by Fiona Gibson
‘Hmm. Well, it’s not that,’ I say dryly.
‘She’s not persuadable, is she?’
‘I don’t think so. She seems to have set her heart on this. I suspect they’ve been planning it for a while. She was actually worried about hurting your feelings, and how you’d react …’
‘Oh, God, really?’ He sighs. ‘Everyone’ll be so disappointed if she’s not there.’
‘There’ll be plenty of other times, though,’ I add.
‘Yes, I guess so. Tell her it’s fine, then.’
I already have, I muse, although I don’t say it. And we leave it at that, with not a single sharp word between us during the entire eight-minute phone conversation. A little over four months since he left, we are capable of handling a slightly tricky situation in a reasonable manner, which can only be a positive thing, a distinct move forward for both of us.
I still hate the fucker, though.
Monday, July 29
At work, bunnygate is still the full focus, and it’s the presence of limestone in the product that the press have latched on to. Never mind that it’s only ‘trace amounts’. When you consider it’s mainly used for concrete and aggregate for road building, any amount feels like too much.
However, Rose is keen to move forward with plans to not only rescue our company’s sullied reputation but, as she puts it, ‘to embrace a bright new future as a modern, customer-friendly brand’. So perhaps Jean, the payroll lady, was right, in that new opportunities may be on the horizon – for all of us.
Startling words like ‘nutritious’, and even ‘fresh’, are being bandied about our offices. With impressive speed Rose has gathered together a bunch of top-level food technicians, who have been marching about being loud and jovial as if Flaxico is already one of those fun-filled workplaces you hear of, where everyone seems to spend an awful lot of time playing ping-pong and lolling on beanbags with their dogs. Do such places really exist?
Today we’re having a brainstorming session in the lower basement. Everyone is invited to take part – even the tall, gaunt man with the veiny nose whose role I’m pretty sure is to sporadically attend to faulty light fittings and suchlike – because it seems that this is the kind of company we work for now. It is inclusive.
Tellingly, there are no menopausal sandwiches this time, no desolate buffet bringing to mind E. coli and early death. Instead, there’s a sprightly array of tempting salads, savoury pastries and a gigantic platter of exotic fruits. Perhaps the normal canteen staff were locked in the kitchen while this delicious fare was ferried in.
‘Can you believe this is happening?’ asks Belinda, one of my lunch buddies who works in HR, as we divide into teams. Rose has asked us to come up with ideas for new products – not just in pellet form, but finished deli-type lines that would be recognisable as food, and which we might actually like to eat.
‘You mean real food?’ someone asked with a splutter.
‘Yes,’ she said dryly, ‘real food. Get to it, people. We’re talking blue-sky thinking, no holds barred. This is the start of our bold new future.’
‘It does seem like a heck of a leap,’ I mutter to Belinda, wondering how our company intends to shift from extruded pellets to the likes of pea and mint patties and feta and olive tarts. I doubt that an olive has ever entered this building before. If it had, it would have been drummed right out again and reported on in the monthly news bulletin. However, Rose keeps insisting that we should ‘think without boundaries’, and goes on to outline her plan to bring in teams of youngsters – not just those from food technology courses but from the worlds of marketing, media and design.
She is flushed with excitement as she calls us all back together and whizzes through her presentation. ‘I imagine that our company might not top many young people’s lists of preferred workplaces,’ she concedes, ‘but I want all that to change. We need to know how young people eat, and what influences a teenager’s food choices today. So my plan is to set up platforms for innovation …’ She pauses to jab at the text on the screen. God knows how she’s managed to hammer all of this together so quickly. The slick graphics belie the fact that this apparent new direction is panic-fuelled, in response to the barrage of negative media coverage. She must have been at it all weekend.
‘Each platform will be led, not by an old-style manager but a mentor,’ Rose explains, beaming around at all of us as we watch attentively from our stackable plastic chairs. ‘We’re moving into a new culture where every individual will feel empowered, and have ample opportunity for career progression and personal growth.’
