Thanks For Nothing, Nick Maxwell

by Debbie Carbin

  ‘Oh, Mr . . . Sorry, sir, er, Mr de Witt . . .’ Can this night get any worse? Now all I need is for Hector to see me humiliated like this for the evening to be complete. I turn away and hurry off along the corridor as quickly as I can in these shoes. Behind me, Mr de Witter puts his hands in his pockets and watches me go, a bemused expression on his face.

  ‘What’s going on?’ says a voice behind him, and fortunately I am too far up the corridor to know that Hector has now emerged from the same room as Rupert de Witter and is watching my retreating figure as well.

  Rupert shrugs and smiles. ‘Oh, something to do with the office party, I should think. You know what it’s like, Hec, too much booze makes those simmering office passions boil over.’

  Hector is peering down the darkened corridor towards the lift. ‘But . . . I’m sure that’s—’

  ‘Rachel!’ Hector and Rupert jump as the door opposite is flung open and a young man comes hurrying out in hot pursuit, pulling the edges of his shirt together, buttoning it up as he jogs off down the corridor. ‘Come back here, Rachel,’ he shouts out as he runs, ‘Stop!’

  Hector sees this, hears the name, and in an instant pieces it all together. He knows in that moment that what he predicted, what he has dreaded, has happened. And as he returns sadly into the conference room with Rupert, he knows that, although it feels like his heart has been forced through a mangle, then minced, set on fire and jumped on, this is the best outcome for almost everyone.

  ‘You all right, Hec?’ Rupert says, watching his friend move slowly back into the room. ‘You’ve gone a bit pale.’

  Hector nods and forces a smile. ‘Fine, mate. Just tired. Can we get this finished, please, so I can get back to my office?’

  As the door to their room closes, so the opposite door opens again and out steps Paris – smart, rearranged, dignified. She holds her head high and rolls her hips seductively as she sways up the corridor behind Nick, a large hole clearly visible in the back of her black tights.

  This is the corridor outside the lifts and here I come, hurrying towards the lifts and away from that scene. Quickly I stab the ‘G’ button, then, glancing over my shoulder, thump it repeatedly as I can sense from the left a bastard approaching.

  He comes in fast, seizing my arm. ‘What the fuck is the matter with you, you sick bitch?’

  ‘Take your hand off me,’ I say in a low voice without even looking at him. He does, too.

  ‘Are you some kind of obsessive stalker or something? What the hell are you doing, bursting in on us like that? I mean, I can understand that you’re upset I’m seeing someone else, but face it, it’s been four months, for fuck’s sake. You really need to accept that it’s over, love.’

  ‘Oh Nick, don’t flatter yourself. I wouldn’t touch you with a gloved hand holding a pair of tongs with a barge pole in them.’

  ‘Yeah, sure. Whatever you say. But I’ve been here a few times before, you know. Dumped girl can’t deal with the fact that there’s a new girl on the block. Follows me around like a sad little puppy, calling me up at all hours, waiting outside my house, sending me things. But this. Hah.’ He shakes his head. ‘This is a new one on me. Telling her I’m married. I mean, for fuck’s sake. What’s got into you? Have you gone mad?’

  I’m still facing forward while he’s standing to my left, rambling on and on. From this vantage point, I can see the silver lift doors with my own calm, serene reflection smiling back at me, and Nick’s profile at one ear, snarling and growling into it. Thank God the lift is here at last. The doors slide open and I hurry in, turning to face him once I’m inside.

  ‘I’m sorry, Nick, it was very, very wrong of me . . .’

  ‘Too fucking right it was.’

  ‘. . . to waste a week of my life on you. I regret almost everything about it. Now get back to your girlfriend – she looks like she needs some attention.’ And as if in a film, the doors close beautifully on time: just as Nick frowns in fury and opens his mouth to say something else; just as Paris flounces out of the corridor on the right and heads towards him. And I’m sealed away safely in the descending lift. I’ve said my piece and the curtains have closed.

  Standing there in the lift, I am faced with my full-length reflection again, minus the snarling profile this time. My face is glowing and I am grinning now. My hair is longer and as I move my head from side to side, it sways with the movement, the lights in the lift glinting on its glossy surface. I look bloody good.

