by Emlyn Rees
‘Nope.’
I shout down the mouthpiece for a while, but there’s no answer, so I jog down to the front door. I’m out of breath by the time I fling it open. I look out on to the street, but there’s no one there. I close the door and as I press the timer light again, I spot the letter on the doormat.
My heart is thumping as I carry it back up to my flat.
‘What is it?’ asks H when I get back to the lounge. She looks worried and turns off the CD. The flat suddenly seems very quiet.
‘It’s a letter,’ I reply. ‘From Jack.’
I look between the letter and her.
My hands are shaking.
Trust him to butt in, just when I was feeling strong again.
‘He gave it to you?’ she asks.
‘No. It was on the mat.’
H comes over to me and we stare at the envelope. On the front it says A. CROSBIE, TOP FLAT in Jack’s handwriting. He’s written it in green ballpoint pen.
A. Crosbie.
Not Amy Crosbie.
Or just Amy.
There’s not even a drawn-on stamp.
A. Crosbie – it could be any Crosbie.
Even my bank manager manages to address me as A. L. Crosbie. Amy Lauren. (Dad had a bit of a Lauren Bacall fixation going on when I was born.)
I stare at the letter, trying to divine its contents. I turn it over. There’s nothing on the back either. No S.W.A.L.K written across the gum line. Nothing. I sniff it. There’s no tell-tale waft of aftershave either.
So much for my mail smelling of male.
‘Are you going to read it?’ asks H.
‘I don’t know.’
And I don’t. I don’t know what to do. I’m not sure if I can bear hearing what Jack has to say. It might make me feel even worse. I don’t think I can cope with him telling me that I’ve made the right decision. I don’t want to read that he’s going to carry on seeing Sally. I don’t want to know the sordid, slurping details. I don’t want to deal with anything that will make him seem real.
H touches my arm. ‘Think carefully. Is there anything that he can say that’ll make you feel better?’
There’s only one thing that Jack could say to make me feel better and it’s totally improbable: ‘I was lying, Amy darling. Nothing happened with Sally… it was all a practical joke.’
But even if he was to take it all back, I’ve been through too much. I’d just think he was a stupid twat.
‘No,’ I answer, decisively. ‘Anyway, if he has anything to say, he should say it to my face.’ I choose to ignore the fact that I haven’t given Jack a chance to see my face. But that’s mere detail.
It’s the principle that counts.
‘Right then,’ says H, rubbing her hands together. ‘It’s time to exorcise him, once and for all. Come on. Bring the beers. I’ll need you to assist.’ She snatches the letter out of my hand and marches into the kitchen. At the sink, she snaps on my Marigold gloves. ‘Saucepan!’ she barks, like a surgeon.
She puts out one of her hands and I pull a saucepan off the hook and give it to her. She doesn’t look at me.
‘Lighter fuel,’ she continues. I start to giggle as she takes it out of the spice rack. She dumps Jack’s letter in the saucepan. She sneaks a look at me and there’s an evil glint in her eye.
I nod at her.
H flips open the lid of the fuel and squirts it all over the letter.
‘Matches!’
I hand her the box of Cook’s matches, feeling as if we’re Thelma and Louise. H strikes a match and drops it into the saucepan with a dramatic flourish. Jack’s letter bursts into flames. We both stagger backwards and grab hold of each other.
‘I can’t believe you just did that!’ I gasp.
‘He’s out of your life for good,’ says H, picking up her beer and clinking bottles with me. ‘Onwards and upwards.’
‘Onwards and upwards,’ I agree, but I don’t feel as happy as I’m making out, because despite our white witch gestures, my thoughts are still ping-ponging between the ball-breaking feminist Amy and the Merchant Ivory heroine Amy:
Ball-breaker: I am a liberated woman. I am free. I don’t need Jack Rossiter. He’s history.
Soppy heroine: He was here tonight. He was on my doorstep. He was breathing the same air as me.
Ball-breaker: I’ve been single before. I can do it again. I have standards and Jack Rossiter doesn’t meet them.
Soppy heroine: I miss him. Does he miss me too? What did he say in his letter?
Ball-breaker: He let Bitch Features Sally McCullen give him a blow job. What more is there to say? He can’t wriggle out of that one, even if he’s turned into the Poet bloody Laureate.
