Tales From A Hen Weekend

by Olivia Ryan

  When my phone starts singing its silly little electronic tune in my bag, I’m just being asked why I want the job.

  Shit, shit, shit. Why did I forget to turn the bloody thing to silent?

  I smile cheesily at Mrs Blake, the bookshop manager, and mumble something about my phone having developed a fault that makes it switch itself on when it’s supposed to be off. If she believes that, she’ll believe anything. I fumble in my bag, and manage to grab the phone just as it stops ringing. I’m hot and flustered with embarrassment and the knowledge that I’ve almost certainly blown my chance of the job. So flustered that I just shove the phone back into my bag without turning it off.

  ‘So sorry about that,’ I say, with another cheesy grin that probably makes me look slightly on the mad side. ‘Technology, eh! Fine till it goes wrong!’

  ‘Yes,’ smiles Mrs Blake. ‘Quite. Now, then – I think we were talking about your reasons for wanting the job?’

  ‘Oh, yes.’ I smooth my skirt and try to calm down. Maybe all is not lost. ‘Well, I’ve worked in the book trade all my life, and I’m looking to diversify at this stage. In my current role, as you’ll see from my CV, I’m single-handedly reading and reviewing …’

  Unfortunately I don’t get as far as telling her how many books I’m single-handedly reviewing, because at this point the phone starts again. This time I lose my composure completely and only just manage to stop myself shouting ‘Bollocks!’ at the top of my voice as I grab it out of my bag again, and in my agitation, drop the fucking thing and it slides under Mrs Blake’s desk.

  ‘Oh! Sorry! I’ll just … sorry, let me just …’

  I’m on the floor now, reaching under the desk, desperate to stop the ringing. The phone hits one of Mrs Blake’s sturdy lace-up shoes and she inadvertently kicks it sideways out from under the desk. I reach out for it as it flies past, desperately jabbing at any old keys I can manage, instead of the only one I should be hitting – the off button – and for a minute I’m frozen with horror as an electronic voice informs the whole room, out loud:

  ‘Voicemail has one new message. New message one:……’

  I’m far too disconcerted to ponder on my terrible luck – that I must have not only answered the call, but turned the phone onto loudspeaker as it slid across the room. Instead, paralysed, not really believing that this is happening to me, I just sit on the floor staring at it, as the voice changes and the message is beamed out loud and clear:

  ‘Katie. This is Harry. I’ll come straight to the point. I’ve tried not to contact you. I’ve tried not to think about you – but it’s no good. I need to hear your voice. I need to see you! You’ve got my number. Ring me …’

  Finally, much too late, I pull myself together sufficiently to crawl after the phone, snap it off and just about find the self-control to refrain from hurling it out of the window. Mrs Blake is looking at me with a curious expression.

  ‘Wrong number,’ I tell her wretchedly.

  I don’t think I’ll get the job.

  He tries again the next day. I don’t recognise his number from the caller display; it’s been a while since I deleted it from my Contacts.

  ‘Katie!’ he begins, sounding relieved that I’ve answered.

  ‘I was in an interview!’ I say, furiously. As if it was his fault. ‘I won’t get the bloody job now.’

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘Yesterday. When you called. The phone went under the desk, and then I answered it instead of turning it off, and …’

  He’s laughing!

  ‘It’s not funny,’ I say, petulantly.

  ‘No. Sorry.’

  But I can hear him still smothering a chuckle. The annoying thing is, it’s making me want to laugh too.

  ‘Anyway,’ I continue, taking a deep breath and trying hard to stop myself from imagining him smiling. Imagining the way the smile would be reaching his eyes, the way his cheeks would be dimpling. What’s the matter with me? ‘What do you want?’

  There. That was impressive, wasn’t it?

  Actually, it sounded rude and aggressive, but I can’t afford to let my guard drop.

  ‘Well,’ he says, having taken a sharp breath at my rudeness and aggression. ‘I was going to suggest we meet up for a drink.’

  ‘No. I don’t think it’s a good idea.’

  Short of just hanging up on him, I couldn’t be a lot more discouraging, could I?

  ‘That’s what I wanted to talk to you about,’ he persists. ‘Why is it not a good idea? I thought we got on well in Ireland – didn’t we? I know you’ve just broken up with your boyfriend. I just thought maybe we could stay friends, Katie. I’m not talking about … ’ he laughs, ‘having a relationship or anything!’

  His laugh sends shivers down my spine. My resolve is weakening. Of course it’d be lovely to see him. Have a drink with him. Have him looking into my eyes with that warm, gentle, concerned smile that turned my knees to jelly …

  Shit! What am I thinking?

  ‘I know you didn’t want me to contact you, so I’ve left it a while, Katie,’ he’s saying. ‘As I could bear to.’

  ‘So leave it a bit longer, Harry. In fact – please don’t phone me again.’

  There’s a silence. He’s not laughing any more. Part of me, ridiculously, wants to say I didn’t mean it. But instead I keep thinking about how I need to be strong, and how seeing Harry is going to weaken me.

  ‘I just wanted to ask how you were,’ he says eventually.

