When Life Gives You Lemons

by Fiona Gibson

  Rose’s expression softens. There’s no blow-dry today. Her hair is hanging, deflated, against her sallow face. ‘Look, I know it’s not great, but honestly, they’re completely safe. That’s not the issue. The priority now is to find how it happened and what we’re going to do next. According to Kytes – and of course they’re desperate to assign blame – the batch missed any spot checks of theirs and, well, here we are.’ She presses her lips together in a flat line.

  ‘Right.’ I pause. ‘I assume there’s been a product recall?’

  ‘Yes, of course.’ She turns back to her laptop and peers at it, attention wavering already. ‘As I said in my message, the short-term priority is damage limitation. We need to apologise and reassure customers. I need everyone to be ready for a meeting downstairs at eleven. Could you send a mass email now, marking it urgent, then get yourself down there to help set up the boardroom?’

  ‘Yes, of course,’ I say, still thinking limestone and mould repellent, for crying out loud. I know I don’t make the darn things – I’m just a PA – but still I feel somehow responsible.

  ‘We’re being besieged by journalists,’ she adds. ‘Don’t put any calls through to me.’

  ‘No, of course not.’

  ‘And I’ll need you to minute the meeting.’

  ‘Yes, no problem.’

  ‘Thank you, Viv.’ With another brisk flap of her hand, I am dismissed.

  In my five years at Flaxico I’d assumed I’d acquired a decent grasp of what goes on in our company. However, in the hours that follow, the head honchos spout so much waffle, I’d be no more equipped to understand what happens in Andy’s consultancy room.

  ‘What we’re looking at,’ says a short, stocky man with ruddy cheeks, ‘is a situation in which Kytes were supplied not with human-edible product but animal feed, and in terms of legislative issues there has clearly been a contractual-something-or-other not to mention a breach of mumble-bumble-rabbit-food-culpability in accordance with essential labelling criteria blah-blah-blah …’

  Eh, what? I want to shout as, instead of enunciating clearly, he is muttering into his shirt collar, clearly uncomfortable about addressing us at all. I have never seen this man before. Perhaps it’s the first time he’s been liberated from a secret room. However, the gist seems to be that we’re sticking to the ‘It’s their fault, not ours’ line, although I can’t see how that holds true. After all, we manufactured and sold Kytes the basic product. In one of the news reports I’ve read, an angry mother announced: ‘If I’d wanted to give my little boy limestone to eat I’d have taken him to a quarry.’ Quite right too. I know for sure that Izzy won’t be getting any of the snacks made from our products anytime soon.

  We’ve moved on to question-and-answer time now, which seems to fluster the man even further, and as a result his answers expand until, all around me, I catch my colleagues glancing at each other impatiently and stifling yawns. There’s a bunch of us who are friendly and usually have lunch together in the bleak canteen. We keep shooting each other ‘What-the-hell?’ looks, and a few renegade souls are hovering at the back, making goofy rabbit faces at each other. I notice that Bugs Bunny has been drawn on a whiteboard and decide not to minute that.

  Clearly, there will be no release for lunch today as one of the other PAs has organised for sandwiches and muffins to be ferried in. Being windowless and lacking even basic ventilation, the lower basement is beginning to feel uncomfortably stuffy, and the last thing anyone wants to do is eat. I have already had one full-on hot flush and can sense further ones brewing. My shirt is clinging to my back. I think you’ll find reptiles are dry-skinned, Viv.

  There’s a short break, during which everyone gathers in clusters to admit that they don’t have a clue what’s going on. Then off we go again, with the same red-faced man rabbiting on (ha-ha!) saying ‘wherein’ and ‘therein’ a lot, which is causing my last vestiges of oestrogen to dwindle away.

  Other things are happening too. By the time he pauses for a sip of water, I fear that any remaining elastin has evaporated from my skin. I can literally sense my face dehydrating and suspect I’ll leave this room entirely desiccated. And now, dear God, something else seems to be happening – not to my face but … down there. While I’m not one of those people who has to double-check everything before they leave the house, I’m pretty sure my vagina was perfectly fine a few hours ago. However, at some point during this man’s indecipherable babblings, things seem to have taken a turn for the worse. Withering is the only word for it. Of course I can’t see it right now, and I wouldn’t dream of investigating it in present company – but I can sense it happening, curling up at the edges like those cheese savoury sandwiches nobody seems to want. Apart from the fact that it’s not garnished with cress or served on a stainless-steel platter, my vagina is virtually indistinguishable from the unwanted buffet spread.