  ‘I’m sorry about that, Plum,’ I say, addressing the little bump in the reflection. ‘What a nasty man. But you won’t have to see him ever again, if you don’t want to. I promise.’ I smooth my top out over the bump, turning sideways so I can see it better. It’s not big but it’s there, and I like it.

  This is the next Monday, three days later, and I’m arriving at work. You can see from the way I’m bouncing along, still faintly smiling, that I’m feeling pretty damn fantastic today. Over at station eight the seat is empty and I grin wider, wondering idly where they were now – men’s loos? Stationery cupboard? Floor under Jean’s desk?

  ‘What are you looking so cheerful about?’ Chrissie says, appearing in front of me suddenly. Today she’s gone for tight white top and denim miniskirt with brown knee boots. It’s still such a shock to see her dressed like this and for a second I can’t think what she’s just asked me.

  ‘What?’

  ‘You, walking around with a big grin on your face. I’m surprised to see you looking so happy today.’

  Now I’m focused on what she’s saying. ‘What do you mean, surprised? Why shouldn’t I be cheerful today?’

  See that look on her face? It’s her Gossip-versus-Guilt look. It’s a complex one but I’ve known Chrissie for twenty years and can decipher her instantly. That look means she’s heard something, probably about one of her friends – most likely me – and she is torn between feeling guilty because she didn’t stick up for me, and thrilled that she’s got some really juicy gossip to pass on. Her eyes don’t meet mine – the guilt – but she’s fighting against an excited grin – the gossip. ‘Well, I heard—’

  ‘Oh, here we go. It’s not just Nick and Paris that have been banging all weekend, is it? It seems the office bongos have too.’ I’ve got an image in my head that’s probably from an old film – someone talking on a phone, and the screen splits so there are two people talking, then it splits again into four, then into eight, then sixteen, and so on, until the number of people gossiping on the phone is so great, you can’t make any of them out at all, and all you can hear is the white noise of hundreds of voices all talking at once. ‘Go on then.’

  ‘God, you know about Paris?’

  ‘Course. Is that it?’

  ‘Well, no, there’s something else. It’s nothing bad. Just that you and Nick had a bit of a run-in at the party, and that you begged him to come back but he refused.’

  ‘Hah! Well, that’s not exactly how it went.’ It’s so far from the truth, I almost enter X-Files territory again. Is that how it went and I’ve had my memory altered by some higher being? Nope. I remember perfectly how it was. But I find, to my surprise, that I don’t even care. ‘Who told you anyway?’

  Chrissie’s eyes land on my left shoulder for an instant, then they’re off again, buzzing around my head. ‘Actually it was Paris. Does it matter?’

  ‘Not remotely, Chrissie.’ I smile then turn on my heel and call over to Val, ‘The usual, Val?’ She nods, and I turn towards the door. ‘Oh, look, Chrissie, there is something I want to talk to you about. Can you come round to my place tonight, about sevenish? I’m going to ask Sarah and Sue to come too.’

  Yep, I’ve decided at last, at over four months gone, that the time has come to tell people. I can’t believe that I’ve managed to get away with it for so long, and I’m still reluctant to divulge it, although that’s now more to do with enjoying the fact that only Hector knows. But these people are my friends: I owe them honesty. Even if it’s late.

  At seven p.m.
I’m moving restlessly around the flat, touching things, straightening cushions, looking into the kitchen. The flat looks much better now, doesn’t it, so I don’t actually need to do any more tidying, but still I’m prowling. Of course, it’s not up to Mum’s standards any more, but I’ve decided that I can make better use of my time than to clean for an hour every day, and five hours at weekends. I keep on top of it, but the schedule has gone. Now I clean when it needs cleaning, and not a moment before. Occasionally a long time after.

  Susan’s here, and the buzzer has just gone, so that’s either Chrissie or Sarah. Susan and I have made a bet who it is, although not with each other because we both want to bet on Chrissie. I answer the entry-phone and we both win because it is Chrissie.

  ‘I want to wait and see if Sarah’s going to be able to make it before I start,’ I say as I get Chrissie a drink.