‘I’m glad,’ I say.
Yet later, when H eventually goes and I’m cleaning my teeth, I don’t feel so glad. I go into the kitchen and look at the saucepan. I wedge the foamy brush in the side of my cheek and pick up the charred letter. Black flakes float up and out of the window.
Why were we so reckless? I want to know what Jack wrote. I want to hear his explanation. I want his voice to be filling the silence of this flat, however hard it might be. There’s a part of me that knows I’m being weak, because I’m feeling lonely, but my instinct overrides my common sense.
For the first time since I left Greece, I do what I vowed I wouldn’t do. I pick up the phone and ring the operator. I find out that if you don’t want someone to trace your call, you dial 141 before their number. I do it and dial Jack’s. I don’t know what I’m going to say. I don’t know how I’ll explain that I’ve burned his letter. I just want to hear his voice.
He answers after one ring and, as I suspected, my heart does a somersault at the sound of his voice.
‘Hello?’ he says. He sounds suspiciously normal He’s not racked with sobs, he’s not having a nervous breakdown. And he’s not vetting his calls. Does that mean that he’s expecting someone to call?
‘Is that you?’ he asks, softly, after a short pause.
You? Who the fuck’s you?
I’m so shocked that it takes me a moment to realise that you might mean me. And if you is meant to mean me, how dare he sound so smug! What did he think? That he’d drop a letter through my door and everything would be back to normal? That I’d ring him up and forgive him, just like that? I remember that I have a mouthful of toothpaste foam and make a strangled gurgling sound before slamming down the phone. At least he won’t know that it’s me that’s called.
Thank God for technology.
Make-up doesn’t work!
It’s a con!
It’s Friday morning and I’ve put on so many stripes of concealer under my eyes and across my nose that I look like Adam Ant, but the bags under my eyes are still glaringly obvious. Why can’t I sleep any more? It’s not fair. I used to be the Martini girl of sleep: I could do it anytime, anyplace, anywhere. It’s all bloody Jack’s fault. If this unrelenting insomnia carries on, I’m going to have to start doing Valium.
I scowl at myself in the mirror. There’s no point. I already look like the girl on the anti-drugs poster.
I pick up my keys and I’m about to leave for work when Mum calls.
‘Darling, how are you?’ she asks. I can tell that she’s settled down, ready for her morning instalment of Daughters In Distress, the real-life soap from W12.
Despite her good intentions, this mental image does nothing but irritate me. I rub my forehead, thinking what a fool I’ve been. I knew this would happen. I shouldn’t have gone running home straight from the airport last week like a jilted thirteen-year-old. At the time, it made me feel much better. After leaving Jack, it was the only place I wanted to be. There’s no one in the world that can provide TLC like your mum.
And mine rose to the challenge in clucking splendour.
I let her make me hot chocolate and tuck me up in my old bed, soothing me to sleep with a well-worn monologue on the blight that is mankind. On Sunday, she woke me up late with breakfast in bed, did all my washing a
nd spent the whole day bolstering me back up to the point where I was desperate to escape. By the time I made it home on Sunday night, I was ready to face the world again.
As much as I love her for doing this for me, I wish I hadn’t let her in to my emotional crisis. I’m twenty-five. Old enough to work out my problems by myself.
‘I’m fine,’ I say. ‘Honestly.’
‘Are you sure? You can come home for the weekend if you want.’
‘No, Mum, I’ve got things to do here.’
She’s not listening. ‘Why don’t you jump on a train after work tonight and I’ll cook us a nice dinner?’ she suggests.
I can tell she’s got it all planned out. I close my eyes, willing myself to be nice. I don’t need to be swathed in the blanket of her concern. I can’t think of anything more claustrophobic. Besides, I’m over my meltdown, aren’t I?
However, I shouldn’t be horrible to her. Things are good between us at the moment and since I’ve got my job, she’s stopped giving me grief. I don’t want to blow it now by regressing into petulance.
I’m stronger than that.
‘I can’t, I’m sorry. I’ve promised H I’ll go out with her tomorrow night. I think it’ll do me good to have some fun.’
I’m shocked that I’ve said this with such conviction. I thought I was going to duck out of H’s plan, but in the light of Mum’s offer, it suddenly makes perfect sense.