  Naturally, it’s now impossible to focus on taking the minutes at all. I’ll have to cobble them together later and somehow fill in the gaps; at the moment, I’m focused on trying to reassure myself that it’s okay, no need to panic. A few months ago, before I found out about Andy’s affair, I was a rampant sex addict on constant heat. Now I never even think about it. So maybe this is just nature’s way of streamlining processes; a biological decluttering, if you like. If your vagina doesn’t ‘spark joy’ then it makes sense for it to retreat quietly into a dormant state.

  I clear my throat and push my hair away from my hot face. The meeting is finally over. As I gather up my notes and hurriedly make my way towards the exit, Rose calls after me. ‘Viv? Just a minute …’

  ‘Yes?’ I turn and smile as serenely as I can muster.

  She nods towards the buffet. ‘Those sandwiches have hardly been touched and you seemed too preoccupied to eat anything. Want to take some upstairs for later?’

  ‘Oh, I had something earlier, thanks,’ I say with another wide smile, and zoom out of the room.

  Friday, July 26

  Another mad day at work with me constantly fielding calls to Rose as, naturally, she is being besieged with requests for interviews. We have issued a statement, the gist of which is as follows: Whoops, something went wrong. Although the rogue batch won’t harm anyone, we’re still very sorry and will make sure it never happens again.

  If your child had guzzled a packet of rabbit pellets, I don’t think you’d find it adequate. Meanwhile, rumours begin to emerge that – shhhhh! – this kind of thing happens all the time, and no one ever finds out about it. After all, pet products can be made from lower-grade ingredients than human-edible foods, and aren’t subjected to the same stringent tests. And rumour has it that, sometimes, a human-edible product might be, ahem, blended with a little of ‘something else’.

  ‘But you didn’t hear it from me,’ whispers Jean, a shrewd woman in her sixties who has handled the payroll since something like 1982 and knows everything that goes on. We are huddled in the ladies, washing our hands. There’s been a lot of gossiping in the loos since all this came out. I don’t think anyone’s got any proper work done.

  ‘It’s amazing it hasn’t come out before,’ I murmur.

  ‘It’ll all stop now, of course,’ she adds. ‘But it’s going to mean a massive overhaul with a ton of investment into PR and image and all that.’

  ‘Really? You reckon it’ll go that far?’

  Jean nods. ‘Could be interesting for someone like you, with your background.’

  ‘I was a stage manager, Jean,’ I remind her. ‘I don’t think that’ll ever be relevant here.’

  ‘You never know how things’ll turn out,’ she says, giving me a knowing look. ‘I’ve heard serious talk about the company having to pull out all the stops to seem like a fantastic, modern-day employer.’ She pauses. ‘So, for people like you, bunnygate might turn out to be a good thing.’

  ‘You really think so?’

  ‘You know Rose,’ she says. ‘She’ll soon stop looking at this as an almighty disaster and turn it round to be som
e kind of fantastic opportunity instead.’

  Christ, I do hope she’s right. Whilst I’ve never loved the place exactly, I hadn’t imagined they’d go to such lengths in order to maximise profits. Now, I feel grubby inside; grubbier, even, than when I was rabidly googling images of Estelle Lang. Why can’t I have an honourable job, like Andy has? Whatever I think of him, at least he does something worthwhile that helps people. Not me, maybe, but his patients. I can’t deny him that.

  Back home, Izzy seems a little glum, and I wonder if it’s because she’s not entirely keen about going away with her dad, her grandparents and all her aunts, uncles and cousins. ‘You’ll have fun,’ I say as I clear the table after dinner. ‘You always love it up there, don’t you?’

  ‘Yeah, I s’pose,’ she says, fiddling with her hair.

  Despite my quizzing, I can’t figure out what’s wrong. Maybe she thinks she shouldn’t appear too excited at the prospect of getting away from me? I’d hate her to feel that way, and go all out to enthuse her about it.

  Hand-made patchwork quilts! Wood-burning stoves! ‘It sounds amazing,’ I say in my most positive voice.

