by Lucy Lawrie
‘Hi Gerry, how are you?’ I shook his white, gnarled hand.
‘Nae bad, nae bad,’ he said. ‘Sit down, sit down! You must be . . . er . . . welcome!’
Jean left momentarily then bustled back in with a tea trolley, steering its squeaky wheels to a halt at my knees. On the trolley stood a teapot, cups and saucers, a plate of sandwiches and three different sorts of cake. I took the plate she brandished at me, and accepted a slice of cream cake.
Jean poured me a cup of tea, and placed it on a little side table before sitting down beside me on the sofa.
She leaned forward with an urgent, confiding expression. I wondered whether she was about to launch into the details of her employment dispute. I balanced my plate of cake on my knee and reached for my briefcase to get out a pen and notepad.
‘These cakes,’ she began. ‘I order them from the bakers in Morningside Road to pick up every Monday. You need to order, because the popular ones are all taken by nine o’clock.’
‘Well, this is superb,’ I said.
‘There’s a fruit layer that I sometimes get if the raspberry sponge isn’t available to order.’
‘Mmmm,’ I said, munching.
‘There’s a problem with the jam supplier, so I’m told,’ she continued in a confidential tone. ‘Unreliable. So they don’t have the raspberry every week. And definitely not if you don’t pre-order.’
‘Right. Well, that’s very organised of you. And this is very kind of you, you really didn’t need to . . .’
‘Nonsense,’ Jean scoffed. ‘It’s no bother. I go for the cakes every Monday anyway. They’re—’
‘No more trouble from that gang, I trust?’ cut in Gerry.
‘Oh! No – nothing else. Thanks for asking. We’re hoping it was just a one-off.’
We sat in companionable silence for a moment or two, the fire hissing in the background. I felt transported back to a simpler time, as if I was sitting in my granny’s front room, no pressing issues other than to decide if I wanted to spend the afternoon dressing up, going to the swings, or jumping around her living room like a flea, allowing myself to step only on the furniture.
‘So, do you want to tell me about your work situation?’ I asked, when I thought I couldn’t put it off any longer.
‘Well,’ said Jean. ‘As you know, I’m a receptionist at Brand New You. An image consultancy, they call it. It used to be just a hypnotherapist, Mr Weeks, and his wife Mary, who’s a chiropodist. Mr Weeks had built up quite a practice, you know, even in the days before the alternative therapies became popular. You may have heard of him if you move in golfing circles – he’s a specialist in golf hypnotherapy. At one point – gosh, well, it would be back in the Eighties I suppose – there was a rush of middle-aged executive types needing help with golf issues – mental blocks, that sort of thing. It’s surprisingly common, by all accounts, just when you’re about to take a swing. To be troubled by a mental block.’
I raised my eyebrows. ‘Really? How interesting. Golf is not a subject I know much about.’
‘Of course,’ she went on, ‘there were always other issues behind it. Mid-life crises, stress, childhood problems, that sort of thing. But by advertising himself as a golf coach Mr Weeks made it easy for them to come to him. He’d bring out all the issues, while seeming to tackle the golf, and then send them on to Mary to sort out their feet. So by the end of it they were ready to go back home to their wives.’
‘Hmmm . . . how interesting.’ Jonathan played golf; he was surely a prime candidate for all this, what with his nightmares and refusal to discuss his dad.
‘No need for fast cars, mistresses or any of that song and dance,’ she went on, pursing her lips and shaking her head. Gerry shook his head too.
‘And the added bonus of the feet,’ I said reverently.
‘That’s right, dear. Anyway, the business grew very successful. Hypnotherapy and the like became more popular. A counsellor, Dickie James, joined the practice. Certainly, the appointment books were always full.
‘There’s a staff room behind the reception area, overlooking a sunny little garden courtyard. And when Gerry had his hernia operation a couple of years ago, Mr Weeks and Mary said I could bring him in to sit in the back room while I worked, so I could keep an eye on him.’
