What have I done to deserve this? I may not be winning employee of the year awards, but that doesn’t mean to say I’m not even worth the admin equivalent of a paper round. I am a good person. I deserve good luck. Or, at least, break-even luck.
'Here you are, love.'
Rainbow Lady places a masterpiece of all that is chocolate on the tablecloth of shredded napkin I’ve created. It makes death by chocolate cake look like it was made by Slimfast. I have a new guardian angel, which is just as well since the Tooth Fairy disowned me.
'That is beautiful,' I say reverently, as I pick up my spoon and lovingly caress a mound of triple-choc ice-cream topped with chocolate sauce, sprinkles, flake pieces, dairy milk chunks and matchmaker sticks. Anticipation of pure ecstasy.
I don’t think I realised, until this moment, quite how much I need to get laid.
Rainbow Lady laughs. 'Enjoy it. Chocolate is God’s way of saying sorry to women for giving them men.'
I grin. Obviously sexism against men is every bit as unacceptable as sexism against women. It's funnier, though.
As of the first mouthful, God is forgiven. This is unquestionably the best thing I’ve ever tasted.
But, even though the sugar high is helping, I still don’t feel good. Not even when I’ve finished the whole delicious concoction.
Which is when it occurs to me that I could conceivably go to see Will at his work.
If I buy some more tights. And perhaps another pair of shoes.
Ten minutes wouldn’t hurt anyone. And there must be some perks involved in having a private office.
And Will gets so bored at work that I’d practically be doing him a favour by coming to visit.
I mean hey, what’s the worst that could happen?
Note to self: stop saying that.
**
I’ve never actually been to Will’s work before. All the way here I had this nice idea that I’d just walk in and see him. Another illusion shattered. This place is absolutely massive!
And fancy. There’s gold everywhere and I’m pretty sure the receptionist didn’t buy her suit in Primark.
'Can I help you?' she asks, a Lady Bracknell in training. I’m beginning to think that being a smug, superior bitch is in receptionists’ job descriptions.
Her eyes find my shoes before I find my voice. In the end, I decided against buying new ones, for the simple reasons that one, Will won’t care and two, I can’t afford any that would actually impress people.
She looks back up to my face and raises one perfectly waxed eyebrow.
'It’s very fashionable,' I tell her, attempting to imply that everyone knows that but her. I don’t think it worked.
'Right,' she says, with distinct Dr. Evil overtones. 'Whom are you here to see?'
'William Knightley,' I say.
'Is he expecting you?'
If I say no, two burly bodyguards with arms like clubs are going to appear from behind a pot plant and throw me out. I just know it.
'Yes,' I say, not quite making eye contact. 'We arranged a meeting. Very last minute though, you wouldn’t have any record of it.'
That perfectly waxed eyebrow now appears to be feeling the moon’s gravitational pull. She picks up her phone. 'I’ll just phone Mr. Knightley and see if he’s available.'
I can’t think of Will as Mr. Knightley. To me, Mr. Knightley means Jeremy Northam in Emma, parading around in tight trousers and talking in that delicious voice. Will is a whole new tennis game.
She hangs up. 'His line is engaged at present.'
'He won’t mind me going up. We have very important business,' I say, trying to role-play an accountant. Maybe I should have bought a briefcase.
'He may still be in conference,' she says. 'He had another visitor not long ago, also on important business.'
At first I don’t understand the look she has in her eyes as she italicises those words. Then it hits me – she thinks I’m a hooker, doesn’t she? She thinks I’m going to go up there and…and…
What does she think we’re going to do? Have a threesome – me, Will and this other girl? If it is a girl. Oh God, I wish I hadn’t thought that.
Does this sort of thing happen a lot here? Is that the real perk of having your own office?
Oh my God, what if the other girl really is a hooker? What if Will has this whole other life that I know nothing about? An alter ego? Like Superman: the porno version? I could walk up there and…
What am I talking about? This is Will. Wonderful, honest, morally upstanding Will. That was just the sugar overload talking.
