The Difference Between You and Me

by Celia Hayes

  No, what would it mean? I really don’t know.

  “Trudy, talk to Rupert. Get him to send you away from this hole. If they really want to sell the branch it doesn’t make sense that you have to stay. They can send someone else to sign the paperwork.”

  Another kiss.

  “I’d rather have you by my side at the moment. Look, I know a lot of people. How about if I make a couple of phone calls and—”

  “No need,” I interrupt him, knowing what he’s going to propose. Until now, I have never had to thank anyone for my career and I have always been proud of the fact. “I’m sure I can take care of it myself and there’s not long to go. You’ll see, I’ll be back in a month at the most, and without asking anyone for anything.”

  “Sure, whatever you like. But do talk to Rupert. Maybe he can get you back earlier and send a substitute.”

  “I’ll write to him this afternoon,” I say. “But now I’m going to get ready or you’ll miss the plane.”

  I take a shower and I find myself in a magnificent outfit with Capri pants, bought on sale in an outlet outside town last summer. I look in the mirror with satisfaction, settle my hair behind my ears and join him in the living room.

  “Shall I call a cab?” he asks.

  “We are in Turriff, Horace. There are no taxis here,” I reveal, unable to suppress a grin.

  “Are you kidding?” He lowers the phone in disbelief.

  “I’m afraid not.” I sigh. “Tell me, how did you get here yesterday?”

  “There was a bus. It was the last one. So I took it.” And he looks at his watch. “But I didn’t check if there were any this morning.”

  I tease him for a minute, but I am not evil enough to give him the coup de grace, so I say, “It doesn’t matter. I rented a car. It’s here, next to the garage.”

  A relieved Horace welcomes the news and gestures to me to get going. I resign myself to the fact that he’s leaving, and walk across the garden, silent now. I keep my thoughts to myself, as well as my disappointment. In silence, we reach the car next to the fence and there we meet Ethan, who is picking up a newspaper from the driveway. He’s wearing tracksuit pants, a pair of flip-flops and not even the shadow of a shirt. He has matted hair, stubble and eyes full of sleep, but his beauty is still breath taking. I struggle.

  “Good morning,” he greets me with a frown, pausing and regarding Horace and I, probably wondering who he is.

  “Oh, good morning,” says my ex… my current… my other half, in a friendly voice!

  “Um… Hello Ethan.”

  I go towards the car, desperately trying to avoid explanations, but neither he nor Horace intend to follow me. They stand there looking at one another, expecting me to introduce them.

  “You haven’t met my landlord, have you?” I sigh in resignation, retracing my steps. “Horace, this is Ethan. He’s one of the managers of the pub you can see at the bottom of the road. Ethan,” I address the most outlined quadriceps that nature has ever created. “This is Horace. One of my… my… He’s a lawyer.”

  Horace shakes his hand vigorously. Ethan barely responds. He just grunts. He just grunts a sort of ‘nice to meet you,’ then gives me a burning glare.

  “Darling, it’s very late. We have go straight away,” Horace reminds me, giving me a surprise kiss in a clear act of territorial demarcation. The other male accepts the limits imposed and goes home without even responding to my “Bye.” The show ends, the credits roll and our ‘thank you’ goes out to the viewers. We will now leave the Discovery Channel, jump into the car and head for the airport.

  I get back when it’s already evening, tired after all those hours of driving and miserable – so miserable – about Horace’s departure. During the journey there we talked a bit about our situation and what we would do when I got back. He gave me the engagement ring back and we decided to take everything from where we had left it with only one difference – this time I’m organizing the wedding by myself. I was adamant about that, I don’t intend to see either his mother or Violet until the day of the wedding. I thought he would be upset, but he laughed and agreed.

  The forecast is for a peaceful marriage.

