by Niamh Greene
1.32 p.m.
Very cute guy tinkering with the photocopier – who’s he? Where’s the janitor?
1.39 p.m.
Just heard UC One introducing the cute guy who’s tinkering with the photocopier to UC Two. He is the new janitor… the new janitor! Apparently he started last week! I haven’t been emailing the old janitor, the one with the skin problems and the chronic dandruff that used to make me gag, I’ve been emailing this new guy… the one with the incredible shoulders and taut, firm butt!
1.42 p.m.
The new janitor is smirking at me. Crap – he knows I’m the bitch who was emailing him. Will have to pretend I can’t see him. Will just hide behind these files.
1.51 p.m.
New janitor just left – but before he did, he shouted over to me that if I want the photocopier to keep working then people will have to stop messing with the electrics… whatever that means. Pretended I couldn’t hear him, but I could see him laughing as he walked away.
1.54 p.m.
Email from Mr X:
You can mess with my electrics any time.
When did he get back?
1.57 p.m.
Email to Mr X:
Very funny.
1.58 p.m.
Email from Mr X:
Do you know it’s my birthday tomorrow?
2.00 p.m.
Email to Mr X:
I might have heard about that.
2.02 p.m.
Email from Mr X:
I’d like to do something special to mark it.
2.03 p.m.
Email to Mr X:
You would?
2.07 p.m.
Email from Mr X:
Yes, I would. I’m taking you out tonight. And I don’t care who sees us.
Oh God. He wants to go public. I’m not sure I’m ready for this. And what about my girls’ night out – it’s all arranged now. But it is his birthday tomorrow and he obviously wants to make a gesture – I can’t say no, that would probably really upset him. And I guess it is sort of exciting. People are going to know about us! We’re going to become official. But what if I become a social pariah? What if no one speaks to me ever again? People will think I’m the other woman – which I am, sort of. They might shun me in the street. And the office. God, what will all the UCs say when they find out? Some of them even went to his wedding! I distinctly remember a whip-round for his wedding present – not that I contributed a bean to that.
I think we need to keep it quiet for a bit longer. No one suspects anything right now – what’s wrong with keeping it that way? Oh God, I can see him staring at me. I need to reply. Maybe I’ll play along for the time being, just until I can think things through properly.
2.09 p.m.
Email to Mr X:
Sounds great.
Will just have to tell N and R that I’ll make it up to them – I’m sure they’ll understand.
2.11 p.m.
Email to N and R:
Hi gals, sorry but something has come up – I can’t make tonight after all. See you both soon.
That’s fine – vague but fine. I’m sure they’ll be OK with that.
2.23 p.m.
Just got email from Her. The interview with Dick Lit went well and now they want to organize a photo shoot as well. Crap – forgot to email Dick Lit and ask him how it went. Will do that quickly.
2.27 p.m.
Email to Mr Dick Lit:
Hi there, how did the interview go with Her? Sorry I couldn’t go along with you, but I’m just so snowed under here. Anyway, you’re such a pro I knew you wouldn’t need me! I’m working really hard to persuade Her to do some pictures – I think it would definitely add some oomph to the piece, and I bet you photograph really well! They won’t commit just yet, but I’m using all the tricks in my book, so fingers crossed!
There. No harm letting him think I’m busting a gut trying to get him publicity. Then when I announce that Her want to do a photo shoot he’ll be really grateful and think I’m wonderful. A bit sneaky, but I have to maintain the upper hand – it’s vital to keep authors on their toes. If they start taking you for granted then things can get very ugly very quickly.
2.48 p.m.
Email from R:
What do you mean you have to cancel tonight? I was really looking forward to it – I even got my hair done at lunchtime. What are you playing at, Julie?
2.51 p.m.
Email from N:
Julie, has this got something to do with Mr X? I’m beginning to wonder if he’s worth it.
Wasn’t expecting them both to be so annoyed. I’ll have to make it up to them soon, but if Mr X wants to tell the world we’re together I can’t exactly turn him down. He’s already left his wife for me, after all – I owe him. But I can’t help thinking I would prefer to go out with N and R instead and have a night of pure fun, not worrying about Mr X, his wife or any other drama. When did my life get so complicated?
Open Forum
From Devil Woman: Wow! He’s going to tell the world he loves her! Wonder what restaurant they’re going to – I’d love to be a fly on that wall!!
From Broken Hearted: This is a very dangerous game you’re playing, Julie. You’ll end up destroyed, take it from me. I’ve been there and I have the therapy bills to prove it.
From Hot Stuff: Her friends are starting to lose patience, that’s for sure.
From Broken Hearted: She’ll have no friends left by the end of this, mark my words.
From Sexy Girl: That janitor sounds GORGEOUS! Tell us more about him, Julie!!
From Hot Stuff: Mr X must love her though. If he wants to go public, isn’t that proof?
From Broken Hearted: I can guarantee that the only one he loves is himself. Let’s see where he takes her. I bet it’ll be some dive in the middle of nowhere – some place there’s no chance they’ll meet anyone they know.
From Devil Woman: What’s he playing at then? Why did he even move in with her?