  ‘Oh come on, Rach, don’t keep us in misery,’ Chrissie says. ‘Tell us now, and then tell Sarah later when she gets here.’

  ‘Leave her alone, Chris,’ Sue says. ‘Let her do it how she wants to do it.’

  ‘I want to tell you all at once,’ I say, passing the glass to Chrissie. ‘We’ll wait until half past, and then I’ll call Sarah and tell you, with her on the phone. She did say that Glenn is working overtime again tonight, but if he gets home in time, she’ll come.’

  ‘More overtime?’ Susan says thoughtfully to the room in general.

  ‘Ooh, need a wee,’ Chrissie says, getting up. While she’s out of the room, the door goes again, and Sarah arrives.

  ‘The overtime was cancelled apparently,’ she says, plonking herself down. ‘I can’t stay late, though. I’ve got to—’

  ‘Get back for Jake. Yes, we know,’ Chrissie says, coming back into the room. ‘OK, Rach, come on, spill.’

  Right. This is it. I don’t need to tell you exactly what I’m saying; you know it anyway – Nick and the drinks machine, and the restaurant, and the hot night in July. But have a look at the four faces sitting there in my flat and the four different expressions as I tell the story. One looks hungry, soaking it all in, packing it away to be brought out and regurgitated first thing in the morning. One is clearly delighted, even silently clapping her hands together like a child at a party. The third looks sceptical, frowning, even slightly shaking her head. And the fourth – well, that’s a little more difficult. It’s so many different things at once: nervous, excited, pleased, terrified, anxious, impatient, thrilled, apprehensive. But mostly, if you look at me and know what I’m saying, I think you could say my face shows that I am happy.

  Chapter Fifteen

  I’VE NEVER UNDERSTOOD why every year you hear people remarking in astonished tones how Christmas has taken them by surprise. You can picture all the old dears in their fifties, scraping the ice off their windscreens in the morning, talking to each other over their front lawns.

  ‘Morning, Marjorie, bit of a chill in the air this morning. Soon be Christmas again.’

  ‘I know. Snuck up on us this year, hasn’t it, Ralph?’

  That’s right, because of course we were all expecting it to fall in the middle of April. How inconsiderate.

  Every non-pregnant year of my life, so all of them so far, I start my shopping straight after Bonfire Night, and have it finished by the end of November. I put my tree up on the first of December. I start attending the parties during the first week of December, and they go on until Christmas Eve. Christmas never takes me by surprise.

  This year, I glance at the calendar one morning over my melon and notice that it’s suddenly the twentieth of December. How did that happen? I didn’t even notice that the government had cancelled November.

  I’m twenty-two and a bit weeks now. My friends know about the baby, and as Chrissie is one of them, all of Horizon knows. This includes people I’ve never even met. Hector, a virtual stranger, knows. The woman in the corner shop at the end of my road knows. It’s probably about time I told Mum and Dad. Well, as it’s Christmas in five days’ time, I decide to do it then.

  I phone straight away to avoid changing my mind.

  ‘Hi, Mum, it’s me.’

  ‘Who’s me?’

  ‘Me. Rachel. Your daughter.’

  ‘Rachel! You’re alive! Dave! Dave, it’s Rachel! She’s alive!’

  Yeah, all right, maybe I deserve it. And with the news I’m going to give them for Christmas, this is going to get worse.

  ‘Mum, I was wondering if it would be all right for me to come and spend Christmas with you.’

  ‘Course you can, love. That’ll be lovely. Granny’s here, she’ll love to see you. Will you be wanting Christmas lunch?’

  I remember suddenly that I promised myself I would go and see Granny to make up for pretending to Jean that she was dead. This will kill two birds with one stone.

  ‘Yes, please. I’d like to come round in the morning this year, and spend the whole day, if that’s all right.’

  ‘Of course it’s all right. We’ll look forward to that, love. Got some big news, then?’

  Did I tell you how insightful my mum is? She scares me sometimes. ‘I’ll see you on Monday, Mum.’

