The Difference Between You and Me

by Celia Hayes

  I can’t, it’s useless. I stare at him immobile, and he, who isn’t thick, quickly puts two and two together.

  “I see…”

  This is his only reply. He fiddles with his damned files, gets up, gives me a little nod and heads for the door. And me? I do something I’d never have thought I would have done at work: I rise from my chair, I slam my hands on the desk and shout, “Do you think it’s easy for me? It wasn’t me who created this situation. I didn’t squander the branch’s funds. It was your beloved ex-manager who got you into this mess, not me – but you think he’s a saint while I’m a two-headed monster! Do you really think that I have no intention of helping you?”

  He opens the door, shaking his head dejectedly and says “You’re not even trying.”

  Chapter 22

  Mary Angela Cox

  “I thought you said you were working?”

  “I am.”

  “And since when did you go from social services to room service?”

  And so this week’s over.

  Friday evening, the time is six minutes past six. The date is one to remember. The historical moment when Trudy Watts regains her existence.

  I take my breath, close my eyes and hit send, and an email addressed to Rupert with a report attached on the recent progress is despatched. He replies shortly afterwards telling me that he’ll forward everything to the head office, hoping that it will be enough to allow him to propose my immediate return.

  At this point the countdown begins.

  I haven’t got much to do in the office, and, in any case, I can’t concentrate, so I take my bag, put my jacket on and go towards the door. Apart from me there’s only Adele, who says ‘hello’. She comes in almost every day when we close to clean the bathroom and dust the office. She never speaks, but she doesn’t need to. She hates me, I know.

  Thanks to me, she doesn’t know what colour the sunset is any more, but unfortunately for her, that has no effect on my sense of duty. I am not at all put out, and walk out smiling as I head towards the news stand. In the last few weeks, I’ve taken up the habit – or rather resumed the habit – of reading the newspaper. I find that there’s nothing that relaxes me more. I lie down in the living room in the company of a nice cup of tea and I enjoy the foreign news and crime pages, clad in a tracksuit and fluffy socks. This last horrific detail, however, I keep to myself. If someone happens to knock at the door, I run to my room and put on a bathrobe, pretending I’ve just had a shower. It’s a new side to my multi-faceted personality to which I haven’t quite got used to yet. This early evening laziness, I mean. I can’t explain it, and I can’t even really enjoy it, because I’m always scared something’s going to happen and I’ll be forced to run out of the house looking like that, but I can’t help it, so I let my two contrasting sides fight it out, unable to decide which to pick.

  “Good evening, Miss Watts. The usual?”

  “Yes, thanks a lot,” I say to the newspaper vendor, smiling.

  He hands me a copy from under the counter and adds, “I knew you were coming, so I kept one here for you. Mr Morrison asked me if I had one left, but I said ‘no’,” he tells me with a wink.

  “Nice work!” I whisper, with a conspiratorial expression. “Mr Morrison can watch television,” and I pass him a fiver as I start to glance through the headlines. I’m struck by an article which seems to be particularly sensational news, because it takes up almost half of the front page. It’s about an heiress who has apparently fallen out with her relatives, and – I don’t yet know why – they are threatening to sue her and are asking for her to be declared incapable of managing her own affairs.

  “Scary stuff,” says someone behind me. “Horrible when you have to defend yourself from your own family.” I look up curiously and I see Adam beside the news stand, paying for a sports magazine.

  “Look who it is,” I greet him cheerfully. “I thought you’d gone into hiding.”

  “Overwhelmed with work as usual. You disappeared, as well. I’d hoped to catch you at the last city committee meeting, but you weren’t there.” He comes over and gives me a kiss on the cheek. “How do you do it?” He whispers in my ear.

  “Do… do what?” I ask, momentarily disorientated.

  “Manage to be so beautiful after a day’s work,” he says with a smile that is worth three or four weeks of intense courtship.

  “I think it must be my long lasting foundation cream. One of the best investments in my life,” I joke.

  “You’d be beautiful even without it,” he replies, pointing to a parked car a few steps away. “Can I give you a ride? If I remember correctly, I have a little debt to pay.”

