The Unreliable Placebo

by Gill Mather

  As the drag act proceeds and the lewd jokes continue to hit the mark with most of the audience, Cheryl is now well into her third bottle. I do rather want to get home tonight and not have the minibus driver refusing to admit too many clearly legless paralytic females onto his vehicle. I decide that it’s time someone waded in and tried to bring a little order to the party. So, when Maggie asks a passing waiter to bring two more bottles of Merlot to the table, raising my voice a little, I say to him that that won't be necessary actually. There’s plenty left to drink on the table. Maggie’s reaction surprises me.

  “Who the bloody hell d’you think you are?” She gets up and lurches towards me. “Miss Prissy-Bloody-Pants. You’ve been sat there all night looking as though you’re ready to put a curse on the lot of us.”

  “Yeah,” says Cheryl. “You’ve got a face like a dropped pie.” A few titters go round the table at this and I file the expression away for possible future use myself but I don't show that I find this in any way remotely amusing.

  Maggie adds: “Someone must’ve shoved a pineapple up your arse.”

  “Yeah and a lemon in your gob.” Cheryl’s last comment appears to exhaust their store of insults.

  I look at them coldly. “I just think you’ve had enough, that’s all.”

  “Sez you,” Cheryl shouts and starts to get up as well but the effort defeats her.

  “We can't afford to have anyone being sick in the minibus. Although you’d probably call it ‘chundering’,” I say to Cheryl. That’s one Aussie word I do know.

  Maggie looks as though she might be about to land a punch but instead she says:

  “Bloody prig. Come outside and I’ll swipe the smug expression off of your miserable face.”

  “Don’t tempt me,” I say. And I am tempted to take up the gauntlet. Maggie’s big but I’m sober. And my heels are half the height of hers. On the other hand I can't risk Dennis, if his group are still here, coming upon me again in the middle of a fist fight this time.

  “But no thanks. I’ll pass on that,” I say at which Maggie does take a swing at me. I easily duck and she lands spreadeagled on the floor. Again from nowhere the bouncers appear and hall Maggie off outside. I hope this time they don't leave her alone to cause further havoc. I’m glad to see Cheryl slumped in her seat looking bleary, not following Maggie out.

  Sharon comes over and sits next to me. We had earlier, after a hurried, whispered conflab when we first got here, strategically positioned ourselves at opposite sides of the table to maintain order. Well that hasn’t worked has it.

  She pats my arm.

  “That was Dennis wasn't it?” she says and I nod. “I recognised him from looking at his website with you before your date with him. He looks very nice. Nice kind sensitive face.”

  “He is nice.”

  “I’m sorry about this lot. That pair especially.”

  “It’s not your fault. They’re right in a way. I’ve been a complete wet rag tonight. Everyone else thought it was hilarious, Cheryl getting her finger stuck. You did too.”

  “Yes I suppose I did but we can't always be in the mood for that sort of thing all the time.”

  “It’s just not fair though,” I whine. “For once I’m well-behaved and sober and yet Dennis still manages to catch me in the most ludicrous of situations. And clearly trying to hide it from him too.”

  “I’m sure he’ll see the funny side of it. You wait. The next time you see him, the pair of you’ll have a good laugh over it.”

  “I don't see there being any next time.”

  “I’m sure there will be.” And she comes out with that old horoscope drivel. “If it’s meant to be, it’ll happen.”

  She’s being kind so I can't tell her what eyewash I think it is.

  “Thanks Sharon. I expect you’re right.”

  I accept a thimbleful of white wine and we toast the future together. It’s gone midnight but as the drag act winds down, I suddenly start to feel a bit happier and more optimistic.

  ON MONDAY MORNING at work I wonder whether to telephone Dennis and apologise but I simply can't do it. Maggie however calls me and begs me to forgive her. Repeatedly. She can’t imagine what came over her.

  “S’OK,” I keep saying but the apology goes on and on and on until I think I’m going to have to put the phone down.