  Of course, it’s her first holiday since her dad and I broke up. It’s bound to feel weird for her, with me not going too, and I feel frustrated that I don’t know how to make it okay.

  Later on, Andy calls to suggest that I might take this opportunity to ‘have a holiday too’, and that I ‘probably need one’. I remind him that I have already taken some leave, and do in fact have a proper job, which might not involve me saving patients from hormonal collapse, but still requires me to give notice before I can have a holiday. Plus – plus! – I don’t really need him to suggest when I might take time off, thank-you-very-much!

  On a positive note, it must have been the stress of trying to minute yesterday’s meeting that had me imagining all kinds of witherings and/or crumblings happening to my nether regions. I seem to be fine down there, not that I am ever going to do it with anyone ever again, so it doesn’t really matter what kind of state it’s in.

  Chapter Twelve

  Sunday, July 28

  Penny disagrees strongly. She has a theory that I am ‘ready’ to meet someone new, that it is ‘time’.

  ‘I couldn’t be less interested,’ I tell her as Izzy and Maeve run ahead with Bobby in the park. Jules and I often help each other out with childcare, for which I’ve been especially grateful since Andy and I broke up. She and Erol are out on an afternoon date.

  ‘I’m not talking anything serious,’ Penny adds. ‘I just mean a casual thing to perk you up a bit.’

  I splutter. ‘I don’t need perking up. I’m absolutely fine as I am.’

  She rolls her eyes. ‘Oh, come on, Viv. We could find you someone nice, just to have fun with.’

  ‘Right, okay.’ I chuckle, deciding to indulge her by playing along. ‘So who d’you have in mind for me?’

  Her brow furrows as she seems to consider my options. Today she is wearing a navy dress patterned with white daisies, which is attracting looks in the park and is immensely cheering. ‘When does school go back?’ she asks.

  ‘Um, mid-August. Why?’

  ‘Well, I always think that lollipop man at the end of your street’s very handsome …’

  ‘What?’ I splutter.

  She grins. ‘Well, don’t you?’

  ‘Pen, I’m not going to get off with the lollipop man. He must be well into his seventies!’

  ‘Don’t be so ageist,’ she teases. ‘He’s in excellent shape, and he’s friendly and helpful …’

  ‘“Friendly and helpful”.’ I pretend to consider this. ‘Are these the characteristics I should be looking for in a boyfriend?’

  She arches a brow. ‘Well, he seems obliging—’

  ‘Especially if I need help crossing the road.’ I smirk and turn to the girls. ‘Are you two ready for ice creams?’

  ‘Yeah!’ they yell, charging towards us. We head for the van and, armed with our vanilla cones, we wander a little further towards the lake. It’s a warm, hazy summer’s afternoon, and the grassy expanse is dotted with families and couples, sprawling groups of teenagers and dog walkers, all drawn to the park by the beautiful day. There are picnics and games of frisbee in progress. The girls crouch at the water’s edge, watching the ducks.

  ‘Okay. What about Nick, then?’ Penny asks.

  ‘Nick?’ I blink at her.

  She smiles and licks her ice cream. ‘Yep, I think he’d be perfect for you.’

  ‘You mean your Nick?’ I say, almost choking. ‘Oh, sure. Between him and the lollipop man—’

  ‘Actually,’ she cuts in, deadpan, ‘I’m being serious now. I think you’d like him, and I’m sure he’d like you.’

  I stare at her for a moment, realising that she really means this as a genuine suggestion. ‘But … he lives in New Zealand,’ I start.

  ‘Yes, but he’s coming over on a visit,’ she says with a smile.

  ‘Great. Lovely! But that’s not really the point. It would just feel too weird—’

  ‘Why?’ she asks, seemingly genuinely baffled. ‘He’s a lovely man, and as far as I know he’s single just now …’

  ‘Penny, that’s an insane suggestion,’ I exclaim.

  ‘I don’t see the problem—’

  ‘He’s your son!’

  She actually looks hurt. ‘Yes, I’m aware of that. I was thinking you’d view that as a positive, not a reason to discount him straight off.’

  ‘I didn’t mean it like that,’ I say quickly. ‘I’m sure he’s wonderful. It’s just …’ I pause, trying to find the right way of putting it. ‘It would just feel so wrong.’

  She looks baffled. ‘I don’t see why.’