  “I’d gladly accept, but I drove here. My car’s parked right in front of the bank.” I point towards it sadly.

  “Miss Watts, are you trying to avoid me, by any chance?” he asks jokingly.

  “Absolutely not,” I say.

  “I’ll pretend to believe you this time.”

  “Good. I’m pleased.” And I walk away a few steps. “Well, see you soon,” I say, holding out a hand. He gets closer, takes mine in his and, rather than tighten it, he caresses it with the tip of his fingers closing it between his palms.

  “I really hope so.”

  “Um…” I stammer, as I feel a strange pang in my ring finger on the other hand. The one that I’ve kept hidden behind my back more or less ever since I first saw him.

  “Trudy, would you like to go out with me one of these evenings?”

  I knew that was coming.

  “Unfortunately, I can’t, Adam. I would like to very much but…”

  Painful.

  “Oh… I thought you were free,” he mutters, sounding a bit confused.

  “And I was,” I confirm, a bit agitated. “But then there were some sudden changes and—”

  “Okay, you don’t need to add anything else,” he says to save me embarrassment, releasing my hand. I’ll leave you in peace.”

  Commendable.

  “Sorry, again. I… I’m sorry…”

  “No… No, really. Good evening, Trudy.” He walks away and I, a little reluctantly, go to my car.

  Deservedly frustrated.

  In the car I call Horace to remind myself of the positive aspects of my current emotional situation but to be honest I struggle to find many. He can spare me only a few seconds, something that has happened a bit too often this week. Since he decided to devote himself to politics, he’s more committed than ever. He assures me that it’s only a matter of days, without considering that soon I will be there with him, and I will be following him on his travels. I remind him that I have a full-time job, which doesn’t seem to dampen his enthusiasm.

  “Trudy, I’m sorry my love, I really have to go. They’re waiting for me at ‘Texture’ for a business dinner. We need to discuss some details of the election campaign,” he informs me hurriedly. “I’ll call you when I get back, okay?”

  “Sure. Speak to you later then.”

  I hang up feeling demoralized, but as I put the phone in the bag it starts to ring. It’s him again. What has he forgotten?

  “Horace…”

  “I love you like crazy and, if I was there, I’d have ripped your panties off.”

  “You’re completely mad!” I burst out laughing.

  “It’s all your fault,” he says cheerfully. “Keep your phone turned on, when I get back I want to tell you everything I’m going to do to you on Sunday.”

  “Which Sunday?”

  “This Sunday!”

  “Are you coming here?” I try to comprehend, hopefully.

  “Talk to you later! Now I have to go,” he hangs up, leaving me there.

  Wretched!

  I get home continuing to think about the phone call and I can’t stop laughing, even when I find yet another yellow envelope under the door. I’ve started to bin them without even reading them, as I know what they say: the committee, the meeting, you can’t miss it, the Mayor blah blah and see you next week.
r />   I open it, I throw it away and prepare a nice cup of coffee with spray cream, the purchase of which I am very proud. The sofa isn’t enough, no. Tonight I want to spoil myself, so I slip on some cotton shorts and a t-shirt and go and lie on the bed, taking the newspaper with me. I want to read that article about the heiress.

  I flip through the few pages and immerse myself in the sad story of Mary Angela Cox, widow of one of Scotland’s most successful entrepreneurs. Her husband, Daniel Cox, has been dead for nearly eight years, leaving her considerable wealth and dozens of properties around the world. Her three children, whose occupations aren’t specified, became alarmed by her repeated and unexplained disposal of large sums of money and decided to take her to court. They would be willing to make a deal only if the woman, always fiercely independent, decided to rely on a consultant for the management of her assets. Some people think that their only concern is their inheritance. A few months ago they had been forced to intervene to prevent her from marrying a man in his early thirties, who was clearly interested in something other than her renowned vanilla pudding. Mary, however, didn’t give up. She continues to claim to be perfectly capable of managing her own affairs, but declined to make any comment on the shady wedding and motivation behind such an unusual gesture and refused to speak to the press. This, however, isn’t the only shortcoming of which she’s accused. It seems that the straw that broke the camel’s back was the auction of some of the most precious jewels in her collection. The proceeds, which amounted to almost two million pounds, were donated to charity. The recipients of this gift are a well known humanitarian association who have been working in Africa for over twenty years and some major research institutions. Her adorable children and grandchildren certainly didn’t jump for joy on discovering this and called the best lawyer in the country in an attempt to retrieve their inheritance.

