Eventually she arrived at work with minor bruising, running down the halls to her office, straight into her boss.
‘Jeremy. Sorry.’
‘Holly, you’re green.’
‘I’m also late. I’m sorry … I think I’ve got that bug that’s doing the rounds,’ she said. It was a safe bet – there was always something doing the rounds, wasn’t there?
‘Yes. My wife’s been off with that. Dizziness, through-the-night vomiting and a stinking cold to go with it. She’s never looked more attractive.’
Holly felt her stomach lurch. ‘Yes that’s the one.’ Then she opened her mouth to ask if he’d had the chance to read her latest idea she’d sent him – this time a light entertainment show called Loved and Lost – but a tidal wave of giddiness prevented any power of speech. Instead she forced a smile and headed to her office.
She closed the door behind her, leaned her head against it and slid to the floor. Then with an almighty push, she forced herself to sit upright at her desk, open up a Final Cut project called ‘Prowl13marchDefinitelyFinalVersion4NEW’, and start putting the finishing touches to it. Luckily the edit had been locked last week and she just needed to finish colouring it, tweak the sound levels and get it sent off. She was in the middle of doing all of these things at once when, gradually, she felt a small gremlin pushing at the sides of her oesophagus, begging to be released from captivity. She tried to ignore it and carried on working. Tried to start the project rendering so it was ready to export. But the gremlin wasn’t having any of it.
Holly did a rough calculation, using the floor plan in her head. At a push, she estimated that she could make it down the corridor to the staff toilet in about twenty seconds – versus the bin in her office, which was only two seconds away. She gave the bin a cursory glance. It was overflowing with tissues, there was no plastic lining and it was made of wicker.
Twenty-three seconds later, she was crouched down in a cubicle, kneeling on the floor, her arms grasping at the toilet sides as she retched with all her might, wondering if that was the last one, or whether there was any more left. Nope, there was more to come, she realised, preparing to heave again. Excellent. That’s got to be the last, she prayed, wiping the back of her hand and sighing as a teardrop summoned the energy to slide down the other cheek. Slowly, she folded her arms across the basin and lay her weary head down. She felt her eyelids close, and the lights in the world snap shut along with them. After a moment she realised it wasn’t just her eyelids, but the actual lights – shit, she’d been crouched here so long that the security lights had gone out! There were no windows and she now couldn’t see a thing. Arses.
Being sick in the dark – was it possible to sink any lower, she wondered, feeling the gremlins starting up again. Her eyelids grew heavy as she hugged the toilet rim, dropped to her knees and worshipped at the cistern chapel. Only one thing could make this worse now – if she were to fall asleep, only to be found hours later by cleaners, in the dead of night. Oh but sleep, she thought, suddenly feeling tired from all the heaving. Mmm, that could work, she mused, as the soporific sloshing of the drains sang her a gentle lullaby.
Low point. Definitely a low point.
*
Waking some time later, she staggered back to the broom cupboard, and laid her head gently to rest on her ergonomic-wrist-support-cushion, which in the circumstances felt exactly like a goose-feathered silk pillow in a penthouse suite at The Ritz. She closed her eyes and was just starting to dream of her duvet and fresh eggy pesto pasta when there was a knock on the door.
It was Luke, looking inconveniently attractive.
‘Hullurgh,’ she said as she stood in front of him. She only dared open her lips a fraction, lest he should pick up on any unfortunate mouth-fumes.
‘Hey! Sorry to just drop in, but the Director mentioned the film rushes from the weekend have been uploaded already?’
‘They have indeed.’
‘Well, I just wanted to check on the scene where I’m training the new girl. They’re talking about having to re-shoot some of the lines, so I thought it’d be good to see where I’m going wrong with it.’
