by Niamh Greene
I was dubious about Cassandra at first. She looked nothing like Jenna, who wears her hair knotted on top of her head in a chic, Parisian way. (When I try to knot my hair I always end up looking hard-faced and common, and not at all like I should be strolling along the Champs-Elysées with a poodle at my feet.) Cassandra was arty and had a very angry expression, although I think that may have been part of her ‘look’ – at least that’s what I told myself in an attempt not to cry with fear. She was wearing a tie-dye T-shirt and had at least half a dozen earrings in her left ear and a tattoo saying fuckwit in Celtic script on her forearm. She made me very, very nervous, but I didn’t have much choice about it all. It was her or nothing. There was no way on earth I could do the make-up myself. I always forget to rub the foundation in properly round my jawline, and my hands shake so much when I try to apply eyeliner that I usually have to give up. Still, it turned out well in the end. The only thing I’m not completely sure about is the bright blue colour she put on my eyelids. She insisted I needed something to highlight my piggy eyes, and that aqua blue would make them ‘pop’.
‘But shouldn’t I go for a more traditional look?’ I’d asked as I was sitting trapped in the make-up chair, a giant bib wrapped round me so I couldn’t move. I really wasn’t certain if the 1980s colours would suit my complexion – they hadn’t the first time round. I could still remember being the laughing stock of the youth club disco when I turned up in my new Madonna look, neon bright make-up and all.
‘Maybe beige would suit my complexion better? I was thinking we could do something softer…’ I trailed off, remembering the beautiful make-up Jenna had done in her practice run.
Cassandra had frowned at me, looking mortally wounded.
‘Well, you can have beige if you want to be like every other bride in the country,’ she’d eventually sniffed. ‘But I thought you wanted something special, something a bit different. Aqua is a very directional colour. It was huge at the shows in London.’
I looked round, frantically trying to catch Tanya’s attention to get her opinion, but she was pretending to be dead while the hairdresser attacked her with an industrial-sized hairdryer and what looked like a rat’s tail.
‘OK then,’ I whimpered, and closed my eyes, hoping for the best. When I opened them again, my face had been transformed by eyeshadow and blusher and a bucketload of glitter.
‘What’s that for?’ I asked, feeling panicky. Surely glitter was a bit OTT?
‘The photos, of course,’ she said, as if I was a brainless fool who hadn’t a clue how these things worked. ‘You want to sparkle!’
Then she looked off into the middle distance, all dreamy and misty eyed. ‘You look just like the models at the Dolce show this season. Fierce.’
Before I had time to think about whether ‘fierce’ was really the look I was aiming for, I was scrambling into my dress and I was on my way to the church.
Now though, as I glide up the aisle, I’m delighted I took her advice. I never should have doubted her – even if she kept growling at me as she sponged on the foundation. She obviously knew what she was doing, all the aqua and the glitter really seem to be dazzling people: I can see lots of them pointing at me as I glide by. Jaws are quite literally dropping. It feels brilliant. This must be what the super-models feel like every day of the week: sexy and powerful and the centre of attention. I suddenly wonder if I don’t have an international career in modelling ahead of me. I’m really rather good at this strutting stuff, I could make a small fortune. If only there was a talent scout in the congregation, a big name in the fashion industry. Of course, he’d have to be searching for a particular look, like someone who’s only five foot four, is on the curvy side and has piggy eyes. Then again, quirky is the new sexy, everyone knows that. I mean, there are supermodels raking in millions who you wouldn’t look at twice in the street. Well, you might, but only to gawp at their twig legs or towering height or lollipop heads. And my body is looking the best it’s ever been. Which usually wouldn’t be saying much, but today I know it’s looking pretty spectacular. For once, my curves aren’t the wrong side of podgy: the seaweed wrap has sorted that out. I’m so glad I paid all that money to have it done; it was really worth it to get rid of all the bulges. Besides, being wrapped up in all those bandages wasn’t too bad; once you got used to them and didn’t breathe in the revolting fishy fumes it was almost bearable. I’m not sure how long the effects will last though, so, just to make sure, I’m wearing a bust-to-hip roll-on corset. Fat rolls can be sneaky. You never know when they might pop back out to say hello and try to grab some of the limelight. But right now my gorgeous dress is hugging every contour, my skin is gleaming (I’ve had so many pre-wedding facials most of the top layers of my epidermis have been stripped away) and my hair is perfect (no frizz, no kinks, just soft and bouncy and like a TV ad). This is my perfect moment, the moment when everyone will see that I’m glamorous and poised and elegant. I’m so happy. Maybe the happiest I’ve ever been.
