by Joan Ellis
She squints at me, screwing up her clear blue eyes.
‘I know you, don’t I? I never forget a face. I remember! The hospital!’ she exclaims.
Of course, that’s where I’ve seen her. She was the trainee doctor in A&E that night. Now it’s my turn to look away. I am so embarrassed. It was hardly my finest hour.
‘That was ages ago. You must see so many people. Surely you don’t remember me?’
‘It was my first night in A&E, a real baptism of fire. There were lots of accidents because the weather was so bad. There had been a pile-up on the Marylebone Road. It was mayhem. Then the ambulance brought you in. You’d fallen down the stairs. Yes, that’s right. One side of your face was all mashed up.’
She lifts my chin roughly with her fingertips. To my horror, she scrutinises my cheek, like an artist checking her brushwork.
‘It’s healed well. You were lucky,’ she remarks before turning her attention to sniffing a round of brie on the table.
I realise I have been dismissed and shrink away, pretending to be interested in her collection of European cookery books. Out of the corner of my eye, I see a tall thick-set man walk in and hug her. He drops an expensive-looking bouquet of hand-tied flowers onto the table. She spins round and kisses him on the cheek.
‘Hey Mark! They’re beautiful, thanks. You’re early. Did Nurse Ratchet give you time off for good behaviour?’ she laughs, suddenly animated.
‘Hardly. It was another twelve-hour-yawn-fest in casualty. We lost two this evening,’ he replies watching her every move.
‘That was very careless of you,’ says Jan with a grin. ‘Hope you like veggie lasagne.’
The loss of human life is lost on them.
‘No meat? Jan, please tell me you’re joking,’ he says helping himself to a bottle of lager from the fridge.
‘Sorry, Markie. Boring but you know Karen won’t touch anything with a face.’
‘Oh God! I’d forgotten she was coming. Why did you invite her? I suppose she’s bringing that loser, Gary? Why she wants to date a man that specialises in dead people is beyond me.’
‘Geriatrics are not dead people!’ she laughs spooning Greek yogurt into a bowl and attacking it with a balloon whisk. ‘Just because she doesn’t fancy you there’s no need attack poor Gary.’
She dips her little finger into the bowl and scoops out some yogurt.
‘Open wide, doctor!’ she orders him playfully inserting her pinkie into his mouth.
‘Oh, very tasty,’ he tells her smiling broadly.
I look away and pretend to be interested in a picture of a cabbage hanging on the wall.
‘Why are you pandering to Karen? She wouldn’t cook you fillet steak so why make her veggie muck?’
He helps himself to an olive from a bowl on the side and chews it rapidly.
‘Where’s Adam?’ he asks spitting the stone into his hand and throwing it into the sink. ‘Don’t tell me, selling lager to louts. Is that his car outside? It’s even better than mine; I’m in the wrong job. He writes slogans, for God’s sake. I’m the one saving lives.’
‘He’s a Creative Director, I’ll have you know,’ Jan says in mock awe.
‘Well, Deputy Creative Director.’ They both laugh.
‘Advertising is such a vacuous, self-serving industry. One day, it will implode, trust me,’ he says opening a bottle of white wine and pouring them both a glass.
Despite wearing a rather violent shade of red I seem to have become invisible since his arrival. Jan catches his eye and nods towards me. He looks vaguely in my general direction.
‘Oh, didn’t see you there, I’m Mark.’
He extends his hand for me to shake. It’s cold and oily from the olives.
‘Hi, I’m Ella,’ I reply, forcing a smile. He looks nonplussed.
‘Adam’s friend, works in advertising,’ clarifies Jan, neatly condensing me into just five words before calling out to Adam, ‘Come and clear this wine up now!’
Mark turns away and helps himself to some brie. Jan playfully slaps his hand away as she tears up basil leaves and scatters them on top of a dish of sliced tomatoes. I want to say something smart. Something that will force him to revise his opinion of Adland but my mind is empty and vacuous just like he said.
‘Anything I can do, Jan?’ I ask.
I hope she declines my offer because I’m sure I could never do anything to her impossibly high standards.
‘Take those glasses through to the dining room.’
Say ‘please’, I think as I watch her spoon clear honey over thickened yogurt with one hand and indicate a tray of champagne flutes with the other.
I carry them carefully into the dining room where I am surprised by a young couple locked in an embrace. When they eventually notice me, they dart apart.
‘Hello, I’m Ella, Adam’s friend.’
They smile briefly before their lips are drawn together again like magnets. Jan sweeps in holding a stack of dinner plates.
‘Karen! Gary! You pair of lovebirds! I didn’t know you were in here. This is Ella, Adam’s friend works in advertising,’ explains Jan as if I am a two- year-old and advertising is some sort of adventure playground where Adam and I mess around all day. She’s not wrong.
‘Adam!’ she yells. ‘Come and pour the drinks.’
