The Difference Between You and Me

by Celia Hayes

  “May I sit down?”

  And he sits down. Why the hell did you bother asking?

  “Please,” I say, surrendering to the inevitable.

  “How are you?” he asks, depositing before him a dish very similar to my own, apart from the massive lump of melted cheese.

  “Hmm… Not great,” I admit, beginning to eat. He lifts the top off his burger and squeezes four sachets of mustard inside it. Disgusting.

  “Oh… ketchup as well?” I protest, when I see the poor grilled patty give its last farewells before drowning in a flood of different coloured sauces.

  “Will you mind your own fucking business?”

  As always, his manners are wonderful. What I love about the Scots is their ability to insert romantic endearments in every statement.

  I start eating again, but maintain the same disgusted expression.

  “Problems with Horace?” he prods as he takes a bite of that lump of calories.

  “No, I’ve heard no more from him.”

  “How come?” he asks, as he wipes a dash of mustard from the corner of his mouth.

  I wish it was me on his mouth…

  “Trudy?”

  “Erm… Yeah, I think I managed to make him understand I’m no longer interested in a certain type of relationship,” I tell him, guiltily tucking into the buttery mashed potato.

  He doesn’t comment, just continues rummaging quietly about his plate for chips, which he doesn’t season too much – only drenching them in hot sauce. How is it that men can eat like pterodactyls without feeling sick?

  “What about you?” I say, trying to distract myself.

  “The usual…”

  “Yes, I’ve noticed.”

  He raises an eyebrow.

  “Allie’s back. And not just in the pub, I imagine…” I mention with a hint of irritation in my voice that I just can’t disguise.

  Ethan shrugs his shoulders and goes back to chewing his burger as though nothing had happened, so I do the same, sending him to hell in my mind. If he wants to be silent, great!

  “How’s it going at work?” he says finally, his first attempt to make conversation in almost fifteen minutes of absolute silence. Not much is left on our plates. I’ve left most of my mash; he dips his remaining chips in the leftover cheese in the centre of the plate. Worthy of note is that he hasn’t raised his eyes from the leftovers pretty much since I asked him about Allie.

  “Problematic” I say, crossing my arms.

  “Why?”

  “Do you really want to know?”

  “If I wasn’t interested, I wouldn’t have asked you,” he snaps and finally he looks up and glares at me.

  “Okay, you want the truth?” I blurt out. “I’m at a standstill. I don’t have enough time to recover the losses accumulated by Mr Bailey, the branch will be sold and it is unlikely that any of the staff will keep their jobs. And the only chance we had of saving them is pretending she died from an overdose of semolina just to avoid talking to me.”

  “Who are you talking about?” he asks, looking intrigued.

  “You don’t know her.”

  “Trudy, there’s no one I don’t know in Turriff.”

  “Hm. She’s called Mary Angela Cox. She lives on an estate a few kilometres from the village.”

  “Mary? Daniel’s widow?”

  “Exactly” I snort.

  “Why do you want to talk to her?” he asks.

  Normally, I wouldn’t disclose confidential information but at this point I can safely allow an exception to the rule. I doubt that the situation’s going to improve without divine intervention.

  “Fuck it!” I curse, attacking the mash to quell my nerves. “Why don’t you have any desserts?”

  “Why do you want to talk to her?”

  “It’s ridiculous. Even that hole in the wall behind the station has those horrible dusty muffins covered in icing,” I moan, peering around for any trace of sugar.

  “Trudy…” he says impatiently.

  “Oh…” I collapse back on the bench. “What can I say? She doesn’t want to see me, she doesn’t want to talk to me, she doesn’t want to know anything about the bank or me – and to be honest, she’s got a point. What the strong minded, mad old shrew doesn’t understand is that if she doesn’t face up to the problem, she’ll end up in a nursing home within the next couple of months.”

  “How do you know?”

