‘Thanks. I think.’
He orders our food – salad for me, heavy on the cucumber – and I eat everything, fast and unselfconsciously. It makes me think of the last meal I had with Nick, that time we met that vicious Sean character. I had hardly dared eat anything, trying to look dainty and interesting. Hector is watching me eat but it doesn’t bother me. Why should it when I’m not doing my best to look sexy the whole time?
On the way home, we sit and sing along in the darkness to the CD player. He’s got one of those compilation CDs with loads of old songs on it, and I manage to find the track I had been singing to that morning on my way to work – ‘Tubthumping’ by Chumbawamba. While I sing ‘I get knocked down, but I get up again’, Hector sings ‘We’ll be singing when we’re winning’. We bounce from side to side in harmony with each other, enjoying the music, feeling buoyed up by it.
‘Hang on, hang on,’ I’m saying, putting my hand on his arm. I’ve had an idea. He smiles down at my hand.
‘What?’
‘Listen, how about this. “I get knocked up, but I get up again.” What do you think?’
He laughs delightedly. ‘It’s brilliant!’ So we sing that instead. I am remembering being in Nick’s car with him, and how tense and nervous I was the whole time, never relaxed, always trying to look my best, be my best. I look over at Hector who is now cheerfully humming along to ‘Smack My Bitch Up’ by The Prodigy and I realize that since I put the lipstick on in Cream Tease I haven’t thought about my appearance once.
‘What are you looking at, you witch?’ he says suddenly, grinning.
‘Nothing. Just thinking about Nick.’
‘Nick?’
‘He’s the . . . er . . . father.’ I say it really quietly.
‘Oh.’ He glances quickly at me and then back at the road. He does not resume singing.
He drives me back to my car in the business park, the cheery, fun atmosphere suddenly dissipated. He’s gone all quiet and sullen.
He’s turned the engine off, so I say to him, ‘Thank you so much, Hector. I have had such a lovely time.’ I’ve said that loads of times before, but this is the first time it really means something.
He gazes at me, his eyes sad now. ‘So have I, Rachel,’ he says softly, then reaches out his hand and moves a strand of hair away from my eyes. He leaves his hand there, touching my hair. ‘A truly lovely . . . time,’ he murmurs, a bit distractedly.
‘I’d better go,’ I say, picking up my bag from my lap. ‘Work in the morning.’
‘Yes, me too. Look, can we . . .?’
‘Yes?’
‘Well, perhaps we could . . . If you weren’t . . . I mean, if you felt . . .’ He runs his fingers through his hair, messing it up even more. ‘What I am struggling to say is, do you think we could do this again sometime? Go out, I mean, not talk in a car park.’
I nod and smile, and his face brightens. ‘Yes please.’
‘Oh, good,’ he says with a sigh of relief, and with his hand still on my hair he moves towards me and very gently kisses my cheek again.
It’s not my ear, or the gristly bit that sticks out of my ear and holds my earphones in, it’s my cheek. And it’s light, and soft, and I can feel his breath on me long after he’s moved away again.
As I walk away from the car, I look back to wave. He’s watching me intently but he’s not smiling. In fact, he looks decidedly worried. I almost stop where I am, the expression on his face slowing my feet, making me frown. But then he’s turned away to reverse out of his space, and I watch his car as it leaves the car park.
In the car, Hector is frowning as he drives. What I don’t know is that he thinks that because I’m pregnant, I’ve just come out of a long-term relationship. He thinks that I must still have feelings for the dad. He thinks the dad will very soon realize what he’s missing out on, and call me up for a tearful reconciliation. He didn’t plan on kissing me, but he couldn’t stop himself. He’s cursing himself for that now because there is no point feeling what he’s feeling when ultimately the best thing all round is for the parents of the baby to be reunited.
Chapter Twelve
I CAN’T FATHOM him out, which is another first for me. Is Hector the first complex and deep person I have ever dated, who maybe has more on his mind than getting me into bed? What hope have I got of understanding him, if that’s the case? He seems pleased to see me and we have such a laugh when we’re together. But then, suddenly, he gets all quiet on me, and looks really fed up and worried when I walk away. I think about it for twenty minutes before dropping off to sleep.
