by Jenny Colgan
‘Yeuch,’ said the other two simultaneously.
‘They are clean, thank you.’
But it was true that the outwardly fastidious Julia had a pair of massive saggy washed out grey knickers with a hole in them.
‘You’re just too comfortable. Your relationship has become a takeaway,’ Ellie said.
‘What?’
‘You remember when you started going out together? You used to lay the table? Light candles? Cook for him so you could pretend to be his mum and play house together? And now it’s just, sod it, let’s get a takeaway and eat it watching the TV and not talking to each other …’
‘I miss it so much,’ said Siobhan sadly.
‘… and that’s why I never have relationships. I really can’t stand takeaway food.’
‘And absolutely nothing to do with deep-seated psychological trauma.’
‘Siobhan, I order you to shut it. Anyway, that’s the takeaway relationship – lukewarm, stirred over, made up of lots of different kinds of crap. And yet everyone seems to want one. God, I’m good tonight.’
‘Have you heard from Billy?’ asked Siobhan suddenly.
‘I have actually. He said if I came back he’d hand over my Terence Trent D’Arby album. I’m standing my ground.’
‘Ignore her, Julia,’ said Siobhan decisively. ‘You and Loxy are great together. You’re relaxed and comfortable enough with each other not to have to worry about your underwear or nutritional intake. He’s a lovely guy. We like parties. Get married.’
‘Oh God,’ said Julia.
‘You’re late.’ Mr Rooney was patrolling the corridor outside Ellie’s office.
‘I was helping a friend in crisis, Sir.’
‘Don’t tell me – she wanted to take four weeks leave to do something stupid?’
‘Oh no sir – when she asked for leave she got it straight away.’
‘You’re trying my patience, Miss Eversholt.’
‘You’re ruining my life, Mr Rooney.’
‘You’ll thank me in the long run, Miss Eversholt.’
‘This is the long run, Mr Rooney.’
Ellie hummed and hawed, stomped around the office, made coffee, went to the loo, played about with her e-mail and finally flicked around the large scruffy piles of paper on her desk. This wasn’t looking good. Her plan couldn’t possibly come together without her. This stupid fucking job.
‘Oh God. Can you think of anything interesting to do?’ she called to the temp.
‘Well, there’s fifty voicemail messages piled up from over the weekend if you’re interested,’ said the temp in a bored voice. Ellie stood up and marched over to the doorway.
‘Why didn’t you tell me before, when I walked in?’
‘Because I hate this job and everyone here.’
‘Can you take the messages down for me?’
‘No. I’m only supposed to do word processing this week.’
‘But there’s no word processing to do.’
‘But I don’t care.’
Ellie sighed. Five of the messages were from one potential client with an old tile making factory who was deliberately trying to push Ellie to see how nice she could be to him. Ellie was getting increasingly tetchy. Now he wanted to be taken to a horse race then a car rally in return for possibly sending them a small bit of business that would involve ripping out a century and a half’s worth of hand fired tiled walls to provide extra metal bathrooms.
Six were messages from another firm to whom Ellie had lied about some paperwork she had been supposed to send to them, which she had no intention of ever sorting out before the world’s end; seven were from different people she had been trying to arrange a meeting between, none of whom appeared to have a simultaneous opening until 2020. Eight were about the buildings insurance which would require her to meet with the fire officer, who had only a moustache differentiating him from a toad who could stand up, nine were from the finance office – no problem, she had her phone on automatic delete for those, and ten were from Billy, starting off apologetic and finishing actively offensive.
‘And a Partridge in a Pear Tree,’ said Ellie crossly. ‘Oh God. This is all unbelievably shit.’
The phone rang. She picked it up.
‘Sugarcakes,’ said the voice. ‘You know, there’s no trombonist like you.’
‘Well, thank fuck for that,’ said Ellie conversationally. ‘Now fuck off please.’
‘Hang on, baby.’
