Letters to a Love Rat

by Niamh Greene

  9.18 a.m.

  Email from Mr X to all UCs:

  It’s my dreaded birthday today, so I’d like to take you all for drinks after work this evening – my treat.

  9.20 a.m.

  Huh, well, he can choke on his birthday drinks for all I care. I wouldn’t go if he came begging on his hands and knees.

  9.26 a.m.

  Flurry of emails from all UCs, who are more than happy to partake in planned birthday celebration now that Mr X is treating them to drinks after work.

  UC Two went to inform UC One that everyone is in great form again, so the birthday cakes are back on. UC One has reluctantly agreed to unlock the kitchenette door.

  9.29 a.m.

  Email from Mr X:

  I’m sorry about last night. Things got far too heated, so I went to a friend’s to cool off. Are you coming for drinks tonight? If I get a cake I’ll let you blow out my candle…

  Huh, now he wants to talk dirty to me. Last night when he stormed off he didn’t want to know me. I won’t reply, even if it is his stupid birthday. He doesn’t deserve it. And the really good thing is because he stayed with a friend he has no idea that I wasn’t home until 4 a.m.!

  9.35 a.m.

  Email from Mr X:

  Aren’t you talking to me? The least you could do is wish me a happy birthday. You’re hurting my feelings.

  The bloody nerve. Right, will give him a piece of my mind.

  9.37 a.m.

  Email to Mr X:

  Happy birthday then.

  9.38 a.m.

  Email from Mr X:

  I meant in person.

  9.40 a.m.

  Email to Mr X:

  I’m incredibly busy. Can’t chat, sorry.

  That’ll teach him that I won’t come running every time he snaps his fingers.

  10.01 a.m.

  Email from N:

  What a great night! It was hilarious when you licked the salt off that guy’s chest before you slammed your tequila. I can’t believe I joined in! Wasn’t that gay bar brilliant? I haven’t laughed so much in ages!!

  Oh God. Can’t remember that.

  10.03 a.m.

  Email from R:

  How’s your head? Mine’s awful! I can’t believe we had so many tequilas on top of all that wine!

  Oh God, I’m going to be sick.

  10.24 a.m.

  Just back from Ladies. Burst through the door, knowing I was going to throw up, and there, fixing the hand dryer that never works, was the new janitor. I just had time to skid into a cubicle and slam the door behind me before I retched my guts into the toilet bowl. How humiliating.

  10.25 a.m.

  Email from janitor:

  Are you OK?

  10.27 a.m.

  Email to janitor:

  I’m fine.

  10.29 a.m.

  Email from janitor:

  You didn’t sound fine – you sounded violently ill.

  10.31 a.m.

  Email to janitor:

  I’m fine. Please leave me alone.

  God, I’m mortified.

  10.32 a.m.

  Right. Have to get through the rest of today. Will just grit my teeth and get on with it. Anyway, feel a bit better now and I don’t think anyone noticed what happened. I would have got away with it completely if the janitor hadn’t been in the toilets. He seems to be everywhere I look these days.

  10.41 a.m.

  Made very important call to Her about photo shoot for Mr Dick Lit at top of my voice so everyone would know how in demand he is. Pretended I was talking to Elle of course.

  10.52 a.m.

  Just called Mr Dick Lit to say that I had set up top photo shoot with Her. Hinted that it had taken many, many calls and brown-nosing to secure it for him. He didn’t sound very grateful. Bloody writers.

  12.02 p.m.

  UC One wants to know if I am emailing all interested parties to inform them when exactly birthday cakes will be served.

  12.06 p.m.

  UC One says that shouting at everyone to get into the kitchenette will not do, as this will alert Mr X to the surprise. She is taking matters into her own hands.

  12.10 p.m.

  UC One has sent long-winded email informing all UCs to be in kitchenette at 12.30 sharp. Tussles over cakes will not be tolerated: it is strictly one cake per person. Anyone who attempts to start a food fight will be ejected.

  12.13 p.m.

  UC One wants to know why the cakes are not in the fridge. Have just remembered that cakes are under my desk – shoved them there this morning in a hungover daze.