‘Oh right. So much for reality TV!’ she said, her hand hovering near her mouth by way of a force-field against any bad breath leakages. ‘I’ve just locked last Saturday’s episode, but let me dig the new ones out. Oh, arses it’s crashed again. Have a seat,’ she said, pulling a spare chair out from under the desk, and pushing it towards Luke. Once Final Cut had come back to life, Holly opened up the project named ‘Prowl13marchFinalVersionNEW’. She set it to begin exporting in the background, while starting to open up the weekend’s raw files for Luke to look at.
‘Phew. There we go, they’re just loading up now.’
‘I mean, it’s farcical really. The producers never leave enough time in the shooting schedule. And then they complain when we have to do re-shoots!’
Holly nodded, suddenly at the mercy of a thirty-foot wave of nausea. She stood up, holding onto the desk to steady herself. ‘I’m just going to get a can of Coke. Want one?’
He nodded.
‘Diet Coke or Fat Coke?’
‘Diet,’ he said, patting an imaginary pot belly.
She pegged it round the corner and ran to the ladies. But by the time she’d got there, the urge to hurl had gone again and she felt fine. Such was the hangover seesaw. She stood panting against the wall, thinking, Lord, take me now. Her first ever chance of a broom cupboard-sexing, blown to smithereens by the Hangover From Hades. She leaned there for a while, holding onto the door handle and taking deep breaths until the room stopped spinning. Then she quickly checked the mirror for any rogue bits of carrot or sweetcorn that might be lurking in her hair.
‘Gum?’ said Luke, holding out a pack once she was back in the office.
To her mind, this meant one of three things: 1) Luke-with-the-Hollywood-smile had diligent dental hygiene, 2) he could smell her vomit (it was a tiny office, she had been sat here festering for a while now, traces of sick possibly emanating from every pore), 3) he just liked to share.
She decided to graciously accept and hope for the best. ‘Thanks. Lovely,’ she ventured, taking two pellets and hoping he didn’t think her greedy.
She set about finding the relevant shots for him – a task which on any normal day was mundane and achievable in seconds, but today seemed to take approximately four days. Eventually she dimmed the lights, pressed play and sat back down, trying not to notice when his knee brushed close to hers three times.
‘OK, I can see what I’m doing wrong there,’ he said after watching the playback.
‘I thought you got the comic timing just right.’
‘Thanks. But I’m concealing Chardonnay as I say it. So I’ll need to change position and be the other side of the pump. Bugger. It’ll be a re-shoot – Chardonnay’s got the number of close-ups drawn into her contract. Ever since she went on I’m A Celebrity she’s gone full prima donna.’
‘Ha! That figures. I didn’t know she’d been on that.’
‘You don’t watch it?’
‘Can’t stand reality TV.’
‘What you doing working on this show then?’
She made a face as if to say, fucked if I know, but instead found herself saying, ‘It’s not completely without its perks.’
Luke turned to face her, his hand now on her knee. She smiled at him and thought, hold the front page… surely this is contravening the Break-up Club rules somehow? Surely there ought to be a whole clause devoted to the folly of flirting with a gorgeous man, having chundered only hours before?
‘Still. I won’t be working on it much longer by the sounds of it.’
‘Oh?’
‘Oh,’ Holly said, realising as Luke’s smile dissolved that she’d put her foot in the proverbial it.
‘What’s happened?’
‘Arse. I’m so sorry to be the one to tell you. But the show’s being discontinued at the end of this series.’
‘Wow. M
y agent hasn’t said a word.’
‘I’m really sorry.’
‘That’s OK. It’s an absolute shit-show, let’s be real here. But are you OK about it?’
‘No. Yes. Not really. I’m just a bit all over the place anyway. I finished with my boyfriend on the weekend, and I’ve been a bit – drained – ever since.’ Drained was right. Just don’t mention the projectile puke, Braithwaite! You’ll be on the fast track to the FriendZone. Luke looked into her eyes and held her gaze.
She put out her hand to hold onto the desk.
‘Emotionally drained, I mean,’ she added. Then she turned to her computer, checked the export had finished, and began to close down applications. Must wind things up now, she thought. Must get myself to a place where other people are not, and where my only company is darkness and Alka Seltzer. She switched off the computer and slowly stood up.
