by Celia Hayes
Followed by their stunned looks, I reach the dressing room door with long strides, open it and go inside, slamming it in their faces and hissing through clenched teeth, “Craig, get to work on the first one. It looks like that’s the one that went down best. I’ll pick it up later this week. And now, if you all don’t mind, I’m tired. I’m going to take this off and I’m going back home where – and this is an order, not a request – I am not to be disturbed until it is time to choose the wedding list. An, alas, unavoidable chore which I do not think I will be able to take part in for at least a couple of weeks. But have no fear. Your patience will be rewarded by the presence of entire sets of bone china which, I’m sure, will fill brilliantly the gaps between your relentless, exhausting, irreverent exchanges of opinions.”
My outburst finished, I close them out and barricade myself in, double-locking the door of the narrow cubicle that smells of cellophane and dust.
“Relax,” an inner voice tells me while I let myself collapse exhausted onto a stool “You are about to get married. From this moment onwards things can only get worse.”
Chapter 2
Wilbourgh & Trench
“This is the happiest day of my life!”
“What happened, have you finally sorted your shoes out?”
“No, my boss gave me a compliment.”
“Hmm…”
“What?”
“I don’t know…”
“What more could I want?”
“Don’t ask me. At the moment I’ve got such low expectations of everything that I’d be happy just to find my car keys.”
“What a bitch!”
Yep, that’s pretty well put.
If she wasn’t my mother-in-law, I’d spend my days in search of public toilet walls to write her mobile phone number on, accompanied by ‘Make up in enthusiasm for what I lack in appearance’.
“Let’s just forget about it, please. The important thing is that at least the problem with the dress is solved,” I say, concluding the story about my dress fitting.
Karen nods a few times, throws her plastic cup in the bin, returns to her desk and starts leafing through the interminable sheaf of documents I gave her this morning.
If I didn’t have her, I reflect, my life would be a living hell. She’s the most efficient person I’ve ever met. She’s also terribly outspoken, which automatically makes her the ideal confidante, at least from my humble point of view.
“Look at all this crap!” she mumbles, madly clicking the right mouse button. “They’re filling our emails with stupid memos,” she snorts, “Listen to this: ‘position vacant for suitable personnel to manage a branch in deficit in sector four’.”
“What?”
“You heard me! Best case scenario: six months stuck in the provinces in some lousy guest house run by an old psychopath.”
“Stick it all in the trash,” I suggest, considering it a waste of time. She nods.
If it wasn’t yet clear, I’m in the office. I work for Wilbourgh & Trench – Federal Savings. Mostly, I deal with the administration of financial portfolios and the development of investment products, but sometimes I follow different projects. Two weeks ago, for example, a famous local company engaged us to intervene in the acquisition process of an important brand in the textile sector. It was an interesting challenge, and yesterday we closed the contract, getting a good result in the bag. The company with which we worked with seemed satisfied with the agreement, but I’m expecting an email from Rupert with more detailed information.
“Back to work,” I say to myself, rubbing my hands as I try to fight off the hypothermia caused by the air conditioning. I check the time and I realize that it’s already past ten o’clock. My coffee break was longer than I’d intended, but I really needed to let off some steam. Ever since Horace asked me to marry him, my life has been split into two parts: on the one hand there is the daily routine, and on the other the fast lane; posting the bans, church rehearsals, wedding list, family stress and moving house to organize.
My flat has been invaded by cardboard boxes, and half my wardrobe is still in the wardrobe while the other half is in plastic bags, waiting to be packed. Everything would be much simpler if I didn’t work twelve hours a day, but my career is a big part of my life, and I’d feel totally lost without it.
Horace, unfortunately, is not much help. When we decided to take the ‘big step’, we had to take into account that he was working on a particularly complex case in court. He is one of the best lawyers around and is currently busy defending a political refugee that the government is trying to repatriate. He’s in the spotlight at the moment, and for the last few weeks we’ve only been able to see each other at the weekends.
Sigh.
It really isn’t easy. Our relationship is basically a string of ‘moments’ that are slotted in between meetings. Sometimes we even have to make an appointment to argue. It might sound ridiculous, but we don’t always have time to waste two or three hours’ sleep deciding which of our families possesses the right to ruin our Christmas holidays. As a result, we’ve established a kind of code. If one of the two of us is busy, we ask for ‘time out’ and postpone the discussion, checking our respective diaries. Some people might think we’re crazy, but they’d be wrong. What we have created proves the strength of our bond and it’s the result of the deep respect we have for each other. It’s because we try and ignore superfluous disagreements and avoid getting bogged down in pointless rows. I know, we can’t really be called a conventional couple; we’re not like those couples you see walking about as though surgically joined at the hip. We’re not always kissing each other. We mostly talk about work and if a problem does come up, we would never think of suddenly arguing about it in the middle of the street in front of everyone. The fact is that I’m happy just the way it is. We are no longer kids with a hormonal crisis. Ours is an objectively productive, stable and rational relationship, and these are the ideal prerequisites for a happy marriage.
