by Olivia Ryan
‘I’m not a complete idiot,’ he responds tersely. ‘I knew she liked me.’
OK, so you don’t have to love someone back, just because you’re aware of their feelings. No one can make another person love them – it’s what stinks, sometimes, about falling in love.
I bring him a cup of coffee and try to give him a sympathetic smile to show I understand, but as I’m turning to go back to my own desk he catches my arm.
‘Katie…’
Shit. Please don’t let him start coming on to me. Please, please, let Helen have been wrong. I couldn’t bear the embarrassment.
‘Katie, I’ve never told you about my ex-wife, have I?’
Well, that’s a relief, anyway. As long as he doesn’t talk about me, he can tell me his whole life history if he likes. I sit down and turn my chair to face him.
‘Only that you weren’t married to her for very long. And her name was… Dawn, wasn’t it?’
He nods, looking away and sighing again.
‘We were only married for three years. She was so lovely – bright and funny and popular with everyone – I couldn’t believe my luck when she agreed to go out with me, let alone marry me.’
‘Don’t be silly. I’m sure that’s not true.’
‘Of course it is. Her friends all found me boring. I must have been a novelty for her. She used to say all the other men she’d been out with were football-mad and always down the pub.’
‘Most men of the men I know are like that.’
‘Yes. I suppose so. You know, you’re very much like her, Katie.’
I feel a shiver of apprehension again. I turn away, suddenly awkward, and take a mouthful of my coffee.
‘Very much like her,’ he continues, as if he’s talking to himself. ‘When you first came to work for me, you reminded me of Dawn instantly.’
‘So what happened? With Dawn?’ I prompt him, wanting to turn the conversation away from myself again as quickly as possible.
‘What do you think? She got bored with me – obviously. In the beginning I think she was a little in awe of me. She used to pick up the typescripts I brought home to read, and turn them over in her hands as if they were … I don’t know – some sort of rare specimens! When we went out for meals with my colleagues she’d sit like this –’ he rests his chin on his hand, gazing across his desk at me – ‘listening to our conversations, laughing at my jokes, making me feel clever. When I was with her, I didn’t feel dull and socially inept, like I normally did. She made me feel as bright and attractive as she was. What an illusion!’
‘You’re not socially inept,’ I murmur. I feel sorry for him, despite myself. ‘Of course you’re clever, Greg.’
He ignores this.
‘The trouble was that she thought she wanted to be part of my world: stuffy cocktail parties and pseudo-intellectual debates over smoked salmon and caviar. We all called each other old chap rather than mate, and called our partners our good lady wives. I hate myself for introducing her to it. It was like … well, like throwing a beautiful jewel into a muddy pond. Wasted. I should have gone with her to watch West Ham or Westlife instead.’
‘But that wouldn’t have been right for you, would it. Maybe you just weren’t really suited. These things happen; people make mistakes …’
I’m trying, desperately, to say the right thing here. How did I get myself into this? The last thing in the world I want is for Greg Armstrong to pour out his heart to me. Christ, Helen – thanks a million. Before you buggered off, he apparently used to confide in you! I do not want to become his new best buddy. However sorry I feel for him. God, he didn’t have to marry someone he so obviously had nothing in common with, did he?
‘What an idiot I was!’ he says, rubbing his head as if the memory is hurting him. ‘I’d bathed in her admiration for so long that I didn’t even notice the light going out of her eyes.’
And I’ve known Greg for all this time without realising he could wax so lyrical. Or even speak more than a couple of sentences about anything other than physics or engineering.
‘She left you?’
‘I found out, eventually, that she was seeing someone else. A DJ, who went by the name of Dog, had several studs in his nose and lips, and a very large tattoo on his arm. It involved daggers and spiders’ webs – apparently something to do with an obscure heavy metal band.’
I’m trying to imagine this. Dog. Poor Greg.
‘So – you threw her out?’
‘No. She asked me for a divorce, and went to live with Dog. She was … the worst thing, for me, was that she was expecting his child.’
A case of a bitch having a puppy Dog.
‘That was hard on you.’
