by Marian Keyes
“Great.”
“Not you. Me.”
“Great, Karen,” I laughed. “So you two must be an item, then?”
“Certainly looks that way,” she said smugly.
“Good for you.”
“You’d better believe it.”
We had our steamed vegetables, we watched the soaps and a harrowing documentary about natural childbirth that had us all squirming in our seats. Women with contorted faces, covered in sweat, panting and gasping and groaning.
And that was only me, Charlotte and Karen.
“Jesus,” said Charlotte, staring at the screen transfixed, her face rigid with shock. “I’m never having a baby.”
“Me neither,” I agreed fervently, suddenly aware of all the advantages of not having a boyfriend.
“But you can have an epidural,” said Karen. “And then you wouldn’t feel anything.”
“But it doesn’t always work,” I reminded her.
“Really? How would you know?” she demanded.
“She’s right,” said Charlotte. “My sister-in-law said that it didn’t work for her and that she was in absolute agony and that they could hear her screams three streets away.”
Karen didn’t look terribly convinced by Charlotte’s bloodthirsty tale. The sheer force of Karen’s will would ensure that her epidural would work; it wouldn’t dare not to.
“Oh dear,” I said faintly. “Oh dear. Can we watch something else?”
At about nine-forty the short-term fix of the steamed vegetables wore off and real hunger kicked in.
Who would crack first?
The tension built and built until finally Charlotte said casually, “Does anyone feel like coming for a walk?”
Karen and I breathed surreptitious sighs of gratitude.
“What kind of walk?” I asked carefully.
I wasn’t signing up for anything that didn’t involve food, but Charlotte didn’t let me down.
“A walk to the chip shop,” she said shamefacedly.
“Charlotte!” chorused Karen and I in outrage. “For shame. What about all our good intentions?”
“But I’m hungry,” she said in a little voice.
“Eat a carrot,” said Karen.
“I’d rather eat nothing than eat a carrot,” admitted Charlotte.
I knew how she felt. I’d have preferred to eat a piece of the mantelpiece than eat a carrot.
“Well,” I sighed. “If you’re really starving, I’ll come with you.” I was delighted. I was dying for chips.
“And,” sighed Karen, as if it was a real hardship, “just to make you feel better you may as well buy me a bag of chips too.”
“You mustn’t if it’s just to make me feel less guilty,” said Charlotte sweetly. “Just because I’ve no willpower doesn’t mean you have to break your diet.”
“It’s no trouble,” protested Karen.
“No honestly,” insisted Charlotte. “There’s really no need for you to have any. I can live with my guilt.”
“Just shut up and buy me chips!” shouted Karen.
“Large or small?”
“Large!”
Chapter 32
Gus was taking me out on Tuesday after work. He had said so on Sunday night.
But spirits had been very high on Sunday night, particularly in Gus’s blood-to-alcohol ratio, the ten-minute walk from the pizza place to my flat took over half an hour because he was so skittish and playful and I was a little bit concerned that he might have got the arrangements confused for Tuesday night. I was afraid he might get the place wrong or the time wrong or even the day wrong.
Trying to finalize the details had turned into a bit of a confused nightmare. When he walked me home on Sunday night, he politely shook my hand and said, “Lucy, I’ll see you tomorrow.”
“No, Gus,” I corrected gently. “You won’t see me tomorrow. Tomorrow’s Monday. You’re meeting me on Tuesday.”
“No, Lucy,” he corrected back, just as gently. “When I go home tonight I’ll make some, er…certain pharmaceutical arrangements and when I wake up it’ll be Tuesday. So to all intents and purposes, Lucy Sullivan, I’ll see you tomorrow. At least I’ll see you on my tomorrow.”
“Oh, I see,” I said doubtfully. “Where will I meet you?”
“I’ll pick you up from work, Lucy. I’ll rescue you from the administration mines, from down Credit Control pit.”
“Good.”
“Remind me again,” he said, holding my upper arms and pulling me to him, “it’s Fifty-four Cavendish Crescent and you’re liberated at five-thirty?”