  There’s a kind of mini Christmas celebration on the last day the office is open before Christmas, which is Friday the twenty-second. There are a few nibbles and a glass of alcohol-free vinegar each. Jean is making the annual league champion presentations. I’m in the top ten, so I get a ‘Well Done’ card. Val’s third, which is a turn up for her. She gets a bottle of Blue Nun. And Marion from the other side of the room has got top. White rum for her. None of them has come close to Jean’s old record, and Marion is still a hundred and twenty-two sales below my record from last year. She’s had a good year, though, regardless of that.

  Paris is not taking part in our mini Christmas party. Her jacket is draped over her chair, but she’s pleasingly absent. She has spent so much time away from her desk since she joined, it’s hardly surprising she’s at twenty-fourth place. There are only six people between her and the part-timers. That’s a poor performance.

  Shall we have a look and see where she is? On her back in the stationery cupboard? Nope. Kneeling on the conference-room floor? Not there either. Hands and knees in the ladies’ loos? Men’s loos? Surprisingly, she’s not in any of these places. There’s only one other place to look.

  If we go up three floors to the personnel department, we can see that most of the offices and desks are empty. This is not open plan, like the sales room, but the offices all have glass walls, so it’s clear that Paris is not in any of them. Further along the corridor is a conference room where all the personnel staff meet once a week to discuss, well, personnel. It seems that everyone is crowded in there.

  Here is Leo, the supervisor, and Carl, his assistant. Chrissie says they’re having an affair, even though Leo has been married for twelve years. Next to them are Lauren and Pat, drinking but not talking. Pat is Lauren’s mum. Over by the window on his own is Trent. He’s about six feet five and nine and a half stone. He also has halitosis from hell. I expect everyone in the room can smell it, but if they stay far enough away and take quick, shallow breaths through their mouths, they can survive.

  And here in the doorway to the kitchen are Nick and Paris; Nick’s arm draped across her shoulders, Paris’s hand tucked into the back of his waistband. She’s actually got no business being here because she’s Telesales, and everyone knows it. In fact, if you look closely you can see that everyone in that room is taking furtive glances at her and pursing their lips. The revelry is fairly subdued this year, because of the interloper in their midst. But do Nick and Paris notice, when they have eyes just for each other?

  Yeah, I think they do because they’re heading out towards the men’s loos now. How romantic.

  Horizon is closed now until the day after Boxing Day. We’re approaching our busiest time of year, so it’s nice to have four days off in readiness.

  I’ve got a few cards through the post, which I open lethargically on Christma
s morning. One from Susan, one from Chrissie, one from my uncle and auntie in Swindon. It’s ridiculous but even at the age of twenty-four I am still disappointed when I wake up and find no stocking on the end of my bed. Santa doesn’t visit single people.

  Can you see that little package on the coffee table? I’ve left it there on purpose since it arrived a week ago, so that I would have something to look forward to when I woke up today. I’ve been walking past it for seven days, my eyes lingering on it longingly, wishing I could open it early. Well, I could, of course, but that would spoil the surprise.

  I hold it in my hands for a few moments before opening it. At this point it could be anything, from anyone. All the while it’s intact, it’s from Hector, but just in case it isn’t I’m feeling reluctant to open it and destroy the image.

  Curiosity always wins.

  It’s a little blue velvet jewellery box and inside is a pair of very light blue drop earrings. They’re so pretty, they catch and reflect the light when I move. The card has a penguin on the front hitchhiking a lift with Santa’s sleigh. It is from Hector. He writes, ‘Have a truly magical Christmas and I hope everything in the New Year happens perfectly for you. H xx’

  I love the way he signs it just ‘H’. It’s so intimate, as if we know each other so well, all that’s required is a hint of who it’s from. But of course, he and I are complete strangers.

  I do hope it’s not from Harriet in Marketing.

  I’m wearing the earrings now, and I have chosen my outfit today based on them. Well, the top anyway. I’m still pretty much dependent on the black lycra skirt, but my top is pale blue. How do I look? I think I still look pretty good, considering I haven’t had my highlights or eyelashes done for several months and I look like I’m storing some small beanbags in my bra. Mum is bound to notice this time, but that’s OK.

  Here I am again, standing at the point where Sarah and Martin Kennedy made beautiful music together. It’s particularly touching on Christmas Day, don’t you think?