by Zoe May
‘Sounds like a good idea.’ I can’t help marvelling at what an amazing son he is. ‘So, what will happen to Lyn’s place?’ I ask.
‘We’ll put it up for sale, I’d imagine.’ Tom shrugs. ‘I haven’t really thought about that yet. I just need to get Mum out of there. Seeing her stumble the other day was a wake-up call. I should probably have asked her years ago, but I just couldn’t,’ Tom sighs, shaking his head.
‘What do you mean?’
‘It’s just…’ Tom looks down at the table. ‘I’m…’ he trails off, squirming.
‘You’re what Tom?’
A flush spreads across his neck. ‘I’m going to have to come out with it, because if Mum lives with me, then I can’t hide it anymore, but basically, well, I’m gay,’ he admits, looking away.
I fight the urge to smile. ‘Tom, I know,’ I tell him gently as I reach over to squeeze his arm.
‘What? Really?’ He looks shocked.
‘Yeah, no offence, but you’re not exactly hiding it,’ I comment, hoping I don’t sound too blunt.
‘What do you mean?’ He looks aghast.
‘Let’s just say I don’t know many straight guys who have the penchant for disco lights, tinsel and glow sticks that you do.’
‘Hmmph,’ Tom huffs, but then his eyes fill with panic.
‘Mum doesn’t know, does she?’
‘No.’ I shake my head. ‘Lyn’s always going on about how you and I should get together. Get married and look after each other in our old age.’
Tom cracks up. ‘Oh God.’ He shakes his head. ‘Now there’s a thought.’
‘So…’ I take a sip of my coffee. ‘How come you’ve never told Lyn?’
‘It’s just one of those things,’ Tom sighs. ‘I knew when I was a kid, but I couldn’t bring myself to talk about it so I just brushed it under the carpet, you know? Or shoved it in the closet!’ He laughs bleakly.
‘Then I moved out, went to uni, and it just felt like something I didn’t need to bother Mum with. I figured, why does my mum need to know about my sex life? It’s not really any of her business and then over the years, it’s just become harder and harder to confront. I know she’ll be annoyed at me for hiding it from her but I don’t want to let her down either,’ Tom sighs.
‘Let her down?’ I scoff. ‘Don’t be ridiculous! Lyn adores you.’
‘You know what she’s like, Soph.’ Tom gives me a pointed look. ‘She’s really traditional when it comes to marriage.’
‘She’s not that traditional!’ I protest, although she was married to Alfie for decades and from the stories she’s told me, they did seem to have a pretty stereotypical male and female, housewife and breadwinner kind of marriage.
‘The thing is,’ Tom continues, his forehead creased with stress. ‘I’ve started seeing this guy, Andrew. He comes over all the time. We can’t spend time at his place because he lives in a houseshare so he practically lives with me!’
‘Seriously?!’
Tom nods guiltily. ‘Sorry I never told you, Soph. I know we’re friends and I did want to be open with you. It felt so weird when you’d be telling me all about your love life and I never told you anything back. You must have thought I was some weird celibate freak!’
I laugh, thinking back to all our conversations, which have been, in retrospect, pretty one-sided.
‘Well, luckily for you, I’ve been a bit too self-involved to give it too much thought,’ I admit. ‘I was pretty sure you were gay, but I also thought you might just be bookish or something. I thought maybe you just liked your own company.’
Tom laughs. ‘’Fraid not!’
I ask him about Andrew and it turns out that he really is quite smitten.
‘So, when are you going to tell Lyn?’
‘Soon. After the party. I thought, in a way, having a big party in Lewisham might be a nice send off for her.’
I smile. ‘Yeah, that’s a good idea. I’ll miss her though,’ I add, feeling a little unnerved at the thought of Lyn leaving.
‘I know you will, Soph,’ Tom says, his eyes full of warmth as he reaches across the table and squeezes my hand.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Irritable bowel syndrome, functional abdominal bloating, constipation, and diarrhea can be distinguished by symptom-based diagnostic criteria. consequently, they....
‘Are you almost done with that paper, Sophia?’ Ted asks, sidling up to my desk.
‘Yep,’ I chirp, glancing up. ‘Just proofreading the last page.’
‘Great! Well, pop it on my desk when you’re done.’