Then came the sound of someone trying to lift a phone and a saxophone at the same time, followed by the sound of a saxophone crashing to the floor and taking a phone with it and, possibly, a vase, followed by extended cursing on both ends of the line as Ellie put the phone down.
She started shouting at the temp again.
‘This is all crap. Cancel it all, chuck it in the bin, and if anyone asks, tell them the phone system’s down but I’m working on it. Oh, and I have a tropical disease.’
‘Really,’ said Mr Rooney, walking into her office. ‘You won’t be wanting to go away anywhere then.’
Ellie jumped up and just stared at him, mouth wide open in shock.
‘Do you know,’ he said, plonking his gingery-haired arms on her desk and trying to look caring and concerned, ‘why I came down here?’
She swallowed heavily.
‘Ehm, you’d heard what a joker I was?’ she started nervously. ‘And you wanted to hear if you could catch me in the middle of any hilarious pranks making up phone messages with the temp.’
‘No,’ said Mr Rooney. ‘Actually, I came down here to say that if this trip away was so important to you and all your work was squared away, I was going to let you go. Hmm, perhaps an unfortunate turn of phrase …’
Ellie started turning very red.
‘… I was going to allow you to take the leave of absence. However, it appears that your ideas of finishing work and mine are rather different.’
‘Please Sir …’ muttered Ellie, wretchedly.
He snapped upright.
‘Any leave at all you’ve got booked is cancelled until further notice and you can report to personnel to pick up your written warning.’
She watched him turn around and walk out, absolutely dying inside.
‘Why the fuck didn’t you tell me he was on his way in?’ she asked the Temp.
‘I was bored and wanted to see what would happen.’
Ellie idly started throwing pieces of paper around her desk.
‘Oh God, oh God, what am I going to do?’ She bit back tears. ‘This is going to fuck up everything.’
‘If you walked out I’d get a half-day,’ said the temp.
‘Oh, well, I’m hardly about to …’
She thought for a second. Then she sat down, picked up the phone and dialled nine.
‘Arthur, have you ever walked out of a job?’
‘Oh, so you’re phoning me up for career advice but when it comes to the really important things in life I’m chopped liver am I?’
‘You’re what? Art, I’ve got a bit of a crisis on here.’
‘Never mind. Siobhan phoned me. We’ve only got a wedding in our midst and nobody bothered to inform me.’
‘Except for Siobhan obviously. Look, do you think …’
‘So is Julia getting married or not?’
‘She doesn’t know. She wanted our opinion. Our opinions were divided. Happy now? Okay, I want to …’
‘Well, I think she should. I don’t think they get any nicer than Loxy, and he has a tush to die for.’
‘Good for you. Now PLEASE help me.’
‘Oh well, seeing as you’re begging.’
‘Arthur, my boss just caught me misbehaving and he won’t let me go away.’
‘Oh no!’ Arthur was sympathetic, with a touch of natural fascination. ‘What did you do? Were you getting it on with the stockboy in the stationery cupboard?’
‘No, Arthur, that was you.’
‘Oh, so it was. Oh well. I hated that job.’
‘I hate this job,’ said Ellie defeatedly, kicking the toe of her shoe against the rubbish bin. There was a silence.
‘You know,’ said Arthur, ‘you were going on and on about trying to get out of your rut.’
‘Yes, but I wasn’t planning to go directly from the rut to “do you want fries with that?”’
‘Well,’ said Arthur. ‘You could just take off. You’d be able to get another job somewhere, they’re all over the place. If all else fails you can always raise some capital and become Ellie.com …’
‘Uh huh …’ said Ellie uncertainly, although inside she was starting to feel very excited.
‘Why don’t you tell them to take their big fat job and shove it up their big fat asses?’
‘And I’d get a half-day,’ shouted the temp who was listening on speakerphone.
‘Okay, can we just put aside how much fun this would be for everyone else for just a tiny second?’ said Ellie, but her brain was working overtime. ‘I’ve never done anything like this before.’
‘What about that time with the Copydex?’
‘That was completely different. The guy was losing his hair anyhow.’
