforcement. ‘You really should read it.’

  ‘I was only ever thinking about us and he was thinking about them! I don’t feel bad, if you wish to read the card then go ahead, be my guest, but I refuse to be manipulated. However much this has cost it doesn’t come near to what it has cost me!’

  Esmé sat at her desk and stared at the bouquet. It was beautiful,
it had probably cost him a small fortune and yet, the very sight of it turned her stomach. Had she asked for this? No, all she’d wanted was a faithful, committed Andrew. It was too little, too late.

  ‘Penny, take them home.’

  ‘Whoop.’ Penny gushed at the prospect, before piping down and making certain Esmé was sure.

  ‘No, seriously… I can’t accept them, on principle, and I’m not carrying them on the bus only to ignore them for a fortnight. Please, you’ll be doing me a favour.’

  ‘Brave choice,’ whispered Marianne.

  ‘Though you might want to sneak past Katrina on the way out tonight,’ laughed Esmé.

  *

  Esmé knocked on the door of apartment nine, her key was in her hand but it didn’t feel right to use it.

  Andrew opened the door wearing scruffy jeans and a crumpled tee-shirt. His look of surprise was touching.

  ‘What’s with the bleached hair?’

  ‘Hi… I fancied a change.’

  ‘It’s different from your usual style.’

  ‘Good different or bad different?’

  ‘Hmmm…’

  ‘Never mind, it doesn’t matter what your opinion is, to be honest. Anyway, sorry to disturb you but I’ve brought some boxes to…’

  ‘I thought you’d send your parents to bag and box… I was dreading…’ he stepped aside, embarrassed by his response. ‘Anyway, come in.’

  The door shut firmly behind her. The hallway felt smaller than ever with them both standing silently observing each other. How many times had they stood together here prior to going out, arriving home, waving off friends or welcoming family – so many times and yet, now, urgh!

  ‘Go through.’ Andrew pointed towards the lounge doorway.

  She wasn’t expecting this. Esmé was half expecting him to be the normal Andrew, bouncy, boisterous and a tad bolshie but this shell of a man with his crumpled tee-shirt, a five o’clock shadow and uncombed hair wasn’t the Andrew she knew.

  Esmé looked around the lounge, the curtains were drawn, the tv was on mute and an empty pizza box lay open on the floor by the couch.

  ‘Is she here?’ asked Esmé, standing in the centre of his lounge.

  ‘Sadie?’

  ‘Mmmm.’

  ‘No. Esmé that was—’

  ‘Don’t. Please. I haven’t come here to discuss things… I’ve come to collect a set of bed sheets, a change of clothes and a few personal belongings,’ she said, adding ‘but thank you for the flowers, they were beautiful.’

  A flash of hope flickered in his eyes.

  ‘I wanted you to know how sorry I am.’ He took a step forward, his unshaven face puffy and tired.

  ‘Sorry but no. You made a choice when you and her… now, I need to… and I’ve decided. I can’t forgive.’

  Andrew flopped backwards into the nearest arm chair, his crestfallen expression stared at her.

  ‘We’re through?’

  ‘Sadly, yeah.’

  He shook his head, his eyes glistened.

  ‘You cheated. What do you expect me to do? Forgive and forget?’

  ‘I want to make amends… Let me make amends. We’ll get engaged, married – do whatever you want, just say it and we’ll do it.’

  She shook her head as a wave of emotion snagged in her throat.

  Andrew launched himself from the arm chair, dropped to one knee and grabbed her left hand, his eyes were desperate, his lips trembling.

  ‘Esmé.’

  She snatched back her hand as if electrocuted by his touch.

  And now, he asks. After all those years of hoping, he asks now!

  Esmé wanted to cry. What wouldn’t she have given for him to even suggest getting engaged prior to Thursday evening.

  ‘I can’t.’

  Andrew rose from the carpet and stood before her, staring.

  ‘It would be a mistake,’ she muttered, not able to look at his face.

  She didn’t know where her calmness was coming from but if she could just hold it together for ten more minutes she’d be out of there and heading home to Montague Road.

  ‘Look at me,’ muttered Andrew.

  Esmé lifted her gaze to see the man before her. His pain was clearly visible. Yet, it wasn’t a face she loved, or knew any more. It was simply the face of another human being that was suffering and hurt and whose heart was probably breaking as they spoke. His large hands were not the hands that had once held her tight, caressed her skin and wiped her tears away for they were now tainted by the skin of another woman. Since Thursday, she’d imagined those very hands hastily unbuttoning a blouse, unzipping a skirt and then guiltily being washed and dried to dial up a takeaway ready for her return home after the late-night stock take.

  ‘Do you mind if I help myself, or do you want to fetch the things I need?’

  ‘You,’ was all he could muster.

  Esmé left the lounge and swiftly collected bits from the airing cupboard, her dressing table, wardrobe and the bathroom. She couldn’t help but look to see if anything new had been added to the medicine cabinet as she removed her razors and tampons.