  ‘Because … you’re my friend. Because you know what an emotional mess I am, and surely you wouldn’t want him involving himself with someone like me …’

  ‘You’re not a mess,’ she protests. ‘I’d be delighted.’

  ‘And because I know all about him eating nothing but butterscotch Angel Delight for a year and running naked around the library.’

  She frowns, almost comically. ‘He doesn’t do that anymore.’

  ‘No, I should hope not. He’s, what, forty-eight?’

  ‘Forty-nine,’ she corrects me, as if that’ll swing it.

  ‘Anyway, that’s not the point. The point is, well …’ Actually, there are so many points, I don’t know where to start.

  ‘Well, look, as I said, he’s coming over,’ she adds.

  ‘When?’ I ask cautiously.

  ‘Towards the end of next month, for a few weeks. He’s doing some filming in Yorkshire, some documentary about steam trains or something …’ She shrugs, clearly nonplussed by his interest in the subject. ‘And when that’s done,’ she continues, brightening, ‘he’s coming to stay with me. So you’ll meet him at last!’

  ‘That’ll be lovely,’ I say, and in fact I’m curious; I have always been away on holiday, or at my in-laws’ for Christmas, on his previous visits. ‘You’re looking forward to it, aren’t you?’ I add. ‘Having some time with Nick, I mean?’

  ‘Of course I am,’ Penny says briskly. ‘But, you know, I am very used to pleasing myself and having my own space, and he really does fuss over me …’

  ‘You could turn out your lights and hide behind the sofa,’ I tease her, ‘pretending not to be in.’

  She sniggers. ‘Or send him round to you, get him out of my hair?’

  ‘Sure! If they still make butterscotch Angel Delight, I’ll be sure to stock up—’

  ‘Mum!’ Izzy yells as the girls run back towards us. ‘Mum, I want to ask you a question.’

  ‘What is it?’

  She grins broadly, clearly barely able to contain herself. ‘Can I go on holiday to Maeve’s caravan?’

  There’s been no mention of this before, and I’m not sure how to react. I have only just come around to the idea of Andy taking her away, without me. ‘Honey, I’m sorry, but you can’t just invite yo
urself on their holiday.’

  ‘I haven’t,’ she says firmly. ‘Maeve’s invited me.’

  ‘Can she come, please?’ Maeve asks. ‘Please, Viv. Please!’

  I exhale. ‘We’ll have to see, love. I’d need to check with your mum and dad. Maybe sometime …’

  ‘She can come this time,’ Maeve announces happily. ‘Mum said it’s all right.’

  I turn to Izzy. ‘I don’t think you can. You’re going away with Dad, remember?’

  As she looks at her friend and frowns, it dawns on me why Izzy has seemed reticent about the Loch Fyne trip. The girls have clearly been hatching an alternative plan.

  Jules is apologetic when I drop off Maeve at home. ‘I’m sorry if this makes things difficult,’ she says. ‘The girls were asking me the other day if Izzy could come away with us, and I said it would be fine, of course – but that she’d have to check with you first. I should have mentioned it …’

  I look at my daughter. ‘Why didn’t you say earlier, love?’

  She shuffles uncomfortably. ‘I thought it might upset Dad.’

  Well, it will, I reflect. But if forcing her to go away with his family will upset her, then I know whose feelings I prioritise.

  ‘When are you planning to go?’ I ask Jules.

  ‘On Friday, for about a week.’

  I exhale. ‘Izzy, are you sure this is what you want to do? You’ll miss out on seeing all your cousins. Remember there are those lovely new chalets to stay in.’

  She looks up at me, eyes wide. ‘I don’t want to go there, Mum. I want to go away with Maeve.’

  ‘Okay, okay,’ I murmur. ‘If you’re absolutely sure …’ I turn to Jules. ‘And it’s definitely okay with you and Erol?’

  ‘We’d love her to come,’ she says, smiling.

  ‘All right, then. I’ll just have to tell Dad.’ The girls cheer and hug each other, and all the way home, Izzy is full of all the fun they’ll have, chattering about the plans they’ve been making, secretly.

  When I call Andy later to break the news, he is clearly put out, but manages to remain stoical. ‘I thought she seemed a bit off about it,’ he says. ‘I was worried she felt weird about, you know … coming away without you.’