It’s the best night’s sleep I’ve had for three months. I’m up the next day, bouncing around the flat, singing that same song again. In spite of yesterday’s disaster, I’m having the other half of the melon this morning. Crafted in paradise by happy angels. I hesitate by the toilet, but nothing comes. Hooray!
This puts me in an even better mood. I finish getting ready for work – hair is getting longer but I quite like it – and grab my bag and keys from the table. I’m just heading out of the front door when my stomach does a sudden convulsion and I have to run back to the toilet to lose my breakfast after all.
Let’s skip forward twenty-five minutes and wait outside the lift doors on the third floor at work. The lift is just arriving with me in it. See that young woman in black, with the short, sexy haircut, standing there, waiting? Who do you think that is? The lift doors open, and there I am coming out, catching sight of the woman, who is waiting for me, it turns out, not the lift. She walks right up to me, as if she knows me, but you can see from the way I turn away from her and try to get past without engaging in conversation that I don’t recognize her. And then all of a sudden, I do.
Have you ever seen in films where one of the characters looks at someone, then looks away without noticing something, but then apparently realizes that they haven’t looked properly and have probably missed something crucial, so they turn their heads back really quickly? Mum says it’s called a double-take. I’ve always thought that it’s totally fake because surely if you’re looking at the woman who a moment ago was a scruffy dyke in baggy jeans and a grey hoodie, and is now a stunning supermodel in a sheath dress and silver shoes, you’re not going to glance at her, dismiss her and look away, then suddenly realize that’s she’s changed almost beyond recognition and suddenly turn back to feast your eyes on her new image, are you?
Well, that’s what I did.
‘Holy crap!’ I shout. It’s Chrissie – can you believe it? I mean, look at her! Doesn’t she look different! At last she has abandoned those fruit-themed tops in flowing cerise and lemon, in favour of floaty black wide-leg trousers, black leather boots and a very tight red top with a plunging neckline. There’s even a hint of black lace from her bra visible at the V of her top. I’m speechless. And how much better does her hair look? That long, curly mane falling on to her shoulders is gone. Instead she’s gone black and short, feathered all over and curling forward in wisps by her face. It looks gorgeous. In fact, I’m touching my own hair self-consciously. It looked all right in the mirror this morning but now I am acutely aware that it hasn’t been cut for almost four months, and the highlights are growing out. Bugger it – Chrissie is making me feel inadequate!
The last time this happened was nineteen years and four months earlier, when Chrissie’s painting of her favourite story – Ghostbusters – got put up on the wall.
She’s got different make-up, too. Much more subtle, nude colours instead of that brash red lipstick. She looks chic, slim and stunning! Not that she is slim, but these clothes emphasize her large bosom and draw attention away from her large hips and belly.
‘My God, Chrissie, you look amazing!’ I’ve quite surprised myself there. Generally, I don’t like other people looking better than, or as good as, me, and undoubtedly Chrissie does. But it doesn’t bother me at all. In fact, I feel delighted for her and smile at her, genuinely meaning it. She’s looking sceptical though.
‘Tha
nks. Anyway, I’ve got to tell you something. The new station eight is here. Just got in. Calls herself Paris, of all things. Fancies herself, you can tell. Bit of a tart . . .’
‘What’s brought on this change in image all of a sudden then?’
She stares at me. ‘Nothing. Why should anything have brought it on? Why can’t I just decide to change my look when I feel like it without being bombarded with a load of questions and stares?’ She starts to walk away, then comes back suddenly. ‘Quick, there she is now. Look at her.’
I follow the direction of Chrissie’s discreetly rolling eyes to where a young girl, probably only about eighteen or nineteen, is standing just inside the door to the sales room, talking to M and M. She looks all right to me, long mousy hair in a ponytail, short skirt, white shoes. M and M look cheerful enough, smiling and chatting away animatedly. I’m about to turn back to Chrissie when I notice something that makes me freeze and my mouth falls open. Mike or Martin is holding a steaming coffee cup and as I watch, he gives it to the new girl, pressing it into her hand. She’s all smiles and pretty acceptance, fiddling with her hair, wafting her eyelashes. And then, horror of horrors, I see from M’s gestures – pointing with his elbow back along the hallway to the lifts, nodding emphatically, indicating his watch and the clock on the wall – that he is explaining to her that he and M go past the vending machine every day around two o’clock and can bring her a coffee back each time, if she wants.
