Afterwards Jill was heard mumbling, “Terra, my ass.”
A week later a memo announced that Sharon Voss, having given birth to twin boys, had quit her job in favour of full-time motherhood.
The memo did not reveal that Kaye, already ensconced at Sharon’s desk, had been offered the permanent job as Dr. Billington’s secretary, nor that she had accepted without a nanosecond’s hesitation. Kaye announced that tidbit herself.
Five pairs of dubious eyes hit her like hail during coffee break. “So what about the job that paid twice as much?”
“Oh, don’t think I didn’t give it a great deal of thought,” she said, letting another of her helium sighs float heavenward. Kaye explained her decision to stay on. Not that it was any of their business, but she had accepted this job because in the long run it would be less hectic. Her health wasn’t all that great, if they must know. “No, no, nothing serious, but chronic, quite debilitating at times.” She preferred not to talk about it. “And, promise you won’t tell anybody, but I just might settle down soon. Family obligations, that kind of thing.”
She was sure they understood.
They were sure they did.
Days went by, still Kaye’s desk remained barren of individual expression. Not bothering with Personal ads, her desk sprouted not the smallest African violet, no special penholder, no figurines, no framed photos of the family she had obligations towards.
They would have suspected her of not planning to stay, had it not been for Kaye’s ear-to-ear smile, which flared up whenever Dr. Billington strolled through the door. It was a smile brimming with teeth and promises. A flush highlighted her cheekbones most becomingly. Her eyes grew lustrous. Hints of untold secrets twirled like smoke around her irises. God knows her eyes looked feverish at the best of times. According to Jill, eyes like that belong to people who are in the regular habit of popping something not available over the counter at Shoppers Drug Mart.
“That’s a serious accusation,” warned Gertrude.
“Prove me wrong,” snarled Jill.
Pat’s theory was that Kaye polished her eyeballs with Windex every morning.
Whatever the reason for her shining orbs, being around Kaye seven hours a day required effort. She was so highly strung she wore out both herself and her surroundings.
The five women stopped inviting her for coffee, but she came along anyway. When they succumbed to a tryst with a donut on Friday afternoons, Kaye sipped herbal tea, pinkie finger out, saying how that kind of indulgence was not for her. She had to stay in shape. Most of her girlfriends were fashion models. Hanging around them you had to aim for perfection or you might as well be dead.
“Perfection, my ass!” said Jill, later on.
“Why do we put up with her?” Irene wanted to know.
“She intrigues us,” was Margaret’s hypothesis. “We need intrigue in our lives.”
“Are we that pathetic?”
“Apparently.”
At Halloween Gertrude decided to host one of her famous dinner parties. Gourmet cooking had been her hobby for as long as they could remember and she was the unchallenged queen of sauces involving cognac, cream and crucial timing. They were all gussied up for the occasion, including the kind of full evening makeup warranted only for a promising date.
But like Irene said, “There’s nothing wrong with feeling festive, even if it’s just us.”
Kaye had been invited as well, despite vociferous protests from the other four. Gertrude had to remind them that she was not one to leave people out.
Not that it mattered. Kaye’s response had been, “Sorry gals, I’ve got other plans.” She was off to a party at some famous actor’s pad in Toronto. An actor she had known for years, a dear, dear friend. “He has this amazing loft in a renovated warehouse. The view is absolutely to die for!”
“Anybody we’ve heard of?”
“Hal Watkins.” Kaye’s eyes smirked their triumph.
“Who?”
She was appalled to discover that they had never heard of him. By the way she closed her eyes and shook her head, they knew with sinking hearts what gormless provincials they were.
It was the knowledge of this deplorable fact that caused them to get thoroughly pissed at Gertrude’s Halloween dinner, the reason they commenced bitching like there were no tomorrows, even though the future consisted of nothing but. The art of bitching was not foreign to them, but that night they swept the board, collected the money and did not go to jail. Drunk as skunks, they became convinced there was not a single tomorrow left to be had.
So why not get wasted?