'Thank you for alerting me,' I say, a little stiffly.
'Fifth floor, along the left hand wall, third down,' she says, looking knowingly at me. 'His name is on the door. It’s Knightley with a K.'
I blink at her. 'I know,' I say. Then, probably because of the sugar demon again, 'he spelt it when he called the massage parlour.'
Then I stroll off to the lifts, trying to walk as a hooker might.
One thing's for sure, she’s never going to look at Will the same way again.
**
Even the lift is fancy. Mirrors that you can’t avoid seeing yourself in, weird red wallpaper that looks like carved velvet. It even has a carpet. I can’t believe Will actually works here. I can’t believe they hired Will to work here. Mr. ‘a couch is just a couch’ himself.
The colour of the office just emphasises the colourlessness of the employees. There aren’t that many, granted, but they all look like someone took their last Rolo. I was right before, this is not a healthy place for Will to be. This is not a healthy place for a cockroach to be.
I reach Will’s door and stare at the gold lettering on his frosted window. Will’s name has been given to a hunk of wood with an unfriendly door handle. The rewards of corporate culture.
I knock. No answer.
Oh well, he’s probably stepped out for a few minutes. The other girl must have left already. I’ll just go inside and wait.
So I open the door and step in.
Have you ever seen a dead animal by the side of the road? A rabbit perhaps. Its guts are torn out, its eyes have been pecked out and flies are colonising its bloody remains. It’s horrible, it's disgusting and yet…you can’t seem to look away.
Picture that, only magnified by a lens the strength of 1000 proof vodka, and you will have some idea of what I am experiencing right now.
Will. Natalie. On his desk. Very busy.
'Oh my God.'
I think that was my voice. I choose to believe that was my voice. And, given that they’ve both snapped their heads round to look at me, I think it was.
'Mel!' Will exclaims.
'You!' Natalie growls.
The trance is broken and I regain control over my limbs.
'I am just so incredibly sorry,' I say, backing out of the door. I shut it on their frozen faces and scuttle out of there as fast as I can.
And I thought his animations were disturbing. They were nothing compared to the reality. The image of Will entwined with that snake will haunt me for the rest of my days.
Yes, I am sorry. I’m sorry for me.
This is the worst moment of my entire life.
**
'I mean, I’m traumatised for life,' I say, pacing up and down, wearing a groove in Beth’s bedroom carpet. 'It’s like walking in on your parents having sex, only worse. Like…'
I break off. I can’t think of a comparison.
'Like walking in on one of your parents having sex with someone else?' Beth suggests in a weird voice.
'Worse even than that,' I say. 'It was just…I wanted to be blind. I had a hard enough time dealing with the idea of them having sex, let alone having the reality right in front of me. Audio and visual. This is horrible, it’s unbearable, it’s…'
'None of your business?' Beth finishes.
'Exactly,' I say, looking dejectedly at her. 'That’s the worst bit. And how am I going to look Will in the eye the next time I see him? That’s assuming
he isn’t traumatised too and still wants to see me.'
Beth picks up a towel and folds it neatly before adding it to her suitcase.
'I’m sure he will,' she says composedly. 'At most it’ll take a couple of days of reflection, so you can deal with this, and then you’ll get past it.'
'I don’t want to deal with this,' I say, throwing up my hands. 'I want to forget this. I want the memory buried so deep that anyone attempting to retrieve it would be burned alive by the Earth’s molten core.' I slump down on the bed, very nearly crushing Beth’s alarm clock. 'I wish this had never happened.'
Why did I have to go to see Will right then? If I'd only gone a little later. I should have had another chocolate sundae. I was tempted, but no – I decided to be good.
Note to self: healthy eating is bad for mental health.
Beth rescues her alarm clock and sits down beside me, putting a comforting arm around me and squeezing my shoulder. 'I know you’ve had a terrible day,' she says sympathetically, 'but they happen. You should try not to take it personally.'