‘Break-ups are the worst.’
Less good, she thought, heading back on the Friendville Flyover.
‘How long were you together?’ he asked, pushing back his chair and standing up. Luke’s eyes met hers.
‘Just over five years. We weren’t living together or anything, but, I do – or did – really love him,’ she said.
‘Of course,’ he said. And he pinned one arm over her shoulder, so she was tucked in between him and the wall. Just like the ‘jock’ characters do in those American high-school dramas. ‘But hey, when you’re feeling better, it’d be nice to get to know you a bit more.’
She felt herself do an inner swoon. Blimey, this one had actual moves. Lawrence had never bothered with moves, he’d just laid back and waited for life to happen to him.
Luke was still leaning in, in that too-close position. Please don’t kiss me, she begged in her head. Please don’t smell it. Although, please do kiss me, please do come closer, but actually no really, you shouldn’t.
After conducting a major war against pheromones, Holly ducked out from under Luke’s arm and made some excuse about having to slip away to a doctor’s appointment. This was all too soon after Lawry anyway, said her rational self. Also, maybe, just maybe, her hesitancy would be misconstrued as playing hard to get, when really it was just a case of not wanting to thwart her only chance of potential nooky with the sweet smell of bile. Holly smiled, attempting coquettishness as he headed out the office. Luke raised an eyebrow, as if to suggest that maybe he was a man who got spurred on by a bit of chase.
*
Four hours later, as Holly was tucked up in the blissful folds of her duvet, a loud voice boomed out from the floor, chanting ‘Jeremy Totes. Jeremy Totes.’
Oh, fuck. Her eyes opened. She scrambled to reach it in time, and cleared her throat.
‘Jez! Hi. Sorry – I had to leave a tiny bit early and go to the doctors. Is everything OK?’
‘What the shit, Holly? I’m stood here looking at an exported episode, with an ungraded picture. Is there anything you want to tell me?’
Holly sat up in bed and rubbed her eyes. ‘Um. I don’t know why. I definitely, definitely did the colour on it, right when I did the sound levels, earlier today. I don’t unders— Oh my sh—. Final Cut crashed while I was showing some rushes, and in all the confusion I must have opened up a slightly older version once it restarted! And then that must be the project I exported by mistake.’
‘In all the confusion? Have you ever worked in an edit suite before?’
‘I’ll come back in now and fix it.’
‘No, that’ll take too long. Just tell me which file name it should be and I’ll re-export it. Luckily there’re still a few hours left before play-out. If this had made it to air, Holly, we wouldn’t be having this conversation at all.’
‘I know. I’m so, so, sorry.’
‘So, the name?’
Holly’s heart rate started to climb. ‘So, um. Let’s see, it would’ve had today’s date on it. Or actually no, it had Friday’s as that’s when I started it and I don’t think I changed it when I renamed it. So yeah, 13th March, then it’ll say “FinalVersion4”, I think. Or no, it should say “DefinitelyFinal!” Yes! There were two very similar versions, but the one with something like the words “DefinitelyReallyFinal4” in is the absolute master final one, no question.’
‘Really? Do you think perhaps it’s time to get a better filing system?’
‘Version control is one of my weaknesses, I won’t lie. In fact it’s something I’m really keen to improve on. Do you think when you have time you could sit me down and explain what your system is and how I can improve? I’d really appreciate that!’
There was a silence, and then a sigh. ‘Yes. Of course. Although, I really should give you some kind of verbal warning at this point.’
‘I’m really sorry, Jeremy. I wasn’t feeling well today, that must be why it happened. I assure you it won’t happen again.’
‘No. Well, I appreciate you trying to fix it, even from your sickbed,’ he said before ringing off.