‘Yes. I suppose I had a kind of breakdown after she left. Nothing dramatic. I was brought up not to indulge in crying, or shouting, or anything unsavoury like that.’
I’m thinking that probably he would have been a lot better for a few bouts of crying and shouting. Maybe he should have gone for therapy.
‘How did you get over it?’
He looks embarrassed.
‘I stayed in bed for several days, and then … well, I had difficulty leaving the house. When I did manage to go back to work, I found I couldn’t talk to people. I couldn’t answer the phone. I started to shake if anyone got too close to me.’
‘Greg, you needed help! You should have seen your doctor.’
He shrugs.
‘Too proud, I suppose – but you’re right. I should have done. Eventually, one morning, standing on the platform waiting for my train, I came so close to throwing myself on the railway line that I had to force myself to back away from the edge of the platform. I was sweating and shaking. I staggered out of the station, got a taxi home and stayed there. I lost my job.’
‘That’s terrible! Your doctor should have signed you off sick. You should have been referred for therapy. Your firm should have paid you and kept your job open …’
‘Yes, yes. All those things are true, Katie, but it was my own fault – I refused help. I just stayed at home and mouldered away. Anyway – in the long run it wasn’t a bad thing. I was good at the job, but I never enjoyed it. And I was fortunate – I didn’t really need the money. I’d inherited my parents’ house, rented it out for years and then made a killing on the sale. My investments were good, and – ’
‘You told me once that you started Bookshelf as a hobby,’ I interrupt him, not really wanting to hear all about his personal finances any more than his broken heart.
‘That’s right. It was just an idea I had – something to get up for in the mornings. To begin with, I worked at home on my laptop. I knew the idea had potential because I’d been watching the phenomenon of Amazon, and the share of the book-buying market it had taken. I worked on it day and night, and gradually I realised I was enjoying myself.’
‘So you never regretted leaving publishing.’
‘Absolutely not. Especially not the scientists whose books I published – half of them irritated the life out of me. And I certainly didn’t miss commuting into London.’ He pauses and looks at me thoughtfully. ‘It took very much longer, but eventually I didn’t miss Dawn any more either.’
‘You’ve never spoken to me about her before.’
‘No.’ Again, he hesitates. ‘The thing is, Katie – by the time you joined me, it’d been about three or four years since the divorce. I was almost over it.’
‘Well, that’s good, then.’
‘But being around you stirred it all up again.’
Help. Helen, come back! Where are you now when I need you?
I don’t want to be part of this conversation. In fact, I’m out of here. I’m going, right now, to stand up and leave the room. And I might even get on the next plane from Heathrow and come out and join you in Australia.
‘Right. I’ve … er … got to go and … um … go to the toilet now.’ I grab my bag from under my desk.
‘Katie, don’t go.’
‘Sorry, Greg! Natur
e calls, as they say!’
‘Listen. I’m not going to embarrass you. Please. Katie!’ I’m halfway out of the door. ‘I know Helen’s probably given you the wrong impression.’
I stop.
‘Go on,’ I say, flatly, without turning around.
‘It isn’t you. Look, I’ve tried to talk to Helen about all this – about Dawn, about Dog, about the baby. Helen and I … we seemed to be able to talk to each other about almost anything. I always found her … no disrespect to you, Katie, but I found her easier to talk to. We’ve got similar views. Similar personalities, I think.’
‘But you couldn’t talk to her about Dawn?’
‘Yes – I did. I did talk to her, and she listened; but … I know this sounds ridiculous, but …’
I turn back to look at him. He’s squirming with embarrassment.
‘I think she was jealous,’ he admits, going slightly red.
‘Of course she was!’ I laugh. ‘You fool!’
‘And you see, when I told her how much you reminded me of Dawn – look, I don’t mean anything by this, Katie. But you’re the same height, same colouring – and you’re just so much like her in other ways. You even laugh like her. At first, it gave me a pang every time I heard it.’
‘You should have told me!’
‘What – and make you stop laughing? I don’t think so! I wanted you for this job – you’ve been perfect. It was my problem. I had to get over it.’