'How can I not take it personally?' I say morosely. 'Everything I touch falls apart. I’m the proverbial bull in a china shop. I can’t do anything right.'
'Of course you can,' Beth says.
'How can you say that?' I ask, turning dejected eyes to her. 'Look at what I did to you. I fixed you up with the winner and runner up of ‘Man most likely to destroy our belief in a benevolent God’.'
Beth’s trying not to smile, which is interfering with my wallowing in self-pity. I've had a lousy day, I don't think a brief wallow is too much to ask for.
'I’m sure there’s much worse out there, if you look for them,' she says. 'It was just bad luck. It’s quite possible that there are nice men who answer personal advertisements, we just didn’t meet any. Maybe we would if we tried again.'
'I thought you said you wouldn’t go on anymore blind dates, ever?' I say.
Beth smiles kindly. 'Perhaps I could try it once more,' she offers. 'As you said, third time lucky. Maybe that will convince you that you’re not cursed.'
I perk up a little. 'Great,' I say. 'I’ll…fix one up. When’s a good day?'
'Wednesday would be fine.'
I sit up straight, new purpose in my life. Beth's right, it was just bad luck. This time, it’ll go perfectly. Anyway, it'll be something to help me keep my mind off Will.
'And now,' Beth says, letting me go, 'I have to finish packing. My train will be long gone by the time I finish otherwise.'
'Have a nice weekend at your mother’s,' I say.
Which is where she told me she was going. However, about three hours later, her mother called. Just for a chat.
Which makes me wonder where she’s really gone.
Just healthy, friendly concern, that’s all.
Honest.
Chapter 17
'Are you still seeing Han Solo?' I ask, in a half-hearted attempt to contribute to the conversation I’m having in person at the same time as the one I’m having via computer.
'No,' Cynthia says airily, inspecting the nails that are fuchsia today to match her outfit. It’s not so much clashing with her hair as trying to exterminate it. 'One date was enough. I can’t imagine why his other half has put up with him for so long. He’s all talk. Parental issues, I should think.'
Less a case of the pot calling the kettle black than Hitler describing Mussolini as a fascist dictator.
I turn my attention back to the computer screen and Susan.
Traumatised!!! says:
‘That’s fantastic!!!’
NY Alien says:
‘I know. He bought ‘NY by night’ and ‘Liberty X’, only I can’t call it that now because of the pop group.’
One day, someone will start patenting first names. You won’t be able to just pick a name you like anymore, you’ll have to have one computer generated. Totally at random. Jqzkwrk – quite a nice ring to it, don’t you think?
Traumatised!!! says:
‘So, how does it feel to be living the American Dream?'
NY Alien says:
‘This isn’t the American Dream. That’s a seven-figure salary and a sofa too valuable to sit on. With optional movie deal and affair with A-list celebrity. This is…well, something else.’
Traumatised!!! says:
‘In a good way, right?’
NY Alien says:
‘Course. Painting full-time, it’s what I always wished for.’
'Hey, Mel!' Cynthia says, turning Cosmopolitan sideways like she’s looking at a centrefold. ‘Take the Cosmo quiz. Is your love life hot enough?'
I turn back to her and look her straight in the eye. 'Cynthia,' I say humourlessly, 'I do not have a love life, hot or otherwise. And I don’t want to take a Cosmo quiz, because their sole effect on me is to convince me that I’m abnormal, because I agree with none of the above.'
Cynthia tosses the magazine onto my desk.
'Take the erotic fiction section to the toilet,' she advises. 'It’ll improve your mood.'
I can’t believe she just said that.
'I can manage,' I say.
Cynthia shrugs. 'Works for me,' she says casually.
On balance, it would have been nicer not to have that image planted in my mind.