  ‘Thanks. I’m fine. I’ve moved, and I’m looking for a new job.’ So you’ll never find me, mister. ‘And I might change my phone number,’ I add for good measure.

  ‘OK.’ He sounds resigned. ‘OK, I get the message. If that’s really what you want.’

  ‘I’m sorry if you got the wrong impression, Harry.’

  ‘I don’t think I did,’ he replies, so softly that I only just catch it.

  I feel quite proud of myself when I hang up.

  At least, I think that’s what I’m feeling.

  Jude phones me a few days later. She sounds happy.

  ‘Still seeing Conor?’ I ask her pointedly.

  Of course she is. I’m pleased for her. How ironic that the cousin of someone I really want to avoid, could turn out to be so perfect for my friend.

  ‘He’s been saying that maybe, God willing, we could make a trip over to England together next month after I get the plaster off,’ she says, a bit tentatively, as if she’s worried it’s taking far too much for granted to even mention it.

  ‘Oh!’ I squeal. ‘That’d be so cool, Jude! You can come and stay with me! I’ve got a sofa bed, and we can go for walks on the beach, and – ’

  ‘Well,’ she interrupts me, sounding even more tentative. Actually sounding really quite cagey. ‘To be honest, Katie, Conor has the idea for us to stay in London.’

  For a minute, I don’t grasp the significance. Stay in London? Maybe he wants to do the tourist bit – you know, visit the Tower, see the Crown Jewels. Take pictures of Big Ben.

  ‘OK,’ I say, trying not to feel hurt. ‘OK, that’s fine, I can come up to London and meet you both, and we can go out together, do some clubs and stuff…’. And then I suddenly get it. ‘Oh. You mean you’re going to stay with his cousin.’

  ‘With Harry, yes, we are so. He invited us, and Conor says ’twould be rude an’ all, to turn it down, but sure Leigh-on-Sea is only just down the road, Katie. Sure we can see you every day, or every evening, and go out together, and …’

  ‘With Harry.’

  There’s a silence. Then:

  ‘Katie, Conor’s told me that Harry’s phoned you. I know he’s after going out with you – any fool could see that, even when you were over in Ireland, he had the hots for you – and if it wasn’t for the whole thing with Matt, I’d have said you had the hots for him too.’

  ‘No, I didn’t. I haven’t! I don’t want anything to do with anyone at the moment. I …’

  ‘I know. Sure I understand that, of cours
e I do, and so does Harry. Don’t worry, Katie. I’ve told him he’s not allowed to pester you or even so much as look at you when we meet up together.’

  ‘And what did he say to that?’ I ask, smiling despite myself.

  ‘That he’d still rather have the opportunity to be with you for so much as five minutes, even if he’s not allowed to look at you.’

  I’m so taken aback by this, I can’t even answer for a moment.

  ‘I think he’s got it pretty bad!’ laughs Jude.

  ‘Yeah, right,’ I mutter, trying not to smile. ‘Like he gets it bad for every bit of skirt on the planet, I suppose!’

  I really don’t want to see Harry. The thought of seeing him is making me feel quite shaky. But this isn’t about what I want. It’s about Jude, and her new, very lovely, very important relationship. I’m going to have to sacrifice my feelings for my friend’s sake. It’s out of my control. I can’t do a thing about it.

  ABOUT E-MAILS

  To: helen.fuller1965@aol.com

  From: katieHalliday@hotmail.com

  Date: 22nd June 2005

  Dear Helen

  I can’t tell you how excited I was to get your e-mail. Not as excited as Greg was, of course! He was practically dancing around the office when I got to work this morning. Not a pretty sight, as you can imagine. I pretended I didn’t know what was up with him – just so that I could hear him say it out loud.

  She’s coming back. I took your advice and wrote to her, Katie. She’s coming back in a couple of weeks’ time! Thank you! Thank you for your very sensible advice. If only I’d listened to you sooner!

  Yes, it does make a change for somebody to listen to my advice, I must say. All my efforts with you, nagging you by e-mail, was just water off a duck’s back – but one letter from Himself, begging you to come back, has done the trick. Thank God! I felt like knocking your two heads together, if only you weren’t too far away to do it. It wasn’t till I told him I was leaving Bookshelf that he was shocked into getting in touch with you – and before you say it, no it wasn’t just because he needs you back in the office now that I’m going! I think, though, that this kind of gave him the excuse he needed, to write to you. He wanted to, all along, but he just kept saying that you should be left alone to get on with your life.

  Well, it’s great to see Greg so happy, even if he does have a rather strange, stilted way of showing it. Like making me a cup of tea ‘to celebrate’ – anyone else would have suggested nipping down the pub. But it’s just as well, really, as I’m off the booze these days.

  So the plan is to have another couple of weeks in Australia to see a few of the sights, and then come back – yes? Great. Can’t wait to hear all about it. Hope your brother isn’t too upset that you’re not staying permanently. Come on, Helen – be honest. Reading between the lines of your e-mails, I get the impression you haven’t really been enjoying living with him, his wife and their four ‘horrible’ kids. Yes, I think it’s OK to be critical about your own niece and nephews – after all, you’ve never even met them before, it’s not as though you’re close, and having your handbag thrown out of the window and your mobile phone buried in the garden isn’t just normal childhood mischief – whatever your sister-in-law says. And I know you’re not that keen on dogs, so the Alsatian and the three puppies must be a bit of a trial. You’d have had to move out pretty soon and find a place of your own – and that would make it all too permanent.