I open my eyes and try to hold on to that feeling. If I can remember it properly then I should be able to translate it on to the page.
‘Being married is amazing.’
That’s not a bad hook. Maybe not punchy enough, but it could work. Then I hear a little voice inside me. ‘What would you know about an amazing marriage? Your husband hightailed it out of here faster than you could say one-month anniversary, your sister and your best friend think he might be having an affair and you’re starting to think the whole thing was one big mistake. You’re not qualified to write about love or marriage or any kind of relationship. You’re a relationship disaster zone.’
Sometimes I wish I didn’t have such a strong inner voice. It’s really hard to concentrate when it yaks at me all the time.
‘Marriage is a meeting of minds as well as bodies.’
Well, that’s a big fat lie. For one thing, Charlie’s mind is a bit of a mystery to me: he reads The Economist and he hates The X Factor. And we never really had the whole passionate thing. But I’m not going to think about that part, because that would just depress me even more and I’ve been feeling bad enough ever since that taxi driver made me realize what was missing in our relationship.
‘Marriage can have its ups and downs.’
‘Marriage is for life.’
Nothing sounds right. It’s hopeless, I can’t do it. I’m dead.
When Minty finds out that I haven’t even started it, she’ll go ballistic. She might even throw something at me. She chucked her precious quartz paperweight at someone once. Luckily it missed, but it hit a wall in her office with such force that it left an enormous crack. The crack was never repaired. Instead Minty drew a love heart round it, just to remind everyone what she’s capable of.
But even if she doesn’t throw something, she’ll definitely shout at me. If yelling was an Olympic sport, Minty would get the gold medal. Even worse, she might start that whispering thing she does to scare people, when she talks so quietly that you have to nearly crawl across her desk to understand what she’s saying. It’s amazingly effective. When she does that, you know you may as well pack up your belongings and run.
Maybe I should tell her about Charlie. Maybe then she’d cut me some slack. I could send her an email and confide that I’m going through an emotionally difficult period and need some compassion in the workplace. But she’d probably forward the email to everyone and then they’d all know. Like that time when the IT guy told her he needed time off to see a shrink for his OCD. She sent that mail to everyone she knew – she thought it was hilarious that he couldn’t leave the house without switching his lights on and off fifty-three times. The poor guy left soon after.
No, I can’t tell her. If I tell her then everyone will know, and I just can’t face people talking about me. It was bad enough when Mum and Dad died and every time I walked into the room people stopped talking. It would be worse if everyone knew that Charlie had given up on us so soon after we got married, even if he wants to come back now.
And he’s not even had the good grace to die; he’s just abandoned me. An orphan and a deserted wife – that would be enough tragedy to keep the office going for weeks. And, worst of all, Minty would probably want me to write about it if she thought it’d make a good feature. She wanted Penny to write about being stood up at the altar after all.
‘Molly, fab news!’ Samantha chirps, placing a steaming cup of tea in front of me and interrupting my train of thought. ‘You know I’ve been trying to set up that photo shoot with David Rendell? Well, he’s finally agreed to it. Isn’t that great?’
My stomach lurches. This is all I need. I don’t want to see David again. I don’t want to see him look at me the way he did during the interview, like he despises me, like he hates me with every fibre of his body.
‘Aren’t you pleased?’ Samantha asks, looking disappointed that I’m not hopping across the desk to hug her. ‘I thought you’d be delighted that I took the initiative and organized everything.’
