by Celia Hayes
Going out to seek relief and going home to escape from it.
I slowly climb the stairs that lead to the second floor and I start pulling the keys from my trouser pocket, mentally preparing for a hard night’s work.
I could just say to hell with it all and watch a movie in the company of a couple of beers, but what would that get me apart from a headache? When I reach the landing I fiddle a bit with the defective lock and then notice a letter tucked right under the door.
How long has that been there?
I hadn’t noticed it when I went out.
I bend down, pick it up and go to the living room, throwing it distractedly onto the sofa. I don’t turn on the light, not right away, but walk through the dark, guided with difficulty by the dim glow of the streetlights in the road below. The twilight envelops me with its warmth, sweeping away my tension, and finally I feel my muscles relax.
I drop my bag on the table, walk towards the mirror at the entrance and take my sweater off, looking at my reflection in the marbled black resin frame.
I’ve lost weight. How much? Three, four kilos?
And I hadn’t even noticed. The real problem is that in the race, you sometimes forget the goal and it becomes an end in itself that takes you in unexpected directions – a bit like mine.
I put my nose to the grindstone, leaving behind friends, family, and hobbies, and for what? To find myself alone in a furnished attic in an abandoned village in Scotland?
I feel a lump in my throat and I almost burst into tears. Holding it in is harder than usual, but I’ve no desire to spend the night sobbing, it would be useless. Totally useless! Irrational. Unproductive, right?
I sniff and take my top off, then I throw it on a chair along with the rest of my clothes. With the apprehension of an adolescent discovering her new shape, I look at myself for the first time in months, and I’m surprised to discover I don’t remember what I actually look like. I’ve always been lean, it’s true, but since when could you see my ribs?
No, I didn’t used to be like this. Even my cheeks weren’t so hollow. My eyes weren’t lifeless. My legs were much more muscular and here… right here on the lips… Yes, I’m sure. It was there. It was there, I can’t be wrong. There used to be a carefree smile.
What happened to me?
At that point, I’m assailed by the thought of having lost control of a part of my life. More or less the one that goes from eight in the morning until eleven at night. But the fact is that realising it doesn’t help me find a solution, it only gives me the proof that I have no choice but to persevere in this vicious circle, hoping that sooner or later something will change.
Another five months. Another five more endless months… I feel like I’m about to collapse.
No. I can’t give up now.
I have to do it!
If I work hard, if I manage to recover the deficit of the branch… My career is all I have left. I can’t lose that as well.
The very thought of finding myself without my job, without Karen, or my office, is enough to give me the strength to push away these absurd thoughts, put a brake on my momentary emotionalism and run to my room to put on a pair of shorts.
If you can’t win then make a deal, and that’s just what I’m doing now. I’m making compromises with my future. I decide that from now on I will never lower my expectations beyond a certain level, and that it’ll be a level that only I can establish.
Resolutely, I take a bottle of wine from the fridge and go and stretch out on the sofa in the company of my computer, determined to work for as long as I can keep my eyes open. The sooner I finish, the sooner I can go home. The sooner I go home, the sooner I can take back control of my life. Once I’ve got my routine back, I’ll think about what to do.
One step at a time.
*
It’s around three in the morning when I decide to take a break. The first since I got back.
I spent more than three hours on the documents Catherine gave me; finding out that most of the shortfall is due to the concession of overdrafts and loans with very low interest rates to entirely unsuitable clients. Transactions that often occurred with a total absence of guarantees – if not on good faith, and, I imagine, the congenital inability of the now former manager, Mr Bailey, to say ‘no’ to friends, relatives or close acquaintances. Sometimes amounts of some size which, it seems fair to assume, were never paid back, or at least not in their entirety. The point now, putting aside any possible recriminations, is how to intervene.
“Mr Bailey, it’s Miss Watts. Could you join me in the office tomorrow morning?”
While I write a new message on my smartphone and try and get comfortable while sending it, something sharp scratches my arm.
“Oh God, what is that? An insect?” I murmur.
I peer around until, white as a sheet, I find hidden amongst the cushions the mysterious envelope that had been under the front door.
“Ah…”
Intrigued, I begin to flip it over in my hands.
Is it a message from Ethan?
No, it can’t be. He doesn’t seem the type for epistolary correspondence.
“Let’s see…”
I tear off the edge of the envelope and pull out a card on which is typed:
On behalf of the City Committee of Turriff,
I have the pleasure of inviting you to the next meeting, which will be
held on Wednesday evening at 21:00 at the Rectory.
We are honoured to welcome you,
The Mayor
Yeah, right, of course!
A little disappointed, I crumple the note up, throw it on the table and decide to go to sleep. I open my laptop to turn it off, when I see the status bar of the Skype icon flashing, informing me of the arrival of a new message.
Or-ace25: Still awake?
Or-ace25: I can’t sleep either.
Or-ace25: Are you there?
Or-ace25: Come on, I know you’re there.
Or-ace25: I’m not going until you answer.
Or-ace25; Look, I’ll start singing. I swear to you, I’ll do it!
Or-ace25: Come on, Trudy, just put your fingers on the keyboard and write “I love you.”
