Single in the City

by Unknown

  ‘What do you want to know?’

  ‘What’s she like? She doesn’t talk to me much.’

  ‘She’s great. She’s in school too, doing her degree in child psychology so that she can work with kids.’

  It figures. He’s dating the nanny from The Sound of Music. ‘How long have you been together?’

  ‘Not long, a couple months.’

  ‘Right, since that first party when I met her.’

  ‘Er no, we weren’t dating then.’

  ‘Oh, I just assumed. I thought she kissed you.’

  ‘That. Yeah, I wasn’t expecting that. I guess that’s when it dawned on me that she liked me. I’m a little slow sometimes.’

  He’s not the only one. If I’d said yes when he asked me the first time…or the second…I did screw this up. ‘Well, there’s nothing like a new relationship, eh? Listen, I should go. It’s getting late. Thanks for lending an ear tonight. I really’ – there’s that hitch again–‘I really appreciate it.’

  ‘Han, are you okay?’

  ‘Oh sure, I’m just still in shock, about Felicity, and the night and everything. I’ll be fine. Too much wine, that’s all. Thanks again. G’night.’

  I make as decorous an exit as three bottles of wine will allow. Actually, my heel pokes down between two pieces of sidewalk, sending me flying, sans shoe, to sprawl in a heap on the ground. It’s fitting, since that’s how I feel.

  19

  My career is about to end. Felicity is trying to force me out, and she’s twisting everything around to do it. I’ve racked my brain to remember every conversation I had with her. She’s been a very clever bunny. She’s right: I never explicitly told her that there was a death theme. However, any intelligent person would have pieced the puzzle together. Let’s review the facts, shall we? Party in a crypt, black roses, dressing the waiters as undertakers…hmm, any idea what the tone might be? This is a somewhat moot point however, since even if I had a picture of her standing next to the coffin cake, she’d deny all knowledge. And Mark will believe her. So a straightforward presentation of the facts won’t work. If I want to stay employed, I’ve got no choice. This isn’t my proudest moment, but I’m desperate. More importantly, I’m angry. I may be easy-going, but there’s a limit. Felicity passed it when she set me up. She has to expect that I’ll fight back. She’d do exactly the same thing. I shouldn’t feel guilty about my tactics when she’s left me no choice. Of course I do, a little.

  I’m armed with the most deadly combination of weapons: a half-caff skinny latte from Costa Coffee and my navy and pink pinstripe suit with really square shoulders. It makes me look a little like Lauren Bacall, if she had a penchant for Ralph Lauren tailoring at H&M prices.

  ‘Mark, I’d like to talk to you and Felicity this morning, please.’

  ‘Ah, yes, Hannah, that’s probably best. Give me twenty minutes to get through some emails.’

  Shit, Felicity’s already gotten to him. She moves fast. Character assassins are the most dangerous kind but you’ve got to admire their technique. She probably buttered him up during sex (not literally, I hope) and then put me in the worst possible light.

  Felicity smiles warmly when she sees me. ‘Morning, Hannah. Fun weekend?’

  If you call forty-eight hours of sweating over my future fun, you bitch. ‘Yep, great thanks.’

  At least Mark has the courtesy to look sheepish when I return to his office twenty minutes and thirty seconds later. Settling back in one of the chairs, I cross my legs and lay an arm along each armrest. I am the picture of composure.

  ‘Nice weekend?’ he asks.

  ‘Not really, no.’

  ‘I’m sorry to hear that.’

  ‘I bet you are.’

  Ever the perceptive man, he gives up any more attempts at small talk.

  Felicity swans in like this is a normal Monday morning brainstorm. ‘Right, Hannah. I think we should talk about the Read-Hutchins party.’

  ‘Yes, I think we should.’

  ‘I have to say, it showed a remarkable lack of judgement.’ I can almost hear the ‘young lady’ at the end, which is silent in the language of condescension.

  ‘I agree.’

  ‘You do?’ Mark asks.

  ‘Absolutely. Felicity, I wouldn’t have expected that from someone with your experience.’

  There goes the eyebrow. Luckily, I’m impervious in my pinstripes. ‘Me! Hannah, need I remind you that this was your responsibility? You begged me to let you have the account and I gave you full reign. I find it absurd that you now blame me for your failure.’