I look at her sad face and I know I have to lie to save her feelings.
‘Of course I’m delighted!’ I give her a big smile. ‘Great work, Samantha.’
She skips away and my heart falls. I’m going to see David again, and this time it’s going to be worse than before. This time will be much, much worse, because now I know what I threw away when I left him.
Julie’s Blog
8.01 a.m.
The nightmare has become a reality. We are on a minibus on our way to the corporate-bonding campsite facility. We have been allowed to bring one pair of stout walking shoes (as if I possessed such a thing) and one change of clothes (including naff wet gear), but no make-up, alcohol or electronic equipment. Luckily, I managed to sneak this BlackBerry along so I can still blog. I also smuggled some body glitter, mascara and lipstick. No one gets to see me au naturel as long as I can help it. I’m sitting at the back of the bus, as far away from Mr X as I can. I’m concentrating on ignoring him as much as possible. The more I think about it, the more I realize that he really is suffocating me. I’ve given up almost everything for him – clubbing, takeout food, a good night’s sleep – and what has he done for me? Not much, besides keeping me awake at night with his snoring and almost poisoning me with his cooking. And now he’s winding me up at work – he’s really piling on the pressure about Mr Dick Lit’s campaign. He keeps on and on about the fictitious Elle feature. I’m almost convinced he wants me to fail. I’m glad I’m sitting back here, especially because the janitor is sitting directly behind me. I can almost feel his breath hot on my neck.
9.05 a.m.
UC One has just started a country and western singalong and is encouraging everyone to join in the chorus of some Dixie Chicks song. I will have to pretend to fall into a coma soon if she doesn’t stop. That’s if I don’t fall into a coma for real. The absolute boredom is already killing me.
9.07 a.m.
The janitor just passed me a tiny flask of contraband whiskey and whispered in my ear to take a sip. I could be wrong, but I think his tongue lingered next to my ear lobe at least two seconds longer than necessary. Starting to feel just a tiny bit better.
9.30 a.m.
We are here. Here being a farm in the middle of nowhere. A crusty old farmer welcomed us at the gate and directed us to our tents, which are plonked in a circle round the perimeter of a muddy field. We now have ten minutes to drop off our stuff and then meet at the designated spot to begin the activities. I wonder if I just hid out in my tent, would anyone notice I was missing?
9.39 a.m.
The janitor just stuck his head in my tent and said not to even think about hiding out and that he was going to bring the whiskey flask in case the going got tough. It was the first belly laugh I’ve had in ages. Mr X’s tent is across the other side of the field. I could see him chatting to UC One as he emptied his rucksack. Am quite glad he’s so far away – at least I might get a good night’s sleep for a change.
10.48 a.m.
Just finished a trust-building exercise. We had to choose a partner, allow ourselves to fall backwards into their arms and trust they would catch us and not let us drop to the ground. UC One grabbed Mr X immediately and then threw herself at him, winding her arms round his neck as she fell. The instructor had to explain to her that she was missing the point: she was supposed to turn her back to Mr X, close her eyes and fall slowly into his arms while he caught her. I could tell by the look on her face that she hadn’t missed the point at all: she’d engineered the whole thing and was thoroughly enjoying slobbering all over him, pretending that she was terrified.
I paired up with UC Two. I hadn’t realized quite how hefty she is. I really had to struggle to keep my balance when I was catching her. The janitor was paired off with UC Three. I had to force myself to stop staring at him as he caught her time and time again, his muscular arms curving easily round her sides without skipping a beat.
3.04 p.m.
Just back from the assault course. Had to clamber over obstacles, slither through tunnels and swing across dykes, all to prove that we can work well together as a team. It was completely pointless. Everyone knows that we’ll never help each other again when we get back to the office: PR is all about one-upmanship. Highlight was watching UC One plunge into the water after she lost her grip on the rope. It was pretty funny, especially when Mr X had to wade in and come to her rescue.
11.03 p.m.