Besides, who the hell would reward them if they stayed sober?
Kaye had wreaked havoc with their self-esteem. They judged it an unforgivable crime. Enough was goddamn enough, was the unanimous decision. Around midnight Jill finished the last drop of the last bottle of wine, thumped her stockinged feet on the coffee table, raised her glass and hollered, “Fuck that bimbo!”
Margaret hissed, “Jill!” with a glaring lack of conviction.
Pat, twirling her glass, mumbled, “I’ll drink to that.”
Jill stared morosely into the empty bottle. It held no message.
Irene — she had stopped smoking six months earlier — mooched a cigarette from Gertrude who said she better go make some strong coffee.
A week later Kaye announced that she was throwing one of her notorious bashes and had to take an extended lunch hour to pop downtown to buy a large punch bowl.
Would they mind covering for her?
They had been unaware that she was famous for throwing bashes.
“Oh yes! You better believe it!” Her tone implied that they ought to have known this. As if there had been extensive coverage in the media.
The reason for throwing this one was simple enough: she had found a recipe for a rum punch she just had to try. “Just listen to this! Apart from rum it’s laced with Cointreau and Grand Marnier and a dash of tequila. Does that sound good or what?”
They supposed it did.
“So you guys just have to cover for me!” Kaye was breathless with excitement. Her cheeks were on fire, her eyes the size of golf balls. Her body hummed and vibrated.
This was when Gertrude recalled that she had a beautiful Waterford crystal punch bowl with a dozen little cups, a most darling set she had bought in England years ago at great expense, having transported it back home in her hand luggage. Kaye was welcome to use it.
Kaye said, “Oh no, I couldn’t possibly!”
Gertrude insisted. That was the way she was, doing her maternal best to usher everybody in the direction of potential happiness. In the end, mostly to please her, Kaye accepted her generous offer but took a two-hour lunch all the same.
“Must be some shindig she’s planning,” mumbled Margaret.
They were all looking forward to the bash, but it turned out they were not invited.
The following Monday Kaye forgot to return the punch bowl.
The party?
“Oh, it was a total riot!” It had gone on until four in the morning when as a suitable finale Hal had performed a striptease on the dining room table. “He looked too darn cute, wearing only black boots and the empty crystal bowl for a hat. And, listen to this: a red ribbon tied around his you-know-what, flicking it provocatively hither and yon! Can you believe it?”
They didn’t even try.
“I’ll show you the pictures when I’ve had them developed,” promised Kaye. “You’ll adore them!” She had been forced to sleep through Sunday in order to survive. “Well, you know how it is. So . . . anyways, I never got around to cleaning the bowl. But I’ll bring it tomorrow, I promise.”
“That’ll be fine,” said Gertrude. Her unwarranted understanding narrowed her friends’ eyes. Their faces turned grim.
Shortly afterwards Jill, Pat and Irene gathered for an impromptu conference in the ladies’ room where the general agreement was that Gertrude would never see her imported at great cost frigging English pun
ch bowl ever again and that it served her right. The consensus was that Gertrude damn well knew it but was too big a wuss to say so.
Resentment obliterated their smugness on Tuesday morning when Kaye brought back the box with the punch bowl and twelve little cups, looking suitable grateful when she once again thanked Gertrude.
Wednesday was elective surgery day. With no doctors in the office, work was light. Rain poured from morning until evening, confining them to an island of fluorescent light in a world of semidarkness. Gertrude and Irene were the least busy and took a half hour coffee break to break the tedium.
“So . . . was your punch bowl in one piece?” asked Irene.
“You bet. And the cups too.”
“And clean?”
“Clean as a whistle.”
“I’m surprised.”
“Not as surprised as I was. Want to know something funny?” Gertrude asked, staring out the window at the curtain of rain. Her left hand was playing a solitary game with a plastic spoon.
“What?”
“Kaye never used it.”
“What do you mean, she never used it?”