Let’s dispel this bloody stupid myth of love at first sight, all this tear-jerking romance you see in films, all this overwhelming passion. They’re feelings I just can’t conceive of, which are capable of reducing an individual who was previously perfectly self-sufficient into a human wreck suffering from all the most worrying psychiatric disorders, from obsessive-compulsive disorder to abandonment anxiety. A goal that, to be honest, I’m not keep on pursuing – unwanted regressions that I can only hope to avoid. I’m sorry, but I really don’t intend giving up my intellectual pride and dignity by obsessively staring at the screen of my phone while I wait for a message, a buzz or a call from my partner. I don’t want to solve my conflicts in bed, but by discussing them in a constructive manner. Sex should just be a moment of intimacy like any other, it can’t take precedence over reason. Not that there’s much risk of that happening anyway, the way things are going. What with this marriage business and Horace barricaded in his study, I don’t even remember when the last time we did it was. But the point is this: it’s not a problem. In fact, I’m happy not to remember when the last time was. It’s the greatest demonstration of love that we can share, and that’s all there is to it!
“Trudy, is everything all right?” asks Karen in alarm, peering over my desk.
Her voice acts as a brake on the unceasing flow of thoughts and I come back to reality and realize that I haven’t moved for the last God knows how long, and, above all, have hopelessly crumpled the documents I was holding in my hand without even realizing it.
“Eh? What… Damn it!” I curse, throwing them away with an angry gesture. “It’s all this tension I’m accumulating. I haven’t slept for three days,” I confess, slumping back into my chair.
“Why don’t you take the rest of the day off?” she suggests. “It will do you good.”
“I don’t know…”
“Come on… how long has it been since you last took a holiday?”
What a stupid question. As if I didn’t know!
�
�It’s been…”
And I find myself digging into my memory without obtaining any actual information.
“You see?” she exclaims, satisfied with my silence. “Get that charcoal-grey suit out of that chair, chuck your knickers in the bin and go and have a bit of healthy prenuptial sex.”
“Karen!” I reproach her, jumping out of my chair, before leaning over the paperwork on my desk and continuing in a voice which becomes a faint whisper. “How can you think such things?”
“Why? What did I say?” she asks defensively with an innocent expression as she picks up a folder. “You really need to let off some steam. If you carry on like this, I won’t have a private life any more.” And as circumstantial evidence she points to the stupid amount of work I have dumped on her over the last few days. Folders. Documents. Registers. “Do it for me,” she pleads, pursing her lips into the shape of a little heart.
What nonsense! The only thing I need right now is a well-trained bloodhound and a less nosy assistant.
And what if…
And it’s just ridiculous. How is it possible that in our society people only think about stuff like that? We’ve become too bloody greedy and materialist. A relationship is made up of a thousand other things, like shopping on Saturday at the supermarket or choosing the right mortgage at a variable rate. Those are the things that change your life!
But still…
No… No, come on. Let’s be serious. Above all, I’m in the office. I have a thousand things to do. Sex is pretty much the last thing on my mind now.
Of course it is.
Sex? At this time of day? Pshaw!
Sex…
If… Oh God, I feel dizzy.
“Less of the cheek!” I snap, walking round my desk and going to the door. “Miss Morrison,” I reproach her, adopting a formal tone, “from this moment onwards, I would rather that you behaved in a way more suited to your position. I will not accept certain liberties and I strongly suggest that you comport yourself more respectfully in future, because I don’t know for how long I can ensure your already precarious position at Wilbourgh & Trench.”
Karen stares at me, not knowing whether to burst out laughing or call a psychiatrist. I pretend not to notice and pass in front of her, ready to disappear down the hallway.
“Where the hell are you going now?” she asks me uncertainly as she sees me grab the door handle.
“As if you didn’t know…” I answer, effectively raising the white flag.
*
“Knock, knock,” I whisper, peeking into Rupert’s office. “Can I come in?”
He’s on the phone. He looks up from his laptop and indicates that I should wait.
“Oops… I hadn’t noticed.”
I gesture that I’ll come back later, but he shakes his head to tell me to stay. It’s pointless standing there twiddling my thumbs in the doorway, so, at that point, I go in, choose one of the chairs, sit down, cross my legs and wait for him to finish. I pass the time looking at the desk, the furniture and out of the window, casually keeping one ear on the conversation while I make sure I look okay. Today, I’m wearing a new grey suit; a jacket, fitted at the waist, a tight skirt and a slightly transparent white blouse. The most sophisticated kind of elegance. I can’t but feel satisfied. Needless to say, there is nothing that makes me feel more at ease than a dark suit. As far as I’m concerned, a suit isn’t just a uniform worn by people devoid of personality. Oh no – a suit is the epitome of efficiency, the trump card for those who, regardless of conditions or of their geographical location, always want to be perfect. It’s not a question of being comfortable, it’s an actual philosophy of life. A perfect symbol of being ‘always prepared’. If you wear a suit, you are implicitly stating that you are the centre of your universe. At any time of day or night, in any weather condition, in any business environment, you are saying, you are always perfectly integrated into the context. I’d give up everything – from my hairdresser and shoes to my bags and jewellery – before I’d give up my suits. What can I say? We’ve each of us got our own obsessions. Mine has three buttons and side splits.
