“I’m not going to be able to go anywhere if you bloody starve me to death, am I?” I moan back at her because, once again I know she’s right. She’s always frigging right. A ferocious growl from deep within my stomach makes itself known, cheering on the bitchy, hungry beast inside me.
~*~
It’s been a while since I last stopped by Rachel’s place. She’s been harping on about getting the place done up for years. To be honest, I never thought I’d live to see a mass of new colour schemes and furniture. Kudo’s to her, she’s gone all out and completely re-branded the place for the better. It really does look amazing. In all fairness, I’m a little bit jealous that this little haven doesn’t belong to me.
I remember when she first decided to open Rachel’s. It all happened on one of our all too frequent piss up nights. We’d both stumbled across this derelict little shop on the way home and Rachel instantly decided that all it needed was a little love and it could strive. Personally, I thought she was going all Britney on me and I was petrified, to say the least. Rachel’s never been one to stick to her guns and complete anything that she’s put her mind to. Well, except devouring the whole Sex and the City boxset that I’d bought her a few Christmases back. That was the only time that she’s ever gone AWOL. It was a pretty bad time for anyone close to her and I highly doubt that she even moved from the couch to shower. She really was that engrossed, the dirty cow.
We woke up the next day and sat down to revise her almost illegible business plan and she hasn’t looked back since.
“Tuna melt for the grumpy cow.”
“Thanks.” I look up and smile gratefully at my best friend. “I promise I won’t be as grumpy once I’ve eaten.”
“Yeah, whatever.” Rachel’s elbow nudges gently against mine as she takes a seat next to me and I know that once again, I’m forgiven. I really don’t deserve to have a friend like her.
“This place looks great,” I say, holding my hand over my mouth so she doesn’t get a face full of food. I know it’s rude to talk with your mouth full and normally I actively use the manners that I was given, but I’m hungry and I don’t have much time left to waste. The last thing that I need right now is Cruella hunting me down. Especially acknowledging me in public.
“It does, doesn’t it. I’m so happy with how everything’s turned out and the customers seem to be enjoying it too. It feels a lot more relaxed in here now.”
“One question, though. Did you choose the colour scheme for me?” A soft mixture of purple hues capture my eyes as I look around the walls. The seats are plush leather in a deep cocoa and look so inviting. It’s so pretty; it’s so Rachel. You can’t help but feel warm and cosy in here. I guess it looks like I know where I’ll be spending the next few months over winter.
“How’d you guess?”
“Because you love me and this way it feels like I’m a part of you all the time.”
“Got it in one, sunshine.” She replies sarcastically. “Anyway, why’ve you ventured out of the office? You’re usually strapped to that desk and can only be removed by force.”
“Yeah, well.” I groan. “Today happened and I needed the break.” I wish I could go back to bed and start over, happily deleting the upcoming events as I go.
“Right, who pissed you off?”
“Where do you want me to start, Rach? How about everyone.” Even I can’t mistake the sound of defeat in my tone.
“Everyone?” Her smile dips a little at my words.
“Yes, everyone. However, you redeemed yourself by feeding me. I don’t know, everything just feels off today. Like there’s some massive joke that everyone but me is in on, if that makes sense? It doesn’t help that bloody Cruella’s back in the office. I really wish that she’d stumble over a bridge in those ridiculously large heels that she wears and does herself a serious injury.” Rachel’s mouth hangs open some and I know that she’s dying to tell me off for being such a nasty bitch, but I don’t care. “Add in that the photocopier’s still being a fucking arse and then there’s Matt. Well, Matt’s just being Matt.”
“Oh…”
Exactly… Oh. Staying home and watching re-runs of Sex and the City, surrounded by a monstrous bar of Galaxy sounds much more of a tempting way to spend my Tuesday afternoon. Instead, I’ve got to go back to that hell hole. “I used to love my job, Rach.” I weep into my coffee.
“You just need a break Em, let your hair down and have some fun for a change. Unwind a little.”
She’s right. As always, she bloody right, Little miss know it all. “How much wilder do you think I can get with an M&S dine in for one?”