  Chapter 21

  Inappropriate Reflections

  “And I still think that she should…”

  “Blah blah blah blah… I can’t hear youuuuu”

  “Very mature, really”

  “Hello? Karen, can you hear me? No… I don’t have any reception!” I scream desperately into the phone while I’m parking in front of the bank. “What? No. I haven’t received a proposal yet. Yes, yes, he told me. I sent an email yesterday afternoon. Yes I know. I was just hoping you could do something. Richard Marshall should pass by my office today. I might be able to make him tell me where they’re at.”

  Parallel parking almost does for me. Five seconds of manoeuvres and I look as if I’ve just been in an armed confrontation. Disgruntled by the gearbox’s prima donna behaviour, I reverse into the bumper of the Mini parked behind me. I go forward and complete the job by hitting the bumper of the Ford in front.

  “Shit.”

  “Problems?” asks Karen.

  “No, nothing,” I reply, annoyed. For two days I’ve been trying to track Rupert down but I’ve failed. It’s partly because of the overwhelming quantity of stuff he found himself having to deal with during my absence. They haven’t sent anyone to replace me and apparently for the last few weeks he has dedicated his first ‘fuck you’ of the day to me, each time he passed by my empty office. While this makes me think that he will be happy to accommodate my request for immediate return, I shudder at the thought of how irate he will be when he finally has my throat in his hands.

  “I’ve got to go,” I say hastily. I asked her to keep her eyes open and to inform me if there’s any news, but she can’t do much. The only one who can intervene at this time is Rupert, so I have to wait. “Will you let me know? Yes, you try to find something out. Tell him I’ll call him as soon as I’m done with Richard, okay?” I wait for her to hang up before putting the phone in my bag. With a quick look, I check the sky – as often happens in these parts, it looks like rain, resulting in latent dampness and sudden attacks of sinusitis. The thought doesn’t bother me, but certainly doesn’t make me jump for joy. The weather affects my moods, and all those clouds in the distance always end up making me say or do things that half an hour later I regret, not because I think I was wrong, but because I create chain reactions which I would rather avoid.

  Sighing, cursing at random and getting out of the car, I walk round it and set off, elbowing my way furiously between passers by, determined to reach my goal even if it means killing everyone.

  “Good morning!” one greets me.

  “Haven’t you got anything better to do?” I’m about to reply caustically when I inadvertently bump into Ethan, standing next to the door downing a hot dog.

  “Do you realize it’s eight o’clock in the morning?” I ask, disgustedly.

  “I need protein,” he mutters between mouthfuls of hot dog as he peers at my car.

  “What are you doing?”

  “Do you realize you’ve managed to have two accidents in less than a minute and come out of it totally unscathed?”

  Ah there we are! He’s not crazy, he’s just trying to ruin my day.

  “How long have you been staring at me?”

  “It was a pretty awful spectacle. I feel so bad for the Ford’s owner, I swear, I nearly burst out crying,” he confesses, leaning down to check one of my headlights. “Not even a scratch—”

  “Ethan, I’m in a hurry.” I tap a foot impatiently. “Will you get out of the way?”

  He gets up again lazily, gives me a dirty look, shoves the last piece, dripping with ketchup, into his mouth and stands before me with a belligerent air.

  “Anything else?”

  “Yup.” Drily.

  I really should stop asking questions I don’t want to hear the answers to.

  “They’re w
aiting for me—” I try to get past him, but he bars the way and leans towards me with a menacing look. “Trudy—”

  “Ethan, I realize that at this time of day you have very little to do, but that’s not true for the rest of us.”

  “Don’t try that. I’m not moving until you tell me what Horace was doing at your house yesterday evening and, above all, why was he still there this morning.”

  “I don’t think it is any concern of yours,” I say, but when he raises an eyebrow, I melt and mumble, “He came to talk.”

  The explanation doesn’t seem to satisfy him.

  “The situation is complicated. My relationship with Horace has always been based on trust and mutual respect. If you knew the whole story, you’d probably understand the reason why I acted like I did.”

  Now what have I said wrong? Why is he looking at me that way?

  “Don’t kid yourself that my version of events is going to change radically even if you do pull a face like a vulture chick at feeding time,” I add, as soon as I notice a certain intimidatory aspect in his expression. But being so close to him takes my breath away. “We got back together.”