Gerry nodded solemnly from his woolly brown armchair.
‘And that just sort of became the arrangement. Gerry got used to it, even after he recovered from the operation. He’s seventy-eight now! I know you’ll find that hard to believe.’
I raised my eyebrows and nodded at the ancient-looking Gerry, trying to look impressed.
‘Gerry would drive in with me in the mornings, and sit in the back room, maybe reading or listening to the radio, or writing his poetry. He’s a gardener by trade, you know, but he did an English Literature course through the Open University – oh, when would that be? – about ten years ago.’
‘I studied English Literature, too,’ I said, with a shy smile towards Gerry.
Jean gave a brief nod of approval and then continued. ‘He looked after the courtyard garden, planted it out with lavender and suchlike. Made a lovely trellis with honeysuckle and clematis around the back door. We got a little bench and put it out there. Made it into a nice peaceful area where the clients could sit while they waited for their appointments, if it was a nice day. Then they decided to use it for Tai Chi classes and outdoor yoga in the summer.
‘That sounds really nice. Very relaxing.’ I was almost falling asleep, just thinking about it.
‘It was. And then, since Gerry’s legs got bad, it’s become more of a necessity, taking him into work, because he can’t manage very well at home by himself. It was fine at first, because Mr Weeks saw both of us as more part of the family, really. He was grateful to Gerry for the work he’d done in the garden, and Gerry would chat to the clients and show them the garden while they were waiting for their appointments. Put them at their ease, sort of thing.
‘But last year Mr Weeks retired, and his son Wilf took over the business. He’s one of these new lifestyle coaches. No training to speak of. He’s rented out the rooms in the clinic to other new types. A beauty therapist, which is fine. But then there’s Dr Bourne, who does that botox, non-surgical facelifts, and all sorts. And they’ve rented new rooms upstairs for a clothes therapist, and a hair consultant. Hence renaming the business Brand New You.’
I looked across at Jean, with her cream jumper, tweedy skirt and opaque, flesh-coloured tights, and understood the root of the problem.
‘Mary’s still there. Wilf can hardly get her out, being his own mum. But the likes of these new clients, they’re not really interested in feet as much. Her appointment book has been looking quite empty of late. It’s the clothes therapy and suchlike that they’re all into now. But the thing is, now Wilf has announced that they want to convert the staff room into another consulting room, since they want to hire a . . . well, a sex therapist, dear. A relationship coach, they call it. But the thing is – they say that Gerry won’t be able to come to work with me any more. But I can’t leave him at home on his own. So I’m going to have to resign. But I really don’t want to. We need the money, you see. And the thing is, dear, I just wanted to ask you: is there anything I can do?’
I’d never heard of a case so rich in employment issues. It was almost like an exam question – the sort I’d always been rather good at.
‘Well. If they’re making it impossible to do your job, that could be constructive dismissal.’
‘And can I do something about that?’
‘Yes. You’ve been taking Gerry into work for so long that it’s arguably become your contractual right. Then there’s sex discrimination . . .’
‘How could it be sex discrimination?’ Jean leaned forward, fascinated.
‘Because you’re a woman, and women are more likely to have caring responsibilities. Not allowing you to bring ageing relatives into work is a restriction that is more likely to impact on a woman than a m
an . . . so you can argue it’s discriminatory.’
‘No!’ whispered Jean.
Gerry frowned a little at ‘ageing relatives’.
‘It’s the same with age discrimination. Not allowing you to bring . . . incapacitated family members . . . into work is a restriction that is more likely to affect older workers. They’d argue against it, but it’s worth a shot. Then there’s the whole issue of disability discrimination by association. And the argument that Gerry himself might be an employee. If he’s been doing the gardening and keeping clients entertained, that could be a possibility. It would mean that all the employment protection laws would attach to him in his own right.’
Goodness, this was actually fun. I could barely stop talking. Jean was starting to look bewildered.