Why doesn’t he give up?
I’m about to click on ‘Switch off,’ but then I change my mind, and I ‘put my fingers on the keyboard and write’:
Trudy Watts: Horace, go fuck yourself!
Chapter 14
End of the Line
“A little something between friends. A few beers and a slice of cake”
“How about I pay for the cake and don’t come?”
“Miss Watts, we’re ready to close,” Miss Hunt surprises me, opening the door without knocking. Embarrassed, I quickly get rid of the embarrassing sexy magazine cover I was looking at on my iPad and, my cheeks burning, reply: “Good, I’ll get my things and we can go.”
Just so you know, I absolutely wasn’t loafing at work. I had just taken a few minutes break after an exhausting day.
Besides the exorbitant amount of material to read though, I have to suffer the open hostility of the entire staff, who go quiet as soon as I walk past, try to avoid me at the coffee machine and give me dirty suspicious looks whenever I approach their desks. Last but not least, today I had an appointment with the ex-manager, who appeared in my office around eleven this morning, certain that mine was a personal invitation. To clarify that we wouldn’t be talking about his nephew’s violin progress and sipping tea, I tipped half the archive onto the desk, declaring the hostilities open. After that we threw ourselves on the documents as if there was no tomorrow and we checked the repayment status of each mortgage granted, dusting off old unpaid loans and discussing previous administrative decisions that I would class as ‘interesting’. I kept him hostage there until half an hour ago, forcing him to wait for me to finish checking the credentials of all the beneficiaries and, soon after, having evaluated the requests for loans still under consideration, discarding (to his dismay) bi
zarre proposals for starting up some of the most absurd, unprofitable businesses man has ever been able to imagine.
After that tour de force, all I wanted to do was run off home, slip into my pyjamas and stuff my face with toast and strawberry jam, but when it was time to say goodbye and we looked at each other, exhausted and annoyed, he asked me if I wanted to join him at a little party that had been organized for his retirement. A kind of truce.
Obviously, I wasn’t able to refuse, aware as I was that I still needed his help and had to improve my relationship with the staff, so I accepted that I had to wait at least another six hours before seeing the pillows on my bed again. So does it really seem so strange that I’d decided to quell my murderous instincts with a little light reading? Oh come on, don’t start acting like virgins sacrificed on the altar of chastity because it won’t work! Let’s see what’s really on your tablets, and then you can have a go at my taste in reading!
Let’s start again.
It’s six o’clock.
I put everything in my bag and leave the bank, putting on a pair of glasses. I never usually wear them, but there are days when fiddling with contact lenses is a risk I don’t want to run, so I opt for something that I can safely remove at will, adopting the existential philosophy ‘when there’s no chance of dialogue, throw something at them’. I’ll tell you, I would never have said it, but the re-inforced metal edges of the frames have come in handy more often than I would have thought.
Argh… What a day.
And so, before going home to quickly get changed, I stop in a wine shop and buy a couple of bottles as a gift for Mr Bailey. I don’t know much about wine, but I let myself be guided by the prices and colour of the labels.
Nothing flashy.
No exotic names.
No silly colours.
I put the package inside a dark blue bag, attach a discreet little card to the corner, write my initials on it, say goodbye to the shop assistant and slip into the car. For the record, I have a new one now and I sincerely hope it will last longer than the first.
“Where did I put you?” I grumble, looking for my smartphone in the pockets of the bag. “Ah, there you are.”
I phone voice mail, hoping to find a message from Catherine to remind me where the party is.
Trudy Watts. Right now I’m not at home. The possibilities are the following;
I’m working, so don’t interrupt me by calling my mobile.
I’m in the hospital, so I’d be grateful if you didn’t call my mobile.
I’m dead, in which case it’s be quite useless trying to contact me on my mobile.
Alternatively, please leave a message after the beep. One message. Not a thousand. If I don’t call you back after the first call, do you really think that I’ll change my mind at the fifteenth?
Beeeep
First message:
God you’re weird… It’s Ethan. A girl came round to the pub and left a letter for you. I don’t have time to come up. I’ll put it in my mailbox.
Second message:
Trudy, dear, how are you? It’s mum. It’s been a while since we last spoke. I wondered if you were all right. If maybe… Alfred, no. Get off! You know how it annoys her whe – Hello, Trudy? Hello lambkin, I’m that strange mythological creature that inhabits the study. You know, the one that says ‘Have you paid your bills?’ and ‘Take those feet off the table.’ The one you call Dad only when you can’t pretend you haven’t seen me. Your mother and I would like to know if you’re still alive, just to make sure we don’t have to call the funeral home, or if we can continue to hope that one day you’ll look after us and lock us up in the nearest old people’s home in the city. If you want to see your bonsai alive again, come to Aunt Florence’s birthday. Bring a bottle of perfume and a pre-printed birthday card at nine o’clock in the evening to her front door. Be sure no one follows you or there’ll be consequences!
With a grimace of annoyance, I’m about to call my parents’ number when the last recording starts.