‘Will do.’
I bury my head back in the paper. Right. One last page and then I’m out the door. It’s only just coming up to lunchtime but I booked the afternoon off to prepare for Lyn’s party tonight. I should have finished the paper already, but Tom’s been frantically texting all morning about everything, from whether I remembered to put the jellied eels in the fridge (I mean, what does he take me for?) to whether he ought to wear his black shirt, ‘a classic, but possibly a bit boring’ or the paisley John Rocha one he doesn’t really like but that Lyn got him for his birthday (I told him to go with the black classic). And then on top of all of that, I’ve had Daniel messaging, asking if I’m ready to talk. I texted back and told him I’d call him this evening since I figured that after a few drinks, with a bit of Dutch courage in my system, the whole conversation might not be quite so triggering, as Tom put it.
I race through the last page of the paper, scanning each line, before finally, I’m done. I print it out and head over to Ted’s desk.
‘Here you go, Ted. Read it and weep,’ I joke, getting the Friday feeling.
Ted laughs, rolling his eyes indulgently as he takes the paper. ‘Ah, bowel disorders. My favourite.’
‘Little Friday treat for you, enjoy.’
‘Oh, I will. I will,’ Ted says in a low, creepy voice.
I let out a laugh and simultaneously shudder as I head back to my desk, where I turn off my computer and collect all the bits and pieces I’ve been buying for Lyn’s party during lunch break shopping excursions over the past few weeks. There’s the box of Turkish Delight I picked up from Waitrose the other day, because I know Lyn loves Turkish Delight. And then there’s the cardigan with the embroidered flowers I spotted that I thought would make a good birthday present. And well, basically, there are just a few things I’ve collected. I quickly stash them all in my bag and say goodbye to Ted and Sandra, before heading out the door.
As I’m walking down the corridor, fretting over whether Lyn’s going to like her cardigan, it suddenly occurs to me that I’ve left her birthday card in my desk drawer.
Sighing, I dash back to the office but as I push open the door, a flurry of movement catches my eye. I look over towards Ted’s desk to see Sandra lifting herself off his lap, the two of them clearly pulling apart from an embrace. An embrace!
I stand there in shock. Speechless. They glance awkwardly at one another and me, their cheeks reddening.
Finally, Ted breaks the silence.
‘Err… Sophia, sorry you had to see that. It wasn’t very professional,’ he says.
I’m still too stunned to speak. Very professional? It’s not about it being professional or not, it’s Sandra and Ted. Ted and Sandra! It’s just wrong, on so many levels, professional or otherwise.
I look searchingly at Sandra, whose cheeks have gone beetroot. Her eyes are fixed on the carpet and she seems unable to meet my gaze.
‘Sandra…’ I utter.
She glances up guiltily and straightens her cardigan. Had Ted been feeling her up under the heavy wool? I shudder, repressing the thought.
‘Sorry. We were going to tell you,’ she mutters.
Tell me? Tell me what? This can’t be an actual ‘thing’? Surely this is just some kind of accident? Two people who haven’t got laid for a very long time, sort of falling into each other’s arms.
‘But… What about that guy? The one from eHarmony?’ I remind
her, completely confused.
‘It was Ted,’ Sandra says in a small voice, glancing affectionately at him.
‘Ted? Ted?!’
Ted clears his throat.
‘Yes! I filled in the personality test on eHarmony and well, the site matched me with Ted. It turns out we’re a 97% match!’
Sandra looks over at Ted and they exchange a disturbingly smitten look. I’m still stunned. Ted? With his dandruff and his oversized clothes and his chin stroking? Ted?!
‘We’ve only been seeing each other for a few weeks. I was going to mention it the other day but when it came down to it, I was just too embarrassed,’ Sandra admits.
‘Thanks, Sandra!’ Ted pipes up.
‘I wasn’t embarrassed about you, darling. More about the whole “dating the boss” thing!’
Darling?! Did she just call him darling?
‘Oh, “the boss” thing.’ Ted raises a suggestive eyebrow at Sandra, which is definitely my cue to leave.
‘I err… just forgot something.’ I head over to my desk.
Sandra hurries after me.
‘Are you okay, Sophia?’ she asks as I rummage around in my desk drawer.
