by Emlyn Rees
This last one causes me by far the most angst. During LBJ (Life Before Jack) I thought nothing of flinging on my grey, holey mummy pants and an equally tatty bra. I’ve also got a truly disgusting selection of manky G-strings that provide a service of genital flossing rather than anything remotely comforting.
I once read an article on single girls who wore sexy underwear just for themselves. Bullshit! In my opinion, they’re either desperate for a shag or too rich for their own good. Anyway, I’ve never met one. I don’t know one girl who’d give their gusset-stained underwear collection to Oxfam, even if there was an international knickers crisis.
I don’t know why I’m making such an effort in the underwear department. After all, I spied Jack’s washing hanging on the line in his garden the other day. And there it was, a pair of threadbare Father Christmas boxers. He’s no angel, either.
However, I’m determined not to be caught out and hence me and my handy Visa went underwear shopping last week. Two-thirds of the way through the trip, I was collared by a moustached woman in M&S who tutted loudly.
‘What bra size are you, love?’ she demanded.
‘34B,’ I replied, clamping two hands to my chest as if I’d been caught in a Carry On film.
‘Never! You’re more of a 32D, if ever I saw one.’
‘32D!’ I exclaimed, as she pushed into the cubicle and started threading her tape measure around my back. She tugged at the tight loop around my boobs.
‘Just as I thought,’ she nodded.
32D! But I’ve always been a 34B, ever since I grew tits. When did I transform into a Page 3 girl?
I pull on my new over-the-shoulder-boulder-holder and adjust myself in it. I feel very trussed up. I look in the mirror and feel perplexed.
What else shall I wear?
Dressing to go out is no problem, but how do I dress for being at home? I usually slob about in leggings and a grotty T-shirt, but Jack’s coming round. How shall I present myself au naturel? Do I:
A. Dress for sex
B. Dress in my usual slobby clothes
C. Dress for going out?
I remember my A resolutions and opt for a pair of Calvin Klein knickers and a white vest top. I ditch the bra.
I spend ages applying my make-up so that it doesn’t look as if I’ve got any on, tidy up and pace about the kitchen. I think about cooking something, but decide against it. It’s bound to go wrong and I’m determined that nothing else is going to go wrong today. I’m new. I’m independent. And Jack’s going to know about it.
I paint my toenails, watch the TV and wait for him to arrive. I’ve dozed off by the time the door buzzer goes. I shed the blobs of cotton wool from in between my toes as I hurry to press the button. I feel a swell of excitement as I hear him coming up the stairs.
‘Hi,’ I say, wrapping myself round the door as he bounces into view.
He kisses me and smiles. ‘Aren’t you going to put any clothes on?’ he asks, glancing at my knickers.
‘Of course,’ I stutter. ‘I was just, um …’ I point to my bed-room.
‘Don’t let me stop you then,’ he smiles. He raises his eyebrows at me and I have the feeling I’ve been rumbled. I slink away to hide my pink cheeks.
‘I thought we could go out,’ he says, walking into the sitting room. He picks up the TV zapper and flicks through a few channels.
‘Okay,’ I reply, from my bedroom.
As I yank open my wardrobe and root about for my jeans, I can hear the channels. Jack scans through a games show, the news and stops on the football. For a moment, I think he’s going to stay watching it, but he drags himself away and comes in and sits on my bed.
‘Why don’t you put on that dress you were wearing the other day?’ he asks. ‘You look great in that.’
‘Sure,’ I say, pulling it from the hanger. I turn my back on him and take off my top. Suddenly, I feel him behind me. He’s obviously crouching down, because I feel his lips at the base of my spine. He kisses all the way up, until his breath is on the back of my neck. Then he reaches round and cups my new novelty 32Ds.
‘On second thoughts …’ he whispers.
It’s dark by the time we finish having sex. I go and get a bottle of wine from the fridge and the matches. I stumble about, trying to light some candles.
‘Why don’t you turn the light on?’ asks Jack, watching me as he opens the wine.