  12.14 p.m.

  Cakes smell a bit off. May have been a mistake to get all those fresh cream slices.

  12.20 p.m.

  Was forced to admit to UC One that cakes may be inedible. She said if we all got salmonella poisoning it would have been my fault. Luckily, she thought ahead and took the precaution of making some of her famous chocolate and orange muffins.

  2.00 p.m.

  Birthday cakes ordeal finally over. Went OK, except UC One told Mr X I had forgotten to put cakes in fridge and had almost killed everyone. Mr X said, ‘Tut, tut’ and then winked at me when no one was looking. Am warming to him a bit.

  2.05 p.m.

  UC One has sent official email saying she has appointed herself the Head of the Social Affairs Committee. She presumes there are no objections seeing as she saved today’s little celebration.

  2.09 p.m.

  All other UCs are up in arms. UC Three says she would prefer a good dose of gastric flu to entrusting all social gatherings to UC One’s care.

  2.12 p.m.

  Email from Mr X:

  You still have some cream on your lip. Do you need a hand wiping it off?

  2.15 p.m.

  Email to Mr X:

  I think that would be highly inappropriate, don’t you?

  No harm being snooty with him for a while longer. He can’t expect me to forgive him that easily. As far as he knows I sat up all night waiting for him to come home. He has no idea I was downing shots and licking salt off strangers’ chests in a gay bar.

  2.18 p.m.

  Email from Mr X:

  Just trying to be helpful.

  2.20 p.m.

  Email to Mr X:

  Well, perhaps I don’t need your help.

  I hope he feels really bad – it serves him right.

  2.24 p.m.

  Off to shop. Am suddenly ravenously hungry and a BLT and full-fat Coke will hit the spot. Will swish past Mr X’s desk as if I haven’t a care in the world.

  3.05 p.m.

  Oh God, oh God. Have just accidentally shagged Mr X in the stationery cupboard. Met him on the stairs on way back from lunch. Tried to be snooty and aloof, which was a bit tricky because I had a massive stain on my shirt where the ketchup had dripped out when I’d wolfed down the BLT. But then Mr X growled that I was driving him wild with lust, and before I knew it we were snogging passionately. Very, very bad. But felt very, very good. Thank God I was wearing decent underwear.

  3.09 p.m.

  Just thought: Mr X and I just had making-up sex. No wonder it was so good. Sex after an argument is always the best kind. Perhaps I should engineer a few more arguments soon – not that I want to argue with Mr X, but that was the best bonk we’ve had since he moved in.

  3.11 p.m.

  Just discovered Post-it note stuck to seat of my skirt – hope no one else noticed.

  3.15 p.m.

  Emailed N to tell her what happened. Have to confide in someone or will burst. Didn’t mention that Mr X had left his wife or that he was now officially living with me though – best not to get into that yet. Also begged her not to tell R, who will probably get all judgemental and preachy.

  3.18 p.m.

  Email from N:

  Tell me more!! Was it AMAZING?

  3.33 p.m.

  Was in middle of email describing hottest sex of life to N when UC One stopped at desk and presented me with a manifesto telling me why
she should be Head of the Social Affairs Committee. Had to pretend to be interested in the fact that she has many innovative and inspiring ideas for team-building while trying to minimize email about sex with Mr X. Luckily UC One was so busy droning on about her leadership qualities that she didn’t notice.

  3.38 p.m.

  Email from Mr X:

  I love the way you frown when you’re concentrating.

  3.40 p.m.

  Email to Mr X:

  I’m frowning because I’m trying not to make any mistakes typing this press release. I am a diligent, conscientious employee.

  3.42 p.m.

  Email from Mr X:

  I didn’t mean the frown you make when you’re typing…

  This is so much fun! Forgot that his saucy banter could have this effect on me – we definitely need to fight more often.

  3.44 p.m.

  Oh my God. I knew something felt strange – I forgot to put my underwear back on after the shagathon with Mr X. Which means it’s still somewhere in the stationery cupboard.

  3.50 p.m.