‘Yes!’ I say brightly. ‘Of course,’ I add in a squeaky voice, turning my attention to my drawer, where the birthday card is tucked away somewhere among old papers.
I rifle clumsily through them, trying to find it as quickly as possible so I can get away from this office of sin. I still can’t get my head around it. Ted and Sandra? I mean, Ted and Sandra?! There are so many questions I want to ask, and yet simultaneously don’t really want to know the answer to. Has she always had a soft spot for Ted? How can she overlook the dandruff? Isn’t it a turn-off? Or does she just not touch it? Is this some extremely regrettable fling or are they actually serious about each other? Because I mean, it’s Ted, if she’s serious about him, then what does that mean for me? I’ll become gooseberry extraordinaire. A walking talking cock block – a constant reminder to my colleagues that they can’t get jiggy in the office. Do I want to be a cock block? Do I? I reach to the back of the drawer and finally land upon the card.
‘Oh, here it is!’ I declare, grasping at it.
Sandra regards me with a concerned expression. But what am I meant to do or say? I can’t exactly speak my mind with Ted still sitting at his desk, awkwardly pretending to read something on his monitor.
‘Are you sure you’re okay? I really am sorry you had to see that that,’ Sandra says in a hushed voice.
‘Yep, I’m fine. Fine!’ I lie. ‘It’s just, it’s Ted!’ I tell her, under my breath.
‘Now do you see why I didn’t want to bring him to Lyn’s party?’ she comments as I slide the card into my handbag.
‘Oh, of course…’ Suddenly, I remember how shifty and inexplicably awkward she got when I suggested she bring her new man along. It all makes sense now. Of course, she wouldn’t have wanted to bring Ted - our boss and God Almighty, her lover - to Lyn’s party.
‘It’s okay, I get it. Sorry, I just need some time to get used to…’ I gesture between her and Ted, ‘this…’
‘Of course.’ Sandra nods understandingly.
I glance pointedly at my watch. ‘Well, I’d better go. So much party prep to do! Haha!’
Ted looks over, fixing me with a strained, robotic smile. In truth, there’s plenty of time for party prep, I just need to get away from this situation.
‘Oh, okay… Well, see you on Monday,’ Sandra says.
‘Yep, see you!’ I give her a tight hug. As my arms close around her woollen-clad shoulders, an image flashes unbidden through my mind of Ted tearing her cardigan off in a fit of passion.
‘Are you okay?’ Sandra asks, causing me to realise I’ve shuddered.
‘Of course!’ I insist. ‘I’m fine!’ I smile tightly at her, as another grotesque image of her and Ted having sex flits though my mind, like a scene from a horror movie. What’s wrong with me? I need to get out of here.
‘Bye, Sandra. Bye, Ted,’ I call out as I hurry out of the office.
‘Bye Sophia,’ Ted replies as I dash into the corridor and peg it out of the building.
Could life be any weirder right now? I wonder as I walk to the tube station. I’m a sordid Cinderella fetish to a stuck-up posh boy who lives at The Shard and meanwhile Sandra’s main squeeze is Ted. TED?! With his dandruff and his punctuation manuals. With his blueberry muffins for elevenses and his obsession with catheters. It’s so bizarre. Surely Sandra could do better than Ted? Surely there were other guys, who were 98% matches or something? How can it be that she fell for the weirdo punctuation Nazi from the office? Did she just get really desperate or has she always had a secret flame for him? Perhaps this budding romance has been slowly simmering away all this time and I’ve simply never noticed.
I reach the station and swipe my Oyster card against the barrier, still deep in thought. Maybe, since Sandra’s new to dating and hasn’t had any action for a while, if not ever, she’s had a momentary lapse of judgement, I reason as I descend down the escalator. Yes, that makes more sense. The world is starting to slot into more reasonable configurations the further away from Ted and Sandra I get. It’s not that Sandra actually wants to be with Ted, it’s probably just a fling, the kind of thing that in a few months’ time, she’ll have banned me from even referring to. It’ll be known as The Affair Which Must Not Be Named. She’s probably just experienced some sort of weird mind-bending hormonal impulse, most likely brought on by Betsy’s pregnancy. Yes, that’s it. On a sub-conscious level, I bet seeing all those wriggly little hamster babies has awoken a subconscious impulse to mate. Poor Sandra.