‘Because I hate this room. It needs decorating, but I haven’t got round to it.’
‘What are you going to do to it?’
‘I don’t know. Something different. Now I’ve got some time on my hands, I’ll have a think.’
I lie back down with him and we sprawl on the duvet, our naked limbs entwining in the shadows.
‘How come you’ve got so much time all of a sudden?’ he asks.
I tell Jack about my day and he laughs so much that he spills wine all over my stomach. He leans down and licks it off, before resting his chin in my belly button. He looks up at me.
‘I was fired once,’ he says, ‘if it makes you feel any better.’
I can’t imagine Jack being sacked. He’s far too cool. When I press him for details, he tells me that he worked at a gallery a couple of years ago and had to change the locks after a break-in. Apparently, his boss came back and went ballistic because he couldn’t get in.
‘What did you do?’
‘Left him to it. It was the best thing that ever happened, really,’ he says, leaning up and tracing a circle on my stomach. ‘It made me realise a few things. That I wanted to be an artist and that’s what I should throw my energy into.’
I take a sip of wine.’ You know it’s such a turn on.’
‘What is?’ he asks.
‘You being a success as an artist. It’s one of the things I like most about you.’
Jack sort of growls and buries his head in my neck. I love it when he’s bashful and I hug him.
‘The question is, what am I going to do?’ I ask.
‘Something will come up,’ he says. ‘I know it will. And if it doesn’t, then you’ll have to pack your bags, because I’ll take you sailing round the world.’
‘Maybe I won’t type up my CV after all then,’ I laugh.
*
But despite the temptation of Jack’s fantasies, I do. I spend the next week finding out names and addresses of companies and fine-tuning my plan of action. To my surprise, Jack turns out to be incredibly supportive and helps me design my CV on his state-of-the-art PC that he’s lent to Matt. At first I feel embarrassed sharing all my details with him, but he’s so fired up with enthusiasm on my behalf that I don’t have a moment to feel insecure.
‘You should run seminars on Positive Mental Attitude,’ I tease, when he calls for the third time on the one evening we’ve agreed to spend apart. ‘Or at the very least, found your own religion. You’re very believable.’
‘You won’t be taking the piss when you’re earning a fortune.’
‘Jackism,’ I mused. ‘Hmm. Suits you.’
‘Okay, smart-arse. What’s the first rule of Jackism?’
‘Enlighten me, great Guru.’
‘All my disciples have to have sex with me.’
‘I might have known,’ I laughed.
‘Ah, but you’re my only disciple, so far. So I’ll expect you here in half an hour.’
‘You’ll be lucky. I don’t do religion.’
‘Oh, go on. You know you want to.’
And I do want to, because the truth of it is, I love spending every night with Jack. If I ever had him down as being commitment shy, I’m proved wrong time and time again. After a week, he’s become so integrated into my life that I can’t remember what I ever did before him. I’m also not sure how I ever had time to work.
I’m so happy with my new life that it comes as quite a shock when Elaine calls at nine o’clock the following Tuesday. She already seems like a blast from the past.
‘I’m giving you a second chance,’ she announces. �
�Only because I’m desperate.’
I’m thrown into confusion. In the last week, I’ve mentally moved on from temping. I can’t bear the thought of being sucked into the vortex again. Jack rolls over and puts the pillow over his head.
I’m not really available at the moment, Elaine,’ I say. ‘Sorry.’
‘Hear me out,’ she says. I can hear her scrabbling around as she inhales on her cigarette. I stroke Jack’s arm which is lying across my stomach and roll my eyes at the ceiling. My life has been so much more tranquil without Elaine and her stress in it. All I want to do is curl up with Jack and go back to sleep.
‘Right, got it,’ she says. ‘It’s with Friers. They’re some kind of fashion house. I need you to get there as soon as possible. The girl I asked to do it hasn’t turned up—’
‘You’re kidding! The Friers?’ I interrupt, sitting bolt upright. The pillow stirs and Jack lifts his head.