  Just met the new janitor outside the stationery cupboard, holding my thong and looking puzzled. Snatched it from his hands and sprinted off before he could say a word.

  Open Forum

  From Devil Woman: OMG!!!!!!!!!! Love it!!!!!!!!

  From Broken Hearted: Oh no… Julie, I thought you were starting to see the light. I can’t believe you’ve made such a serious mistake.

  From The Plumber: Hi, Broken Hearted. I agree with you.

  From Devil Woman: Oh, come on. This is great. At least it’s exciting!

  From Angel: How do you think his wife would feel if she found out about this sordid affair? Adultery is disgusting.

  From Devil Woman: Why do you keep reading this blog if you find it all so disgusting? I think you’re secretly getting your kinky kicks from all this, Angel…

  From Sexy Girl: I agree! It’s the quiet ones you have to watch out for!

  From Angel: I would never have an affair with a married man. I am above that sort of behaviour.

  From Devil Woman: Why don’t you get off your high horse and stop being so uptight? No wonder no one will publish your book!

  From Angel: That was totally uncalled for, Devil Woman. Then again you probably think chick lit is highbrow.

  From Hot Stuff: Hi guys! Did you hear that Carla Ryan’s new book is out? I got a signed copy at a readers’ event! I had to queue for ages, but it was worth it! I love her!!! Long live the queen of chick lit!

  From Angel: Spare me.

  From Devil Woman: Tut, tut, Angel. Jealousy will get you nowhere!

  From Angel: The woman can’t write. Why would I be jealous of her?

  From Graphic Scenes: Wow, hot sex – at last!

  From Angel: Pervert.

  Eve

  Dear Charlie,

  It’s been a few days since I almost accidentally killed Homer and my sleeping patterns are all over the place. I feel so guilty for attacking him with the vase that I’ve been having horrible nightmares and then waking up in the middle of the night, my heart hammering, frantic that he’ll never forgive me.

  Last night I tried the visualization trick that Mary the therapist taught me to use before I drop off. She promised it would guarantee nice, peaceful dreams and banish the nightmares for good. All you have to do is concentrate on what you want to dream about for five minutes before you close your eyes. It actually worked: I had an amazing dream about George Clooney and his limited-edition custom-made motorbike, just like I’d imagined. We were on his Harley, racing along the Amalfi coast at a hundred miles an hour, the wind in our hair, the sun on our skin. I was clinging to his muscular back for dear life and he was looking back over his shoulder at me, grinning that dazzling Hollywood smile that makes any woman in her right mind go weak at the knees. You might be wondering what George Clooney could possibly see in me, but in the dream I wasn’t painfully skinny and too tall, my teeth weren’t crooked and my hair wasn’t limp. I was curvy and petite, with a perfect smile and wild gypsy curls. I even had a gorgeous golden tan and not that blotchy red heat rash that I usually get as soon as the temperature goes above fifteen degrees. Do you remember how I had to take those antihistamine tablets every time we went abroad? Of course you don’t: I used to take them secretly because I didn’t want to bother you with my itching skin. I knew the fact that I had to wear long-sleeved, high-necked tops when everyone else was in string bikinis irritated you, especially when you used to bronze so beautifully at the first ray of sun. I can still remember the golden glow of your skin in the evening light, just after you’d showered and applied that expensive body lotion you used to love so much.

  But in my dream I was nothing like the hive-ridden, pasty-faced person I am in real life. I was fabulous, and George was absolutely besotted with me. Then, just when things were getting really interesting, the dream got weird. George morphed into Homer and suddenly it was his motorbike we were on, it was his muscular back I was clinging to so tightly and it was him who was dazzling me with his gorgeous smile. When I finally jerked awake, woken by the ringing telephone, I was sweaty and confused and wondering what it all meant.

  It was Anna on the phone. She was calling to apologize for sending me on the blind date with Butch. She claims she had no idea he was leading a secret double life and that if she’d known then she would have come along herself for a good night out in that gay bar and helped him come out of the closet properly. She needs cheering up, that’s for sure. She’s very down at the moment because she and Derek are having even more problems. He just can’t seem to kick this women’s knickers thing, and Anna says if she finds one more stretched pair of her best frillies in her undies drawer she’ll swing for him. It’s one thing to want to wear your wife’s knickers under your overalls, it’s another ruining her best La Perla pair by squeezing your hefty bum into them.