  As soon as I confess, he pulls back and runs a hand through his hair. I don’t know why, but I start to feel terribly guilty. I know, it’s crazy. I haven’t done anything, but I feel awful.

  “He was… he was devastated,” I explain, adding limply, “I couldn’t… We’ve been together for six years. We had so many plans. Everyone makes mistakes.”

  “I really don’t get it…”

  “Ethan, you don’t know him. Horace would never…”

  “He would never? Trudy, are you kidding? He already did!”

  His contemptuous look hurts me deeply. He has the power to make me feel like a nonentity and my reaction is immediate: anger. Seething, uncontrollable anger.

  “And would you mind telling me why I’m here discussing it with you? I don’t understand what role you play in my life that means you have the right to speak about it,” I attack him, barely refraining from shouting. No, it wasn’t like me. I never go that far. But almost…

  I catch my breath and look at him, waiting for a reaction.

  He doesn’t reply. He doesn’t add anything else.

  He can’t. Not after what I’ve just said.

  I take advantage of the fact and leave. Right now I’m too vulnerable to have a row. I can ‘t even control my reactions and that can’t happen. I absolutely can’t let that happen.

  I walk by him without looking at him, mingling with the passers by. I reach the bank’s entrance at a brisk pace, and only then realize my knees are trembling and my cheeks are flushed.

  Embarrassed, I cover my face with both hands, but no one around me seems to notice me. How can they, when the ATM isn’t giving receipts, pension funds are offering paltry interest rates and the latest payment on the car is likely to affect the already precarious state of grandmother’s health?

  Inappropriate reflections at this time of the morning, Trudy Watts. Wouldn’t you be wiser to think about what edible underwear is in the sale this month?

  “Miss Watts, Mr Marshall is in your office,” Catherine greets me. “Shall I bring coffee for you both?”

  “Yes. Tell him I’ve arrived. I’m just going to the bathroom for a moment and I’ll be right with him,” I murmur, without even looking at her and go towards the door of the toilet patting my hair into place.

  *

  Richard leaves my office at ten-thirty. Two and a half hours of discussing figures and accounts. Pretending to have a chat between friends. He’s clearly testing the waters and I pretend that I haven’t realized. I just hope it will speed things up.

  The stress is killing me. Will I ever get back home? I want to find out immediately.

  “Hello? This is Trudy Watts.” I say, picking up the handset and putting it between my shoulder and my ear so that I can leaf through my diary. “Can I talk to Rupert Shaw? Tell him it’s urgent…” and they leave me on hold.

  “Hey,” he says after a few minutes. “At last – so you’re alive?”

  “Me? I’ve been trying to talk to you for two days.”

  “It’s a bad time and it’s all your fault,” he starts.

  “Okay, mea culpa, but, believe me, I’m no better off than you.”

  “Yeah, well you deserve it! So, what news? Karen told me that the director of RBS was coming in this morning.”

  “He just left. He made an appointment for Wednesday,” I read between the calendar pages. “He’s been incredibly kind.”

  “He’s probably snooping around.”

  “I had thought that too. How’s the acquisition going?” I ask him, holding back my anxiety.

  “For now it’s all stalled. I don’t know the details, but their offer wasn’t that great.”

  “We’re just at the beginning. It’s only natural that they’d start low,” I say, opening my mailbox.

  “Yeah…”

  He yawns.

  “Listen, is there any real need for me to stay in Turriff? I mean…” I pause. “What I can do, for better or worse, has been done. Can’t they replace me with someone else?”

  “And what do you think I’ve been trying to do since you left?” he explodes. “The point is that they don’t want to give in at that price and so they’re biding their time. God, I really need you here in London, Trudy,” he growls in exasperation. “I’ll tell you what, as soon as there’s any news, send me a message. I’ll make a few calls and we’ll see what I can get moving. Okay? Don’t give up. Hang in there.”

  “Yeah, sure…” I grumble, massaging my forehead dejectedly.

