by Celia Hayes
“Okay,” I nod.
“That’s all? ‘Okay’?”
“What else am I supposed to say?”
“God, you’re weird! I don’t understand you.”
“Why? I do a good job, but that was something I already knew. All you’ve done is confirm that our bosses have noticed too.”
“Whatever you want,” he chuckles, adding in a serious voice, “although sometimes you scare me. Anyway, I’m going to get back to work. What are you doing today?”
“I’m going out.”
He raises his eyes from a magazine on the desk and looks at me with the expression of someone who is sure he must be hearing voices.
“And where are you going?”
“I’ve decided to take half a day off – is that a problem?”
“Erm…” he mutters. I’ve obviously taken him completely off guard. “Err… No, why shouldn’t you?” he decides, sounding particularly understanding. “Enjoy the moment.”
I wasn’t surprised. Karen was right, I haven’t had a holiday since God knows when and no one knows that better than Rupert.
Happy to have a bit of time to myself, I leave him to his numerous calls and, despite the coolness of my reaction, I walk out of his office with my feet floating six inches off the ground.
I am what I want to be.
I am where I want to be.
I’m with the people I want to be with.
Three words to describe me?
Fulfilled.
Professional.
Aware.
Chapter 3
Off-the-rack Happiness
“When I said I loved you, I didn’t mean,
‘Please come into my life, completely destroy it and then leave without looking back’
It was more just a way of saying ‘Do you fancy a shag?’”
Happiness is an elusive concept that, if we wanted to, we might compare to a haute couture fashion show – exclusive, expensive and, if you’re lucky, lasting a full season. It’s a pervasive feeling that makes you perform weird, wiggly dances of celebration, in thrall to devastating mental imbalance. So, I wonder, am I really happy? Can I actually, in all honesty, say that I want to burst into I Feel Good using the TV remote as a microphone? No, I guess not.
Or maybe I’m wrong. Maybe this really is happiness, but at a more affordable level. A sort of off-the-rack happiness…
Oh God, why do I think so much?
Trying to suppress my thoughts, I leave the building and walk out onto the busy pavement.
It’s a wonderful day. After two weeks of continuous rain, the sun has finally started shining and the atmosphere is warm and welcoming like an early summer’s day should be.
“Oh… sorry,” I apologize after carelessly bumping into an old man.
The streets are so crowded at this hour. I had no idea.
When was the last time I took a walk during working hours? I’m generally quite an early bird, but I spend all week in the office and on Sundays I’m always either too tired to get up or I’m in church with my family, who wouldn’t miss a sermon by Father Anthony even if they’d been invited to dinner by Queen Elizabeth in person.
The result is that I’ve forgotten what it feels like to be outdoors, and rediscovering it gives me a deep sense of well-being.
Thrilled by this, I breathe in the city air and suddenly remember that I haven’t read the news yet, so I stop to buy a tabloid newspaper. Another thing I haven’t done for ages. I usually read the news online and I have a couple of subscriptions to some online journals in my field that keep me updated via email. Today, though, I grasp in my hands a proper newspaper, realizing that I don’t even know how to hold it without crumpling it. Very anachronistic – or at least, it is for me: I’m usually joined at the hip to my tablet. Browsing through the paper reminds me of when I was a kid. Back when I used to wear Doc Martens, dyed my hair blue and would rummage through my mother’s stuff in search of her old flares. I was a pretty busy bee on the political front as well – there wasn’t a demonstration that I didn’t take part in. I went around with thick glasses and was trying to work out who I was by wearing black nail varnish and getting a navel piercing.
It seems like an eternity ago…
“You’re welcome,” I hear a voice say on the other side of the counter. It’s the girl in the newsagents holding out a handful of change, waiting for me to take it so she can serve another customer. Thanking her, I adjust the strap of my bag on my shoulder and walk back into the stream of people.
For once, I just want to take it easy.
I have the whole day to myself.
I take a deep, relaxed breath, lean against a lamp post and browse through the headlines.
STAB-VEST TESTER SENTENCED TO SIX MONTHS FOR GBH.
MAN DIVES INTO BURNING HOUSE TO SAVE BEER COLLECTION.
WETHERSPOON PUBS REFUSE TO SERVE CANADIAN CUSTOMERS UNTIL
THEY TAKE JUSTIN BIEBER BACK.
“Hmm… Maybe next time I’ll buy an antiques magazine.”
Discouraged by the disheartening effect of the news on my momentary optimism, I pull my nose out of the newspaper and find the equally dramatic realities of my own life suddenly coming to mind: yesterday I lent my car to my sister, Kat.
“Bloody hell…” I mutter.
I hadn’t thought I’d need it, because I only live a few minutes away from the bank. However, Horace’s office is situated right across town.
“What now?”
I can’t miss this opportunity. When am I ever going to be lucky enough to have another free day when I’ve actually managed to put on a bra the same colour as my knickers?