  Chapter Thirteen

  ‘You’re late,’ snapped Jonah, just after eight thirty, as Esmé dashed to join those around the kitchen table.

  She pouted at his unexpected tone but settled opposite him in the only available chair, Crystal’s yet-to-be-bleached seat.

  A selection of snacks in cereal bowls were scattered along the table and a sea of hands were grabbing and snatching at various corn puffs and peanuts.

  ‘Can we start this house meeting?’ shouted Russ, above the chomping.

  ‘Who made you chief?’ snarled Jonah, stuffing a handful of peanuts into his mouth.

  ‘You’re in a fine mood, I can see this will go well,’ offered Asa, directing his comment to Jonah.

  ‘So?’

  ‘Is Dam not joining us?’ asked Esmé, conscious that her newly found ally always seemed to be absent.

  ‘He’s having dinner at his parents,’ said Russ, before banging his fist on the table top. ‘So, I’ve called this meeting, which probably gives me the right to be chief, Jonah. Anyway, we now have our five paying occupants so we need to organise how this is going to work.’

  ‘I think Dam should be here, it should be a face to face discussion,’ said Esmé to Russ, before she cringed. Why did she keep using that word? Asa, seated diagonally to her, didn’t flinch.

  ‘So do I, but as we said, he’s at his parents’ house enjoying a family dinner,’ said Russ.

  ‘Get on with it, I have people to see,’ sniped Jonah, flicking a cheesy puff at him.

  ‘Cleaning, rent collection, emergency details, security, visitors… how do we envisage it working when we’re all coming and going?’

  ‘I don’t care,’ said Jonah, tearing open another peanut packet before holding it to his open mouth and tipping the contents in. ‘I left home to avoid such duties and constant moaning.’

  ‘OK, first things first, emergency contact numbers – can you fill in your details and phone numbers,’ said Russ, producing a piece of lined paper.

  ‘Where is this going to be kept?’ asked Asa.

  ‘Back of the kitchen door, unless you want to make a note in your mobiles as well, just in case,’ suggested Russ, scribbling down his info before sliding the piece of paper to Asa.

  ‘Yeah, right.’ Asa slid it straight past to Jonah.

  ‘Is it optional?’ asked Esmé, eyeing Asa.

  ‘Not really,’ said Russ, finding the contacts app on his mobile.

  ‘So why’s he allowed to pass—’

  ‘No family. That’s me,’ said Asa, his tattooed features grinning at her.

  ‘Who do we phone in the case of an emergency?’ she asked.

  ‘An ambulance… do you need me to write that number down for you?’

  Surely everyone had somebody. Even if it was relatives you didn’t like or didn’t get on with… who had nobody?

  Asa looked up an
d caught her staring.

  ‘Seriously, no parents, siblings or grandparents remaining… so, whose details do you want me to put?’

  Esmé’s heart sank, as Jonah completed his details and pushed the paper and pen in her direction. Esmé filled in her parents’ contact details and added Kane’s as an afterthought.

  ‘Dam can fill in his later,’ said Russ, taking the paper back on completion.

  ‘Dam will already be with his family in an emergency, because the likelihood of him being here long enough to have a bloody emergency is slim,’ laughed Jonah, reaching for more snacks.

  ‘Is he always at his parents’ then?’

  ‘The majority of the time… there was no point to him moving in,’ said Jonah, looking at Russ and Asa for confirmation.

  ‘His choice,’ said Asa.

  ‘He can do as he pleases as long as he coughs up the rent each month,’ added Russ.

  ‘The umbilical cord is yet to be cut,’ whispered Jonah, leaning across the table.

  ‘That’s unfair and you know it… it’s his choice to be family orientated, so cut it out,’ said Asa, who leant along the table to deliver his retort to Jonah.

  Esmé watched their interaction. What was it Dam had said? Somebody thinks someone else is a loser. Clearly feelings were mutual.

  The discussion continued in the same manner covering toilet roll, using the washing machine, forgetting house keys and pinching food from the fridge. Occasional spats and an underlying tone of hostility lengthened every discussion point.

  ‘Guys, please, back to business.’ Russ looked irritated, his monobrow furrowed deeply as the other two men out-stared each other. ‘Next discussion, please.’

  ‘I was wondering…’ Esmé looked around her housemates. ‘Who’ll vacuum the staircases and communal areas?’

  ‘What?’ Asa pulled a quizzical face.

  The other two simply stared

  Esmé blushed.

  What an idiotic thing to say.

  ‘Good point,’ said Asa. ‘Such questions keep me awake at night because the list is endless – who’ll empty the kitchen bin, clean the filter in the tumble dryer and replace the rim block in the bog… but hey, if you want to figure out the vacuuming, be my guest. Or you can lighten up and live a little.’