  In addition to the shock of the news, which has been shamelessly trumpeted from the rooftops, there is also disapproval of the way Mary Angela Cox has been treated by her relatives for she has always been renowned for her generosity to her family. Regardless of who’s right or wrong, many think that the Cox family should have kept such a sensitive issue private. Making a noise in the papers about the potentially dwindling mental capacity of the old widow seemed an act of surprising vindictiveness.

  I’m about to read the last sentence, when my phone rings. I have to answer it. It might be Horace, no longer able to contain the urge to shock me over the phone and I really wouldn’t want to miss the show.

  “Hello?”

  “Hello, Trudy, it’s Karen. Am I disturbing you?”

  “Oh… No, tell me. Is everything all right?”

  “I’ve just got home. Today was a hellish day and the worst is that it’s not over yet.”

  “What do you have to do?”

  “It’s Dad’s birthday. We’re taking him out to dinner,” she tells me, yawning.

  “Send him best wishes on my behalf.”

  “I’ll tell him. He’ll be pleased. He’s always had a thing for you.”

  “Because he has good taste,” I say with a touch of pride.

  “Ah, shit. Coming, coming!” she shouts into the phone. “I’m sorry, Trudy, my brother’s arrived and he’s making a terrible racket. I have to run.”

  “Okay, then… go.”

  “No, wait, I called to tell you some major news. Rupert wanted to give it to you, but I couldn’t wait.”

  I miss a beat.

  “Karen, please don’t keep me in suspense.”

  “Head office called. After reading your report, there was a video conference with RBS and it seems that Wilbourgh managed to agree a higher price. Don’t ask me how, I don’t know, but they’ve decided that from now on someone else can replace you until they sell,” she informs me without delay.

  “And that means—” I murmur with a faint voice.

  “That you can come back, Trudy! In a week at the most you’ll be back in London,” she yells into the phone.

  “I’ll… I’ll be in London… Oh… I’ll be in London…” I repeat, in obvious confusion.

  “Exactly! Are you happy?” And you can tell that she’s excited.

  “I… Yes… Yes… I…”

  “I said I’m coming!” she shouts to her brother. “What a pain, I’ve really got to go. Look, I’ll call you tomorrow. I have to go now. If he carries on like this, they’ll call the police.”

  “Don’t worry. Go and enjoy yourself. Sure. We’ll speak tomorrow. Best wishes to your dad. Bye,” I say, hanging up.

  I’m going back… I’m going back to London.

  I collapse back against the pillows, still incredulous. Yes, now I can say that in all conscience I am happy, and if only I remembered the words, I swear to God, I would start singing I Feel Good using my phone as a microphone.

  I can’t keep this news to myself. I know I shouldn’t disturb him, but I’m sure that, given the importance of the news, Horace can spare me a few minutes. I call him, but it goes straight to voice mail.

  “No! He’s turned his phone off!”

  I don’t give up. I decide that I have to tell him in person and I don’t want to wait a second longer. I Google the number of ‘Texture’, thinking that I can reach him at the table and ask him to come to the phone for a moment. A lady with a strange accent answers and I have to admit I’m surprised – not so much by the bad English, but because of the silence I hear in the background. It’s eight o’clock in the evening, shouldn’t a restaurant be a bit… busier at that time?

  “Good evening, I’m Miss Watts. I wanted to ask if I could kindly to speak to Mr Hooper, the lawyer. Unfortunately, his mobile’s off and… It’s urgent. But… Excuse me, isn’t this ‘Texture?’ What? Closed? What do you mean closed? Two weeks? Ah … No, I must have misunderstood. I’m sorry” I murmur and I hang up.