  “Look, I read the papers,” I snap. “With all the money she’s been throwing around over the last few months she’s likely to lose her case, especially since she still doesn’t want to explain the reason for that stupid wedding. I’ve spoken to her, Ethan, that woman’s perfectly compos mentis. I’m sure there’s another, quite different reason from the one the newspapers think. I don’t think she’s looking for a toy boy.”

  “The situation is much more complex than you imagine,” he says, darkly.

  “Do you know her?” I widen my eyes.

  “Not well. I only know what she tells me, but she doesn’t generally like to talk about her life.”

  “Do you meet often?”

  “Every now and then I go and give her a hand with the garden. Other times I help by repairing something that doesn’t work any more. She’s always been kind to my family. I like doing it. Her children never go to visit her, and nor do her grandchildren. She’s very lonely,” he confides, playing with a sachet of salt.

  “Well, whatever the problem, sooner or later, whether she likes it or not, she’ll have to deal with it.”

  “And you want to help her?” he asks incredulously.

  “Actually, no, but what I have in mind would save her a five year court case with an uncertain outcome.”

  “Then why doesn’t she want to speak to you?”

  “Because she’s so bloody suspicious and, not knowing who she can trust, she prefers to avoid everyone.”

  He smiles.

  “What?” I ask, frowning.

  “No, nothing. You remind me a lot of someone I know.” And he unexpectedly kisses the tip of my nose.

  “Ha ha ha,” I laugh sarcastically. “I’d forgotten about your natural sense of humour.”

  “Look,” he becomes serious, “I don’t know what you have in mind, but if you can really help all those people… She rarely goes out, but almost every morning at five o’clock she visits her husband’s grave. He was buried in Turriff’s municipal cemetery, though the family was of German origin. It probably won’t be of much help, but at least you’ll be able to approach her. She always goes alone. At least you won’t be turned away by Alfred and Rick.”

  “Ethan, I really don’t know what to say…” I stutter.

  “Thank you. Say ‘thank you’. I know that it’s damn difficult for you, but with a little practice…”

  He takes my hand in his. He no longer seems as agitated as before. I just can’t sulk with him – his mood must be contagious, because I burst out laughing too.

  “Good heavens, Trudy, are you actually laughing?” he teases. “Are you sure you’re all right? Should I call an ambulance?”

  “You idiot!”

  “Ooh – you know I get excited when you insult me,” he jokes, getting a crumpled-up napkin thrown in his face.

  “If you don’t stop at once I’ll start retaliating, and you know as well as do that you wouldn’t like that.”

  “No, please do. I’m really curious to hear what you have to say.”

  “I—” I begin, but just at that moment Adam arrives and the conversation ceases abruptly.

  “I’m sorry, I’m terribly late,” he explains, moving close enough to greet me with a kiss.

  He appears to have decided to skip a couple of steps – shouldn’t we get to the moment of ‘intimacy’ after we reach my front door?

  “Ethan!” he suddenly shouts.

  Ethan looks lost for words.

  “How are you? I didn’t expect to find you here as well. Is this where you work or did you just drop in to eat somet
hing?”

  Ethan doesn’t reply. He’s glaring at him as if he’s trying to incinerate him.

  “Ethan dear, they need you at the bar,” says Allie, showing incredible timing.

  “I’m coming,” he mumbles, before getting up. “You want anything?” he asks, trying to maintain a modicum of civility.

  “No, thanks. Trudy and I are going, otherwise we’ll miss the film.”

  “In that case you better step on it,” he suggests, walking past him without even looking at him, as though he were an annoying flea.

  “Ethan, wait… I have to pay,” I remember. “I’ll do it,” suggests Adam, pulling out his wallet.

  “There’s no need, it’s on the house,” Ethan cuts us off, then disappears behind the counter.

  I don’t even have time to say goodbye.

  “Shall we go?” asks Adam eagerly.

  I nod and follow him to the door.

  “Oh, Trudy dear, are you going already?” Allie reaches me.

  “Er… Yes, we decided to go and watch the movie at the park.”