Third message:
Hello Trudy, it’s Horace. How are you? Are you feeling better? I don’t want to disturb you, I just called to say I’m sorry. I was wrong. I was with a very special person, but I was such an idiot that I lost her because of my stupid insecurities. I shouldn’t have talked to you that way yesterday. You were right to be angry with me. I would have wanted to be a better person, but it’s too late and I’ve lost everything. I didn’t think you could be so heartbroken about someone. I don’t go out any more and work is just torture. I know you don’t care, and you have every reason not to. Just know that I love you, infinitely. If you ever forgive me, you’ll find me here waiting, ready to do anything to make you happy. Anything, Trudy…
I move the phone away from my ear, let it fall between my legs and set off, driving blindly. I drive across crossroads, go straight through a red light and find myself in a dead end, blocked between two rubbish bins. I can’t continue – whatever is beyond that wall I’ll never know. My race ends here.
“Ok… everything… everything’s okay.”
I turn the car off with trembling hands, drop my face to the steering wheel and for the first time since this nightmare started, I burst into tears.
Chapter 15
A Waste of Time Trying
“He’s mine…”
“He’s mine…”
“He’s mine…”
“Couldn’t you try and make yourself look a bit less attractive?”
“Yes, my appearance is a blessing and a curse.”
“Let me introduce you to Mayor Mason.”
“Stuart Mason,” the man says, holding out a hand. “I still haven’t had the pleasure of seeing you at one of our meetings” he adds, a little dig at me that I can’t help but notice.
We are at George Bailey’s house. An old building surrounded by begonias and stuffed full of emerald green curtains and furniture so diverse in style that it looks like a flea market. We are drinking aperitifs between the fireplace and a beribboned table, chatting about this and that. Everybody’s here, the bank staff, the town’s most illustrious citizens (the doctor, pharmacist, mayor, primary school teachers), and even those local icons the florist, the old retired philosopher and the priest. More or less close friends, more or less drunk, more or less interested in something other than the buffet offered by the host.
“Unfortunately I’m very busy,” I say. “You’ve no idea how much I’d like to, but I just can’t allow myself the luxury. I’m too committed to the fate of the bank.”
And, above all, to my rapid re-integration into civilised society.
“Oh, I understand perfectly,” he mumbles, hastily. “I’ll just keep my fingers crossed that you find the time. I would like to show you our headquarters. We’ve just restored the town hall.”
Wow!
“A splendid job,” he continues. “Will you promise me you’ll try and find at least a few minutes? You simply have to see it.”
I have to?
“Choose a time and day, and I am at your disposal,” he gasps.
Oh dear…
“Errr… I’ll find some time this week. Let me just check my diary,” I surrender.
“Splendid! Splendid!” he cries in excitement. “Just think, we brought a company over from Edinburgh for the plasterwork – really talented lads.”
“Stuart, dear, won’t you introduce me?” someone, who I believe is his wife, says. She approaches us placing a jewelled hand on her husband’s back and greets me with a warm smile; the effect of which is spoiled somewhat by cheap lipstick so smudged that it deforms her lips. “Nice to meet you, I’m Elenoire. Do you like it here in Turriff?”
I squeeze her hand nodding. “It’s a really… full of character.”
“That’s true,” she confirms. “We value our traditions. You’ll see in September.”
“Why, what happens in September?”
“There’s the fair!” she shrieks shrilly. “Two days dedicated entirely to
promoting our local produce, accompanied by theatre performances, music, and the exciting ceremony electing the Pumpkin King and Queen.”
“What?” I ask, certain I haven’t understood.
“The Pumpkin King and Queen,” she repeats. “It’s adorable! The best couple at the fair will be elected and crowned during the last show. They open the dance and—”
“Miss Watts,” intrudes Mr Bailey. “Elenoire, just let me steal her for a moment.” He takes me by the arm over to the other side of the living room.
Why now, right at the best bit? I’ll never find out the fate of the Pumpkin King and Queen! How will I be able to sleep?
“Richard Marshall has just arrived,” he whispers to me conspiratorially. “The local head of RBS,” he explains, realizing that I haven’t got the faintest idea who he is talking about. “He couldn’t wait to meet you. We’ve been friends since we were kids,” he says, accompanying me towards a distinguished and skeletally thin grey haired gentleman.
So this is my potential buyer.
“Mr Marshall, pleased to meet you,” I smile.
“Enchanted,” he says, bestowing a kiss on my hand, at which I pretend to swoon.
“How gallant!”
Maybe that was a bit over the top.
“You know? I thought I would come and see you one of these days.”
Good, they’re interested!
“Really?” I ask him, amazed. “That’s a wonderful idea.”
“Hoping not to disturb you,” he adds, sounding out my reaction. “I imagine you’ve been overwhelmed. In places as quiet as this, it doesn’t take much to get everyone curious.”
“Not at all,” I reassure him. “I consider the warm welcome of your fellow citizens one of the happier aspects of my relocation. I already know that it’ll be hard for me to go back to town when the time comes.”
Credible? Maybe… A little forced, but he doesn’t seem to notice.
“I’m unforgivable,” Elenoire joins us with a mortified expression. “George, we are all ready, but I can’t open the cutlery drawer. It’s stuck and neither I nor Catherine can unlock it.”