“No – it’s now or never!” I mutter, and without losing heart, I decide that the best thing to do, unless I want to get lost in the corridors of the underground, is to take a taxi. Especially given the heels I’m wearing…
I check my phone, but the nearest Uber is twenty minutes away, so I lean out from the kerb and peer about for a taxi in the traffic. A couple whiz by right in front of me, but they are already taken. I make my way to a nearby crossroads, hoping to have more luck, and start peering into the traffic again. Motorbikes, cars and buses pass and finally a free taxi appears behind a white removals truck. As soon as I lift my arm, it pulls up right next to the pedestrian crossing. I’m afraid someone might try and take it before me, so I push my way through the people towards it.
“Good morning,” I greet the driver, rummaging inside my bag for my mobile. When at last I close the door, the driver asks me in a flat, completely toneless voice, “Where do you want to go?”
Distractedly, I give him the address, busily inserting my hands free earpiece.
Riiiing
The call starts.
Riiiing
The engine vibrates and the driver gets the vehicle into gear. It plunges between the cars in the queue at the traffic lights.
Riiiing
We cross a couple of blocks, pass traffic signs and crowded crosswalks.
Riiiing
Traffic, car horns repeatedly beeping, flashing lights. The poignant smell of smog.
This is my city.
This is my life.
Riiiing
“Hello?” answers Horace after almost five rings.
He sounds tired. It must have been a hellish morning.
“Am I disturbing you?”
“Oh, Trudy, sorry, hi… I hadn’t looked at the display. Where are you?”
“In a taxi. I have a business appointment,” I lie. “Are you in the office?” I ask casually.
“Actually, no. I had a few acts to look through and Bernard needed the meeting room to negotiate the Crawford case, so I went back home to get a bit of peace and quiet,” he explains.
Bernard is his partner.
“Okay…”
“How did it go with Rupert?” he asks.
“Just as I’d hoped. They seem to be very pleased with me.”
“I’m glad to hear it. Did he say anything
about your promotion?”
“Not yet, but at this point…”
“Are you happy?”
“Very,” I admit. “You?”
“I’d be happier if you were here with me,” he whispers into the handset, leaving me speechless. Desperately trying to answer with something a bit less obvious than ‘me too’, I hear a strange sound, like a door or a window slamming, I can’t say.
“What happened?”
“Argh…” he sighs. “Trudy, I have to go. All the bloody folders have fallen on the floor, damn it!” He swears. “I’ll call you later, okay?”
“Okay,” I giggle, hanging up “See you later!”
“I would be happier if you were here with me,” I repeat in my mind, trying to contain my emotion. Horace has never been much for sweet talk, I think it’s something to do with the education he received. He’s quiet, serious and reliable but at the same time reserved, a bit introverted and set in his ways. Lately, however, he’s… I don’t know. Sometimes he calls for no reason other than to ask me stupid questions, like if I’ve eaten or if I’m still in the office. Other times he strokes my face as if I were a helpless puppy.
He’s letting himself go. Our relationship is starting to transform itself, to consolidate, and I sense that he can finally free himself of the mask he’s always been forced to wear to live up to his family’s expectations.
He’s no longer afraid of showing his fragility and his words just now on the phone are tangible proof.
“I would be happier if you were here with me.”
I feel as though I’ve been reborn. Reassured.
Is it really possible that a small gesture, a few silly words, can sweep away the tension built up over the last few days?
“Excuse me,” I say to the driver, “there’s been a change of plan – could you turn left at the traffic lights and drop me next to Topshop?”
“No problem,” he answers, putting his indicator on, and, after letting a couple over the zebra crossing, he slips into a street on the left, following my directions.
It takes us just over ten minutes to get there, and I spend the time checking email on my tablet. Karen was right; there are at least ten different memos. Most of them are just communications about schedules, upcoming deliveries and staff meetings, but at the bottom there’s the request for staff for the small provincial branch that she had mentioned earlier in the office.
Position vacant for suitable personnel to manage a branch in deficit in sector four
Immediate availability. Period: approximately six months.
Possibility of re-appointment.
Contact personnel office, attaching a copy of your CV.
“‘Approximately’…” I read, lost in thought.
I don’t envy the poor bugger who’ll be forced to accept, especially considering how far it is from London.
“‘Possibility of re-appointment’…”
I give a grimace of disgust.
Six months, an infinitely long time. And then sector four… I can’t even remember where it is, I think it might be in Scotland. Could it be?
“Wherever it is, it’s not my problem,” I say, dismissing any eventual possibility of reconsidering the offer by actually deciding to delete the whole mail as though refusing the very idea that, for some unfortunate reason, I might actually happen to find myself in a situation like that. At that moment though, the driver asks me if he can stop and putting spam in the trash is temporarily postponed in the face of other priorities. Like coming to terms with myself and my urgent need to take back possession of my private life.
“Yes, here’s fine,” I say, catching a glimpse of trees through the window. A perfect scene of residential tranquillity. On one side are the black railings of the park, on the other an endless row of buildings. In one of these, just next to a small herbalist’s shop, is Horace’s flat, just waiting for me to find the courage to enter.
What am I doing?
My gaze lingers on the facade and agitation overwhelms me.
I’ve never done anything like this before. It’s really not me, leaving the office to sneak to his house right in the middle of a working day. Never in six years, I swear – but maybe this actually is the right time for madness.
What if he gets angry?