  Anna says the only thing keeping her mind off things is concentrating on helping me find new love. She’s already got another man in mind for me, and this time she reckons he could be the perfect match. He’s called Larry and he’s a vet, which means he’s wealthy and loves animals and, according to her, he’s very handsome to boot. I really wanted to tell her that she needn’t bother setting me up again – I’m not sure I can face another disastrous blind date – but she sounded so excited about it all that I hadn’t the heart to say no. And, if I’m honest, the dates have kept me so occupied recently that I’ve barely had time to think about you or your new wife. I might even be able to forget about how heartbroken I am if Mum didn’t keep reminding me. If she produces your wedding photo from her handbag one more time I might have to swing for someone myself.

  She popped round today, laden down with goodie bags she’d scored at another charity luncheon. I knew Mary wouldn’t have been pleased – according to her, this is another area of my life that I need to take ownership of. She says that I can’t control the way my mother behaves, I can only control how I react to her behaviour – which makes perfect sense, but isn’t all that useful. According to Mary, I am a grown woman and must set boundaries and limits – so if Mum wants to call over, she can’t just barge in unannounced, she must ring in advance to arrange a mutually convenient time. I tried to tell Mary that this would never work – Mum drops by whenever she wants and doesn’t take no for an answer; that’s why she’s such a force on all those charity committees – but Mary said that for people to respect me, I must learn to respect myself. That’s all well and good, but I can’t bring myself to upset Mum any more just now. She’s still feeling fragile after hearing that another woman has managed to snare you when I couldn’t. And she’s also very wound up about Mike and Stacey, so I didn’t want to upset her by talking about boundaries. Besides, I wanted to get my hands on some of the charity luncheon loot she had with her – those ladies who lunch really go to town on the freebies. There were lotions and potions and perfumes and lots of fab treats peeping out of the bags she was carrying, and I was it
ching to get at them. Mum has drawers full of luxury pampering products at home, she doesn’t need any more. She couldn’t possibly have time to use even half of them. It was an obligation, my duty even, to take a few of them off her hands. I managed to slide a couple of prime samples out without her noticing while she was nattering on about Mike and Stacey and how worried she was about ‘the situation’.

  Apparently, Mike left a message on her answerphone to say he has a very big announcement to make, and she’s terrified it means that he’s proposed to Stacey or something equally as disastrous. I tried to calm her down by saying maybe the school team had won a basketball game and that’s why he sounded so excited, but she wouldn’t listen to me. She just kept going on and on about Mike wasting his life on a girl who wasn’t good enough for him and never would be. She hardly even noticed how good the flat is looking. Turns out Mary was right: bright colours really can be mood adjusters. The yellow Homer chose is so cheerful that it’s hard to feel anything but upbeat when I’m surrounded by it on almost every wall. I really think I’m starting to feel a tiny bit happier, even if I’m not sleeping very well at the moment.

  If only Homer wasn’t acting so strangely. He’s been practically monosyllabic since I skulled him with the mosaic vase, and I can only assume he’s furious with me, even though he was so nice straight after it happened. I can’t blame him, I suppose. If someone assaulted me with a blunt object I might be wary of them too. He won’t look me in the eye any more, and he even worked through our usual herbal tea break today. Worst of all, he didn’t hum to the classics on his iPod once. I really missed that. Even Tom has taken against me. He glares at me every time I try to talk to him, as if to say what a complete idiot he thinks I am, and he won’t leave Homer’s side. I passed them both in the hall on the way to the bathroom and Tom was winding his way seductively round Homer’s legs while Homer tickled him under the chin. They both stopped when they saw me, and looked the other way. I was so mortified I hid in my office for the rest of the day. I’m convinced Homer was painting far faster than usual as well. He’s probably frantic to get out of here and away from me once and for all.