I reach the platform and get on a waiting train. I grab the overhead rail and my thoughts return to the scene in the office, but it starts to make me feel nauseous as the train judders through the underground. I need to stop thinking about Ted and Sandra. I need to think about something else. Something important. Like the biscuit selection I got for tonight. I’ll arrange them on a big serving plate in the shape of a rainbow. Lyn will love that.
My phone buzzes as we emerge from the tunnel. A text from Daniel. I sigh. Every time I think of him, I think of what Cleo said about him being nicknamed ‘Prince Charming’. I imagine a gang of his mates, hanging out on the deck of a yacht in the Algarve or something, coming up with that stupid nickname while ribbing him about his chavvy dates. I think of the poncey way he always sweeps his curls out of his face, as if to draw your attention them at the same time as getting them out of the way. I mean, if he really doesn’t want to look like Robert Pattinson circa the Twilight days, there are things he could do. He could dye his hair, cut it, dress differently or something. But it’s almost as if he enjoys the attention. As if he secretly revels in the comparison. It’s so tragic, I realise reluctantly. Perhaps he actively seeks out that second-hand fame?
No… That’s too pathetic. A seat frees up on the tube so I sit down and start reading a paper someone left behind. I need something to distract me from the horrible thoughts racing through my brain today. But as I scan through the pages, death and conflict isn’t really cutting it. I’d almost rather be thinking about Sandra and Ted kissing. Actually, scratch that. I turn my attention back to the newspaper. Maybe death and conflict weren’t so bad after all.
Finally, the train arrives at Lewisham and I get off and head to the community centre, bypassing the hubbub of schoolchildren loitering about on the streets. I reach the centre and walk down the path leading to the front door, which is lined with garden gnomes. Could it be any more twee? I smile to myself as I head inside to find Tom standing on a stepladder in the centre of the hall, surrounded by bags of decorations, as he attaches a mirror ball to the ceiling. He glances over his shoulder as the doors swing shut behind me.
‘Sophia!’
‘Hey Tom!’ I hurry over, taking in his gelled hair and crisp black shirt, which is so new that you can see the overly starched folds where it was pressed in the packaging.
�
�One minute.’ He latches the mirror ball onto a fixture.
‘There we go,’ he says, giving it a spin before climbing down the ladder.
‘You’re looking smart!’ I tell him as I pull him into a tight hug, breathing in a waft of his familiar Vivienne Westwood aftershave.
‘Hmm…’ Tom looks me up and down as we pull apart. ‘Wish I could say the same.’
‘What?!’ I glance down at my black shift dress and dowdy lilac cardigan. Okay so it’s not exactly my best outfit, and it’s a far cry from all the sleek new clothes I left at Daniel’s place, but I look presentable-ish.
‘I am planning to change, you know,’ I huff.
‘Thank Christ, you look like a frigid librarian in that,’ Tom teases, eyeing my cardigan with derision.
I scoff. ‘You’re not one to talk, Mr Fleece Sweater.’
Tom chuckles, gesturing at his near-shiny polyester shirt. ‘I don’t see no fleece,’ he says grinning.
‘It’s in your bag though, isn’t it?’ I tease.
‘Maybe.’
I laugh, scanning the hall. Tom’s already arranged some of our pound shop food on half a dozen tables he’s pushed together to create a buffet area. There’s cheese puffs, pork scratchings, crisps, Jaffa Cakes, jam roly poly cake, everything Lyn stands for basically, apart from the jellied eels and all the other nibbles which are still at my flat.
‘It’s looking good, Tom!’ I comment as I unload the Turkish delight and a few other goodies from my bag, adding them to the buffet.
‘Cheers. Still so much to do though!’ Tom frets. ‘You got a cake, didn’t you?’
‘Yep, actually a friend with expertise in cake-baking has made one.’
‘Really?’ Tom looks taken aback. ‘Well, don’t you have friends in the right places,’ he jokes.
‘Indeed, I do!’ I tap my nose and tell him all about Chris and the cake.
‘Sounds brilliant, Soph.’ Tom smiles tightly as he glances at the clock on the community hall wall. ‘But you’d better go and get it. The party’s just over three hours away and there’s still so much to do.’