‘But Helen thought …’
‘I think she got the wrong end of the stick. She assumed, when I told her how much you reminded me of Dawn and how difficult I found it, that I had feelings for you.’ He’s now so red, he can’t look at me any more. ‘Not that I’m not very fond of you, of course, Katie!’ he adds quickly.
I sit back down at my desk. I’ve forgotten about needing the loo. I feel almost faint with relief. He isn’t interested in me. Helen got it all wrong. Why the hell hasn’t Greg got all this out in the open before?
But I know the answer, really. He didn’t like talking to me because I reminded him of Dawn. And he never needed to talk to me before – because he had Helen.
‘How long have you known about Helen? About her … liking you?’
‘I don’t know.’ He shrugs, immediately embarrassed again. ‘I suppose I cottoned onto it soon after she started working here. It was a bit of a shock, to be honest – it’s not exactly something I’ve been used to. I’m hardly a sex symbol, I don’t need anyone to tell me that.’
‘Oh, well … but … I don’t know …’
Fortunately, he laughs.
‘It’s all right, Katie, we don’t need to pretend I’m George Clooney and you’re secretly having trouble holding yourself in check! It was very odd knowing that Helen liked me, and especially that she was jealous when I told her you reminded me of Dawn. But I wasn’t interested in her in that way. We just got on well together. She’s a good listener. I felt comfortable with her. Not that she didn’t try – she made a pass at me a couple of times, but all it really did was embarrass both of us,’ he added, squirming a bit again.
Ha! Good for Helen. Might have known she’d have given it a go. What a terrible thought, though!
‘But of course, I was sorry when she said she was taking extended leave and – and a little put out, to be honest. I told her it was really inconvenient and it’d put me in a spot.’
‘Poor Helen! No wonder she went! Couldn’t you see what you were doing to her?’
‘No, not really. I was totally perplexed by it all, especially the fact that she was going to Australia. I had no idea it was anything to do with me. Look, OK, I knew she fancied me, and I admit I found it flattering, but I honestly didn’t know she felt that strongly.’
‘You’ll miss her now she’s gone,’ I tell him a bit crossly. Stupid man! How thick can you get?
‘Katie,’ he says quietly, looking down at his desk, ‘I do. I do already. Actually, I started missing her before she’d even gone. I don’t know when it hit me – gradually, I suppose, over these last couple of weeks, while she’s been preparing to leave. She was a good friend, and I’ve let her go.’
‘So why didn’t you stop her going?’ God, this is so exasperating! ‘She was begging you to tell her not to go!’
‘OK, she kissed me, at her leaving party – and some people might say that a kiss like that is another way of begging to be asked to stay.’
‘Of course it was!’
‘I’m not that stupid. I’m not reading anything into that. She was far too drunk to know what she was doing. She’d made up her mind; she was going to Australia. And if she decides not to come back, I’ll have lost a friend and that’s all there is to it.’
‘Greg. Are you telling me, honestly, that you think of Helen as just a friend? Only let me tell you something: all you’ve done, all week, is mope around with a face like a long bloody wet weekend.’
‘Did you hear any of what I told you, Katie? About Dawn? Ever since she left me, I’ve avoided having anything to do with women except as friends, or colleagues. It’s taken me a long time to recover. I’m not in a hurry to go through that kind of rejection again.’
‘But Helen’s crazy about you, Greg!’
‘So you say. But so was Dawn, once.’
‘Helen’s not like Dawn, though, is she! You need to trust the opposite sex again sooner or later, Greg! We all have to live again, eventually … don’t we?’
It’s not just the look on Greg’s face that stops me short.
I’ve suddenly realised I’m not one to talk. I’m doing exactly the same thing myself: cruising along in neutral, staying safe, staying single, never wanting to risk being hurt again.
But that’s different. I’m not moping around the way Greg is!