In tent. Thank God that day is over. UCs are all still singing stupid boy scout songs round the campfire. UC One has just passed round lighters and told everyone to hold them in the air for fun. She’s lucky I didn’t set fire to her thermal fleece bobble hat.
11.07 p.m.
The janitor just stuck his head in my tent and asked if I wanted to go and see a baby calf that was born a few days ago. Said I would, but only if he can give me some more of that contraband whiskey. Where’s the harm? Going to see newborn baby animals is cute and perfectly innocent. It’s not like anything’s going to happen.
12.41 a.m.
Oh God. Just accidentally snogged the janitor in the cow shed. I didn’t mean to, but he’s so sexy and the calf was so cute and it just happened. And my God – it was AMAZING. It was all I could do not to throw him into the haystack and live out my farmhand fantasy. But now I’m crippled with fear. What if Mr X finds out? What if someone saw us? I’ll have to sneak over to his tent and talk to him; try to explain before anyone else gets there first.
1.00 a.m.
Just back from Mr X’s tent. I didn’t get a chance to explain anything because when I pulled the tent flaps aside I saw he was in there with UC One. They tried to tell me they were just practising their trust exercises for tomorrow, but it was obvious what was going on. You don’t have to be half-dressed to engage in corporate bonding. The truth is staring me in the face: Mr X is now cheating on me, the person he cheated on his wife with. Talk about ironic justice. The thing is, I’m not that upset. Well, I am a little. How could he do this to me when he told me he loved me? I know the answer to that, of course. It doesn’t take a scientist to figure out that he never loved me at all.
I feel really ashamed of myself. I should never have got involved with him in the first place. I knew he was engaged when all this started, it was my fault as much as his. I keep thinking about his wife and how she must have felt when she discovered he had left her. I hope she knows what a love rat he is. If I’m honest, though, most of all I’m relieved, because if Mr X is with UC One that means he’s not my problem any more… I’m free!
Open Forum
From Devil Woman: That bastard. I can’t believe he was cheating on her.
From Broken Hearted: I can. It’s textbook.
From The Plumber: You were right, Broken Hearted. You are so insightful.
From Devil Woman: Oh, get a room you two!
From Hot Stuff: It sounds like she had a lucky escape.
From Angel: I feel a bit sorry for her actually.
From Devil Woman: Eh? I thought you always
said she was going to rot in hell for having an affair with a married man?
From Angel: Well, yes, I did. But she sounds like she’s sorry for what she did. Maybe I was a bit hard on her.
From Devil Woman: Angel, I don’t think you’re as militant as you make out.
From Hot Stuff: I think you’re a big softie.
From Sexy Girl: It’s not soft the way you can down cocktails! What were you like at that wrap party?
From Angel: Sorry about that. I hadn’t drunk alcohol in a long time.
From Devil Woman: Well, you should get out more then!
From Angel: It wasn’t as bad as I thought it would be, I have to admit.
From Devil Woman: Hey, Sexy Girl, where did you disappear to at the end of the night?
From Sexy Girl: If I told you I snogged James Law, would you believe me?
From Hot Stuff: OMG!!!! That is so ROMANTIC!!!!
Eve
Dear Charlie,
I’ve invited Larry the vet for dinner. I can’t believe that I had the courage to do it, but when he called to ask me out again I heard myself suggesting that maybe he’d like to come round here for something to eat. I really don’t know what possessed me, but Mary the therapist is very pleased. She says that I need to be open to love and welcome it into my life, and if that means cooking a traditional roast chicken dinner for eight then so be it. Yes, eight. You see, I’ve invited Anna and Derek to come along too. Anna says that Derek doesn’t deserve a nice roast dinner after what he’s put her and her underwear through, but I told her she’d have to put her animosity towards him to one side for this meal, just for me. She’s sworn she won’t throw anything at him, even if she thinks he’s having another relapse, but I’m going to seat her as far away from the condiments as I can, just in case. I’ve seen her hurl a pepper pot before and it wasn’t pretty.