From Broken Hearted: Who knows how the mind of a man like this works? If I knew that I never would have got involved with my married man to begin with.
From The Plumber: Love is for suckers.
From Broken Hearted: I agree. Are you new, Plumber? I don’t remember you.
From The Plumber: Yeah. I’m new. Have a lot of time on my hands and stumbled across this blog.
From Broken Hearted: Well, welcome online.
From Graphic Scenes: Has there been any hot sex yet?
Eve
Dear Charlie,
Anna has given me the details of my next blind date. His name is Butch and he’s a prison officer. I have no idea how Anna knows a prison officer called Butch, and I’m afraid to ask. I told her I didn’t think we’d be a good match seeing as I can’t even watch Prison Break without breaking into a cold sweat. But she insisted that Butch was much more my type than Cyril the uptight accountant – she says he’s kind, sensitive and artistic. I always thought that prison officers would be far too busy locking murderers into their cells at night to have time for the arts, but apparently Butch works in a nice prison for blue-collar criminals – ones who have conned the government out of tax and the like – not violent gangsters. He even runs a flower-arranging class for the inmates on Tuesday nights.
Mary the therapist says I should be optimistically cautious about this new opportunity – whatever that means. I am starting to think that Mary uses buzzwords just for the sake of it. And sometimes I feel I’m not getting my money’s worth of good advice. I’m sure she rushed me out of my last session. She said it was because I’ve made such good progress recently, but I saw her packed weekend case peeping out from behind her chair. She was obviously getting away to her country house for the weekend. The country house that I’m probably single-handedly paying for.
Anyway, I haven’t made up my mind what to do about Butch. I told Anna I’ll do it, but I may have to come up with an elaborate excuse when the time comes. The humiliating encounter with Cyril is st
ill so fresh in my mind. Plus, if Mum ever found out that I was dating a prison officer she’d have a breakdown. She’s still fretting that Mike and Stacey Holby, the religion teacher, have got together on the cultural exchange in Texas. She says Mike sounded very strange on the phone when she spoke to him last – like he was being held against his will. I told her that was ridiculous and that Mike was well able to handle himself, but she says she’s not so sure and that heatwaves can do strange things to people. She’s already ordered him an industrial-strength air-conditioning fan online to help him keep a cool head. She says those hand-held fans are useless and how could he be held accountable for his actions if he was relying on one of those in killer Texan heat.
In other news, Homer is a really fast worker. He’s almost finished the undercoat on every wall already. I was worried he’d distract me from my writing by demanding fresh mugs of builder’s tea every five minutes or prancing about with half his bum hanging out of his trousers like the labourers you see on building sites, but in fact he was so quiet I almost forgot he was in the flat at all. We barely spoke until the mid-afternoon, when I felt so guilty for not making him tea even once that I insisted he take a break. Turns out he only drinks herbal teas; orange pekoe is his favourite. He’d even brought his own tea bags with him, and he persuaded me to try one. It was really strange, but as we sat at the kitchen table I somehow ended up telling him all about Butch – that prison officer. He’s a very good listener. Once I’d told him the entire story he said that maybe I should go on the blind date, that people can have unexpected hidden depths and that you should never judge a book by its cover. In spite of Butch’s name, occupation and appearance (Anna showed me a picture of him on her mobile phone and it wasn’t pretty), he might be extremely sensitive and caring. I’m not too sure about that though. The tattoo on Butch’s knuckles certainly says otherwise – it spells HATE in big Celtic print.
After Homer left I took the rubbish out and bumped into Johnny the plumber. He was just standing by the bins staring vacantly into space. I’m getting a bit worried about him: he still looks dreadful and he didn’t even try to make one wisecrack about my cleavage or my bum or anything. I was really shocked by his appearance. He was wearing an unironed shirt and had days-old stubble – and not the kind he sometimes cultivates to try to look more like Enrique Iglesias. It’s the first time I’ve ever seen him looking like he hadn’t just showered. Even when he’s working he usually looks pristine – those specially made canvas overalls with the brass studs on the lapels are really smart. And I could have sworn he’d been crying: his eyes were all bloodshot and red-rimmed. He looked so downhearted that I asked him if he’d like to come in for a chat, and he did. Turns out I was right: he is suffering from a broken heart. His girlfriend left him for another man – a chippie called Tiny Tim who has the smallest willy in the business. I asked him how he knew (about the tiny willy, that is), and he said it was common knowledge on the building sites. Poor Johnny just can’t understand how a woman could leave a man of his sexual prowess and expertise for someone like Tiny Tim, who everyone knows hasn’t had a woman in over three years. At least that’s what I think he said. He was sobbing so hard at that stage it was really tricky to make out anything. I told him that life can be very unexpected and that I should know – I’d been through a lot of heartbreak myself. He seemed comforted by that, and he perked up a bit when I told him how devastated I’d been when you left me. I even told him the real reason we broke up, but I didn’t say anything about being devastated all over again when I found out that you’d got married – there was no point sending him over the edge. Instead, I suggested that he spruce himself up, go out on the pull and find himself a one-night stand. But he just sighed and said he wasn’t ready to put himself out there all over again. He said he didn’t really care that all the other lads were slagging him about Tiny Tim, he didn’t care that his ex had humiliated him by leaving him for a man with the smallest willy in the industry, he just wanted her back. He said he’s never felt like this about a girl before, that it wasn’t just the sex he missed since she was gone: he missed everything about her, even the way she used his razor on her legs and never cleaned the bath out. It was a revelation. Johnny the plumber isn’t just a sex-mad Lothario, he has real feelings, despite what I always thought about him. In my head he was a tough nut, but really he’s super-sensitive, just like me. It really made me think about what Homer had said. Maybe I do judge a book by its cover; maybe I should give Butch a chance. You never know, we could be soulmates. I could even end up with a LOVE tattoo on my knuckles to match his HATE one, although I hear having a tattoo is incredibly painful. Maybe I could use a washable ink stencil instead.