11. Love Don’t Live Here Anymore
Holly stared out the train window at the thick grey clouds of Battersea power station as she and Harry rode towards Surbiton. She was listening to the voice calling out the journey stops, and thinking how different she sounded to the one on the Northern line.
‘What you thinking?’ Harry asked. ‘You haven’t said much since we left Waterloo.’
‘I’m thinking that it’s funny; this voice-over is much friendlier-sounding than the Northern line lady – she sounds so harassed and fraught! Do you think the guy in the voice-over booth gave this one direction to sound more laid-back, since these commuter trains are on their way out of the big smoke and approaching the fresh air of the countryside?’
‘Do you think you might be overthinking things a little?’
‘Me? Overthink?’
Harry took out his smartphone and opened up Google. ‘OK. Let’s see. Who is the voice of the northern line?… Here we go. One Miss Clara Thomas. There. That’s your woman.’
‘OK. You stark-raving stalker,’ Holly said, while also jotting the name down into her notebook.
‘I just think maybe it’ll help you write the film if you can imagine your characters as real people first.’
‘You might have a point. Thank you. Seriously though, HOW did you do this journey every day? How did you not die of boredom?’
‘I don’t know. I was always looking forward to what was at the end of it,’ he said, his eyes filling with tears.
Holly switched seats so she was next to him, and stroked his hair. ‘What, work?’ she jibed, in an attempt to lighten the mood, when, in truth, all she wanted to do was sob with him. To lie on the floor and wail to their hearts’ content, not a care for the other passengers. But today was about Harry. Today she needed to be the strong one. She kissed him on the cheek. ‘Hey. You’ll be OK, Harry McGregor. You really will.’
‘I don’t believe you, but thanks.’
‘So how long is she going to be out for? Did she say?’
‘Said she’d be back around six. So we should be as quick as we can.’
‘No worries. I’m a machine when I get into packing. We’ll be done in two hours, tops. The main thing is, just think about what you need for the next few months, and what can go into long-term storage.’
Half an hour later, they arrived at a charming cul-de-sac that was basically the bastard love-child of Wisteria Lane and Ramsay Street. The sun was out, the hydrangeas were starting to bloom and the ‘let’s not waste the best part of the day’ people were out washing their cars already.
‘Wow, Harry, I had no idea how old you were.’
‘Why do you think I never invited you round for lunch?’
‘Because you knew I don’t do South?’
‘No, because I knew you’d take the piss out of all this…’ he said as they wandered into a terraced house that could only be described as a shrine to Emma Bridgewater and Laura Ashley. Holly surveyed the expensive-looking ornaments, from strange poultry-based figurines t
o miniature tea sets, none of which seemed to tally with Harry’s personality.
‘Harry-Face?!’ she began. ‘This is all far too middle-aged for my liking.’
‘Lady Grey or Ceylon?’ Harry asked as he walked under the aspidistra-lined archway into the kitchen. Holly looked around the house, spotting pictures of Harry and Rachel on every shelf. Beautiful photos of them hugging and laughing on happier days. While Harry made the tea, Holly turned all of the pictures face down, so he wouldn’t have to see her prim, Doris Day face beaming out at him like nothing was wrong.
‘We should crack on,’ Harry said, his eyes watering at the sight of what Holly was doing. ‘OK. The van’s booked for two hours’ time. We’ve got to make the last 27 years of my life look as small as possible, so I can qualify for the cheaper rate at Big Yellow Storage.’
Holly scanned the living room, which was stuffed with books, vinyl and vintage comic books. ‘OK then, let’s get on with it. I’ll be Head of Ruthless. Anything you’ve not used in the last year goes in this Oxfam sack. Anything recyclable goes in this green bag. Anything you want to keep goes in the cardboard boxes. And it says here on the Big Yellow Storage instructions that you have to itemise everything – which I can do, but it does mean you have to really want each item in your life!’ Holly began unwinding a roll of refuse sacks, her eyes brimming with excitement.
‘Wow. You should have your own show on Channel 5 or something.’
Break-Up Club Page 15