ABOUT PHONE CALLS
I’m moving next week. I’ve found a downstairs flat, with a garden, in an old converted house in Leigh-on-Sea. The rent’s cheap because it’s a bit basic but I’m excited that I’m really going to be living at the seaside! I can commute to work for now – but, to be honest, I want to look for a new job. The problem is, how can I leave Bookshelf, when Greg’s already struggling without Helen? We’ve had a series of temps, most of them looking not quite old enough to have left school and not having much IT knowledge beyond how to play computer games and how to produce CVs giving distorted impressions of their abilities. At the moment I feel like I’ll have to stay, at least until he finds someone half-decent, or until Helen comes back. If she ever does.
I’ve e-mailed her several times, telling her how much Greg misses her, but her replies have been a bit terse. Don’t try to humour me, she wrote last time. It’s not helping. Perhaps Greg’s right. Perhaps she really does want to be left alone, on the other side of the world, to forget about him. But somehow I don’t think so. Am I still hankering after the happy ending, after all – even if it’s someone else’s happy ending instead of mine?
‘Seaside?’ says Emily when she comes to have a look at my new flat. ‘Estuary-side, more like!’
‘But we can still have candyfloss, can’t we? And Southend rock? And build sand castles?’
‘Mud castles,’ she corrects me, laughing, but she slips an arm through mine and squeezes it. ‘It’s perfect, Katie. All it needs is a lick of paint. I’ll help you – we’ll do it together. It’ll be great.’
‘And you’ll come and stay? I’ll get a sofa bed. You and Sean? You can have weekends at the seaside.’
‘We’re only going to be half an hour away! You’re not going to the other side of the world, love! Thank God,’ she adds quietly.
But I’m already planning it, in my mind. Breakfasts at waterfront cafes, looking out at all the little fishing boats bobbing on the tide. Beach parties on warm summer evenings. Sunsets over the sea. Oh, all right then – the estuary! It doesn’t sound so romantic, does it.
Of course, I’m not the only one whose life has turned upside down since the hen weekend. Lisa and Richard have split up, too. Ou
r poor Mum must be wondering what the hell her daughters are playing at. Happy families? Well, I suppose we didn’t start off with a very good example.
Richard’s moving out, and Lisa’s staying in the house with the children. I ask her whether she’s going to move in with Andy.
‘Not yet,’ she says, cagily. ‘I want to give it some time, Katie. I’m not rushing into anything.’
‘Want to make sure he’s The One?’ I say, smiling, nudging her. But she doesn’t smile back.
‘Not sure about all that stuff.’
No, I’m beginning to wonder myself, too. It’s one thing to be romantic about sunsets and beaches … but men? Finding The One? If I hadn’t been so caught up in all that stuff when I met Matt, maybe I would have realised it wasn’t right. I talked myself into believing it. Why do we do that? What happens to us – do we develop a kind of mind and brain bypass when we meet a new man that we want to be The One?
‘Somewhere out there,’ says Lisa, seeing the look on my face, ‘there’s someone that’s right for you, little sister.’
I used to think so, too. But after those ridiculous dreams and fancies I had about Harry, I’m beginning to think my judgment is shot to pieces.
Of course, I never think about Harry now. But it’s strange how many people around here remind me of him. I’d say there must be a lot of Harry lookalikes in Leigh-on-Sea – but that isn’t strictly true, because every time I get one of these absurd heart-stopping moments when something about the back of a complete stranger’s head, or the way they walk, makes me think for a split second that it’s actually Harry, they turn round and in fact they’re nothing like him whatsoever. And the sinking feeling I get then isn’t anything to do with disappointment, of course. It’s probably just indigestion.
The first phone call comes at the most inappropriate moment you could possibly imagine. I’m in a job interview. It’s all very well hanging on at Bookshelf, but I just happened to see this advert for someone to help run the bookshop in Leigh-on-Sea – just round the corner from me. I couldn’t resist it. OK, the money isn’t great, but I won’t have any fares, I won’t be running a car, and there was a hint in the advert about possible advancement for the right person. I don’t quite understand how you can advance, in a bookshop, but I thought it was worth trying to find out. Yes, I feel guilty about Greg, but maybe the next school-leaver that comes from the agency will be better. I’ve got to start thinking about what’s good for me, for a change.