Eve
Are You a Tough Nut or Super-sensitive?
Do you take life’s knocks on the chin or do you cry at the drop of a hat? Take our test and find out!
You find out that your friends have organized a weekend away – and you haven’t been invited. Do you:
a)Lock yourself in your room and cry all weekend. How could they betray you like that?
b)Give them the benefit of the doubt. There must be a reasonable explanation, all you have to do is ask them what it is.
c)Plot your revenge. No one disrespects you like that and gets away with it.
Your boyfriend confesses that he thinks your new jeans may not be all that flattering. Do you:
a)Lock yourself in the bathroom and refuse to come out for hours. You’ll never forgive him for insulting you.
b)Thank him – you appreciate his honesty. Now you can return the jeans and get a refund.
c)Tell him he’s put on a few pounds and start calling him fatty. That’ll teach him to be so free with his opinions in the future.
Your favourite movies are:
a)Romcoms: you love feel-good films that make you laugh, cry and forget all about the real world.
b)Documentaries or indie flicks: you like to keep informed of current events.
c)Thrillers and horror flicks, the gorier the better.
The last time you cried was:
a)This morning – when you couldn’t find your hairbrush.
b)Last year – when you didn’t get the work promotion that you worked so hard for.
c)You can’t remember: crying is for losers.
Results
Mostly As: You’re a big softie. Perhaps you’d find it easier to cope with the world if you toughened up a little.
Mostly Bs: You have a pragmatic approach to life, but you’re not afraid to let yourself go every so often – nice work!
Mostly Cs: You’re a tough chick who never lets her barriers down. You need to develop your softer side – it’s not a sign of weakness.
Molly
‘Are you sure you don’t mind helping me with this?’ Lee says, beaming her megawatt, melt-chocolate-in-an-instant smile at us. ‘It’s not exactly what you signed up for!’
Samantha and I are in a city-centre bookshop with Lee Merkel – publicist for chick-lit queen Carla Ryan – as part of our ‘Day in the Life’ feature for the magazine.
‘Of course not!’ Samantha chirps, enthusiastically hauling some more of Carla’s books from boxes and dusting them down.
I grimace. She’d be just about bearable if she wasn’t so cheerful all the time.
‘We’re happy to help,’ I say, trying not to show my teeth too much when I smile. I really have to look into getting them whitened. Lee’s teeth almost glow they are so perfectly snowy, and being in her company is making me very conscious of how badly stained mine have become from too much coffee and red wine.
Maybe if I had teeth like Lee’s then Charlie wouldn’t have left me. The thought pops into my head unannounced. Maybe if I flossed every day and used whitening toothpaste he’d still be at home and we’d still be happy. Maybe it’s not just my teeth that are the problem. Maybe I have halitosis as well. Maybe my breath reeks and no one has ever told me.
I try to remember if people have been g
agging in my company, or avoiding me altogether. Then I discreetly cover my mouth with my hand, give a little cough and sniff. I can’t smell anything, but that means nothing. People with bad breath never know it. Not until someone plucks up the courage to tell them, that is.
We’re here for a Carla Ryan readers’ event. She’s due to read an extract from her new book and then sign copies for the legions of fans who are already queuing up outside the shop doors to meet their heroine in the flesh. Carla hasn’t done an event like this in a few years, so the excitement is fever pitch. Technically, like Lee says, Samantha and I don’t have to help: we just have to take notes for the magazine feature on how fabulous Carla is and how fame and wealth haven’t changed her one iota, etc., etc. But Lee is on her own and, by lending a hand, I’m hoping we’ll earn Her lots of brownie points and she’ll give us exclusive access to more of her writers. She’s got the best author list in town. All we have to do is unpack books and stack them neatly beside a desk where Carla will sit to sign them. It’s quite therapeutic. And the added bonus is that it’s keeping me busy. Which means I can’t think about Charlie and the fact that, even though it’s almost his birthday, he still hasn’t contacted me. I have no idea who he’s with or how he’s going to mark the day and that really unsettles me. But helping Lee means I don’t have time to dwell on it. It also means I can’t think about David, that awful interview or the fact that he now seems to hate me with every ounce of feeling in his body. Working hard like this means my mind is fully occupied. Well, most of the time. Except for when I’m worrying about my yellowing teeth, receding gums and halitosis.