I hate the way she orders him about. If she could see him at work, she would respect him more. Adam appears with chocolate at the corners of his mouth. Naughty boy. He’s been unfaithful to her even if it is only with a chocolate cake. I can’t let his indiscretion be discovered. I touch my lips then point to his. He looks quizzical then opens the champagne and pours it too quickly so it spills over the tops of the glasses. I repeat the mime, only this time I exaggerate every movement, touching my mouth and then reaching out to point at Adam’s just as Mark walks in.
‘Give it to me, Adam. You get back to your game of charades with your friend here,’ says Mark snatching the bottle from Adam and glaring at me.
Adam shrugs and sits down. I notice he’s still wearing his shorts. Another act of rebellion. He picks up a mound of smoked salmon and wedges it between slices of brown bread.
‘Adam!’ scolds Jan. ‘Sorry everyone, please sit down and help yourselves.’
Jan has put me next to Mark. From the way she keeps looking over and smirking I guess this is her attempt at match-making. She should stick to the day job. There’s more to mending a broken heart than splicing it back together with a scalpel. But at least it means she’s not interested in him. I would hate to think she was doing the dirty on Adam. Karen and Gary play footsie under the table. I play with my food, painfully aware that everyone else in the room is more intelligent, better qualified and happier than I am.
‘So, Mark what do you do when you’re not saving lives?’ I ask genuinely interested.
Mark, Jan, Karen and Gary look up, aghast.
‘What’s that supposed to mean?’ Mark replies his fork just inches from his mouth.
‘Nothing, I ...’
‘He is doing a parachute jump for charity, aren’t you, Markie,’ says Jan.
‘Why don’t you sponsor him?’
She dabs at the sides of her mouth with her serviette.
‘Did you have to do much training?’ I ask.
‘I’ve trained for seven years at medical school; I’m a professional,’ he says.
He throws his knife and fork down and pushes away his plate.
‘I think Ella means did you do much training for the jump,’ explains Jan.
‘What training did you do, Ella?’ he spits my name out of his mouth like a lump of gristle. ‘What qualifies you to sell people shit they don’t need?’
‘Hey, don’t start on her,’ says Adam leaning across the table.
‘Did I touch a nerve?’ sneers Mark, pleased to have provoked Adam. Jan stands up, desperate to restore order but Adam hasn’t finished.
‘‘Markie’ might be a god in your world, Jan but he certainly isn’t in mi
ne. How dare he come to my house and insult my friend,’ says Adam.
‘Jan’s house, I think you’ll find it’s her name on the Deeds, not yours,’ says Mark smugly.
Adam jumps up and rushes at him.
‘Steady on, mate. Stress is a killer, y’know,’ says Mark. ‘I thought you got enough of that in your job. I had an ad man die on me only the other week. You wanna be careful.’
He leans back in his chair and puts his hands up to protect his face.
‘I’m not your mate,’ hisses Adam through clenched teeth.
‘Calm down, Adam,’ says Jan.
‘Don’t tell me to calm down,’ he says walking off into the kitchen.
‘Check the lasagne,’ calls Jan.
She collects up the dirty plates as if nothing has happened. I take them from her as an excuse to see Adam.
‘You okay?’ I ask.
His head is in the fridge.
‘Yeah, fine. Want some?’ he asks.
He emerges with a spoonful of chocolate roulade and offers it to me.
‘Shouldn’t we wait until after the lasagne?’
‘This is better, trust me,’ he says, eating another mouthful. He’s right. By the time Jan comes in, there’s none left.
‘Oh! My God! You haven’t, Adam? I’ve spent all afternoon making dinner and you two sneak in here and eat all the pudding like greedy children. Now, we will all have to make do with yogurt and honey. Explain that to our guests.’
She sounds like a school teacher. I want to giggle but no-one else is laughing.
‘We did them a favour, that lot wouldn’t want it clogging up their arteries,’ says Adam.
He defiantly scrapes the plate clean with the spoon before popping it into his mouth.
Jan stomps off, disgusted by our lack of self-control. I go back into the dining room to find Mark slumped in his chair, a large glass of red wine in his hand, my bottle of Chateau Neuf Du Pape at his elbow.
‘So what ads have you done?’ he asks me aggressively, swigging back his drink. ‘Anything I would know?’
It’s the question every copywriter dreads. Mark is no more interested in my work than I am in the ins and outs of suppositories. I say nothing, I can hardly tell him about Marmalade.
‘What you do isn’t really proper writing, is it? It’s very formulaic,’ he tells me, helping himself to more wine.
I take the bait and feel myself sinking into the sea of effluent that most people think Adland pumps out.
‘Don’t dismiss advertising. You’re dismissing it, aren’t you? I can tell by your face. Don’t. We work with budgets worth millions, every word counts,’ I tell him.
‘Sorry, I didn’t realise it was art-form,’ he tells me with a smirk.