Cynthia picks up the magazine again and flicks through it, a thoughtful expression on her face. 'You know,' she says, tapping a finger against her lips, 'I bet I could write something like this. Maybe I could even get into erotic novels.' She gives a lewd grin. 'After I’ve done a bit more research, that is.'
This conversation is throwing up images from Friday’s accidental voyeuristic experience. Like the ones I had all weekend. The long, lonely weekend when Beth was away on some secret mission and I stayed out as long as possible in case Will came round. The long, lonely weekend that culminated in two entire Vienettas inexplicably vanishing from the freezer.
I look at Cynthia. Her make-up isn't hiding the dark circles under her eyes. It looks like she’s applied eye-shadow to the wrong bit of them. I’d love to know her hangover cure though. Not that I’m much of a heavy drinker, but every now and again…
Like I would have been last night. Except that the nearest off-license was closed and I was too depressed to go in search of alcohol. Which is less serious than it sounds. You’d only need to worry if I was too depressed to go in search of chocolate.
'With Underwear Guy?' I ask listlessly. 'Or has madam seen something else she prefers?'
Cynthia laughs like one of those irritating door chimes you get in new age shops. 'Oh, he’s still around,' she says coyly. 'But there are plenty more fish in the sea and I’ve only just discovered the joy of fishing. Sweet though, I still mean to keep hold of him. But look!' she digs into her bag and comes up with a little red and black notebook with a cartoon devil on the front, 'I have a little black book!'
The only thing I could do with a list of the names and phone numbers of my previous boyfriends is set up a loser website, so others would know who to avoid. Type in your new love’s name and get a profile compiled by his exes. Picture, description, skill in bed, bad habits. Phrase book – what he says and what he actually means. Plus the vital statistics that actually count. It would get more hits than a Las Vegas blackjack table.
Of course it might also spell the end for the human race.
Which is, in its way, a slight drawback.
'Wonderful,' I say, bemused. 'But is it really worth it? It’s only been two weeks. How many guys could you pick up in two weeks?'
Cynthia winks. 'It’s amazing what you can accomplish when you really set your mind to something,' she says.
Great, everyone's getting it except me.
I go back to the computer.
Traumatised!!! says:
‘Susan, how about we talk when I’m home? The serial dater requires my attention.’
NY Alien says:
‘Something always does. Talk later xx.’
I shut down Messenger just in time.
'It is now 11a.m.,' Martin says, brandishing his clipboard and pen like they’re a sword and shield. 'Have either of you accomplished anything at all this morning?'
Short answer: no.
Except I can’t really say that, can I?
We both stare at him silently, waiting for him to answer his own question.
'You’ve done nothing!' he says.
There you go.
He fixes us with what I think is supposed to be an intimidating glare. He can't pull it off. He just doesn't have an intimidating face.
'You have a choice,' he says, gesturing with his pen. 'Start doing the jobs you are paid to do, quit, or be fired. Pick one, and quickly.'
And then he marches out again.
Cynthia and I exchange glances. 'Would it really be so bad to be sacked?' Cynthia poses.
I shrug.
'Frankly,' I say, 'we might even make more on the dole.'
**
'Afternoon,' Matt says to me lightly, as he comes into the staff room.
I pause, a can of cola halfway to my mouth. Then I take a swig and put it down again. 'Afternoon,' I say back.
What with one thing and another, Matt and I have barely seen each other over the last week. We’ve been doing the smiling thing. You know, when you exchange smiles every time you see each other, but don’t actually talk.
'I dropped by your desk on Friday,' Matt says, going to the fridge and removing something in a paper bag. 'But Cynthia said you were off sick.' He smiles. 'Actually, she said you were off sick, nudge, nudge, wink, wink. How did your interview go?'
I take another mouthful of cola to fortify myself against the memory. I wish I hadn’t bought diet. Once again, healthy eating backfires.
'Don’t ask,' I say, shaking my head. 'It’s enough to say that ants will have taken over before I get that job.'
The Dr Pepper Prophecies Page 13