  “How lovely!” she shrieks. “It’s so romantic… And with all those trees, you don’t need to keep worrying that someone will see you!”

  CRASH!

  “Oh, my goodness!” she cries, turning toward the bar. “Ethan, how did you manage to drop all those glasses?”

  Chapter 26

  Sad But Inescapable Reality

  “Are you stalking me?”

  “Of course not! I just came here to visit the grave of my grandfather Bernard.”

  “It says Walter there.”

  “That’s right – my grandfather Walter, known to his friends as Bernard”

  I mean, why does she have to go and visit her husband’s grave at five in the morning?

  I’m exhausted. I can’t keep my eyes open. I drive blindly with my nose propped against the steering wheel and a trickle of saliva dribbling down my chin.

  I only reach the town cemetery alive because I don’t encounter any curves and the only thing keeping me company is a gnat splattered on the windscreen.

  It takes me a while to find Daniel Cox’s grave and, as Ethan had predicted, I find my daily tormentor there, arranging a bunch of red carnations in a bottle-green vase. I approach loudly, blowing my nose into a handkerchief. I don’t know whether to blame the humidity or all these flowers giving off pollen, but think I’ve lost the use of my nasal septum. The noise I make echoes around that reverent silence a bit like thunder in the night, but she doesn’t seem the least bit disturbed by the noise. She continues her task with an obsessive precision, carefully cleaning the edge of the container, cutting the stems so that they are all the same length, dusting the picture of her deceased husband and carefully collecting every piece of rubbish to then place it in a plastic bag lying on the grass.

  “Mrs Cox,” I greet her shyly, slipping my hands into the pockets of my black trousers.

  “Miss Watts” she answers, without lifting her gaze from the ground. She must have recognized my voice.

  Strange – I expected her to run away screaming, instead she just seems bored.

  “Do you come here every day?” I ask, looking around.

  “When the weather’s nice.”

  “Why?” I venture.

  “Because this was my husband, Miss Watts, but I doubt you would understand,” she concludes. “Your generation seems to enjoy a total absence of morals or ethics.”

  I watch her stoop to pick up the few remaining leaves, keeping my distance so as not to disturb her, but she seems to tire of the position, so I bend down to help her.

  “Let me do it,” I offer, taking the bag from her hand. She steps aside and wipes her hands. When I return the now full bag, she looks at me for the first time.

  “Well, thank you, Miss Watts. Have a good day.”

  “Mrs Cox, wait a minute – I want to give you something,” I say. Certain that I have her attention, I take an envelope from my bag and hand it to her, hoping she’ll accept it. Unexpectedly, she doesn’t throw it at me. That might be considered a small success, if only she’d take it. The thing is that she does absolutely nothing. She doesn’t move a muscle, but looks at it from a distance as if I were offering her a hairy insect or one of those slimy earthworms covered with grime. Why that exact example came to mind, given the limited knowledge I have of the subject, God only knows. “Mrs Cox, please, look at it,” I plead. “I know you are fed up with all this, but one day you will have to entrust the management of your estate to a good financial advisor, and I doubt very much that anyone else will be willing to offer you such reasonable conditions.”

  “This does in no way demonstrate your good intentions, Miss Watts,” she replies bitterly, “simply your despair.”

  “Maybe, but why not take advantage of it?” I say, changing tactics.

  “Because, unlike you, I have principles. Now, if you’ll allow me…” but I don’t let her leave, and take her elbow with one hand. “What are you doing?” she snaps, immediately annoyed, even though my gesture was so delicate as to be almost useless. “Take your hands off me immediately.”

  “Mrs Cox, be reasonable…” I try for the umpteenth time.

  “Reasonable? Reasonable?” She’s irate now. “Would you be reasonable in my place, Miss Watts? Would you really be able to tolerate the continued meddling of strangers in your life? The total absence of decorum of… of scum, who for a handful of pennies are willing to ruin the honour of a family by publishing completely unfounded obscenities? You…” She approaches me angrily. “Would you accept having to hide even when you want to visit the remains of your husband, so as to not be harassed by hawkers unable to understand when it’s appropriate to stop?”