  “What the hell were you thinking of when you took the job? Explain to me how it even crossed your mind to accept that offer,” he loses his temper.

  “It’s… It’s a long story, Rupert. Maybe when I get back I’ll tell you,” I sigh. “There’s someone at the door. Let’s speak again in a few days?”

  “Okay,” he says tiredly. “All the best.”

  “Same to you,”

  I say goodbye and hang up. “Come in.”

  “Good morning, Miss Watts, may I?”

  “Please, Mr Mills. Come in.”

  The boy, albeit hesitantly, approaches the desk holding some files in his hands. He looks gaunt and his shirt is crumpled. He looks around, not knowing where to start.

  “Why don’t you sit down?” I suggest. He accepts my proposal with a slight smile and comes to sit in one of the two chairs on the other side of the desk, clutching the folders in his arms.

  “What did you want to talk to me about?” I say, crossing my legs and preparing to listen to him.

  “Miss Watts, we saw Mr Marshall and…”

  “And…?”

  “Well, on behalf of all of us, we were beginning to wonder what the situation was, now that two months have passed since your arrival, and…”

  “And…?” I repeat, this time with a hint of impatience.

  “And… You see, considering the significant differences in management compared to before, the extra hours that, for heaven’s sake, we all accept… I wouldn’t dream of… But…”

  “Mr Mills,” I rise before this turns into a psychoanalytical session. “Can you ask me a question that makes sense?”

  “Me? I… Yes, I can… Now… In practice…”

  What did I do to deserve this?

  I hate Mondays. I can’t stand the world on Monday. Not that I feel much in tune with it the rest of the week either… I mean, I don’t love the world at the best of times – I tolerate it. But on Mondays…

  “Mr Mills, I have a lot of work to do,” I inform him.

  “We’d like to know if our jobs are still at risk, Miss Watts. That’s all,” he manages to say. “We saw Mr Marshall and—”

  “And you’re alarmed. I can understand that,” I continue for him. “Mr Mills, the situation is still potentially unstable. Not as bad as when I arrived, but you can imagine how hard it is to resolve this am
ount of financial difficulty in less than sixty days.”

  I should soothe him, but I don’t feel like it. It’s pointless now. Better to prepare them for the worst. Not immediately, no, but maybe a few hints.

  “Yes, but… isn’t there any improvement?”

  “For the moment nothing substantial. We’ve done everything possible, recovered where we could recover, but there’s still a long way to go and we’ll have to wait to find out the results of our new strategies.”

  “But you said that with your intervention—”

  “Mr Mills, I’m not a fairy godmother or a bearded leprechaun with magical powers. I can’t make rabbits appear out of top hats. For the moment we are slowly emerging from the abyss, so we’ll see how things go,” I conclude.

  “And if it doesn’t work? What will happen? Could the branch be sold off?”

  “It’s a possibility,” I admit.

  At those words he goes pale. With one hand he rubs his cheek, with the other he clings to the files while staring at me with wide eyes and the look of a prisoner walking towards the gallows.

  I’ve never been good at these things. It shouldn’t be me handling them. It should be someone less intolerant, more tactful. Much more tactful than me. Because I’m not actually cruel, I swear. I’m simply pragmatic, and I’m used to managing my emotions differently. Exactly. I am emotionally different. No, oh no, that sounds bad. But I’m not a witch who enjoys seeing people suffer. I might be a bit stiff, perhaps a bit of an introvert, but I’m not indifferent to what happens around me.

  But I know you don’t believe me. You’re probably thinking, ‘look at that bitch! She’s kicking all those families out onto the street without the slightest scruple.’ But it’s not like that. I feel terrible, but what the hell am I supposed to do, eh? And would anything change if instead of just staying on this side of the desk I ran towards Mr Mills, begging him to forgive me?

  “I… Tell me something,” he resumes after a few seconds of bewilderment. “If there were to be a change of management, would our positions be protected?”

  Come on, Trudy, say ‘yes’ and send him back to work. Say it. Come on … Say it, damn it! At least nod…