‘What d’you think this means for us?’ I whisper to Belinda, who’s sitting next to me.
‘Haven’t the faintest,’ she murmurs back. ‘This is all news to me. D’you think you’ll still have to sort out her rogue pube emergencies?’
I smirk. ‘Maybe one of the new innovation platforms will take care of that?’
We turn back to the front as Rose invites questions. Belinda shoots up her hand. She’s an eager, energetic type, whom I imagine was excellent in goal attack position in netball. ‘Yes, Belinda?’ Rose says.
‘Obviously,’ she starts, ‘there are issues with implementing a policy of recruiting only young people.’
Rose nods curtly. ‘Erm, yes, of course.’
‘We can’t be seen to be discriminatory,’ Belinda adds.
‘No, obviously not.’ Rose beams around the room, clearly trying to mask a flash of I’d-never-thought-of-that panic, and eager to wrap things up now.
‘Are you planning to launch a graduate recruitment scheme?’ Belinda asks.
‘Nothing as formal as that,’ Rose says breezily. ‘I’m just looking to bring in lots of new, young, creative minds to shake things up.’
‘Okay. But will HR be involved in the setting up of—’
‘It’ll be done very carefully,’ she says with a note of impatience that clearly means Oh, do piss off, HR.
‘But what if older people, who are already employed here, want to get involved?’ Belinda persists.
‘As I said,’ Rose cuts in, her smile rigid, her tone steely, ‘we are looking for a fresh young team, and that can only be a good thing for everybody.’ As Belinda throws me a frustrated glance, Rose moves swiftly on to further questions. ‘So, what I plan to do next,’ she concludes, eyes sparkling, hands clasped before her, ‘is to talk to each and every one of you about how you can contribute to our new, exciting future here at Flaxico. Thank you very much for your time, everyone. I hope you’ve found this useful and illuminating today.’
Belinda gives me another quick look as we leave the boardroom, and there’s a distinct buzz of unease as everyone drifts back to their own departments. I’m wondering now if Rose really meant: ‘And, crucially, I shall decide whether you’re going to be part of it or not.’ Although she and I seem to rub along pretty well, I have known her to fire people for pretty flimsy reasons, largely ignoring the verbal and written warning procedure that’s supposed to be in place. Although I hope she knows I work diligently – and of course she’ll still need a PA, whatever happens – I can’t help wondering how I’ll fit into the new regime. I absolutely cannot afford to be without a job right now.
Early hours of Tuesday, July 30
Although I hate to admit it, Andy was right about one thing: it is like waking up in a swamp around here. At 3.27 a.m. I’m lying in bed with my chest soaking and my heart racing, worrying about what’s going to happen at work and, more pressingly, how I’m going to get to sleep again now I’m wide awake at this unearthly hour.
I should be used to it by now, the waking up drenched thing. That’s what interrupts my sleep – not a car alarm or a dog barking, but my body’s overenthusiastic emissions. It’s quite a design fault, this perspiring madly: not because I’ve hauled myself to the gym, but because I’ve just been lying there quietly.
At least, this is how it is for those of us who aren’t ‘breezing through’ the menopause. I know every woman experien
ces it differently. I’d imagine that Estelle Lang doesn’t sweat at all. She probably doesn’t even have pores – which seems a little unfair as these days mine are visible from outer space, like vast craters. The last time I braved one of those make-up counter ladies in a department store, she helpfully suggested how I might go about ‘filling’ them, as if they were holes in the road.
At just before 4 a.m. I get up, change into dry pyjamas and stare at my pallid face in the bathroom mirror. Another hair has poked out of my chin. I’m so used to them now, I almost greet them like friends, and at least I’ve spotted this one in its infancy. The ones I worry about are the audacious buggers that have been swaying about in the breeze for God knows how long and no one’s had the decency to point them out.
Back in bed, I try to settle back to sleep, sprawling over the dry area where I haven’t been lying. I guess that’s one positive thing about being dumped in favour of another woman.
At least there’s plenty of room in the bed.