  ‘I didn’t beg for the account. You offered it to me. And you set me up to fail.’

  ‘I set you up? Mark, I told you she was going to try to get out of this.’

  ‘Hannah, hold on. You can’t really be suggesting that Felicity purposely sabotaged your first account just to see you fail. That’s ridiculous.’

  ‘Not ridiculous. True. She did, Mark, I promise she did.’

  ‘I won’t hear any more of this,’ Felicity interrupts. ‘Hannah, you’re fired.’

  Oof. I mean, I was prepared for this, but it still hurts. ‘On what grounds?’

  ‘What do you mean, what grounds? For failing miserably at the first account I trust you with, for tarnishing the firm’s reputation. And for accusing me, your manager, of being out to get you. You’re obviously unstable.’

  Okay, Kate, Katharine, Lauren, ghosts of girl powers past, don’t fail me now. ‘I don’t think it’s a good idea to try to fire me.’

  ‘I don’t have to try, Hannah. I just did.’

  ‘Mark, you might want to reconsider.’

  ‘This is my decision, Hannah.’ Her voice is starting to hit an odd pitch. ‘I have Mark’s full support in whatever I do.’

  ‘Mark, Felicity, you aren’t in a very strong negotiating position given your, um, extracurricular activities.’

  You know the expression ‘the silence is deafening’? Maybe it’s my heart thudding in my ears that’s drowning out all sound, but I swear it really is deafening.

  We wait. And wait. I’m wearing my most Mona Lisa smile. She might have been a blackmailer too. Mark finally cracks. ‘What do you mean by that?’ he whispers.

  ‘Let me spell it out for you, Mark. I have it on good authority, from your sister-in-law actually, that you’re fucking Felicity and that your wife doesn’t know. And I strongly suspect that, despite what you told me, she would, in fact, care very much. Felicity, I imagine that other people in the firm who are also up for partnership don’t know either, and would also care very much. So let me say again that firing me would be a very bad idea.’ I can hear my voice shaking but I can’t exactly stop now. And I don’t want to stop.

  ‘Are you trying to blackmail us?’

  ‘I don’t have to try, Felicity. I just did.’

  They stare at me, agog. Yes, they are truly agog.

  ‘Now if you’ll excuse me, I have work to do. What’s the next project? I think you said the anniversary party for the Patels. Just so I know, Felicity, neither of them are terminal, right?’

  I’m shaking before I reach the bathroom door. So much for girl power. It’s relief. And adrenaline. And wonder. I can’t believe I just did that. It was so satisfying! Terrifying but satisfying. All my comeback fantasies have come true at once. The look on Mark’s face. And Felicity, she was absolutely floored. They never expected me to fight back. What a remarkable feeling of self-empowerment. It must be what the psychiatrists call a breakthrough. Plus I still have a job. So this worked out as well as could be expected. Or at least it didn’t work out as badly as it could have, though I’m probably not in line for any promotions.

  Rationalization is a wonderful thing. I am officially over Mark. Close chapter, move on. In fact, I can do better than that. I’ll forget the whole sordid affair; pack it away in a mental box. Call it avoidance, call it denial. I call it peace of mind. I guess there’s always the risk that someone will come along and open up all the bo
xes I’ve stored away over the years. I pity the therapist who has to deal with that mess, but unless and until that happens, I’m perfectly comfortable with self-delusion. Mark is in a box labelled Bad Experience (scribbled over in red Magic Marker with the word Wanker).

  Barry hands me a ticket.

  ‘Wimbledon?’

  ‘Do you like tennis?’

  ‘Of course!’ To be precise, I don’t mind watching tennis for a little while on TV while painting my toenails. I tried playing once but gave myself a fat lip. Those rackets are a menace when you have the arm strength and coordination of a toddler.

  ‘It’s the men’s final today. And you look perfect. I didn’t want to ruin the surprise, but they have rules about appropriate dress. Very old-fashioned. I should have known you’d be perfectly dressed in any case.’

  No thanks to you, Barry. I’ve been forced to apply some broad fashion rules to my dates. Since he’s never going to tell me where we’re going, I’ve defaulted to two wardrobe genres: demure in daytime and sexy vamp at night. It’s a little constricting, since I have at least half a dozen different looks, but so far it’s kept me from being mistaken for a hooker at tea. Only the go-carting threw me off, but it’s safe to assume after my reaction that there won’t be any more sporty dates.