“You want fun, yes?” She asks and I give her a small nod over the rim of my very large - this could give costa a run for it’s money - coffee mug. “Brilliant, because Thursday night my love, you’ve got a date.”
“Good evening, dear.”
“Hi.” I smile back to my lovely, old and completely bat-shit crazy neighbour. He’s a lovely chap, possibly one of the kindest men you will ever meet by a long stretch, but at the same time, there’s really only so much Grime pumping through your walls at all hours a sane person can take.
I was a little shocked that he wasn’t blaring out the good old tried and tested, loved by all Foster & Allen, but each to their own I guess. God bless Mr. Jones, he’s definitely one that’s kept up to date with the times, that’s for sure. I’d even go as far to bet everything I own that his surround system is, no doubt, every teenager’s wet dream. It’s probably worth more than all the contents inside his house, too.
“Make sure you stick that heating on and crank it up full whack, won’t you? We’ve been forecast a week’s worth of snow tonight.” A week’s worth? Really? “Wouldn’t want a lovely young girl like you to be holed up all winter with a bad case of the flu, would we?” He continues.
“I’ll make sure that I pop it on,” I promise, my feet crunching against the gravel with each step that I take. “Speaking of the cold, shouldn’t you be inside keeping warm, instead of…” What’s he even doing? It’s past six on a cold and miserable Tuesday evening in the middle of winter. I wouldn’t mind, but I’m pretty sure he’s almost clocking past seventy and that’s putting it kindly, with all the love in my heart. He must be bloody freezing and I’m pretty sure a good old trusty pair of long-johns wouldn’t even fight the chill.
“Don’t you be worrying about me, dear. Red hot blood runs through these veins. I’ve got the body of an Ox, or at least that’s what Margaret used to tell me, God rest her soul. Plus, I thought it best to give these hedges a quick trim before the snow comes. It doesn’t half ruin the scenery when they’re all out of whack.”
Like I said, completely bat-shit crazy. Who the hell goes hedge trimming in the middle of winter? Mr bloody Jones, that’s who. I wouldn’t mind, but there’s hardly anything left on the bushes now anyway. Maybe he’s got some weird form of twig OCD. Yes, that had to be it, twig OCD. It’s a thing these days, right? “Well, make sure you don’t stay out too long, Mr. Jones.”
I’m almost at my door and I struggle to dig out my keys as my hands are completely numb. I can’t wait to step inside into my warm, comforting humble abode and bask in my own little bubble. A bubble where no one else can enter without my permission. It’s a pretty perfect bubble if I’m being perfectly honest.
“Oh, Emily.” Mr. Jones shouts over. A visible cloud of hot air coming from his mouth, indicating just how cold it really is. “Before you go, I’ve got something for you.” He waves his hands around frantically before scurrying off towards his porch. Something tells me that he wasn’t really hedge-trimming. Or maybe he was, but maybe he just stayed out a little longer, patiently waiting for me to arrive back home. “The young Postman tried to drop this off for you earlier. Told him he’d have a fat chance catching you. I explained how much of a busy lass you are and that I’d be more than happy to take it in for you.”
“Thanks, Mr. Jones.” I eye the package in his hands suspiciously, trying to work
out what it could be. I’m pretty sure that I haven’t over-indulged this month. To be fair, me and my credit card have had a little to do and are taking a hiatus for the foreseeable. As hard as it is, I know it’s for the best. When we’re finally reunited again, maybe we’ll appreciate each other a little more. Or, maybe when those nasty, power hungry control freaks at the bank take their goddamn knickers out of their arse and increase my limit.
“Here’s a lovely shiny new card Miss Parker so that you can treat yourself to lots of lovely, pretty things, because you know, you’re pretty awesome and you deserve it. But as soon as it’s maxed out, we’ll refuse to give you a credit increase because we’re soul destroyers like that and we love nothing more than to watch all your new found happiness slowly and painfully leave your body.
Bastards.
“Early Christmas present?” He asks enthusiastically.
