Come Together

by Emlyn Rees

  Eventually she agrees to come into Warehouse and winces at the loud music. I try on a slip dress and come out of the changing room to do a twirl.

  ‘It’s a bit shapeless, dear,’ she says.

  ‘It’s meant to be,’ I hiss.

  Mum grabs the price label and executes a sharp intake of breath. ‘But it’s only two pieces of material!’

  At this point I experience a complete sense of humour failure.

  ‘You’ve no bloody taste! And anyway, I like it!’ I shout and storm back into the changing cubicle, yanking across the curtain on the way.

  She’s waiting outside on the street by the time I’ve got dressed.

  ‘I was only trying to help,’ she says sniffily. ‘There’s no need to be rude.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ I sigh, and take her arm. ‘Come on, let’s get a drink.’

  The pub is too smoky for her. I love it. I’m gasping for a cigarette, but it’d be fatal to light up now and incur her wrath. I think she knows I smoke, but I’m still not going to let on, pathetic creature that I am.

  In the corner, I open the window and ply her with a restorative gin and tonic before she finally gets things off her chest.

  ‘Darling, I’m just so worried about you. You haven’t got any job prospects and it’s just not natural you living up here all by yourself. I mean, why don’t you think about a proper career? You could always go back and train to be an accountant or something. Barbara Tyson’s daughter up the road is doing very well, a big salary and …’

  I tune out. I’ve heard this a hundred times before. I don’t want a bloody career and I’d rather work in an abattoir before I set foot inside an accountancy firm. I resent the fact that she thinks I’ve failed because I’m not doing something that she can brag to the neighbours about.

  Anyway, who does she think she is? I wouldn’t swap my life for hers in a million years. All that suburban living with trips to B&Q and Slimmers World and a cosy little job in the local council. To me, that’s not success, and neither is working your arse off crunching numbers all hours of the day and night.

  But I know the reason I’m riled is that in some ways she’s right. I have failed to make a go of things and I’m shocked by how cynical I’ve become in the last three years. When I finished college, everything was different. I was different. Brimming over with enthusiasm, all set for my glittering career. I wanted to work in the fashion industry. I didn’t care how I started, I just needed a break. But the break never came, and six months after hoicking round my CV and practically begging for a job, any job, I gave up.

  So I’m temping. Nine to five, no hassle, until I sort out what to do next. ‘The temping is going well,’ I say archly, interrupting her with my well-worn spiel. ‘The jobs are interesting and it’s a very good way of seeing what’s around. If I like somewhere, there’s every possibility that I could take a permanent job – if I wanted to,’ I add. ‘I’ve got tons of options open at the moment.’

  I make this sound convincing, thrilling even, and she nods, satisfied. I hate her for swallowing it. Everybody, but everybody knows that temping leads from nowhere to nowhere. I’ve got more likelihood of being the first female astronaut on Mars than landing an even vaguely interesting career as a result of a temp job. However, this is my rut and it’s very comfortable thank you very much.

  ‘And there’s another thing,’ Mum says shyly, fiddling with her beer mat.

  Here we go. The real reason for her visit.

  ‘It’s just that at your age I was married and thinking about a family. And well, I was wondering …’

  ‘Ye-es?’

  ‘Well, I know you’re very close to Helen and if there was anything you wanted to tell me, about the two of you … well … I would try and understand.’

  I don’t believe this! My mother thinks I’m a lesbian.

  Great.

  I interrupt her warped train of thought before she damages my reputation any further. ‘Mum, there’s no need to worry.’ I take a deep breath and cross my fingers, hoping this will cancel out my tempting fate. ‘I’ve met someone. A man,’ I add, pointedly.

  I can almost hear the Hallelujah chorus in my mother’s head.

  ‘It’s early days,’ I mutter, unnerved by the look of radiant joy that has lit up her features. ‘So I don’t want to say too much at this stage.’

  ‘Oh darling,’ she chokes. ‘That’s, well, it’s wonderful, such a relief. I was beginning to think…’

  ‘I know what you were beginning to think,’ I say through gritted teeth.