‘What’s going on?’ he moans, his face crumpled with sleep.
I put my fingers to my lips and jump out of bed to find a pen. I scribble the details on the back of an envelope.
‘Elaine, you’re an angel,’ I say, as I end the call.
Jack sits up in bed and stretches. ‘What are you looking so pleased about?’
‘Friers.’ I wave the envelope at him.
‘Who?’
‘I applied to them about three years ago and never heard anything back. I’ve got a job. Thank you Elaine.’ I kiss the envelope.
‘I thought you weren’t temping any more.’
‘Yes, well I wasn’t, but this could be my big chance. I’ve got to be there in an hour.’
I rush about getting ready and make Jack a cup of tea, but he doesn’t seem to be too enthusiastic about moving. I turf my spare keys out from the depths of the fruit bowl in the kitchen.
‘You can let yourself out,’ I say, kissing the part of his head that’s visible from under the duvet and jangling the keys by his ears.
He leans up on one elbow and takes them. ‘Are you sure?’
I laugh at him. ‘Yes. I’m not asking you to move in, if that’s what you’re worried about. It’s practical reasons only, but you might as well keep hold of them. I’m always locking myself out.’
‘Great,’ he smiles. ‘I can have a good snoop around. Where are your diaries?’
‘You’re not going to find anything,’ I say, looking at him in the mirror whilst I put my lipstick on. ‘So don’t go looking for things you can’t handle.’
‘Would I?’ He pretends to look outraged.
‘Yes. But I trust you. So don’t blow it,’ I warn.
He grabs me and kisses my lipstick off. ‘Jack!’
He smears it round his lips. ‘I don’t know why you bother. Your lipstick looks far better on me.’
‘You big girl,’ I laugh, hugging him goodbye.
‘Have a good day at the office, darling,’ he says, rolling back under the duvet. ‘Don’t worry about the kids, I’ll pick them up from school and do the shopping.’
I put my hands on my hips and smile at him from the door. ‘That’s it, is it? All this help getting me a job is just so that you can be a house husband?’
He picks up my teddy bear. ‘Damn,’ he says to Ted. ‘She’s sussed.’
The Friers offices are above a café on Charlotte Street. I’m quite nervous by the time I get there. It’s an unusual feeling and I take a deep breath to calm down before I ring the buzzer. I’ve no idea what to expect, but if there’s the faintest whiff of a permanent job, I’m going for it. This is my second chance and I’m not going to blow it.
The office is cluttered with desks, laden hanging rails, half-clad dummies. A radio blares in the background above the ringing phones.
‘Bloody hell!’ A tall man, wearing a pink checked waistcoat and ridiculous black glasses with yellow tinted visors puts up his hands in frustration and marches through the office. ‘Where’s the temp?’
‘I’m here,’ I say.
He struts towards me. ‘At last! I do hope you’re reliable, darling,’ he says, looking me up and down.
I’ll do my best,’ I say.
‘Jenny, Jenny!’ he calls. ‘Salvation here at long last! Make the most of it.’
He flounces through to a small office and slams the door.
‘Take no notice,’ says the woman walking towards me. ‘That’s Fabian. He likes to throw his weight around, but don’t be intimidated. I’m Jenny.’ She smiles at me and I immediately like her. ‘Welcome to the mad house.’
She shows me round and introduces me to everyone. There are about ten of us sharing the office and they all seem friendly and fairly laid back. Jenny is about thirty-five and has, from what I can gather, spent most of those years dedicated to the kind of hardcore partying that would have left me in a coma by now. She’s from Lancashire and has a top accent which, of course, I find myself mimicking when I talk to her. She doesn’t seem to mind.
She makes me tea in the kitchen before showing me to my desk. She instructs me to answer the phones and gives me some letters to type.
‘It’s pretty boring secretarial work, I’m afraid,’ she says. ‘But we’ll find you something else to do later on. We’re a bit snowed under.’
‘No problem,’ I say. ‘Pile it on.’
