by H S Chandler
She shook hands and introduced herself to the men and their wives. Zain was pleased with himself, his voice louder than normal and his laugh more jolly. It was a positive sign that her husband had been moved up onto a senior management table. Another year like the last, Zain had told her, and he was in line for promotion. Tonight was meant to seal it.
The first course passed without Lottie saying a word. She’d got smiling through boredom down to an art.
‘I absolutely love your eyebrows,’ one of the wives said during a lull in conversation. ‘Where do you get them threaded?’
‘Actually, I do them myself,’ Lottie said, taking a long sip of wine. ‘I find it easier.’
‘The things women talk about,’ either Jeff or Alex said with a side-wink at Zain. ‘I wish my day could be spent worrying about eyebrows, not that the mortgage would get paid!’ He won himself a round of laughter for that, the women joining in at their own expense. Lottie felt as if she’d been slapped. She was so much more than a female who could only talk about beauty treatments. The fact that she was spending time raising a child didn’t give anyone the right to speak down to her.
‘In fact,’ Lottie said, addressing the women at the table, ‘I haven’t had time to worry about my eyebrows recently. I’m doing jury service at Bristol Crown Court at the moment.’
‘Jury service!’ the other wife had said. ‘Aren’t you finding that rather challenging?’
‘Not challenging, but there’s a lot involved. The trial might go on for some time,’ Lottie said, draining her glass. ‘We’ve only heard the forensic evidence so far.’
‘The case is nothing serious though, presumably,’ one of the Jeff/Alex duo said. Lottie decided she no longer cared which one was which. ‘Bit of shoplifting? My wife’s an expert on retail. She’d be perfect for that jury.’
Lottie was pleased to see that even the other wives couldn’t produce a convincing laugh at that.
‘It’s an attempted murder, quite high profile, actually. There’s been a lot of media coverage about it. Beats having a boring office job, any day.’ She smiled and picked up a wine bottle, refilling her glass.
‘I’m surprised they don’t vet people for jury duty,’ Jeff/Alex sneered. ‘It’s always seemed odd to me that any Tom, Dick or Harry can be allowed to decide such complex matters. Some minimum level of education or work experience should be required.’ He leered at Lottie. She willed herself not to take the bait.
‘Oh, I’m sure they explain everything in very simple language,’ one of the wives said. ‘Isn’t that right, dear?’
Lottie gulped her wine, unsure which was more offensive. Being called simple or referred to as ‘dear’.
‘Charlotte was telling me there are plenty of impressive people on the jury. There’s a fine art auctioneer, apparently. I’m guessing with a good mixture of intellects it balances out,’ Zain said before she could respond. She knew he hadn’t meant to be quite so insulting, but it was a shame he couldn’t just have trusted her to stick up for herself without pandering to his bosses.
‘The complexity of the case is what I’m enjoying. The sense that I’m a part of a bigger process. It’s okay being at home while Daniyal’s young and still needs me, but I can’t think of anything worse than spending the next thirty years of my life simply looking after a house and a husband.’ Lottie said.
She was gratified that her comment finally shut them all up. The wives were suddenly deeply engaged in fiddling with their food, while Jeff and Alex were stony faced, glaring at Zain. Taking a deep breath, she tried to find the right words to soften her outburst. Even she wasn’t sure quite where it had come from. It was almost certain that the Jeff/Alex wives didn’t work for a living. She’d meant to shut them up, not to cause quite such shocking offence, and she hadn’t even meant it. Lottie saw the merit in providing a stable home and family environment, and in supporting the people you loved. It was just as valuable a contribution to society as any other job, more so in lots of ways. Raising a happy child, working your fingers to the bone with washing, cleaning and household administration was sure as hell no easy option. The truth was not that being an at-home parent was a lessening of stature, only that she had been unable to find the value of herself within the role. Lottie was opening her mouth to apologise when Zain interjected.
‘I’m afraid you might be overthinking the importance of jury duty, sweetheart,’ her husband said, a warning hand on her knee signalling the end of the conversation. ‘And you’re maybe a bit stressed out with it all.’