He gave me a sweet, slightly unfocused grin.
“No, Gus, it’s not Cavendish Crescent, it’s Newcastle Square, and it’s number Six,” I told him.
In fact I had told him several times and even written it down for him, but it had been a long day and he had had an awful lot to drink.
“Oh really?” asked Gus. “I wonder why I thought it was Cavendish Crescent?”
“No idea, Gus,” I said briskly. I was not going to indulge in conjecture about what went on in 54 Cavendish Crescent, if indeed such a place existed—I was busy, hanging on by my fingertips to control the conversation, trying to ensure that Gus knew where, when and how to meet me.
“Where’s the piece of paper I gave you with the address on it?” I asked, aware that I sounded like a mother or a schoolteacher, but if it had to be done, then it had to be done.
“I don’t know,” he said, letting go of my arms and feeling around in his pockets and patting his jacket. “Oh no, Lucy, I think I’ve lost it.”
I wrote it out for him again.
“Try and remember,” I smiled nervously, handing him the piece of paper. “It’s Six Newcastle Square, at five o’clock.”
“Five o’clock? I thought you said five-thirty.”
“No, Gus, five o’clock.”
“Sorry, Lucy, I can never remember anything. I’d forget my own name—in fact I often do. Many’s the conversation I’ve had where I’ve had to say to the other person, ‘Sorry, I didn’t catch my name.’ I’ve a head like a…like a, you know, one of those round things, lots of holes in it?”
“Sieve.” Anxiety made me abrupt.
“Oh Lucy, don’t be angry.” He laughed softly. “It was only a little joke.”
“Okay.”
“I think I’ve got it right finally,” he promised, giving me a slow smile that made my stomach flip. “It’s five o’clock at Fifty-six Newcastle Crescent…”
“…No, Gus…”
“…No, no, no, sorry, Cavendish Square…”
It wasn’t his fault, I thought, trying to calm myself. In a way it was very sweet. And anyone would be confused and mixed up if they had drunk as much as Gus had.
“…No, no, no, don’t be angry with me, Lucy, Fifty-six Newcastle Square, at five o’clock.”
“Six.”
Confusion passed over his harassed face. “You just said five o’clock!” he complained. “But it’s no problem, Lucy—isn’t it a woman’s prerogative to change her mind?—so change it if you must.”
“No, Gus, I haven’t changed my mind. I meant five o’clock, at number Six.”
“Okay, I have it now, I think,” he smiled. “Five o’clock at number Six. Five o’clock at number Six. Five o’clock at number Six.”
“I’ll see you then, Gus.”
“Not six o’clock at number five?” he asked.
“No!” I said in alarm. “Oh I see, you’re only joking…”
He raised a hand in farewell to me and said, parrotlike, “Five o’clock at number Six, five o’clock at number Six, sorry, Lucy, but I can’t stop to say goodbye to you because I’ll forget five o’clock at number Six, five o’clock at number Six, but I’ll see you then, five o’clo…”
And off he went up the road still saying “…at number Six, five o’clock at number Six…”
I stood in the gateway, staring up the dark road after him. I was disappointed that he hadn
’t tried to kiss me. Never mind, I told myself. It was far more important that he remembered where he was supposed to be meeting me on Tuesday. Assuming he made it to the correct building on the right day at the appointed time, there would be plenty of time for kissing then.
“…five o’clock at number Six, five o’clock at number Six…” floated back to me on the cold night air, as he marched in time to his mantra.
I shivered, partly from the cold, partly from delight and went inside.
So the anxiety I was feeling on Tuesday morning was as much fear that he wouldn’t turn up at all, as pleasurable anticipation.
Nevertheless, I put on a very nice pair of underwear, because it was always better to be prepared. I tried on my green little thing that looked like a jacket with a nipped-in waist but was really a very short flared dress and then I pulled on my boots. I admired myself in the mirror. Not bad, at all, I thought.
Then a little thrill of panic ran through me—what if he didn’t turn up? Oh, why couldn’t I have gotten his phone number from him, I thought in anguish. I should have asked for it, but I was afraid if I did that I’d seem too eager.