  These tickets must have cost…Yep, there’s the price right there. Wow.

  Barry eagerly grabs my hand. ‘We’ll have lunch in the hospitality tent first and then watch the tennis. Are you happy?’

  ‘This is the coolest thing ever!’ I realize I’m shrieking when he sits back a little bit. ‘Sorry, I mean, this is just great!’ I lean over and plant a very grateful kiss on him. He really is a good man. I may not feel about him the way I do about Sam, but Sam is a road to heartbreak, with potholes, leading to a dead end. At least Barry doesn’t have another woman in his life. Or potholes. Plus he likes me. That’s enough for now.

  He kisses back. ‘I was afraid it might be too much, you know, too early. But then I thought that you might not have had the chance to go to Wimbledon, being American, and the tickets were available, so I thought…’ He looks sheepish and hopeful at the same time.

  ‘Barry, this is so nice. Thank you.’

  The time zone thwarts my ability to make Stacy insanely jealous. Besides, I can’t gloat properly with Barry sitting right there. Though he continually tempts me to be myself, there’s no way I’m going to show him how shallow I really am. I wonder if he does cool things like this a lot. He must be rich. My boyfriend’s rich!

  His voice breaks into my reverie. ‘There are just two other couples joining us, so it’ll be fun.’

  ‘Joining us?’

  ‘Well, yes. Two clients and their spouses. They’re my biggest clients, but they’re very nice.’

  So he’s not rich, he’s working. I’m sure his clients are perfectly nice, but I didn’t plan to group date. It’s hard enough being sparkling and entertaining to Barry without having to worry about offending multi-million-pound clients. I have a terrible feeling about this.

  ‘Super!’ I lie.

  I may know very little about how the corporate world works, but I’m sure that client entertainment falls within the wifely realm. Suffering through boring dinners is what they get paid in diamonds and live-in help to do. It’s a little early in our relationship to be at this stage. He hasn’t even had sex with me and now I’m supposed to be his girlfriend host? I seem to have passed Go without collecting my 200 dollars (pounds!). What will I possibly have to say to his clients? Their wives are probably stay-at-home moms or ladies who lunch. I have aspirations towards both but a working knowledge of neither. I can’t even fall back on we-stories because Barry and I haven’t had any of those all-important talks yet, the ones where you find out that you have the same taste in random things, like black and white photography or sherbet. And I still don’t understand what he does all day at work.

  ‘Barry, I’m not so sure about this. What if they don’t like me?’

  ‘How can they not like you? Don’t worry.’ He kisses me as we reach the table. Thankfully, it’s empty. A momentary stay of execution.

  ‘But I don’t have anything in common with bankers. I might not have much to say.’ Given how well things went the last time I spoke my mind at an organized event, I’m not sure there’s much he’d want me to say.

  ‘They’ll love you. Just be yourself.’

  Well, obviously there’s no chance of that. I excuse myself to make a frantic call to Chloe. Not to worry, she assures me, three little questions are guaranteed to lubricate the conversation. She should know. She’s been to more boring business dinners than she can shake a breadstick at. I can do this. I can do this.

  A middle-aged woman, resembling a more stylish Margaret Thatcher, approaches our table with a man trailing a few steps behind. ‘Glenda, hello! Hi, Nigel!’ Barry jumps to his feet with hand extended, ready to pump vigorously. Introductions are made. I’m Barry’s special friend today. Puh-lease. Maybe date, friend, even lover. But ‘special friend’? Wine is poured, thank god. The three of them settle into a jolly conversation: Yes the weather is perfect for the final. Nope, no rain in sight. The journey to Wimbledon was fine, no, not too much traffic. Damn. That’s one of Chloe’s questions.

  ‘I like your shoes,’ I offer to Glenda.

  ‘Thank you.’ She turns back to Barry and her husband.

  Now that’s just rude. Where’s the reciprocal ‘I like your’ whatever, leaving the door wide open for further fashion observations and the eventual binding admission? You know the kind, the whispered confession: They may look great but they’re squeezing my toes numb. I got my skirt on sale. I put my hand through my tights in the bathroom and can feel my left cheek squeezing through. Doesn’t she know how this game is played? How am I supposed to bond with the one woman in England who doesn’t follow strict protocol?