Jenny works with Sam in the cutting room next door. As H would say, they’re PLUs (People Like Us) and it’s quite a relief. At about eleven o’clock Sam bursts through the swing doors with a big grin on her face. She’s wearing a leather mini-skirt and an oversized jumper which makes her tits seem enormous. After the 32D scandal, I seem to be obsessed by other people’s busts.
‘How are you getting on?’ she asks.
‘Fine. Is there anything else I can do?’ I volunteer. ‘I’ve finished the letters. Here.’ I hand them to her.
She looks through them approvingly. ‘Excellent. Someone with a bit of nous at last.’
Nous Schmous. She doesn’t realise it yet, but I am SUPERTEMP.
Sam’s carrying a big pile of magazines in one arm. ‘I brought these out for you,’ she says. She fishes out a typed list from the pages of the first magazine. ‘Can you go through and check out all the photographs by these guys?’
‘Sure.’
‘Boring, I know, but it’d really help.’
‘No problem.’
‘You’d better come for a fag break first.’
I follow her on to the cast-iron fire escape at the back of the cutting room. Jenny is already there. By joining them, I know I’ve been recruited into their gang. Cool.
I’ve been sitting on the fence for so long in every job I’ve got splinters in my arse, but this job could be different. I want to get to know these people. I’ve only been here a few hours, but I already know that this could be my kind of place. We chat for a while. They’ve both got it in for Fabian.
Sam untangles her sunglasses from the knot of curls on her head with difficulty. Jenny watches her before helping.
‘I don’t know what’s going on, but I doubt if he’s going to mince around here much longer,’ Jenny says.
‘Why?’ I ask.
Jenny taps the side of her nose and we huddle together as she shares her secret. I love being included like this. ‘There’ll be a takeover. You mark my words. I reckon we’re about to be bought out and if we are, Fabian will be out on his ear.’
Sam makes suitably shocked noises. I’m just about to ask more when the phone rings.
‘I’ll go,’ say, stubbing my cigarette through the grille.
I spend the rest of the day sorting out a courier crisis, helping Andy when his computer crashes, picking up some samples from Berwick Street and generally being as helpful as I can. I must have turned over a new leaf, because I don’t call anyone all day. I’m astonished when I realise that it’s six-thirty.
‘Promise that you’ll come back tomorrow,’ says Jenny.
‘I’ll be here,’ I say.
‘We couldn’t have got through today
without you.’
I’m still smiling to myself as I walk down the road. I’m knackered, but I don’t feel like going home yet. I’ve been trying to find out about Friers all day. I’ve got a patchy idea of the type of clothes they’re producing for this season. They mainly do casual wear for men’s chains, but they’ve got their own line in a boutique in Covent Garden.
I decide to have a look and walk through Soho and up St Martin’s Lane. I look in the window of every clothes shop and make mental notes of the displays, getting a general picture of what’s in fashion at the moment.
I have a good nosey round the Friers boutique. I like the clothes, but only the most outrageous cuts are in the window. I’m surprised by how classic most of the range is when I get inside. I eavesdrop on the shoppers and sales assistants, before I realise that they’re waiting to close up and I have to leave.
It’s late by the time I get home and my head is brimming with ideas. Jack has made the bed and done the washing up. There’s no note or message on the machine from him, but I like the feeling that he’s been in my flat without me. I take the big pile of men’s magazines I’ve bought to bed and study all the fashion pages. For the first time in ages, I feel genuinely purposeful. When I turn off the light and put my head down, my pillow smells of Jack and I fall asleep with a smile on my face.
The next couple of days pass by in a blur and I enjoy myself. I feel like I fit in at Friers.
‘It’s a shame Karen is back next week,’ says Sam when we pop to the pub on Thursday lunchtime. ‘It’d be great if you could stay on.’
‘I don’t want to leave,’ I say, honestly. ‘There’s no permanent jobs going are there?’
‘Believe me, if there were you’d be the first to know. Have you got a CV we can keep?’