I glance at Chrissie and she’s studying me intently, obviously waiting for my reaction. Back at the doorway, this usurper is smiling prettily again, nodding, obviously saying ‘Ooh, thank you so much, that will be just lovely,’ and then she leans forward and kisses each one on the cheek, before walking off. As she’s going, M and M watch her walking in silence, then turn to each other and do – can you believe this? – a surreptitious low five on each other.
‘She’s obviously very common,’ Chrissie says as I stand and gape. ‘Come on, you’ve got to get in there.’ Other people are walking past us into the sales room, calling out ‘Morning’ and ‘Hiya’. She takes hold of my arm and moves me along the hallway and through the door. Over at station eight, the new girl is chatting sweetly with her new neighbours, Jim and Penny, while they show her how her chair works, how to turn on her computer, how to activate the turret.
At my desk, Val is standing there, watching all this going on. She sees me and smiles. ‘Hi, Rachel. You all right?’
I nod mutely and sit down.
‘Don’t like the look of her,’ Val says. She’s much more talkative now. We’ve become almost friends.
‘Me neither. Want a hot choc, Val?’ I stand up again and head off towards the vending machine.
The thing that’s bugging me is that I have always had a certain status in Telesales. Well, not just in Telesales, all over the third floor. And other parts of the building, if I’m honest. My name means something in most Horizon circles, whether they love me or hate me, they’re not usually indifferent. I am the one that gets the attention, the one that gets invitations, the one that gets the coffee, dammit. And now this Paris girl, who actually has very ordinary hair when you look at it, is trying to shoulder me out of the way.
At the vending machine, I have to stand for almost eighty seconds waiting for the hot chocolate.
Am I over-reacting to M and M simply offering to buy someone a cup of coffee every day? But they used to get me a cup of coffee every day. Yes, but I blew that when I was full-on obsessed with seeing Nick. But now that everyone knows Nick’s married and we’re not together any more, why didn’t they offer to start up again? Maybe they meant to, but never got round to it? Or maybe they just couldn’t be bothered any more. I have spent a fair bit of time lately in a foul mood, looking pretty hideous, so they’ve obviously gone off me. But did they ever fancy me in the first place – they’re gay, aren’t they? I don’t know, are they?
Beep. The first hot chocolate is ready and I feed another pound in for the second one.
I don’t think anyone knows the answer to that one, even M and M themselves. It doesn’t matter either way. The point is that they don’t do it for me any more, but they’re more than happy to do it for Paris. So what? Why do I care? Why am I even having this conversation when I might be going to have a baby? Am I having a baby? Oh bloody hell, I don’t know.
Beep. That’s number two, so I grab it and head off back to my desk.
Val and I endure in silence all morning the fawning and simpering going on at eight. Jean does the talk about add-ons and sales figures and league tables and Paris sits and pretends to take it all in. I’m watching her, though, and I can see that while she’s pretending to be listening to Jean, she’s actually flirting with Simon, who sits opposite. It’s cruel, that kind of thing, because Si is clearly delighted and thinks he might be in there, while realistically anyone can see that someone like him doesn’t stand a chance with her. He’s a lovely bloke and means well, but he wears tank tops. Still, all the while she’s not listening to Jean talking about sales technique and client care she’s not learning, which means more sales for me. I’m back up to sixth – did you notice that?
At lunch, Chrissie flips out a compact to touch up her lip-gloss and flick out her new hair and disappears out of the door, without even checking with me what I want to do. I’m a bit narked about that, as you can see by my face as I watch her go. Val always goes down to the staff canteen for lunch so for the first time ever, I go with her. She’s thinking about getting herself a new sofa and talks about it non-stop on the way down. I’m fantasizing about the salad and fruit that I’m going to eat when we get there. Occasionally the image of one of the Ms giving Paris that coffee creeps in, but I focus hard on the imaginary apple I’m eating and make it go away.