‘Hmm.’
‘Oh God. I don’t want to be skint again.’
‘You could move back in with your dad.’
‘Do you know what? I’m already skint. Oh my God!’
‘What?’
‘I’ve just had a horrible thought. Do you think Visa and Mastercard are run by all the companies in the world to stop their employees getting up and walking out en masse?’
‘It would explain a lot. Why don’t you phone the girls?’
‘Because I know what they’d say. “Don’t rush into anything, Hedgehog. You’re always full of wild schemes that don’t work out, Hedgehog. Remember when you left your architecture degree and thought you were doing the right thing, yada yada yada …” oof, hang on. I’ve got a call on the other line.’
‘Excuse me? Do NOT do this to me …’
‘Hello?’
‘Hey, yeah, hi … is that the lovely Ellie Eversholt?’
‘No, this is the stroppy Ellie Eversholt.’
‘Ha ah! So funny. This is Edgar Wilkins from AZP&P.’
The tile factory. Ellie held up the receiver and made V signs at it.
‘So nice to catch you! Anyway, I was thinking, remember we talked about maybe having a little day out to sort out some business? Ho ho!’
‘Two point five billion men in the world,’ thought Ellie. ‘They can’t all be like this, can they? Can they?’
‘Well, don’t you think we could go on a little adventure, make it fun? Silverstone’s coming up, or Goodwood … just you and me? Little bit of … after hours? Ho ho!’
‘I love him,’ thought Julia mournfully, staring at her computer screen. ‘I do. But … is this it? Is it?’
Her mother was all in favour of the idea, but then her mother would seemingly have been quite happy to see her married off to any one of the assorted lowlifes she’d dragged back over the years, as long as there was the promise of grandchildren and some sort of joint mortgage paraphernalia.
‘But what was it that did it; what really made you think about dad, this is it, this is the one I want to get married to?’ she’d asked her mother once.
‘Because we wanted to have sex, stupid.’
Everyone seemed to be treating Loxy’s proposal like it was absolutely not a big deal, and why the hell shouldn’t she? She put it down to a conspiracy of silence from her married friends, and the enticing prospect of a free piss-up from her singletons. No-one seemed to be sitting her down and telling her what to do. Which, of course, was fair enough, but still.
‘I love him,’ she thought. ‘He loves me. We have a good life together. He loves kids. He’s got a good job.’
‘It’s just sometimes,’ she thought, ‘he really fucking irritates me.’
She phoned Annabel, who at least had some experience in the matter.
‘Annie – does George ever really, really annoy you?’
Annabel sounded slightly exasperated.
‘How could George ever possibly annoy me? He works until 8.30 every night and plays golf all winter and cricket all summer. And of course he never goes in the kitchen, so he can’t possibly pester me while I’m doing the washing up or the laundry or the cooking or unpacking the shopping and of course, I’m a woman, so I love doing all the shopping anyway and I do actually understand that using an iron and having a penis are mutually untenable.’
‘Righty ho,’ said Julia. ‘Um, Annie, Loxy’s asked me to marry him.’
‘Really? Oh, that’s wonderful! That’s really brilliant! I’m so pleased for you both.’
‘Um, I haven’t given him an answer yet.’
‘Oh, don’t worry, you’ll have such a lovely party. Ooh, can I help choose your frock?’
Julia widened her eyes.
‘Ehm … can I get back to you on that?’
Ellie sat in her cubicle and pondered for a long time. Which was worse, she thought. Having a job she hated or having nothing at all but enjoying a little bit of a shout and a little bit of drama and getting to go to America? Her heart in her mouth, she made up her mind and headed out towards the conference suite, trying to keep her chin up like Michael J. Fox in The Secret of My Success.
‘Mr Rooney?’
He looked up.
‘Miss Everhart, I really don’t have time for this.’
The conference room was full and smelled of burnt coffee and low level anxiety. Rooney was standing beside an overhead projector, pointing out seemingly meaningless graphs. Ellie stood in the doorway, white and nervous, but determined.