‘And science has all the answers, does it?’ asks Adam as he walks into the room. ‘Shame not one doctor knew enough to save my dad when he was dying.’
He slams the tray of lasagne down on the table and throws the oven gloves on the floor.
‘Adam! My table. You’ve scorched my table,’ cries Jan grabbing the dish with both hands. ‘Ow! Shit! That’s hot.’
She runs into the kitchen, through the puddle of wine, to the sink.
‘Hold your hands under running water,’ says Adam charging in and turning on the cold tap.
‘I’m a bloody doctor; I know what to do. This is your bloody fault, Adam. Leave me alone. And clean up that bloody wine before someone breaks their bloody neck,’ she shouts.
That’s very bloody, even for a doctor.
Karen appears in the doorway, having managed to extricate herself from Gary. She gently examines Jan’s red fingers before being pushed aside.
‘It’s nothing. Will everyone just stopping fussing!’ implores Jan.
She snatches her hands away and looks shaken. I think about offering her a brandy for the shock. But I’m only a self-serving, vacuous ad girl, what would I know? Karen gently takes her by the elbow and guides her to a seat.
‘Adam, listen, I think I’m going to make a move. I hope Jan will be okay,’ I tell him.
‘It’s only nine o’clock. Please don’t leave me with this lot,’ he says.
‘Look after Jan and thank her for me, yeah?’ I tell him giving him a quick kiss on the cheek.
I get in my car and take the ‘A to Z ’from the glove compartment. Like most north Londoners, I am lost south of the river. I find Adam’s road in the index and attempt to plot my way home. The route spans four pages. I trace my index finger up towards the river. The tiny print swims together blurring the street names. I can’t even read a map now. Mark’s remarks seem to have rendered me useless. Thanks to him, I can no longer justify my job let alone my salary. Perhaps he is right. What good do I do?
As I put my key in the door, the phones ring. I rush in and pick it up.
‘Sorry about tonight,’ Adam whispers into the phone.
‘Dinner wasn’t that bad,’ I reassure him, wedging the receiver under my chin and getting in a tangle with the cord as I pull off my coat.
‘I meant the people - full of themselves.’
‘Like us, y’mean?’ I ask.
‘We’re in advertising, we’re allowed to be like that,’ he says. ‘They think they’re better than us.’
‘They are better than us. We sell cat food, they save lives.’
‘What about all the cats who have had all their nine lives thanks to you?’
‘Hardly the same thing. Why are you whispering?’
‘Jan’s asleep, don’t want to wake her. I’m in enough trouble. What were we saying? Oh yeah, if you can help cats, you can help people. You should write fund-raising ads for good causes.’
‘Adam, I need to go to bed. It’s a bit late for all this,’ I tell him. I wonder whether I can be bothered to take my make-up off.
‘Just saying, we’re as good as they are.’
‘We’re not. Put it this way, if I have a heart attack, I want Jan manning the defibrillator, not you. How is she? Are her hands okay?’
‘Yeah, fine, thanks. We’re okay when we’re on our own but when she’s with that lot she’s a different person.’
‘Spend more time alone with her then.’
‘She’s always working and when she’s not she invites the doctors over. The rest of the time, we’re too knackered to even speak.’
‘Less chance to row.’
‘Less chance to do anything,’ he says ruefully. ‘Anyway, how are you? Heard anything from Tom?’
‘Not unless you count the vile message he left on the answering machine. He told me I was ‘unliveable’ with.’
‘Is that even a word?’
‘According to him it is and I’m the definition of it. I’m ‘controlling’ too, guess that comes from telling people what to do at work.’
I laugh but I don’t know why. It’s not funny. It’s tragic. My personality, honed by years of writing snappy copy for things people neither want nor need, has turned me into a snappy person no-one wants or needs.
‘It’s not your fault, Ella.’
‘It must be. I’m a pain in the arse so everyone tells me.’
‘You mean, Peter and Tom? Who cares what they think?’
‘I loved Tom.’
‘He loved himself.’
This last comment is true but hurts my pride nonetheless.
‘I drove him away.’
‘No, you didn’t, stop this, please. You did nothing wrong. Everything will be fine, I promise.’
‘You don’t know that.’
‘I know he treated you badly. Stop blaming yourself,’ he tells me gently.
I rush to fill the silence but as soon as I have spoken the words I want to reach down the receiver and retrieve them.
‘He didn’t want to have sex with me.’
‘Was he mad?’ I don’t answer.
‘I know lots of blokes who’d love to give you a good ironing-over.’
I let out a little gasp. The most sexually explicit Adam and I ever g
et is to discuss the sensual pleasures derived from eating a slice of The River Cafe’s Moist Chocolate Cake.
‘Sorry, I don’t know why I said that,’ he says apologetically.
‘It’s a new one on me,’ I say laughing.
Secretly, I am thrilled he thinks of me in that way.