When I get back to my desk twenty-five minutes later, there’s a message for me that someone has called, and a number I should call them back on. I don’t recognize the number and assume instantly that it must be Hector. Look at the delight on my face as I quickly dial the number.
‘Lacey Ladies,’ says a voice I recognize and I slump in disappointment. It’s Susan’s shop.
‘Hi, Susan, it’s Rachel. How are you?’
‘Hi, Rach! Bloody hell, where the fuck have you been? I haven’t seen you since Jake’s party. I’ve missed you. How are you?’
‘I’m fine, Sue. How are you?’
‘I’m all right, as ever. But you were really ill last time I saw you – did you get home all right?’
Remember that Jake’s party is getting on for two months ago now, so if I didn’t get home all right, it’s far too late for Susan to be asking me about it. She can’t do anything to help me now.
‘Yes, thanks, no problem. It wasn’t flu, you know.’
‘No, no, I know all about it. Chrissie told me everything.’
‘Oh, did she?’ Well, it’s no surprise that Chrissie has told her – I did tell her about Nick being married on purpose so that she would spread it around Horizon. The Chrissie telegraph is so effective, it’s even reached the underwear shop in the precinct.
‘Yeah. What a complete tosser that bloke is. You shouldn’t have wasted any of your time on him, especially letting it make you ill, you idiot. Men are all the same – lying, cheating wasters who are good for one thing only and should be safely discarded after fifteen minutes.’
‘Fifteen, eh?’
‘Ten, then. If you’re lucky. And that includes having a ciggie after. Fucking bastards, the lot of them. I just wish I could manage without them.’
‘But we can’t, can we? Where would the fun be in that?’
She sighs dramatically. ‘No fun at all. No heartache either, but no heartache is not worth no fun, is it?’
‘Erm, no. I think. Anyway, I’m all right now. Completely over him.’
‘Really? Sure? Brilliant. Do you fancy a swim this afternoon then? See what’s hanging around at the pool in Speedos?’
‘Yes, all right. Shall we meet there?’
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Before Susan arrives, I take the opportunity to scrutinize myself in my cozzie. There’s a full-length mirror on the wall by the toilets so after I’ve locked everything away, I stand and inspect the damage. Well, my boobs are definitely a bit bigger, but considering there’s another person hiding inside me, my belly isn’t too huge. Sure, it’s not as flat as it used to be, but you wouldn’t guess what it was, if you didn’t know. You’d just assume I was an overeater.
Bugger.
Susan arrives and looks at me sidelong in the mirror as I’m staring at myself. ‘You look beautiful as ever, Rach,’ she says, ‘but you can see where you’ve missed the swimming recently.’
I manage forty lengths and stagger back into the changing rooms, legs like jelly. In the same time it’s taken me to do forty, Susan’s managed to do fifty and get a date with the life-guard. She glides into the shower, serene and relaxed. ‘Wasn’t that fabulous?’ she says, washing her hair. ‘Just what I needed. Phew!’ I’m not sure if she means the exercise or the date.
We head to the café for our usual black, sugarless coffee, but today I’m having hot chocolate and a cinnamon whirl.
‘That looks delicious,’ Sue says, sipping her black coffee.
‘Want some?’ I say, offering it out to her, mouth full of pastry.
‘God no. The animal fat in those things comes from . . . Oops. Sorry, Rach. You carry on. Anyway, you deserve a treat now and then, don’t you? Doesn’t matter what I think. You’re probably in need of a pick-me-up anyway.’
I look up at her sharply. ‘What do you mean?’
‘I only mean after this man you liked turned out to be married. You were pretty cut up about it.’
‘Well, to begin with, I suppose so, but now—’
‘I know exactly what it feels like. I was in love with a married man once.’
‘Really? I never knew that.’
She nods, taking another sip. ‘I didn’t tell anyone. It was a terrible time for me. I was a mess. As soon as I found out, I ended it.’
Thanks For Nothing, Nick Maxwell Page 18