“Just that: she never used it. I took all the stuff out of the box to see if she’d cleaned it properly. You’ll be happy to know I didn’t trust her. All the cups were still in their original wrappers inside the bowl, still securely taped even though the tape was old and dry. She never even opened the damn box. When I lent it to her I neglected to mention that I’d never actually had occasion to use it myself. For stupid reasons, I might add. I was always afraid I might break something.”
“Are you serious?”
“Would I make it up?”
“Well, no. It’s just too weird.”
“And it raises a puzzling question: Why did she make such a big thing about her friend wearing it for a hat, and not having time to wash it? What the hell was the point?”
They pondered this mystery for a while, staring at the rain.
Life ticked on.
A few weeks later Kaye let it be known that she was hosting a fancy dinner party and needed to stretch another lunch hour in order to purchase a large salad bowl. The woman seemed to suffer a dire shortage of bowls. This time Margaret offered to lend her one. After the usual resistance, Kaye accepted in a manner suggesting she did so only to indulge Margaret.
Again, they were not invited, though Kaye did share the terrific news that she had decided to cook French. A Breton feast, to be specific. She was already agonizing over what kind of wine to cook the mussels in, not wanting to waste anything too expensive on cooking, but fretting that cheap plonk might ruin rather than enhance the flavour. Details like that were just so important.
“You know what I mean?”
They assured her they did.
Later that day Gertrude and Margaret held an unscheduled conference in the Xerox room. The door was firmly shut.
The following Tuesday Margaret got her salad bowl back. Later that night the news swept like a brush fire from house to house: Kaye had not used the salad bowl either. Following Gertrude’s advice Margaret had stuck a piece of transparent tape in the bottom of the bowl. Had the bowl been used, the tape would have been removed prior to use. Even if Kaye had failed to notice it, it would have been damaged in the wash. But there it was. A half inch piece of virgin tape.
Saturday night they got together at Pat’s for wine and cheese. Rather a lot of wine; it had become the norm. Kaye was off to Toronto that weekend, to the premiere of a new avant-garde feminist play called Shakespeare Never Cleaned a Toilet. A dear friend of hers was in it, playing the all important role of the toilet. She and the gang had first row seats.
“Toilet seats?”
Sarcasm was wasted on Kaye.
“Is your friend Al in it?”
“His name is Hal. But no, I’m talking about Trevor Harfield. You wouldn’t know him.”
There was to be a huge cast party afterwards at Trev’s penthouse.
“Penthouse, my ass,” said Jill.
Pat checked the Globe & Mail and damn it if there was not a premiere in the offing. The cast even featured an actor named Trevor Harfield. Gertrude, who indulged in cultural endeavors on the side, said she had seen the play two years earlier in New York. It was, she assured them, such a load of pretentious crappola you would for sure need a toilet once you got the hell out of there.
Monday morning they inquired about the play. Kaye said it had been absolutely fantastic. Jill wanted to know what it was about. Kaye threw her a scrap of plot that made Gertrude’s eyebrows hit her hairline. Kaye, she proclaimed later, was “so full of shit it wasn’t funny.”
It was unlike Gertrude to use that kind of language.
Did Kaye fabricate a fake existence?
Did she have no friends?
They were forced to discount that theory. She received constant personal calls at work. At all hours of the day, there she was, babbling and laughing, cooing and bickering. In between, she was busy sending replies to a daily onslaught of e-mails. Unlike her five resentful colleagues, she was the ultimate social animal.
So why lie?
Did she borrow stuff and make up stories just to rub in their faces the fact that they were a bunch of losers? Why were their bowls not good enough? Did they have such deplorable taste? Was that it? And why did she find it necessary to go to such extremes to taunt them? Was her contempt for them that deep?
Was she a sadist?
Or was she suffering secret trauma? Had somebody died? Had she broken up with her beloved? Had he left her for another woman, absconding with all their bowls?