And I knew I would arouse the suspicions of everyone at work by wearing something to the office where you could see my butt if I lifted my arms. They were like that at work—you couldn’t even comb your hair without a rumour starting that you liked someone, you couldn’t get your bangs trimmed without everyone concluding that you had some new guy. There were three hundred employees spread across five floors of office space and they all had a keen interest in the affairs of their coworkers. It said a lot about how interesting they found their workloads.
It was like working in a goldfish bowl. Nothing happened that didn’t cause some comment. Even speculation about the fillings of people’s sandwiches could take up the best part of an afternoon. (“She never used to eat egg salad sandwiches, it was always ham. And she’s had egg salad twice this week. I’d say she’s pregnant.”)
Caroline, the receptionist, was the source of most of the gossip. She missed nothing and, if there was nothing to miss, she just made it up. She was always stopping people and saying things like “Ooh, that Jackie from accounts is looking a bit pale today. Romantic trouble, eh?” And before you knew it the entire building would be buzzing with the rumour that Jackie was getting divorced. And all because she had got up too late that morning to apply her foundation before coming to work.
So I could hardly bear to think of the utter humiliation of spending the day avoiding doing my office chores half-naked, and then no man turning up at five o’clock to account for it.
I could have brought my going-out clothes into the office in a separate bag and changed after work, but that would probably have created even more of a scandal. (“Did you see that Lucy Sullivan? Coming in with an overnight bag? On a Tuesday?”)
As it was, there was utter mayhem in the office when I unwrapped myself from my horrible brown winter coat and revealed myself in all my short-skirted glory.
“Jeez,” declared Megan, “you’re looking a bit breezy today!”
“Who is he?” demanded Meredia.
“Er,” I blushed. I tried to pretend that I didn’t know what they were talking about, but it was no good. I was a hopeless liar.
“I, er, met a guy this weekend.”
Meredia and Megan threw each other triumphant looks. Smug, “I knew this was going to happen” kind of looks.
“Well, we can see that,” said Meredia scornfully. “And you’re meeting him this evening…”
“Yes.” Well, I certainly hoped that I would be.
“So tell us about him.”
I hesitated for a moment. I was still supposed to be mad at the two of them, but the desire to talk about Gus was overwhelming.
“Okay.” I smiled, giving in. I pulled up a chair to Megan’s desk, settling in for a long one, and off I went with Gus’s résumé. “Well, his name is Gus and he’s twenty-four…”
Megan and Meredia listened intently and oohed and aahed appreciatively and squirmed with delight when they heard about the nice things Gus had said to me.
“…And he said he’d like to give you one of those little vacuum cleaner things for the couch?” asked Meredia, impressed.
“Yes, isn’t that so sweet?”
“Christ,” muttered Megan, throwing her eyes to
heaven. “Never mind that. How’s he equipped? Is it short and fat? Long and skinny? Or my own personal favourite, long and fat?”
“Er, um…it was nice,” I said vaguely.
Before I was forced to admit that I hadn’t actually seen it yet, Poison Ivor marched in and caught us sitting around doing nothing. He shouted a bit and we all slunk shamefacedly back to our desks.
“Miss Sullivan,” he barked, “you appear to have forgotten the bottom half of your suit this morning.”
Heartbreak was turning him mean and ugly. Not that he hadn’t been mean and ugly before Hetty ran off with her brother-in-law.
“It’s a dress, actually,” I said brazenly, Gus-induced happiness making me bold.
“Not the kind of dress that I’m familiar with,” he shouted. “Not the kind of dress that I want in this office. Wear something decent tomorrow.” And he slammed into his office and banged the door.
Chapter 33
At about twenty to five, I departed the office to go to the ladies room to apply my makeup in anticipation of Gus’s estimated time of arrival of seventeen hundred hours.