  Barry has immersed himself in conversation with Nigel about Arsenal. I haven’t exactly studied up on my favourite team, other than to learn that they wear ugly maroon shirts that remind me of my brief, humiliating stint as a cheerleader in junior high. Glenda is looking at me.

  ‘Do you like tennis?’ I try.

  ‘Well, yes. I’d have to, wouldn’t I, to come.’

  Huh. Not necessarily. ‘Do you work?’

  Glenda’s you-must-be-stupid look has deepened. ‘I’m sorry?’

  ‘Are you working?’ Have I offended her? This is one of Chloe’s sure-fire questions. Maybe she’s a hyper-feminist, appalled that I’d even ask.

  ‘Of course I am.’ She’s mentally reporting me to Gloria Steinem.34

  ‘Great. That’s great. Where?’ If I can get her to talk about herself, maybe she’ll stop glaring at me.

  ‘At Grand Met. I’m Barry’s client. Will you excuse me? In fact, there’s something I need to discuss.’ She walks four feet away to join the men. There may as well be a couple thousand miles between us.

  She’s the client? Of course there must be women clients, since there are women executives. So why did this never occur to me? I’m a disgrace to womankind. My sister would be horrified. It’s worse than being stumped by that riddle about the boy and his father who get into a car accident. The father dies and when the son is rushed to hospital, the surgeon sees the boy on the table and says, ‘I can’t operate on this patient, he’s my son.’ (Answer for any fellow chauvinists: the surgeon’s the mother.) And I thought I’d have trouble relating to a bored housewife. I’m supposed to entertain the househusband? Until a minute ago, I didn’t even realize that was a viable job title.

  As I sit resenting my role in this little charade, another couple approaches. Julian and Jade something-or-other. Instantly, prospects look up. Jade is trendy, really trendy, thirty-something, and Julian doesn’t look like he knows how to frown. Best of all, they already know Glenda and Nigel. I feel a little giddy now that the pressure to perform has been lifted. Glenda has disappeared to the bathroom so I have no qualms about using my opening line on J
ade. ‘I like your shoes.’

  ‘Oh thanks, they’re killing me though!’ she groans. ‘Do you think we’ll sit down soon?’

  See, Glenda, that’s how the game is played. ‘Mmm, mine are killing too. Why can’t designers make pretty shoes that are comfortable?’

  ‘It’s a conspiracy to make us buy more.’

  ‘No kidding. I must have ten pairs that I’ve only worn once!’

  ‘I’ve got that many that I haven’t even worn once.’

  And thus the metaphorical chest-beating begins. By the time Glenda gets back, nose freshly powdered, Jade and I are practically best friends. She stays with us for a minute or two before drifting over to where Barry and Julian are talking shop.

  This isn’t so bad. In fact, I’m kind of enjoying myself. Jade is curious about my Americanness and I admit it, I’m enjoying telling her what ‘we’ think. Being the mouthpiece for an entire nation is a little daunting, but I’ve had a few glasses of wine and am definitely warming to the task. I guess all expats have their crosses to bear: the Brits have Prince Philip, the Germans have their beach-towels-at-dawn reputation, the French have, well, the Parisians, and we have Iraq. Still, I’m glad when we steer the conversation back to our fashion gripes.

  Nigel briefly jolts our repartee but I can’t hold a grudge now that I know he actually belongs on our team. I try the last of Chloe’s questions.

  ‘Nigel, do you and Glenda have kids?’

  ‘We do! A boy, Nigel, who’s six and a girl called Mabel. She’s three.’

  ‘How cute.’ I’m just being nice. Names like that must constitute cruelty to children in most countries.

  ‘How are yours?’ he asks Jade.

  ‘Ever-growing monsters. It’s no way to live.’ Jade doesn’t strike me as overly maternal. Unlike Nigel. ‘The middle boy goes to Cheam in the Autumn. Two down, one to go.’

  Nigel laughs. He has a really infectious laugh. ‘Glenda wants to send ours off but I don’t think I can do it.’

  ‘Yours aren’t demons.’ Jade isn’t cracking a smile. ‘You don’t know what you’re missing. Once I ship the last one off, it’ll be like the good old single days again.’