“I’ve got no idea,” I reply truthfully. “but, I’m sure I’ll have fun finding out.”
I love presents. Absolutely adore them, almost as much as wine, but I feel rather confused when I look at this plain looking package. Usually, I can guess what’s in it in an instant, but this one doesn’t give anything away. It doesn’t say what it is, or who it’s from. All it has is a local postage stamp. That’s it. That’s all I have to go off. Who knows, maybe my Mum’s on track this year and decided to send the Christmas presents early. I’d really like to think that, but this package feels like there’s a heavy weight attached to it and not from the contents. Plus, my Mother loves to doodle, she just can’t stop herself, so I’d definitely know if this parcel was from her.
It’s hardly the most festive parcel that I’ve ever received, either. There’s not one single Santa, reindeer or elf in sight. Instead, I’ve got a boringly brown standard package. I mean come on, for the love of God, it hardly screams ‘open me.’
I say a quick goodbye to Mr. Jones, conscious that my nipples could fall off at any given moment. I won’t lie, I thought they’d gone on strike from being neglected for so long, but no; here they are, like bloody bullets painfully rubbing against my favourite ‘double your cup-size’ bra.
As I shuffle through my front door, I flick on the lights and pop the heating on. Best do what Mr. Jones says. My house is small, but it’s very homely at the same time. Cosy, even. It’s a lovely little two up, two down that my Grandma bought for me just before she passed. She hated the current economy and found it shocking that young people were finding it extremely hard to get on the property ladder. So, instead of leaving me some savings in an ISA, she went and bought me a house. According to my wise old Grandma, she’d much rather I be set up with a roof over my head, than money that I’d only piss up the wall anyway. I’m glad in a way, It’s not often someone my age doesn’t need to worry about rent or mortgage payments. Also, every time I walk through my door, I’m still left with a little piece of her. A woman who I loved and idolised more than anything. No matter how crap my day has been, my little sanctuary always makes everything better, and wine. Wine solves everything.
I drag my feet slowly along the floor, my body completely riddled with emotional and physical fatigue and make my way towards the kitchen, my handbag clutched in one hand and my mystery surprise in the other. There’s no way that I’m capable of saving this until Christmas. Two weeks is torture. It’s a lifetime away. Anything could happen between now and then. God forbid I ended up in an accident and passed away. I’d never know what was inside.
I delicately place the box on my kitchen table, being extra cautious as I go. Who knows how fragile it could be. I remember one year when I wasn’t so careful. The limited-edition penguin snow globe that my Mum had ordered from the back of her Take a break magazine shattered into a million sparkly pieces all over my kitchen floor. I was gutted, to say the least. I’d been hinting about it for ages too, and bam, in just a couple of reckless seconds, it was gone. Never to be seen or experienced ever again.
I didn’t even get to shake it.
I wake after a fitful night’s sleep and feel horrific. I feel like I drank my whole body weight in wine, threw it all back up, gave no fucks whatsoever and then drank some more. Oh, wait, no, that’s exactly what I did do.
I know that I’m in bed, my deep purple faux satin quilts confirming it for me, but I’ve got no recollection of how I ended up here. To be fair, everything became a blur as soon as I opened my mystery box. I can just about remember cracking open my wine and that’s it…
Nothing.
What day is it? Please say it’s the weekend and then I don’t have to move and I can stay here and wallow in self-pity all day. Reluctantly, I roll over to the cold and empty side on my right and reach for my phone on the bedside table.
“Ouch.” Bloody hell my head hurts. I press the home button on my shiny, brand spanking new iPhone 7 and shield my eyes from the slaughtering brightness. 8:55 am and its Wednesday.
Shit, shit, shit. I’m late. I’m usually in the office by now, at least three coffees down. There’s not a cat in hells chance that I’ll be able to make it through the doors in five minutes time. I won’t even make it to my bathroom in five friggin’ minutes.
I’m never late, ever. Today’s already set to be a complete write-off.