  She finally clocks my warning tone. ‘Of course you must be feeling sensitive. It’s so exciting falling in love.’

  I down my gin and tonic and switch off. I can tell I’m going to pay for this.

  I hate Sundays. I loathe and detest them. There’s nothing to do, except watch The Waltons and the omnibus EastEnders. And if you’re single, it’s pants.

  Everyone knows that if you’ve got a lover, Sundays couldn’t be more different. People in couples reserve Sundays for joyful cosy togetherness.

  I hate them all.

  I bet they’re down at Café Flo right now, holding hands under the papers, glowing from their lazy morning shagging. Or they’re zooming round in their convertible cars, laughing together and looking cool. Or, even worse, they’re out in the country having a lovely boozy time with other couply friends, or just lying on the sofa watching vids together. And I bet every one of them takes it for granted. Bastards.

  I’m sulking. Jack hasn’t called and it’s 1.30 p.m. All morning I’ve been daydreaming about him asking me out for lunch, followed maybe by a stroll in the park, then the cinema? I’ve worked it out in such detail that I’ve begun to believe it will happen. But it’s not going to happen. The phone is in my eye-line and it’s silent. I’ve already checked it’s plugged in correctly at the socket and I’ve even called the operator just to reassure myself that there’re no faults on the line.

  I’m lying on the sofa with my cheek pressed into the cushion, staring at the stain on the carpet. I can’t phone anyone just in case he rings, can’t eat anything just in case he asks me out. I’ve already given myself three sweaty orgasms out of sheer boredom, but I’m still full of frustrated lust. I’ve even tried to transmit telepathic waves. All to no avail. It’s a glorious day and I’m stuck inside. A prisoner of my own hope.

  When H calls, I nearly jump out of my skin.

  ‘No news then?’

  ‘Nada.’

  ‘We’re going down the pub. You coming?’

  ‘No. I don’t know. I’ve got things to do,’ I stall.

  ‘Like what? It’s Sunday!’

  ‘Just things,’ I say defensively.

  H sighs. ‘You’re waiting for him to call, aren’t you? It’s not going to do any good you know. He’ll ring when he rings. There’s no point in watching the phone, you’ll go bats.’

  I hate the fact that she knows me so well.

  ‘I know that. I’m busy. I’m going down the gym,’ I bluff.

  ‘What?’

  ‘The gym, you know – exercise.’

  ‘Oh well, suit yourself. You know where we are.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘Weirdo,’ she mutters.

  I stick my tongue out at the phone. I have no intention of going to the gym. I think I’ll go for a walk.

  The walk is good. Shepherd’s Bush is not a particularly inspiring place, but at least it’s relatively couple-free and I don’t notice the winos and junkies as I’m deeply engrossed in giving myself a good talking to. By the time I’ve walked round the green a few times, I’m on a carbon monoxide high and I’ve worked out a strategy.

  It’s fairly convoluted, but the gist of it is this. Jack must know I fancy him. Forgetting the last blip of our encounter, things couldn’t have been better so he must know that I want to see him. However, Jack’s a cool guy and he has things to do. He’s an artist. He’s probably busy. And that doesn’t mean that he’s not thinking a
bout me, it’s just that I wasn’t booked into his Sunday schedule. And anyway, since he’s so cool, he probably won’t ring me until tomorrow. Tuesday at the outside. And Matt probably needs some attention. He did get ignored on his birthday by his best mate because of me. So the thing to do is not to wait around, moping, but to get prepared.

  Preparation is power.

  I decide not to go to the pub as that will just be a diversion. Instead I walk to Boots in Notting Hill and indulge in some shopping therapy. This is immensely enjoyable. I love Boots. It’s my favourite shop, except perhaps for Hamleys. I buy girl toys: Badedas bath stuff, expensive shampoo and conditioner with free hair oil, a bumper pack of nail files, three nail varnishes, tweezers, a loofah, mud pack, a new lipstick, a box of coloured tissues (always handy to have by the bed), Oil of Ulay, bikini-line wax, fake tan and a pack of twenty-four super sensitive condoms.

  Excellent.