‘I’m not saying that any of these arguments would win a tribunal case. They’re all a bit of a long shot, actually. But the point is, you could still lodge a claim, throwing all sorts of employment legislation into the pot. Just the thought of the lawyer’s fees might be enough to stop them in their tracks.’
Jean looked shocked and excited, and held a hand up to her mouth.
‘First of all, what you need to do is lodge a grievance. Do you know who’s in charge of human resources?’
‘Yes! It’s Wilf’s girlfriend, Chantal-Marie. She just started last month, and already she’s laying down the law. Ideas above her station.’
‘Okay, well that’s fine, I suggest you lodge a written grievance with Chantal-Marie and see what happens. I’ll help you write it. Then there’ll be a meeting.’
‘Oh dear, I don’t know what I would say if I had to go to a meeting like that. And I’d need to bring Gerry too, you know. I can’t leave him.’
‘We’ll all go,’ I said.
‘Do you want some more cake, dear? It’ll only go to waste.’
I detected that the discussions of the grievance hearing had made Jean anxious, so let the conversation drift on to other subjects. I heard about Norma, organiser of the church sale of work, who was apt to underprice the baked goods (she’d let officialdom go to her head) and the old man in the upstairs flat who played his keyboard late at night, keeping everybody awake. The other neighbours were going to convene a meeting to discuss what should be done.
By the time I got up to leave, the nausea and shakiness had gone. I felt calm, clear headed, and well. I’d forgotten about the competency hearing, other than to vaguely register that I’d have to type up my written notes of the meeting before putting them on the file, since the paper version was smudged with cream.
Jean showed me out, closing the sitting room door behind us as we went into the hall.
‘Dear, I think I might need to have another wee meeting with you – on our own. There was . . .well, an incident at work, involving Gerry. I don’t like to bring it up in front of him, but . . . I think you should be aware.’
‘That’s fine – yes, we’ll meet up again. We need to go over the grievance letter anyway. How about . . . a week on Thursday? Three-ish?’
‘All right then – shall we meet at the Copper Kettle on Stevenson Street? They do a good scone there. Lovely jam and proper fresh whipped cream.’
She eyed me beadily, as though daring me to suggest that aerosol cream would be a perfectly adequate substitute.
I gave a deep nod, and promised to see her there.
20
Bar Twenty-Nine was just around the corner from the office. Without needing to confer, Malkie and I headed to a small dark booth tucked away at the back. There were no other customers, apart from a group of people who seemed to be in the awkward early stages of an office night out, their small talk echoing too loudly across the empty room. Malkie sat playing with a coaster, looking down at his hands, while I summoned over the waiter.
‘So what’s up?’ I asked, once we’d ordered coffees.
‘Cassie.’ He raised his eyes to mine. ‘The way we were at Braid Hills. Let’s just say, I haven’t felt that way with a girl since we were last together. And I just wanted to tell you – I think I made a mistake.’
‘A mistake? Then, or now?’
He rubbed his forehead with the heel of his hand, eyes squeezed shut, as if he was in pain. When he spoke it was barely audible. ‘Then.’
Vindication for all those years of longing swept over me in waves. It trickled down my back, making me want to gasp. As Malkie continued, I felt like a different person within my body. My cheekbones felt sharper, my eyes darker and deeper. A scent seemed to rise like heat off my skin.
‘I was too young,’ he said. ‘I didn’t realise what we had.’
‘I did.’
‘I know you did. And I just don’t know what I was holding out for. I thought that since I was still so young, there must be more to come . . . you know. But there wasn’t, after you. There just wasn’t.’
‘Why didn’t you get in touch with me then? I spent months, Malkie. I spent years, with you on my mind, every day.’
‘I guess I just got carried away with other things. I did go out with a few people. I even lived with a girl for a couple of years. Gaby. She was everything I thought I was looking for. Sassy, confident, sporty. She could be one of the lads when she felt like it, she could give as good as she got.’
‘Not like me, then.’
‘Just different. I was the one begging her for commitment, if you can imagine that.’