Chapter Thirteen
Wednesday, July 31
After being in meetings for most of the morning Rose reappears on our floor and beetles over towards me, heels clacking. ‘I can’t say anything just yet,’ she hisses, ‘but I’d like to talk to you at some point about a new opportunity that might be coming your way …’
‘Really?’ I ask, spirits lifting immediately. ‘What kind of opportunity?’
‘I need to finalise things before we can discuss it.’ She smiles conspiratorially. ‘Sorry I’ve hardly been around this week. So much going on, as you’ve probably gathered …’
‘Yes, of course. I understand that.’
‘So what d’you think of all the changes we’re proposing? I know things have happened very quickly.’
‘It all sounds pretty positive,’ I reply.
She beams at me, looking as excited as a child at a birthday party. ‘I’m so glad to hear that, because I really think you could play a crucial part. I have a proposal that I think has you written all over it.’
It seems a little unfair of her to land this on me without a hint of what it might be. But what can I do? I just need to get on with my work and see what happens. I also probably ought to stop smiling hopefully – with a ‘Tell me! Tell me!’ expression – every time Rose saunters by.
Back at home, there’s no chance to mull things over as Izzy is intent on doing her TV chef thing tonight. I agree, rather wearily, that she can make us an extensive Mexican feast. There are so many components that it’s gone 8.40 p.m. by the time we can sit down to eat, by which time I fall, ravenously, upon the array of dishes. I have to say, these Izzy Cooks! episodes might not be doing much for my waistline, but by God, sour cream and refried beans sure taste good.
Friday, August 2
Although no further information has been given, the thought of something happening, something new and positive to shake me out of my work rut, is pretty thrilling. I’ve missed having a job I genuinely love, that I can throw myself into and feel that I’m good at. I miss making a difference in a more meaningful way than organising taxis to pick up Rose from various airports around the world. I know I’m lucky to have a steady job that’s not too arduous. It just feels kind of … empty sometimes. However, the promise of some kind of change keeps me buoyed up all day, which helps to make up for the fact that Izzy sauntered off with Jules, Erol and Maeve first thing this morning. I know she’ll have a brilliant holiday. I experienced only the tiniest snag at my heart as she leapt, delightedly, into their car.
Home to an empty house now, I soak in the bath, making a mental note to spruce up my CV over the weekend, in case Rose asks me to attend a formal interview. As I used to remind Spencer before his exams, ‘You can never be too prepared.’
‘Really, Mum?’ he’d say, with an infuriating smirk. ‘I thought I’d not bother and just go in and, like, wing it?’
Saturday, August 3
So, a whole week, all by myself. It’s going to be great, I decide, sipping my coffee and trying to shove away feelings of bleakness. Of course I’ll miss Izzy, but I’ll make the most of the time. There are so many things I can do.
First, I deep-clean the kitchen, stopping to marvel at all the swanky ingredients we have now: the chilli oil and porcini mushrooms, the smoked paprika and black cardamom pods bought in for future episodes of Izzy Cooks! I rearrange our food cupboards several times before putting everything back in their original positions.
Next, I work my way through all the laundry, including the teeny socks that have been lurking in the basket since Izzy was about three, and would barely fit a dolly (not that Izzy has ever shown the slightest interest in dollies). Disconcertingly, I also find some boxers of Andy’s festering at the bottom. If I had his address I’d be tempted to stuff them in a jiffy bag and post them to him, addressed to her. Would Estelle feel the same about her hot doctor lover if she ripped open a package to be confronted by his unsavoury pants? Sadly, as he’s still being weirdly cagey about where he’s living, I am to be denied the chance of doing this. Hacking them to bits with the kitchen scissors would seem a little pointless and only serve to contaminate a kitchen utensil. Picking them up gingerly by their waistbands, I settle for slinging them in the kitchen bin.
For the first time this century the laundry basket is empty. Having allowed myself the luxury of gazing into it for a few moments, I make myself another strong coffee and sit at the kitchen window as I drink it, wondering what to do next. I’d sit outside in the sunshine but Tim-the-rat-worrier from next door is in his back garden, along with Chrissie and their young son, Ludo. Being the same age as Izzy, he should probably be a friend of hers, but most definitely isn’t.