  Back at the flat, I do some home-making and am pleased with the results. I don’t do anything as ambitious as stripping off any of the Anaglypta wallpaper, or Polyfilla’ing the crack in the kitchen wall, but I do arrange my books on the dodgy shelves and put up the framed picture of me and H on our travels in Thailand.

  We were single girls on tour then and we had the time of our lives. In the photo we both look thin and tanned and we’re sitting back to back laughing our heads off. That was the holiday where we went island-hopping for three weeks, but got stuck on one beach. H got two shags in and copious snogs and I fell in love with three blokes simultaneously. Toptastic!

  I sort out the black bin liner of odd socks and jumpers that has been hanging about by the front door for ages and am surprised how quickly the time goes. I like being a woman on a mission.

  I run a huge bath and assess my body in the hall mirror. Naked, I’m not so bad if it’s just me looking at me. On a good day, I’m a curvy size eleven and a half.

  However, how am I going to look through Jack’s eyes? Put it this way. If I did a public striptease, people would ask for their money back.

  It’s time to diet.

  As soon as I decide this, a hunger pang shoots through my stomach like a bolt of lightning and my brain is suddenly crammed with images of all the yummy fattening food I’d like to eat right now. I have to get in the bath to ignore them. I lie in the steam with my mud pack on and think about how different I’m going to look in a week.

  I spend the evening virtuously nibbling Ryvitas and reading a book called Power Women which someone gave me for my last birthday. It’s very interesting.

  On Monday morning I’m up before the alarm, which is a first. Mornings are so relaxing when you’re up at 7.00 a.m. The birds are singing and I listen to Radio 4 for a change, as part of my new intention to get with the world. I think it’s important that I should catch up with what’s going on.

  After my second cup of tea I fish out Power Women from under the bed and position myself in front of the bathroom mirror. It’s time for some positive affirmations.

  ‘I am a unique, compassionate and loving person,’ I read aloud. I look up at my reflection to see whether it has clocked this.

  ‘I am a Power Woman. I can change the world in which I live.’ I look up again.

  ‘I look great, feel great. I love myself… And Jack is going to ring me today,’ I add for good measure, before snapping the book shut and cleaning my teeth.

  I pull out the bathroom scales and weigh myself. I’m a pound heavier than yesterday. How can this be? I’ve deprived myself of food for over twelve hours; I should be at least a stone thinner by now.

  I look back up in the mirror. ‘I look great. I feel great. I love myself,’ I say threateningly.

  Elaine at Top Temps has got me a job at Boothroyd, Carter and May, a firm of stuffy management consultants in Portland Square. Janet, their receptionist, is on holiday and I’m going to fill in. Lucky, lucky me.

  I stand in the lift with a vague sense of gloom. I can’t believe I’m doing yet another temping job. When am I going to get a career, I wonder? I envy people who are very clear about their career choices. People who say, ‘I’m going to be a doctor.’ And do it. All I can say is, ‘I’m going to be a?’

  A bored receptionist for a week, that’s what.

  I have five guidelines for the first day of a new job:

  Find out my direct line number and call H with it

  Locate computer games on PC, find the loo and the kitchen

  Find out who is responsible for signing my timesheet and make them a cup of coffee within the first hour of arrival

  Find out name and description of the big boss to avoid embarrassment

  Never, ever stay past 5.30 p.m. and always take a lunch-break

  The person responsible for my timesheets is Ms Audrey Payne. On sight I christen her Vinegar Tits. She doesn’t seem to like me very much, but then I don’t think she likes anyone, humour not being something that she’s encountered yet in her life. I make her a coffee, and every time she walks past I rattle the keys on the PC and look efficient.

  At 11.30 Elaine calls. ‘I hear you’re getting on well.’

  Fooled them again. Out comes my copy of Hello! and the nail file. I know it’s cliché to read Hello!, but it’s an essential item as a temp. I’m sure it’s called Hello! because it’s such an ice breaker. There’s not one person I’ve ever encountered in an office who doesn’t have a guilty itch to flick through a copy when they see one. As a temp, if you let them indulge in their (in my opinion healthy) need for escapism, then you’ve got a friend for life. Hello! It works every time.