‘Not really.’
‘It didn’t work out. She was what I thought I should want, but she wasn’t right for me. When I finished with her, I thought I’d just need to keep looking for the right person. But when I saw you that day on the street outside McKeith’s, I knew it was your face that I’d been looking for. I don’t know what it is about you. But it was like you reached into me and flicked the “on” switch. It was always like that with you.’
Why had it taken him nearly a decade to realise it?
‘So anyway.’ He brought down his palms on the table in a gesture of finality. ‘I just wanted you to know. I know you’re married, I know you’ve got a little girl, and a life you can’t leave behind . . . that you probably wouldn’t want to leave behind. But I felt like I had to set the record straight. It felt wrong to just never tell you.’
‘What?’
‘That you were The One.’
Silence; and a twisting sensation where my heart should have been. Words were circling in my head but they were all impossible.
‘Malkie,’ I whispered finally. It wasn’t a rebuke, neither was it a capitulation. I was pleading with him; pleading for him to have said those words all those years ago.
‘I was so stupid.’ His voice tightened and he shook his head. ‘I didn’t know it was love. It was right in front of me and I couldn’t see it. And now, I—’
‘You don’t know me. I’m not the same person as before.’
‘I do know you. I can see that this motherhood thing has knocked you for six. I can see that you’re full of anxiety – you’re practically buzzing with it. You think you don’t know who you are any more, but I can tell you, Cassie, you’re still the same. I could feel it, when I held you that night. My body knows you. My . . . my heart knows you, for God’s sake. We fit together.’
Of all the things he could have said. Maybe if I stayed very still I would manage not to break into all the different pieces of me.
The wife and mother in me knew that I had to leave. But there was part of me that was unfolding like a flower in the light and warmth of this attention, and it wanted me to linger at that table with him, raking over the coals, playing a little with the fire before it had to die.
Then there was the part of me that had been searching for Malkie’s face in every stranger in every street, since the night he’d left me; it was crying like a desperate child, clinging on to my arm, pulling me down, begging me to stay.
What if Malkie was talking to the real me? What if he’d found her and pinned her down with his straight talking and the look in his eye? If I got u
p and walked away, maybe I’d be leaving her behind forever.
I’d love to be able to say that I came to a decision there and then, that I knew, deep down, what to do. But when I stood up to leave, it was because I had to go and collect Sophie from nursery – there was no one else to do it.
‘I have to go,’ I said. ‘I’m sorry, but there’s nowhere we can go with this . . .’
He nodded. He didn’t make any attempt to hold me back, but his face was white, clammy, almost panicky.
I left the bar and took the back route down a street of mews houses, their windows bright in the wintry gloom. Clattering over the cobbles, I knew I’d reach the nursery if I just put one foot in front of the other. I focused on Sophie – how her face would light up when she saw me, how her pudgy hands would wave upwards, opening like little stars, to be lifted.
*
It was about ten o’clock that night when I heard Jonathan’s key in the door. I came downstairs and found him in the kitchen.
When I saw him standing there, his tie pulled loose and his hair sticking up at the front, he looked so reassuring and familiar that I just wanted to go up to him and hold him, and be held. But I hung back – just said a quiet hello and sat down at the table.
‘Sorry I’m late, Cassie-Lassie. That drinks thing went on.’
‘It’s fine.’
He was surveying the contents of the fridge, rubbing his thumb and two forefingers against the thick stubble on his cheeks. A kick of desire came out of nowhere. Perhaps I was seeing Jonathan through the eyes of that sleek, alluring version of myself with the sharper cheekbones.
‘Jonathan. I need to tell you something.’ My tone of voice was all wrong. It sounded as though I was about to tell him that the phone bill was higher than usual this quarter, or that I’d arranged for the plumber to come and look at the cistern.
‘I went for a drink with Malkie after work.’
Jonathan, piercing the film lid on his microwave risotto, didn’t look round. But there was a fraction of a pause between piercings.