She glared at him. Overthinking her importance? Why? Because she was, in fact, worth so little? Zain was right about one thing. She was stressed out. Not because of the rigours of jury duty, though. She was stressed out by how insignificant she’d become. How had she been reduced to the status of a misbehaving, troublesome hanger-on? The old Zain would never have spoken to her like that. He used to like her spark. She could make him laugh. He’d admired her. The balance had shifted. As he had done better in life, the seesaw of their relationship had tipped to leave him in the air and her in the mud. Her husband couldn’t even see it.
‘If you say so,’ Lottie replied, emptying her glass and reaching for bottle to refill it again. Zain smoothly removed the bottle from her hand and put it back on the table. ‘I need to check my lipstick. Excuse me.’ She stood up and made her way out to the toilets, ignoring the fact that she felt rather wobbly, and fixing a smile on her face until she was safely locked into a cubicle. Their rudeness, their patronisation, was insufferable. Even worse, the women seemed to be encouraging it. Her husband – whether or not he was just sucking up to his bosses – had no right to belittle her. She took a few deep breaths to steady a vague sense of spinning. Dinner had been stodgy so she’d pushed it around on her plate until it looked as if she’d eaten some of it. Thank God at least the wine had been half-decent, but it was going to take several more glasses to drown her anger.
Lottie pulled her mobile from her bag, going to her contacts file where she had stored Cameron’s number under the word ‘Carpenter’. Zain wasn’t given to checking her mobile, but there was no point asking for trouble. She typed in a few words, then deleted them.
Cameron would be out, and he wouldn’t want a text from her moaning about some stupid dinner anyway. She contemplated phoning one of her other friends, mentally crossing out names in her head. What was she supposed to say? That going to a black tie dinner and drinking wine while a jazz band played in the corner was terrible? Right now everyone she knew would be watching television, washing up or tidying away stray toys. At least Cameron seemed to understand her. Ridiculous, really. He was little better than a stranger, except that after just a few days he felt like more. She began texting again, determined to simply take the risk and reach out to him. After all, he’d left her his number. He wouldn’t have done that if he hadn’t wanted her to use it.
‘Bloody awful evening,’ she texted. ‘Surrounded by morons who think all I am is a face with no brain. Can’t wait to get back to court on Monday.’
She pressed send, then pulled a mirror from her bag and touched up her eye make-up. Cameron would be busy, she told herself. His phone was probably switched off or out of battery. Or he was in a bar and wouldn’t hear it.
When hers buzzed with a reply, her pulse went up a notch. She opened the text.
‘I’m guessing people underestimate you all the time. Their loss. Smile sweetly knowing they’re the idiots. Let’s have breakfast Monday. 9.1 5 a.m. at the Knife & Fork, Cabot Circus. I’m buying.’
She read it three times before responding.
‘Okay. But I want a full English.’ Shutting her phone off she flinched, imagining her husband’s reaction if he knew what she was doing. Cameron was right, though. It was Zain’s loss, and it had been too long since she had been made to feel interesting. Not that Zain didn’t appreciate her. He did, in his own limited way, even if he’d been a jerk over dinner. Squashing a rising sense of guilt, Lottie switched her
mobile on once more and deleted the text messages. Better not to leave them there and open to misinterpretation. Smoothing her hair, she prepared to return to the table, hoping that the music was now loud enough to make talking unnecessary. It didn’t have to be a ruined evening. There was plenty of wine and dancing still to come. Whatever anyone else thought of her, she was entitled to live her life while she was still young enough to enjoy it.
12
The Cabot Centre was the quietest Lottie had ever known it, but then she’d never had a breakfast date there before. Not a date, she corrected herself. A meeting. With a friend. A colleague, almost. She wandered past the chain stores, cash machines and rows of plastic seating offering shoppers a place to put their feet up before continuing their commercial pilgrimage. It was the same as any other large shopping centre, she supposed, although she didn’t get out of Bristol very often to see other cities. In fact, she couldn’t now recall the last time she’d been anywhere. There was a trip to Cardiff to visit a few of Zain’s distant relatives but that was what … eighteen months, two years ago? Zain travelled regularly with work, so the last thing he wanted to do at weekends was get back on the road. She might feel the same if she were constantly disappearing off to London, Manchester or Edinburgh. Her husband complained about it, but never passed the travel on to more junior members of his team. Pausing outside a travel agency, she stared at the pictures in the window. Safaris, gothic European cities, expanses of white sand, and here she was in the Cabot Centre, feeling as if she was doing something exotic. How utterly pathetic of her.