The time had come for serious snooping. It did not take long to find out that Kaye lived on the second floor of a high-rise in Burlington. Hearing this, Pat slammed a fist on the table and shouted what a frigging stroke of luck that was. “Dan’s girlfriend Tiffany lives in that very building!” Dan was Pat’s nineteen-year-old son. They took this as a sign that their prying had the blessing of a higher power. Freed of the burden of guilt they went full steam ahead.
First they asked Kaye if she was busy the following weekend. And, if by any chance she was not, would she care to join them at Jill’s for pizza and a movie? “Nothing extravagant,” they said, “just us gals.”
Kaye would not.
She was having yet another dinner party. Just an intimate get-together with five close friends, but it took effort even so, didn’t it? She was cooking Spanish. Hal was coming to town and paella was his absolute favourite, bless his heart. Luckily Kaye’s grandmother was Spanish and the ability to create paella was in her blood.
No thanks, she didn’t need any bowls, but did they happen to know where she could get hold of some saffron?
They did not.
To be honest, Gertrude had some, but reading the warning signals in eight accusing eyes, she put a chokehold on her kindness.
By then they had a plan. Saturday night Tiffany was to go down and knock on Kaye’s door around nine in the evening. Young and cute, wearing a T-shirt sporting a sisterly slogan, her appearance would be nonthreatening. If and when Kaye answered the door, Tiffany was to ask if she could please borrow a flashlight as she had somehow managed to blow every fuse in her apartment.
They waited at Jill’s that night. The minutes, unlike the wine, barely moved. At nine forty-two Tiffany and Dan turned up to file a report:
Kaye had answered the door in her pajamas, the TV on in the background, churning out a rerun of a rerun that was predictably unfunny the first time around. She had peered out at Tiffany’s harmless face through the peephole before opening the door, but left the safety chain on for the longest time, until finally disarmed by the friendly girl outside. She had acted as if she was unused to visitors.
Not only did Kaye not own a flashlight, candles or matches, she did not appear to own very much of anything. Her apartment was more or less empty.
“But she had this ugly old couch!” A frown disfigured Tiffany’s pert nose. “This puky velveteen job in,
like, shit-brown and faded orange. It was like, euhhh!”
Monday did not come soon enough.
“Sooo,” cooed Jill, “how did your Spanish paella whatsit turn out?”
“Utterly divine,” gushed Kaye and exhaled one of her sighs. The paella had been the genuine thing, mainly because she had invested in this enormous cast iron paella pan when she was back in Barcelona last year. And a friend of hers had given her a big bag of saffron.
“Really? So you had a typically Spanish dinner, eh? Dancing flamenco and fighting bulls, drinking vino and eating late?” Jill’s attempt to sound light-hearted proved beyond her capabilities.
“No, not too late,” said Kaye, oblivious to dark forces. “We ate around eight thirty. Hal had to get back to Toronto, he had rehearsals the next morning. He’s got a major role in this new movie.”
There were a lot of phone calls that night.
Tiffany was accused of having visited the wrong apartment.
Tiffany’s description of Kaye proved she had not.
And so it continued until Christmas when Kaye planned to hurl herself into a vortex of parties and dinners and open houses. Christmas Eve she was scheduled to fly to Montreal where her mother resided with her new husband, a corporate lawyer of some repute. They had recently redecorated their mansion in Westmount and were preparing a huge celebration.
And what about her father?
He lived in Vancouver, was some kind of showbiz producer. On Christmas Day he would be on film business in Los Angeles.
“Merry Christmas everybody!”
“Oh, bite me,” said Jill.
Early in the afternoon on Christmas Day Irene drove to pick up her ten-year-old daughter Tina from a friend’s house in Burlington. Having got expensive skates for Christmas from her errant father, Tina and her friend Bethany had been out skating. As soon as she got in the car, Tina started sneezing and coughing most wretchedly. Watching green snails crawl out of her daughter’s frozen nostrils, Irene decided to stop by a drugstore for a cold remedy to see Tina through the holiday. They were having Christmas dinner at Irene’s parents’ house and her brother Carl and his family would be there.
Leaving Berlin Page 12