  I am saved by Ned walking in wanting to discuss with me in depth the drainage problem on one of his crony’s wretched light industrial estates. This has come up before. The situation, involving sewage back pressure, has been brewing up for some months and a crisis point has now been reached between Ned’s client and owners of other adjoining parts of the estate. I am to draw up an inter-partes Deed regarding valves, single and double actuators, odour eradication measures and the re-routing of drains. Any other time I would have told Ned I was on a vitally important call with a client but instead I tell Maggie I’ll have to speak to her another time as a serious work-related issue has come up.

  Before I’ve had a chance to hang up, she tells me that Cheryl is moving on today earlier than planned to another relative, Morag, who lives in Glasgow. I picture Cheryl going head to head with a red-haired firebrand from the Gorbals, and neither of them understanding a word the other says.

  I agree with Maggie that this is probably a good thing and a small smile of satisfaction crosses my face.

  Chapter 9 Pre-Christmas Business Breakfast

  AS IT’S NEARLY Christmas and since internet dating, not to mention other forms of entertainment, have basically bombed for me, I decide that I should at least treat myself to another business breakfast. They start quite early in the morning and it’s difficult to look one’s best when one’s face is still bearing the impressions of wrinkled bedclothes and one’s eyes still have that fishy puffy look. I do try to sleep on my back. I start off that way but like a dodgy piece of software or a badly trained dog, it doesn't hold very long and I quickly default to face pushed deep into the pillow coming up for air only when absolutely necessary.

  I did set my alarm for six o’ clock this morning to give myself more time to come round but when it went off I turned over and dozed for another hour as I haven't been sleeping well since being on my own. It’s obviously a basic animal need to nest with others of the same species though, as things stand at the moment, I think a cat, dog or pet python would do. I wake frequently during the night and as a result I never feel properly refreshed and ready to leap straight out of bed first thing in the morning.

  So I’ve given myself a quick face pack followed by a facial scrub, slapped as much foundation on as I dare, over-made up my eyes to provide a distraction and hope that I haven't left any giveaway green clay masque and/or ground apricot stones around my hair line or up my nostrils.

  I’ve decided to try a different business breakfast this time and tell myself that it’s not to lessen the chances of meeting Dennis again. There’s no reason why I should try to avoid him. He’s nice, we had an evening out together, I showed myself up but he was understanding and didn't make me feel like a complete pillock then or the next time we met, and I’ve no reason to believe that he’s going about telling people that that Anna Duke is a sad, disgruntled, bitter loser whom it’s best to avoid. Still the evening wasn't an outstanding success and I’d rather forget it and put it behind me. Though actually I’m not forgetting it very well.

  I then managed at our very recent encounter to be amongst a group of hysterical women, one of whom was making an exhibition of herself and emptying the contents of her stomach in a public place. Dennis hurried off but he had a good reason according to him. Still, best probably that I don't risk another mishap in his presence.

  I drive into town, park at the office and then hurry to the hotel where the breakfast is to be held. The breakfast is being organised by a local businessman. He’s a client of Ned’s and I think Ned will probably be there so I can force my company on him if I find there’s no-one else for me to talk to. I’m not so keen on this client really. He
sits as a magistrate and obviously he knows how to make a bob or two but in any dealings I’ve had with him, he’s revealed himself to be a pompous, semi-literate windbag who encourages those sit-back-and-let-him-get-on-with-it-because-he’s-incapable-of-basically-shutting-up-and-he-won't-understand-anything-cogent-you-say-to-him moments. His brains are obviously in his fat backside and he’s clearly either squashed or excreted most of them already. But Ned rates him and he’s rich so we have to be polite towards him.

  The petit déjeuner (though I’m hoping that it won't be so petit as all that as I’m still in need of a good square meal) is being held in a local centre of town hotel. At its core, it’s a charming beamed old coaching house though the breakfast is being held in one of the many extensions done up to look reasonably authentically old, this one being a smallish conference/function room. A pleasant quite large conservatory adjoins this room with doors off it to other areas. From what I glimpse of the conservatory, it’s tastefully done out with Moorish looking floor tiles, Kentia palms, weeping figs and large ferns, wrought iron brackets and comfy saggy sofas of different sizes and muted shades of co-ordinating materials. If the Arsehole and I hadn't split up, I’d have liked to have a smaller but similarly appointed conservatory installed at our house.