“Okay, I’ll call you tomorrow. And, hey… I want those contracts signed by Monday.”
Rupert hangs up and stretches in his chair, throwing his arms up above his head.
“I’ll never make it to fifty!” he complains. “I’ve replaced carbohydrates with antacids.”
“What an exaggeration,” I tease him, amused.
“Oh, you think I’m kidding?” he asks manically. “As soon as I even hear the phone ringing I come out in a rash.”
“You should just try and be a bit less apprehensive.”
“Probably, but I didn’t expect to have to take over the branch so suddenly.”
He’s not joking – it was a sudden change. He found himself having to replace the old director without any warning. I’m happy he did, though. He’s a really good boss as well as a wonderful person, which helps to create a calm, inspiring workplace.
“You’re doing very well,” I say sincerely.
He smiles suspiciously.
“What is it that you want?” he asks.
I can’t help bursting out laughing.
“You know.”
“Thompson & Thompson?” he prompts, referring to the acquisition I dealt with without making any comment.
“Exactly,” I confirm.
“I don’t know if you deserve it. You didn’t even bring me a cup of coffee.”
“I could make it up to you with a chocolate muffin tomorrow.”
He looks satisfied.
“Okay – they called about twenty minutes ago.”
“And…?”
I feel the tension starting to rise.
“You were great!” he admits, after having kept me in suspense for a few seconds.
“Really?” I ask happily.
“You destroyed them. You frightened them so much that they would have signed anything to avoid seeing the agreement fall through. How the hell do you do it?”
“Hey, I’m a woman! I was designed and assembled to always get what I want. Otherwise what would be the point of having boobs?”
“A point in your favour,” he grants, “but I warn you, you won’t need them with me. Right now, I’m too fragile to negotiate. Whatever you want, the answer is ‘yes’.” He darkens. “I have officially been in mourning since yesterday evening.”
“I understand,” I say sympathetically. “How bad was it? Four nil?”
“Five…” he admits, sobbing.
“Nasty. Against Madrid, right?”
“Yup.”
“To Mary’s great joy, I imagine,” I say, twisting the knife in the wound.
“Remind me why I married her?”
“Because she was easier to programme than a washing machine and cheaper than a cleaner?” I joke. We’re close enough that I can: until recently, we were just colleagues and would often go to the pub together to viciously take the piss out of our respective partners. Our roles might have changed, but the taking the piss hasn’t.
“No, it’s not that – it’s that I hate sleeping alone and I still haven’t learned to put on a tie by myself.”
“Well, think of the silver lining: you might not be able to go to Chelsea away games, but you’ll have the most beautiful Windsor knot in the kingdom.”
“Remind me to write it on a post-it and stick it on the builder’s bill.”
“Don’t tell me you’re re-doing the bathroom again?”
“We’ve decided that our Alizarin terracotta tiles are too reminiscent of fire signs, and that might contaminate our corner dedicated to inner purification, so we’ve chosen light blue tiles with wavy undulating decorations that ‘evoke the motion of water’.”
“When are you going to cancel your bloody subscription to Furniture-Chic?”
“What difference would that make?” he asks resignedly, letting his hands fall to the desk with a thud, “She’s learnt how to use Google now.” He shrugs.
“Fortunately, I spend three quarters of my time here and I’m too overworked to bother asking what she’s doing to the shower. When I get home I say ‘hello’, stuff my face with frozen food and then collapse on the bed to wait for a heart attack, which I hope is going to come no later than in the next three or four years. Until then, all I need is to know that you, at least, won’t abandon me. I couldn’t handle all this without your help.”
“Never!”
My conviction is enough to put him in a good mood. He says nothing else, so I decide to be direct. “Listen… have they said anything about my promotion?”
“I thought you’d ask,” he mumbles, scratching his chin. “Unfortunately it’s not up to me, you know that.”
“Sure, but you must have an idea whether or not they are willing to consider it, right?”
“Believe me, I’ve mentioned it, but no one wanted to give anything away. You know how these things are…”
“You don’t think there’s any chance, then?”
“No, that’s not what I mean,” he counters, but doesn’t continue. He remains silent as though he wants to add something but doesn’t have the courage.
“Rupert,” I urge him. “We’re not kids. Tell me what’s going on. I won’t let on I’ve heard anything or do anything that might compromise your position. I’ll be very discreet, whatever it is.”
“I’ve always envied your self-control,” he admits. “I’ll be honest with you, I’ve often wished I was able to handle my work with the same distance.”
There’s a pause, and then he finally decides to open up. “Well, the rumours say that a vacancy might be coming up at head office. And according to the rumours, they’re looking at three names. And one of the three is yours. Of course, it’s not a done deal. I know for a fact that the other two have pretty decent CVs and a few years more experience, but apparently they were very impressed by your dedication and, if they’re not bullshitting me, you’re all playing on equal terms.”
I manage to keep calm.
But inside, there are fireworks.
“So?” he reacts, perplexed by my lack of reaction.