Turning away from the window, she looked upwards instead, through the high glass ceiling to the clear blue sky above. There was a cinema here that she never went to. Zain preferred to download films at home. There were restaurants she’d never visited. In fairness, most of them served burgers and listed twice-fried chips as a speciality, but even so, they ate out very rarely these days. Easier to stay at home with a young child. There was a whole life she wasn’t living.
‘Zain’s a good man,’ she said aloud, realising she was seeking to persuade herself rather than to compliment him. They’d met at a corporate event when she’d been handing out goodie bags with the usual useless, branded debris inside. It was her fifth week working with the promotions firm and she was fed up already, wondering why she’d taken a job that involved so many hours of standing around in stilettos, largely ignored by the crowds. Then a man had walked past and slapped her scantily skirted bottom. Another man had stepped in, berating the offender, demanding an apology on Lottie’s behalf. It had taken her breath away, the sense of being protected, viewed as more than just an accessible body.
Zain had made sure she was all right, offered to get her coffee, and waited for her to finish her shift before taking her for a meal. Lottie remembered being impressed by his well-cut suit and manicured nails. He was older than her by more than a decade, but suddenly that seemed reassuring rather than awkward. Zain paid the bill, walked her to his car, and held the door open for her. No man had done that before. It was a habit her husband had maintained until they’d been married a few months, but then, like so many pre-marital benefits, it had drifted from always to occasionally to never. Likewise with his cooking dinner for her, or bringing home flowers for no reason. Or saying thank you. Familiarity might not always breed contempt, but it was a sure-fire path to laziness.
Lottie began walking again, fiddling with her wedding ring, the heat so intrusive she was even sweating beneath the thin band of gold on her finger.
Zain had found her, rescued her from pointless, back-breaking jobs, interrupted her cycle of self-destruction, and given her everything she thought she’d wanted. Then slowly he’d begun taking her for granted. There was no malice, no nastiness. The problem was that there seemed to be no emotion in it at all. No wonder he wanted to travel, even if all that awaited him at the end of each journey was yet more sales meetings. However dull, if the alternative was talking to Lottie about her day, who in their right mind would choose the latter?
‘You look a million miles away,’ Cameron said. She jumped, putting one hand on her chest, laughing at her own reaction. ‘Sorry. I really did startle you. Next time I’ll shout from a safe distance. Give you time to prepare.’
‘I think I’m a bit tired,’ she lied. ‘I don’t know what I was thinking.’
‘Well, I hope you were thinking about either waffles or pancakes, because I need all the sugar I can get if today’s going to be anything like Friday.’ They walked to the door of the Knife & Fork. Cameron held it open and stepped aside for her to enter first. Smiling her thanks, she headed for a table near the back of the restaurant and sat down.
‘You regretting getting called for jury service already?’ she asked, wishing Cameron hadn’t worn such a tight T-shirt, or at least that she could stop staring at the shapes his muscles made beneath the thin fabric. She hated it when men ogled her, now she was doing exactly the same.
‘Not regretting, exactly,’ he said, picking up two menus and handing one to Lottie before reading his own, ‘but it’s hard to watch so much misery without ending up miserable yourself.’
A waitress scuffed her trainers along the tiled floor, yawning as she greeted them. ‘Decided yet?’ she asked.
‘Latte and scrambled eggs on sourdough,’ Lottie said, liking how the word sourdough sounded, feeling more cosmopolitan than she had in an age.
‘Black coffee and the pancake stack with bacon and maple sauce,’ Cameron said, handing the menu back to the waitress. ‘Do you want to talk about the dinner or shall we just drown our sorrows in caffeine?’