Tim is beavering away, pruning and hoeing and dragging enormous sacks of clippings about. Heavily pregnant now, Chrissie is barking commands from the patio. But only directed at Tim, it seems; apparently no one minds that Ludo appears to be intent on destroying their brick shed with a hammer. Even from here, I can see bits pinging off it, yet neither his mother nor father seem to be telling him to stop. This is how they ‘parent’: by letting the pint-sized vandal do whatever he wants.
They must reckon it’s a ‘learning experience’ for him, battering a shed.
A few weeks before all the Estelle Lang stuff came out, when life seemed to be reasonably normal, Andy and I were in pottering about in our own garden when we saw him throwing stones at a cat on the wall. ‘Don’t do that, Ludo!’ my husband called out in a perfectly pleasant tone.
Chrissie must have overheard as she zoomed out of their house. ‘We don’t say no,’ she admonished us.
And now, even though it’s not my shed, I find myself growing more and more agitated watching the kid attacking it, to the point at which I have to move away from the window and try to find something else to do instead.
I could call a friend. However, I remember now that Penny was planning a trip on her boyfriend Hamish’s narrowboat (Izzy finds it hilarious that I refer to him as her boyfriend, but it’s Penny’s favoured term, so what else should I call him?). I could try my oldest friends, Shelley and Isla – the three of us go way back to primary school – but it would feel kind of invasive, pinging into their weekends with no notice.
I know that by the end of the working week, Shelley is always pretty shredded, and that she and her partner Laurence cherish their low-key weekends with their dogs. Isla, a single mum whose three teenagers still live with her, is Curator of Natural History at a rather dusty, somewhat forgotten museum, and seems to spend every spare moment ferrying her offspring about and basically looking after everyone. Whilst I love seeing my friends, I’m aware that any message sent now would have that distinct ‘Help, I don’t know what to do with myself!’ tone to it. And I’m determined not to be that person, the woman who can’t survive alone for more than a few hours. But I could call Spencer, I decide. Surely he’ll be delighted to hear from me on a Saturday afternoon?
‘Hi, darling,’ I chirp. ‘Just wondered how you are
.’
‘Hey, Mum!’ He sounds surprised, and no wonder, as we normally text unless there’s something specific to discuss. ‘Everything okay?’
‘Yes, great, thanks.’ I launch into a preamble about asking how he is, how work’s been lately, which bands he’s been working with and how his flatmates are – aware that I am building up to the thrilling suggestion that I jump into my car and drive down to Newcastle to visit him right now. He’d love that, wouldn’t he, his mother arriving with hardly any notice, looking a bit deranged?
‘Are you out at the moment?’ I ask, suddenly aware of the jovial background chatter and faint music playing. But it’s only lunchtime. I know he usually works late on Friday nights and had assumed he’d just be getting up.
‘Yeah, there’s a few of us out,’ he says. ‘We’re in this lovely beer garden, just having a few drinks.’ A few drinks, in the daytime, while I’ve been mopping the floor?
‘That sounds nice,’ I remark.
‘It is, yeah.’ And I need to go now, is what he’s trying to convey. ‘It’s Millie’s birthday,’ he adds.
‘Oh, is it? Wish her happy birthday from me, love. I was only wondering how you are. I miss you.’
‘Miss you too, Mum. And thanks, I’ll tell her. See you soon, yeah?’
Hang on a minute! How about I nip down right now and take you both out to dinner; i.e. bribe you to spend time with me? ‘Yes, see you soon then, darling,’ I mutter. ‘Bye.’
We finish the call and I wonder what the heck to do next, aware that this is pretty dysfunctional, this not knowing how to occupy myself. It’s just that, since Andy and I broke up, I realise I’ve hardly been alone like this. I’ve been at work or with friends or, more likely, with Izzy. If she’s been out with her dad, it’s only been for a few hours.