  However I am here for breakfast and therefore I line up at the buffet situated opposite the door by which I entered and look at what’s on offer. I’m deciding to go for the full English and am hoping it won't run out before I get to the servers as everyone else seems to be plumping for it too, when I’m approached from behind and I turn to face….Dennis. He’s smiling and cheerful and he says how pleased he is to see me again, how nice I look and he asks if I’d care to join him at his table if I’m not meeting up with anyone else. As well as eyeing up the breakfast on offer, I’ve been casting about for anyone I know and I haven't seen anyone yet. It’s frankly too early in the morning to start on the frantic “networking” with total strangers that these events are theoretically supposed to foster, so I say yes that’d be good and he points out his table over in the corner behind the entrance door, which is why I hadn't spotted him, and next to the conservatory.

  “Good,” he says, “Can I take you a coffee, orange juice or whatever back to the table?”

  I agree that he may get me both and he makes his way over to the table bearing these beverages near the middle of the room.

  I’m now faced with a dilemma. I’m keen to pig out this morning but if Dennis has formed a poor view of me, I don't particularly want to exacerbate it by heaping loads of bacon and sausages and fried bread and fried eggs and hash browns (hmm, I love hash browns!) onto my plate and deluging the lot in tomato ketchup, so that he thinks I’m a complete gannet on top of everything else. I consider the eggs Benedict or a dainty plate of lightly scrabbled eggs with Scottish smoked salmon.

  But I’m afraid that greed wins out. I have to hold my piled high plate carefully balanced in two hands as I weave my way over to his table, while imagining the ignominy of dropping the lot right in the middle of the conference room floor causing the poor harassed staff to have to clear it up as I wipe the worst of the ketchup from the front of my beige coloured dress. Fortunately this doesn't happen and I deposit my meal safely on the table mat at right angles to Dennis’s. He’s finished his main breakfast and is onto the toast and marmalade. If the conversation falters, we can make appreciative noises about the conservatory.

  Dennis looks admiringly at my plate.

  “That’s what I like to see. A woman with a good appetite,” he says and smiles at me. I hope he’ll do most of the talking as I shovel my food down. “I’ve been coming to as many of these breakfasts as possible since my ex-wife left. It’s just….” he shrugs, “nicer than eating on one’s own.”

  There’s a short silence. I must say something about the Romford to do. I must apologise. Before I get the chance though, Dennis wades in.

  “About that Romford event,” he says, “I really must apologise….”

  “No of course not. If anyone should it’s me. I….”

  “No honestly. I felt it was so rude of me to just march off like that. It was just that, well, perhaps you know….you probably do. When one’s about to make a speech, it’s a bit nerve-wracking. I was just rather distracted. And the group of surveyors I was with had had a bit of a schism and I had to say which lot I was siding with. It was possibly going to get a little heated.”

  I feel so selfish as he says this. Of course people get nervous when they’re going to make a speech. And there was me thinking only of myself and my own situation.

  “Dennis. There’s no need at all to apologise. I didn't even consider it.” I decide not to mention the finger up the urethra incident. It seems superfluous now.

  “Oh, well. Good. I thought you might be offended. But…. Anyway how did you get on with Milton wotsisname?”

  He seems to have blotted out the Romford fiasco. I suppose maybe that’s what nerves can do to you. I decide to move on completely from it too.

  “Actually not that great,” I say waving my fork around as a counter to my chewing of a mushroom. “He was rather….well I thought rather a selfish person. I only met him once after the restaurant meal where you saw us. And that was a complete disaster.” I recount the sad tale of the fatally injured stallion and spear a chunk of sausage.

  Dennis nods. “I’m not surprised.”