  “No, I don’t think I could take the stress—”

  “Enough! I’m tired. Exhausted. Get out of my way, immediately. You’re just another beggar, like all the others before you that have tried to foist their despicable cons on me.”

  Now wait a minute! There’s a limit to everything, and I’m Scorpio with Leo ascending and I assure you that I have a low tolerance for insults – very, very low.

  “I’d say that you’re going too far now. You can’t talk to me this way. I won’t allow you.”

  “Good, then go away!”

  “Oh, whatever you want – you win!” I exclaim, holding my hands up. “But just remember that they’ll soon drag you into court with the approval of your family, who can’t wait to get their hands on your money. The only hope you had of avoiding ending up on the front pages of all the newspapers in the country was to find someone to help you develop a good investment plan for your personal fortune, but apparently you’d rather hide your head in the sand and become a puppet of the media than change your mind.”

  “And just explain to me,” she approaches me, red-faced, “why you are the only one able to save me from disgrace?”

  “I’m not the only one, but, unlike the rest of them, I have no ulterior motive and I’m willing to compromise because my only goal is to save six people’s jobs. People who you’ve probably known all their lives and who, without your help, will find themselves in dire straits soon,” I shout at her. She looks at me in shock, and I realize that I’ve gone over the top. I catch my breath, moderate my tone and, in a faint voice, whisper, “Believe me, Mary, it makes absolutely no difference to me because, whatever happens, within two months I’ll be back in London and Turriff will become one of many memories that I will try not to think about.” I put the envelope on her husband’s grave and look at her for the last time. She seems affected. Wounded in her pride. Yet she doesn’t reply. She stands there immobile, watching me, in her vintage apple green outfit.

  “Give it a look, Mrs Cox. I’m not asking you to say ‘yes’, just to give it a look. Don’t throw your life away to those vultures just out of pride. You have nothing to prove with me. We need each other. Do you see? There’s no trick – only the sad, unavoidable reality.”

  *

  And I
don’t hear from her again.

  After that day at the cemetery, she buries herself back at her estate, which is protected by a growing number of guards.

  The story breaks, as expected, and the media start churning out shameful scoops as fast as they can. Once it’s going, the engine can no longer be stopped and we just have to wait until it has exhausted itself and calms down, fading away naturally. It spares no one – if at first it was only Mary who was besieged by the press, now there is no member or acquaintance of the Cox family who hasn’t appeared in some paper or magazine.

  Sitting at my desk, I read angrily through yet another attack against the old heiress, flipping through the newspaper that lies among the piles of paperwork which cover my desk. I start thinking, and stare out through the opaque glass windows. I’m so far away that I jump when Catherine opens the door and tiptoes forward a few paces to ask if I’m free.

  “What is it.”

  “There’s a visitor for you. Can I let her in?”

  I check the time, four o’clock. I wasn’t expecting anyone at this time.

  “Who is it?”

  “Ma—” And Mary Angela Cox enters the room, clutching the handle of a shiny handbag. She’s wearing a bright canary yellow outfit and a matching hat, and her discomfort is immediately obvious.

  “Catherine, you can go. Mrs Cox, please have a seat,” I say, indicating a chair. “Can I get you anything?”

  “There will be no need,” she clarifies immediately. “This isn’t a courtesy visit.”

  Catherine leaves and we are alone. This seems to partially put her at ease, because she decides to sit down, accepting my proposal.

  I don’t know where to start, but she immediately starts talking.

  “I’ll come straight to the point. I intend to consider your proposal.”

  Oh God…

  “Great,” I reply, trying to remain calm and look as if I wasn’t interested.

  “But I intend to be able to personally check any investments you intend to make with my money. I don’t intend to subsidize things which are against my moral principles.”

  “Fine with me,” I say. “If you want, we could meet tomorrow and prepare a contract – drawing up a list of companies that you would be willing to invest in. What do you think?”