“What nonsense!”
I need him. I need him desperately. Only now do I realize how much I’ve missed him. So, with my heart pounding, I climb the stairs outside two steps at a time, walk into the lobby and go swiftly to the lift.
The entrance to 2A is down the hall. Not wishing to be heard, I start pulling the keys from my jacket pocket the moment the lift doors open on his floor. I don’t want to spoil the surprise…
“I wonder what face he’ll pull when he sees me,” I wonder with a smile, more excited than I’ve been in I don’t know how long.
“Okay, Trudy, get ready,” I say, trying to egg myself on as I open the door quietly and sneak into the apartment.
The living room is empty and all around me is silence.
It’s as if there’s a warm blanket wrapped around me and it seems almost sacrilege to spoil it.
I reach the sofa, the only sound that of my own breath.
The rest is like a ritual.
I take off my jacket and place it over the arm of the sofa.
I untie my hair.
I take off my skirt.
I just keep my underwear and shirt on. I would like to take off the rest, but this is the first time and I don’t know how Horace will react to finding me half naked in the doorway.
I take off my shoes too, slipping out of them without having to bend down.
Excited, amused and actually amazed by this momentary insanity, I continue down the hallway and go towards the study.
Oh… yes!
And I hear a soft rustling sound.
“Eh?”
I stop for a few moments with pricked ears. It was almost as though I heard…
“What…”
A strange uneasiness takes possession of my thoughts.
Troubled, I walk on tiptoe until I reach the entrance to the study. The voices are clearer now and an annoying tingling in my fingers forces me to shake my wrist.
Yes, don’t stop, keep going!
“What the…?”
I no longer have the courage to go any further. I can’t even describe how it’s happened, how this new awareness has materialized inside me, where it’s come from or where it’s trying to take me. All I know is that suddenly it’s as if I were paralysed. As if something… something indefinite were stopping me from going any further.
My first impulse is to run away, it comes as a wave of panic, but then I hear his voice… And I lose control of my actions. I am no longer responsible.
Trembling, probably from palpitations, I throw the door open wide, and…
The scene that presents itself to my eyes is a really unpleasant one.
“That’s right, yeah… You’re my little piggy!”
“Mmm… Tell me again! Tell me I’m your piggy!”
“You’re my piggy! You’re my kinky little piggy.”
He’s never called me his piggy…
“Trudy!” exclaims Horace, with flushed cheeks and a forehead drenched in sweat, as soon as he notices my presence.
He’s standing, completely naked, between the thighs of an unidentified woman. Actually, no, I’ve seen that face before… she’s the political refugee he’s taking care of. And he certainly seems to be taking care of her with commendable dedication.
The room starts to spin around me.
“Horace…” I manage to mumble, as my mouth goes dry.
Six years. Six years together. Projects, dreams, confessions, sharing everything.
Everything starts moving in slow motion and it is as if I were no longer really there – as if I were just watching the scene as a spectator. I hear his muffled voice blurting out excuses. I see him running awkwardly towards his clothes, discarded haphazardly on the floor
, picking them up, and hastily putting them on.
She slides down from the desk, covering her breasts with a hand and looking at me with wide eyes. She doesn’t look frightened. Or sorry. She’s just startled.
Trudy. Trudy, speak to me!
Something is shaking me. It’s Horace’s hands shaking my shoulders.
I look for his eyes. “Horace…”
I can’t think of anything else to say.
He was my life. He was my future. He was the man who was supposed to support me in times of need. He was the father of my future children. He was the memory of that stolen kiss in the attic. He was. But he no longer is now.
In a second, my present has turned into my past. And it’s a sharp, excruciating change.
Up until a minute before I’d felt numb, but the effect has worn off and I find myself screaming uncontrollably, burying my face in my hands.
“Trudy, wait…”
Panicking, he tries to soothe me, put his trousers on and stroke my face at the same time.
“Don’t do that, just take it easy,” he whispers breathlessly. “Let’s talk. Let’s go in the living room. Trudy…”
“I don’t believe it… I don’t believe it… I don’t believe it…” I begin to repeat disgustedly and that faint whisper turns into an angry shout as soon as I feel his clammy hands hold me harder. “Get your hands off me!” I push him away. “Don’t you dare touch me again!” I command, interposing my index finger between our faces.
“Darling…”
He seems mortified.
“What?”
I’m beside myself.
He doesn’t know how to answer. He goes quiet, and I follow suit, while the reality hits me in all its squalor: he’s betrayed me – and with a modicum of objectivity, it dawns on me that it probably isn’t even the first time.
“I don’t know how it happened,” he begins to sputter. “The marriage, the stress of the case. You – you’re always so distant.”
“Oh no!” I interrupt him before he can go any further, giving him a glare that shuts him up on the spot. “Oh no,” I say again, lifting a hand, “don’t you dare try that. Don’t blame me for your own inadequacies. Don’t insult my intelligence, you’ve already walked all over the rest of me.”
With trembling legs I take one last look at the girl, then go back into the living room and start to get dressed while I try to recover my self-control. Horace follows me, dragging his feet on the carpet, but he doesn’t say anything. He knows from experience that there’s no point.