Lottie shook her head, playing with her serviette, trying to think of something entertaining to say. The silence was too reminiscent of the taxi journey home with Zain. They’d barely spoken all weekend.
‘That good, was it? Let me guess. Lots of suits worn by men who should have gone a jacket size up a decade ago. Food less than hot by the time it was mass-delivered to your table. Wine that hadn’t been left to breathe long enough, and music better suited to a nursing home.’
Lottie surprised herself by laughing out loud, stifling the sudden noise with her hand and snorting instead.
‘That was pretty close, except the wine wasn’t bad. Were you hiding behind the curtains or something?’ she asked.
‘No, but every corporate dinner is the same. I had a job with an insurance firm straight out of college. The struggle was not to get pissed and embarrass yourself. No wonder I became a carpenter. I still have nightmares about desk jobs.’
Lottie grinned, tried to hold it, but a grimace took over. She crumpled as tears filled her eyes.
‘God, I’m sorry. What a total fool I am,’ she said, dabbing at her eyes.
‘Don’t do that with me,’ Cameron said. ‘Save the bravery bullshit for people who can’t be bothered to really listen.’ He offered his own napkin as a backup.
‘Please don’t be nice to me. I’ll only cry more,’ she turned her head to the wall as the waitress returned balancing mugs and plates, glad of the chance to pull herself together as cutlery and sugar was also plonked on the table. When she looked back, Cameron was waving a forkful of pancake dripping with syrup in her direction.
‘Eat it,’ he demanded. ‘Doctor’s orders, or some such crap.’
Lottie smiled, taking the fork and enjoying the sweetness of the batter while she figured out what to say. She swallowed, taking a deep breath and preparing to speak.
‘No,’ Cameron said, raising a hand and shaking his head. ‘You’re going to eat everything on your plate and drink the coffee. No explanation necessary. Forget it until your stomach’s full. Agreed?’
‘Agreed,’ she said, her shoulders relaxing as she gave up the effort to find the right words.
They ate in silence, until Cameron began talking about his favourite pancake toppings. Lottie smiled politely until she wasn’t being polite any more and had genuinely forgotten the humiliation of her tears.
She
finished first, having let Cameron do most of the talking. As he tucked into the final mouthful on his plate, she wiped her lips and folded her serviette onto her plate. ‘I feel like I have no value,’ she said. ‘I felt it when I first started jury duty, then again at that bloody dinner Friday night. I lashed out at someone who patronised me, so now Zain’s pissed off. I know I’m being ridiculous and that I’m really lucky, but I can’t help it. I don’t want to be this person who just looks after other people, while everyone else has all the adventures. Some days it’s as if I’m physically shrinking.’
Cameron squeezed her fingers, then pulled his hand away, sitting back in his chair and folding his hands behind his head. Lottie watched him watching her, and waited for him to say something.
‘I don’t believe people make themselves feel small,’ he said quietly, rocking slightly on the rear chair-legs. ‘Human beings aren’t programmed to do that. So I guess the question is – who’s making you feel that way?’
Lottie looked away from him, reaching for the salt shaker and tipping a small pile of granules onto her hand, sifting through them with a perfectly painted fingernail.
‘You don’t have to answer that,’ Cameron continued, setting his chair to rest and leaning across the table, taking hold of both her hands and leaving the salt in a trail across the wood.
Spilled salt, spilled sorrow, Lottie thought vaguely. Should have thrown it over my left shoulder. Some superstitions never left you. She wondered how Cameron’s hands could be so warm but not the least bit sticky. Hers, she was sure, were damp with sweat, not that he seemed bothered.
‘At the risk of sounding like a complete tosser, you’re more than just a wife and mother. You and Jack, as far as I can make out, are the only two people on that jury who haven’t been suckered into convicting that woman based on a bloody hedgehog. It takes a lot of guts to go against the crowd, but you’re doing it. And you stood up to me when I was an idiot. To be honest with you, I was almost too intimidated to try apologising. I’m glad you forgave me.’