Should I just call in sick? I’ve not called in sick since me and Rachel decided to go on a last minute trip to Newcastle. Now that’s a night that didn’t end too pretty, but that’s another story for another day.
Why did I have to open that bloody package? Why did Mr. Jones have to be such a good neighbour and take it in, in the first place? Deciding that the world is completely against me, I drag myself out of bed and I feel sick. I’ve never felt so vile in all of my almost thirty years. Maybe one of these days I might just learn that I’m a lightweight and I need to calm it down a little before I do myself an injury, or worse; something I might regret.
First thing’s first though, I need a shower. I stink, really, really stink. I smell like a student on fresher’s week and believe me, that shit isn’t pretty.
Almost an hour later, I’m showered, dressed and kind of looking a little more human. Oh, who am I kidding? There isn’t any amount of touch éclat that could cover up these bags. Seriously, looking at my reflection, I feel like I’m auditioning for the part of uncle fester in the Addam’s Family. Hands down, I’d get it too.
“What the hell happened to you?”
“I’d rather not get into it.” I say, refusing to make eye contact with Matt. I must look a mess if he can see through my very expensive, but extremely necessary ray-bans. The fewer questions asked right now, the better. I can’t even think straight, let alone talk to anyone.
“I wouldn’t make yourself too comfy just yet. I’ve had orders from the lady boss to send you over as soon as you get in. I’ll warn you, she seemed super pissed. I reckon you should have pulled a sicky.”
The lady boss? What are they, pals now? “I’m saving those for desperate times.”
“Emily, you look like a desperate time right now.” On a normal day, I’d happily argue the toss with him, but I know it would be a losing battle. It’s all Pinot Grigio’s bloody fault anyway and that package. If it wasn’t for them then I would have gone to bed a happy soul, but instead a depressed raving lush ended up passing out in my bed.
“Do I need to take weapons?” My head’s still spinning and I can’t be arsed with Cruella on your average day. Today, I may just get done for murder. Matt shakes his head at me, his handsome face full of pity. I don’t want his pity. I want him to tell me that everything will be okay and I’m stressing over nothing like normal. Those words don’t come and neither does the hug. “Do I have time to grab a quick coffee?”
“Emily, can you come to my office, like now? Do you not think you’ve wasted enough time already?” She shouts down to me. Who the hell does she think she is?
“Oh, fuck off,” I mumble and quickly glance at the clock on the wall to see that I am in fact one hour and forty-five minutes late.
If she wants to get all arsey with me, then she can call it me accruing my time back for all the endless hours that I’ve stayed behind over the years, desperately trying to amend contracts, fixing other people’s mistakes just so that everything still flows well with the clients, and what was she doing? Off out spending Daddy’s hard earned cash, because she sure as hell hasn’t earned a thing since, or before she started here.
The door to Amanda’s office slams shut and echoes around the silent office and it doesn’t bode well with my head at all. “Is she being for real?” I ask myself out loud.
“Look, the sooner you get in there, the sooner you can come back out here and get on with things.” I know Matt means well and he’s only trying to spur me on, but he really isn’t helping matters. All he’s doing is working me up more.
“I thought you were supposed to be my friend?” My lips fall into a massive pout, one that could give Kim Kardashian a good run for her money, and that’s a lot of bloody money too.
“Don’t get all hormonal on me, Parker.” He warns and it doesn’t make me feel much better.
“Don’t be a knob head then.” I childishly spout back at him.
I don’t bother knocking on Cruella’s door. Instead, I decide to walk right in. Hey, if she can be rude and demanding towards me, then I’m not going to be using my manners and showing her any respect any time soon.
“Emily, take a seat.” Her voice comes out snappy and her lips are pursed tighter than a cat’s arse. It’s not a good look and someone really needs to tell her.
“Look, if you’re just going to be a bitch, I’ll save you the job and walk out now.” It’s hardly a secret that we’re not exactly bosom buddies, but up until now, I’ve always tried to remain professional around her. That doesn’t mean I always have, but like I said, I’ve tried.
Heartbreak's A Bitch! Page 3