  I spend an hour at lunchtime in Portland Square, sitting on my hands and watching the pigeons. I tell myself that even though I have eaten a Tesco Metro low-calorie chicken sandwich in under a minute, it was satisfying, and no, I am definitely not hungry. I recognise a woman from the office walking towards the bench and I have to occupy myself frantically with my purse to avoid contact. I have no desire to speak to her and answer all those questions about Why I’m A Temp. Once you’re further than about two feet from the reception desk, I think it’s always a good plan to maintain a them-and-us attitude at all times. Involvement always leads to misery and I’ve discovered that non-attachment works fine for me. It means that I never have to sign leaving cards for people I don’t know, gossip about tawdry office affairs, or stand in the pub after work with a bunch of people bitching about the management.

  By 2.15 my stomach is eating my liver in protest. I find a packet of cornflakes in the kitchen and eat five handfuls in desperation before washing them down with a gallon of tea.

  Between 2.30 and 4.15 I play an uninterrupted game of computer Solitaire, chat to H for half an hour about being a Power Woman whilst picking stray cornflakes off my jumper, play with the paperclips on my desk, type a label for Vinegar Tits, frank the post and before I know it, it’s time to go home. All in all, a fairly stress-free day.

  That is until I get home and discover that there are no messages on the machine. I mutter affirmations in the shower and then watch Brookside.

  Still nothing happens. By midnight, I feel a bit wobbly. It’s all very well being a Power Woman and in control of my own life, but it’s incredibly dull.

  It’s Tuesday and I’m still calm. Emaciated, but calm.

  I spend most of the day toying with the idea of going to the gym. Of course, as soon as the chances of me exercising move up the scale from remote to possible, my body goes into spasm. By mid-afternoon I’ve developed premature arthritis and a low-level pneumonia-type feeling. However, I know my body and its tricks. It’s forgetting that I’m a Power Woman.

  I get to the gym by about 7.00 p.m. It’s packed and I’m feeling like a bit of a spare part. What am I doing here?

  This is definitely not my natural habitat.

  I’m dressed in paint-splattered leggings, my circa 1984 school trainers, which I had hoped might look retro and cool (but don’t), a T-shirt that has gone grey in the wash and odd socks. Cindy Crawford eat y
our heart out.

  I squeeze past the super-fit blokes on the pecs machine to the cabinet in the corner and riffle through it to find my gym induction sheet. I dust it down and set off on the stationary bike.

  It takes just two minutes to reduce me to a beetroot sweat-ball. I hop off and try my luck on the MarathonMachine. The girl next to me is wired up to a state-of-the-art Discman and is sprinting in pristine Reebok kit. She’s doesn’t appear to be sweating and I deduce from this that it must be easy.

  Undeterred by her odd look, I rev up the speed and try to catch up with her, but my legs won’t go fast enough and I shoot off the back. I ignore her snigger as I clamber back on, jumping my feet on to the plastic casing whilst I slow the machine down to a walking pace.

  Walking’s good. There’s nothing wrong with walking.

  I concentrate hard on the calorie counter which doesn’t seem to be moving. After twenty minutes I’ve burned precisely forty-two calories. That’s about three cornflakes.

  I’m seriously worried about my level of fitness. By the time I get on the step machine, my heart is telling me it’s about to pack up. I make an executive decision to come to the gym every day from now on. And if I do that, take it slowly and don’t push myself at first, then I’ll get fit sensibly. There’s no point in burning out early is there now?

  I consult my induction sheet and give the press-up machine a go, but I think it’s broken. I certainly can’t make it budge. Exhausted, I flop on to a floormat for sit-ups. I only manage five, but console myself with the thought that I don’t really want a flat stomach. Flat stomachs are so eighties.

  By 7.35 I’m in the changing rooms, my hair plastered to my face. I’m not looking, or for that matter feeling, my best. With a great deal of effort, I bend down and untie my trainers.

  ‘Amy?’

  I slowly look up. Up past the matching slouch-socks, up the toned, tanned legs, up the perfect cycling shorts to bare midriff and neatly enclosed breasts in Elle top until my eyes stop at the orthodontic advert smile.