  ‘Texture’ has been closed for two weeks for refurbishment. They’ll re-open in a month’s time and I’m cordially invited to the opening.

  I dial Horace’s office number, his partner answers in a bored voice.

  “This is Hooper & Hardy law firm, to whom am I speaking?”

  “Good evening, I’m calling from the ‘Butterfly’ laundry. We are closing and Mr Hooper hasn’t yet called to collect the grey suit he asked us to remove the stains from and we can’t get hold of him – could you please give me a number where I can contact him?” I improvise, pinching my nose with two fingers so that he doesn’t recognize my voice.

  “Oh… Yes, he told me he would be turning his phone off. You can find him at this number,” and he gives me a landline number that I don’t recognize.

  “Thanks a lot,” I hang up.

  I don’t know how many times I read the row of numbers marked in pencil on the corner of the newspaper. At least a quarter of an hour passes before I decide what to do. After a couple of rings, finally someone answers. It’s the voice of a woman with a foreign accent, asking me who it is and what I want.

  Who I am?

  This is easy, an idiot.

  What I want is a bit more difficult to say. I don’t know. Maybe a slice of Black Forest gateau, just to start, then a pony. I’ve always wanted a pony. And then? I don’t know… A gun, maybe? One of those beautiful guns that you see in movies, a side-loading revolver.

  Yes, I wouldn’t mind a gun.

  “Good evening, this is the ‘Butterfly’ laundry,” I repeat, adding a brief explanation of how I got this number.

  “Wait a moment. Darling…” I hear her shout. Shortly afterwards a voice that I recognize answers. “Darling,” she says. “It’s the laundry. Did you forget something?”

  He makes it clear that he has no idea what I’m talking about, so I jokingly explain that I must have got muddled up and I hang up without either of them finding out what really happened.

  I drop the phone. I look at the diamond on my ring finger. I twiddle it between my fingers for a while, then I take it off and put it on the table.

  I would
say that the newspaper’s not going to be enough tonight. No. I’m going to need something stronger.

  Have I done the laundry yet?

  Chapter 23

  Lose Altitude and Await the Final ‘Splat’

  “What happened to the washing machine?”

  “We had a little argument.”

  “Was that before or after it was attacked by an axe-wielding orc?”

  I go down to the cellar with a heavy basket of dirty laundry. I put on the suit I was wearing this morning because, let’s be serious, I would never leave the house in a tracksuit. No.

  I also put make-up on. Not that I imagine I’ll meet anyone between here and the basement, but I never leave the house without at least putting on a little powder. It’s a habit. But even though the outward appearance might be impeccable, the emotional undercurrent is in turmoil.

  Exhausted from trying to think everything over, I drift between different considerations. The first, made as I leave the apartment, is of a psychological nature.

  What?

  I’m calm.

  I would have expected a slightly less composed reaction. Really.

  I thought I would cry or have hysterics, but here I am, quietly going down to the washing machine as usual. Of course, I feel awful. But I’m managing to stay in control. You know what? I’m proud of myself. This is the right way to deal with the situation. Why get upset? I can’t change the past, I can only set it aside and draw upon my experience in the future. So, pretty satisfied with myself, I walk briskly through the garden to the door of the cellar, open it and descend.

  What could be more relaxing than a few hours spent doing routine household chores? Surrendering to everyday life and rejecting stress – after all it’s bad for the skin and for your, mental and physical equilibrium.

  I take a very deep breath and look for the switch, ready to get involved with the pre-wash. The cellar, however, is damp and poorly lit even if you turn on all the lights, so I’m very careful about where I put my feet. The washing machine is waiting for me on the other side of the room, next to an overflowing cabinet of detergents. I tiptoe over to it, put my washing inside, close it up and then choose the softener, combining it with a scoop of washing powder. I close the door, press a couple of buttons and wait for it to start before going back upstairs, ready to deal with life with renewed optimism. Unfortunately, though, nothing happens. Hesitantly, I open the door again and check that everything’s inside properly, then close it again and repeat the whole operation. Buttons etc… But nothing happens this time either. So I open the powder drawer, slam it shut a couple of times and turn it on again.