‘Hmm. Not even if I tell you to stick it up your BIG FAT ASS YOU BIG FAT BASTARD?’
The entire room turned round as one, exactly the effect Ellie had intended. Mr Rooney opened his pink eyes wide and pointed his laser stick at her.
‘What? Can anyone here tell me what you just meant by that? Anyone? Anyone?’
The general plethora of ill-nourished surveyors gazed fiercely at their Cornish pastie sandals. Mr Rooney slowly lowered his laser stick.
‘Written warning not go too well then?’
‘I don’t know,’ said Ellie. ‘Because those big fat personnel bitches CAN STICK IT UP THEIR BIG FAT ASSES.’
‘Oh yes,’ said Mr Rooney gently. ‘I see; it’s a kind of general invitation.’
‘Yes it is,’ said Ellie. There was a silence. This wasn’t going quite as she’d planned. She’d expected everyone to quiver with rage and Mr Rooney to get absolutely apoplectic, before bursting into tears and having her frog-marched from the building in a moment of high drama that she could replay down the pub in a deeply wronged tone. Instead he was looking at her concernedly.
‘Oh well, dreadfully sorry. Um. Have you got those figures we asked for?’
‘No! I stuck them up the accountancy department’s BIG FAT …’
‘Yes, yes, I’m beginning to spot a pattern! No matter.’
He smiled benevolently and leaned over, resting his arm on the projector.
‘Are you leaving us, Ms Eversholt?’
‘You can take your job and shove it up …’
‘That’s a shame.’
He stared philosophically into the middle distance.
‘Ms Eversholt. Did it never occur to you to come to me and tell me you were unhappy before you started shoving things up other people’s … things?’
Ellie shrugged and suddenly felt eleven years old. She stared hard at the floor.
‘Just because I can’t let you go swanning off for months at a time doesn’t mean I can’t listen you know.’
‘… big fat asses,’ whispered Ellie mournfully to herself.
‘Or’, he tapped the overhead, ‘you could even have come and seen me about voluntary redundancy. We haven
’t had the figures on time for so long, it’s got to the point where we need to make quite drastic savings.’
Ellie’s head shot up.
‘Oh well,’ he said, ‘I suppose you would only have taken the redundancy money and shoved it up somebody’s ass.’
‘Not … necessarily,’ said Ellie in a very small voice.
‘Oh really?’ he said. ‘Well, maybe you might want to stop by my office on your way home … if, that is,’ he chuckled in his unhumorous schoolmastery way, ‘you think that you, me and my ass can all fit in there at the same time.’
The surveyors laughed like sycophantic drains.
‘I have to see you tonight,’ hissed Julia.
‘But I have to see you too!’ hissed back Ellie, mindful of the temp.
‘I have news!’
‘And I have news too!’
‘Well … okay then!’
‘Okay then!’
‘Bye!’
‘Bye!’
‘Are you leaving?’ asked the temp, ‘Only, if you are, would you mind signing my timesheet for double overtime?’
Mr Rooney and the woman from personnel sat her down and made her promise to stay for a couple of weeks to try and sort out the mess, and got her to sign lots of papers. Then they countersigned a cheque. Ellie, too mortally embarrassed to say anything, sat in the chair, trying to make herself as small as possible. She muttered appreciatively from time to time.
After the clearly disapproving personnel woman had gone, she finally felt able to offer some thanks.
‘Call me Craig,’ said Mr Rooney, leaning back, taking off his glasses and rubbing his eyes. Ellie prayed to any Gods that might exist that this didn’t mean he was about to ask for a grateful blow job. He leafed casually through her personal file and glanced up at her.
‘How old were you when your mother left, Ellie?’ he asked suddenly.
No-one had called her Ellie in so long it took her a second or two to respond.
‘Fourteen,’ she said diffidently, and stared at the floor. ‘It’s in the file, Craig.’
‘I was twelve,’ he said, and stared out the window. ‘So, you know, I suppose I win on points.’