I was sick with anxiety. Almost as soon as I had finished telling Meredia and Megan about Gus, I was so, so sorry that I had spilt the Gus beans. I had been dying to boast about him, but now I was sure I had jinxed the whole thing. By talking about him I had tempted fate and he wasn’t going to arrive.
I’ll never see him again, I thought.
But I’ll put my makeup on just in case.
On the way to the ladies room I saw a couple of the security guards out by the front desk tussling with someone. Winos and homeless men were always trying to come into the building out of the cold, and the guards had the unpleasant task of having to eject them. The saddest thing of all was that I often envied the homeless people. If I had had a choice between sitting in my office and sitting on some cardboard in a freezing doorway, I think I’d have chosen the freezing doorway option.
The security guards were supposed to police the building, only admitting people who were expected and who signed in and got a visitor’s pass. But these guys weren’t great at defending themselves and occasionally, when they tried to throw someone out, it could turn nasty, especially if the trespasser was drunk.
That was always good fun and, if Caroline was in a good mood with us, she would call our office and we would all rush up to have a ringside view.
I craned my neck to get a good look. A foreign body was being marched to the door, but he was putting up a good fight, struggling hard, and I smiled as I saw him kick Harry. I always sympathized with the underdog.
I turned away, thinking vaguely that there was something very familiar about the intruder who was being ejected, when I suddenly heard my name being called. “There she is, Lucy Sullivan, Lucy, Lucy, Lucy!”
“Lucy, Lucy,” called the voice frantically. “Tell them who I am.”
I slowly turned around, with a horrible feeling of impending doom.
It was Gus. The struggling, flailing, kicking person in the arms of Harry and Winston was Gus.
He twisted around and turned wild eyes upon me. “Lucy,” he beseeched, “save me.”
Harry and Winston paused, poised on the brink of flinging Gus bodily into the street. “Do you know this man?” asked Winston disbelievingly.
“Yes, I do,” I said calmly. “Perhaps you could tell me what’s going on here.”
I was trying to speak with quiet authority, trying not to show that I was dying with embarrassment and it seemed to work.
“We found him on the fourth floor and he didn’t have a pass and…”
The fourth floor, I thought in shock.
“I was looking for you, Lucy,” declared Gus passionately. “I had every right to be there.”
“No, you bloody well did not, sunshine,” said Harry threateningly. You could tell he was itching to pull Gus along by the ear, to treat him like an urchin chimney sweep from a Dickens novel. “Up on the fourth floor, ‘e was, no less. Acting like he owned the bloomin’ place, sitting in Mr. Balfour’s chair, ‘e was. I’ve worked here for thirty-eight years and it’s the first time…”
The fourth floor was where the high-ranking managerial staff had their quarters, and it was treated with as much reverence as if it were heaven. The fourth floor was Wholesale Metals and Plastics’ version of the Oval Office.
I had never been there myself, because I was far too insignificant, but Meredia had been hauled up there once for some offence or other and from what she said it was a cosseted wonderland of thick, beautiful carpets; thick,
beautiful secretaries; mahogany panelling; works of art; leather chaise longues; globes that opened out to be drinks cabinets and lots of fat, bald men taking Zantac.
Horrified though I was, I had to marvel at Gus’s daring. But Harry and Winston seemed to be badly shaken by his profane, irreverent behaviour.
I decided I had better take charge.
“Thanks, guys,” I said, trying to make light of things. “But it’s all right. I’ll take care of this.”
“But he still doesn’t have a pass,” said Harry stubbornly. “You know the rules, love. No pass, no entry.” Harry was a nice man but he liked to do things by the book.
“Okay,” I sighed. “Gus, would you mind waiting over here by the front door for a little while? At five o’clock I’ll come and get you.”
“Where?”
“Just here,” I said, gritting my teeth and steering him to the row of seats by the entrance.
“And I’ll be all right here, Lucy?” he asked anxiously. “They won’t come and try to throw me out again, will they?”
“Just sit there, Gus.”
I went to the ladies room, burning with anger. I was furious. Furious with Gus for making a spectacle of me at work and even more furious that he had made the spectacle of me before I had put on my makeup.