  “Why? Do you know him?” Perhaps that would account for Milton’s hostility towards Dennis that evening.

  “Not really but he came before me on an arbitration not that long ago. I formed the impression that he’s a completely unprincipled shit actually.” Dennis looks quite dark and angry as he says this and goes quiet for a short time. I find I’m surprised to see this as his usual demeanour from what I’ve seen is sunny, calm and in control. “But I’d better not say any more.”

  Happily though I’ve managed to chew and swallow a whole piece of bacon during this disclosure.

  “So,” I say quickly, “how is it going with the opera-loving Andrea? Been to see any more opening nights, live broadcasts or otherwise?”

  “No I’m afraid not. It turns out she wasn't really an opera fan at all. She just went onto this classical music-lovers’ website thinking she’d meet ‘a better class of person’.” He mimics a lower middle class voice aping an upper class accent. “I mean,” he shrugs, “it wouldn't have bothered me what her preferences were. But I didn't like being lied to, to the point where it was absolutely clear she had no idea what she was talking about.”

  I nod sympathetically while chewing on another mushroom.

  He goes on: “Actually, I’m learning quite a bit about this dating business. Things that didn't seem to occur when I was younger. It turns out, and I’m not necessarily saying that Andrea fell into this category, that there are quite a lot of women out there whose husbands have left them high and dry and they’re just really looking for someone to keep them and their children so that they can avoid getting a job and doing a decent day’s work.” Two hash browns, a piece of fried bread and a large fried mushroom.

  “Yes,” I say, “I came across quite a few of them in the days when I used to do matrimonial work. The recession was in full swing then making it that much more difficult because they couldn't sell the house for enough to even pay off the mortgage sometimes so I suppose they thought the ideal solution would be to pull a bloke who’d sort everything out financially for them. Pretty unattractive.”

  I found I didn't like matrimonial work. I felt as though one was making money out of peoples’ misery while getting involved vicariously in their little power etc. struggles. To me it didn't seem right somehow. I didn't think the law was an appropriate forum for the sorts of disputes these couples wanted to play out which were entirely personal and to my mind mostly not legal matters at all.

  But going back to what Dennis had said, it made me think. “I wonder if it works the other way around,” I say. “You know. Men looking for women to
prop them up financially so they can afford to keep paying maintenance for the kids. I’d not thought of that. I suppose I’d better watch out for it. Though I can't say I’ve had too much luck on the dating front. Especially not the internet dating front.”

  Dennis nods understandingly. “Anyway. On a brighter note, something positive did come out of our evening together. I decided on the strength of your story about the maintenance of the cat’s grave in perpetuity that I’d get myself a cat.”

  “Oh. I’m sorry about that. You probably guessed it wasn't true at all. I’d actually been thinking about Dennis Pennis but I didn't feel I could say so.” I find I'm laughing now and so is Dennis. Very briefly I picture Dennis’s spectacle lenses featuring everlasting revolving concentric circles like a pinwheel. I push the vision away and say: “Is it a grown up cat or a kitten or what?

  “She’s a little blue/grey tabby kitten called Trixie. She’s terribly sweet. She’s got blue eyes and I think she’s going to be short-haired eventually but she’s all fluffy now. I’m bringing her into the office with me most days so she won't be on her own at home. She’s too young to be let outside yet.” Half a fried egg.

  I picture Trixie curling up at nights with Dennis in his bed. He sounds besotted with her. “I bet she’s gorgeous,” I say.

  “She is. I’m just a bit worried what I’m going to do about her next week. I have to go to London for a few days and she can't go into kennels. She hasn’t had all her inoculations.”

  “Oh dear,” I say indistinctly through a slice of black pudding.

  “A neighbour’s said she’ll come in and put Trixie’s food down,” says Dennis, “and change her litter tray. And I’ve changed my cleaning lady’s day for next week so she’ll be there for one of the days but even so. I’m worried she’ll be lonely all on her own most of the time. And I’m staying overnight in London.”