  Greg says I’m not to meet you at Heathrow, because he wants to. He wants you all to himself, I think! Hopefully he’s planning a celebratory night out. Take my advice – for what it’s worth. Don’t let him take you for a nice cup of tea and a scone. Insist on nothing less than a slap-up four course meal in a good restaurant. He can afford it. He needs to get out more. I bet he used to be more sociable in his old days in publishing. He’s turned into a recluse since his divorce. You’re going to make each other happy, my love – that’s the thing. I’m so pleased for you!

  You asked about my new job. Well, it’s strange really. I was totally gobsmacked when Mrs Blake offered me the post. I think she must have felt sorry for me. Honestly, I couldn’t have ballsed up the interview more if I tried. I told you what happened with the phone, didn’t I. After that I just gave up – I reckoned there was no way she was going to give me the job so I relaxed and, bizarrely, we went into this kind of cosy chat about ourselves and I ended up sitting there for ages, with her telling me all about her ex-husband who left her for her niece of all things – totally gross – and how she bought the bookshop out of the money she got from the divorce settlement. She owns the shop outright. Then the niece left him (served him right!) and he got made redundant, couldn’t pay the mortgage on the house they’d bought together and ended up in a squat with two drug addicts. Meanwhile she’s doing very nicely, thank you, and every now and then she sends him a cheque – not very much, just enough to buy himself a few basic groceries. I asked her how she can bear to do it – I thought how noble. But no, she laughed and said she was doing it to humiliate him. To look at her, you wouldn’t think she had it in her. Tough old cookie. And then she started asking about me, and before you knew it, we were actually laughing together about the phone call, and she was asking if Harry was my boyfriend and I told her … well, I think I pretty much told her my whole life history. I felt really embarrassed afterwards – I mean, you just don’t do that, do you – go to an interview and end up chatting to the employer about cancelling your wedding and being ditched over the phone by your boyfriend and all that stuff! So can you imagine how I felt when I got the letter offering me the job? Don’t get me wrong – I’m really chuffed about it. She’s offering me good money because she wants me to learn the business and gradually take over managing the shop while she looks after her other interests (she owns a couple of flats in Leigh and rents them out to people like me!), and then, eventually, she wants to retire altogether and have someone – hopefully me – manage the shop full-time. So yes, I’m very, very excited about it. Of course I’m sorry to be leaving Bookshelf – I finish there at the end of the month – but now you’re coming back, Greg will manage fine. The latest temp has at least got a grasp of IT, can type and is a voracious reader so he’s considering taking her on permanently. And you can both come and see me – my little flat is looking much nicer now that Emily and Sean have helped me paint all the walls in pastel colours. The dark green and brown were beginning to depress me. I love living at Leigh. I walk along the beach at weekends and dream of … oh, well, I won’t go on now about my dreams. I’ll tell you about them when you come back!

  Lots to catch up with, then. Looking forward to it!

  Take care; watch out for those snakes and spiders!

  Lots of love, Katie xx

  To: HJCornwell@Goldsmith-Adams.co.uk

  From: katieHalliday@hotmail.com

  Date: 24th June 2005

  Harry

  I don’t know how you got my e-mail address. Thank you for your good wishes about my new job.

  I’m sorry you haven’t been able to sleep. I don’t agree that it’s my fault. Maybe you should see your GP.

  I suppose we will meet up when Jude and Conor come over.

  Best

  Katie

  To: judith.barnard@ntl.ie

  From: katieHalliday@hotmail.com

  Date: 24th June 2005

  Hi Jude

  Thank you very much – not – for giving Harry my e-mail address. I thought I said no? You know very well I said no! I don’t care how much he’s been texting you, getting on your nerves going on about wanting to get in touch with me. Why do you think I changed my mobile number? Change yours, then, if he’s annoying you that much!

  It’s bad enough that we’ll be making a cosy little foursome when you come over to London. I don’t want him e-mailing me telling me all about his sleepless nights. Like I give a shit! I have enough trouble sleeping myself, thank you very much.

  Next time he asks you, tell him I’ve gone out
to Australia with Helen. Or joined a Silent Order of nuns. That’ll do it.

  Talk soon.

  L.O.L. – Katie xx

  PS: Sorry. I know he’s Conor’s cousin and everything but I keep telling you; I do not want to get involved.

  To: judith.barnard@ntl.ie

  From: katieHalliday@hotmail.com

  Date: 24th June 2005

  What do you mean, why not? How about – because I’ve just been dumped by one man and I’m not up for another bout of pain. If I was into self-flagellation I could just go out and buy myself a barbed wire vest or a bed of nails. Or how about – because I just don’t like him very much. Will that do?

  x

  To: judith.barnard@ntl.ie

  From: katieHalliday@hotmail.com