‘If you’re sure, darling?’
‘Positive, but thanks anyway. You’ve been such a star,’ I add.
‘What are mums for?’ she says, and I can tell she’s made up and I’m off the hook.
Phew.
I’m just locking my flat when I bump into Peggy, my neighbour, on the landing. Peggy is at least a hundred and fifty and a compulsive curtain twitcher. She’s turned Neighbourhood Watch into a professional occupation. I’ve got the feeling she’s been hanging around waiting to collar me for days.
‘Did you ever hear from that weirdo again, dear?’ she asks.
‘What weirdo?’
‘That down-and-out who was round here last Sunday.’
‘What down-and-out?’ I ask, wondering what she’s harping on about this time.
‘Well! He looked dreadful!’ she tuts, plumping up her blue rinse hairdo. ‘Soaked through, he was. Yelling down your intercom. I told Alf. I said, “You want to get rid of him.” Here all day. But did Alf move? Did he ’eck. Glued in front of the snooker, he was.’
So now I’m privy to Alf’s TV viewing habits.
Fascinating.
‘I haven’t heard anything,’ I say, trying to dodge past her.
But Peggy hasn’t finished.
‘Must’ve got the wrong house, then,’ she witters on. ‘And then there’s all that graffiti. I’ve got a good mind to call the council. This area used to be so nice.’
I smile blandly at her. She must be talking about that nonsense some idiot painted on the road. ‘Kids these day, eh, Peggy,’ I comment, making my escape.
I ponder on this new information, all the way into work.
What if it was Jack yelling down the intercom? Despite all my resolve, I start to feel guilty. I think back to kicking him in the balls. I think back to his battered face on the airplane and how I refused to talk to him. I remember wiping his messages off the answering machine and – the ultimate revenge – ringing up British Telecom to remove his number from my Friends & Family list. And then I think about the scene in my kitchen last night and how we burnt his letter.
But then I think about his voice on the phone and I remember what H said. I shouldn’t feel guilty. Even if Jack had declared undying love in his letter, why should I believe him after what he’s done?
It’s too late.
Much too late.
I’m still feeling out of sorts by the time I walk up Charlotte Street to the office. Why does everything have to be so confusing? Why can’t life be simple?
Because it is so easy in theory.
In theory, you can split life into three categories: career, love life and life in general (this includes home, mates, etc.). The big problem is that you only ever get a maximum of two out of the three working well at the same time. It’s like juggling. Whilst I was with Jack, the love life and life in general stuff was tickety-boo; the career was shit. Now the career’s great, life in general is fine, but my love life sucks.
It’s rubbish!
When am I going to have it all?
I only start to feel better once I’m ensconced at my desk. I do love this job. Jules has been in and out all week, which has been a relief. He hasn’t been looking over my shoulder and it’s given me a chance to find my feet. I’ve got a catch-up session with him later this morning. He’s asked me to compile a list of my ideas, and now, as I put the finishing touches to it, I feel chuffed. This is the first piece of work I’ve done as a bona fide employee and not as a temp.
At last.
I’m permanent.
And I’m here to stay.
(Fingers crossed Jules likes it too.)
I’m so engrossed that I don’t notice that Jenny is standing by my desk. She’s going to a fancy dress party this weekend and she’s wearing the get-up that Sam has been making for her. She’s got a ridiculous Cleopatra wig on and a sexy lace bodice.
‘How do I look?’ she asks, doing a twirl whilst I laugh.
‘Amazing! You’re bound to pull.’ I spot my camera on the desk. ‘Stay there.’
Jenny poses whilst I take pictures of her. After three snaps, the camera runs out of film. She pulls off her wig and ruffles her hair, as the film rewinds. She sits on the edge of my desk and leans forward conspiratorially. ‘There’s a cute twenty-three-year-old I’ve got my sights on,’ she whispers. ‘He’s a dead ringer for Leonardo Di whatsit.’ She folds her arms and sucks in her cheeks comically. ‘I think I’ll be having some of that, thank you very much.’
‘You’re terrible,’ I laugh.
‘Always was, always will be,’ she grins. She looks at me for a moment. ‘How are you feeling today? Any better?’
Jenny and Sam have been brilliant this week. It was probably very unprofessional to spill the beans about Jack on my first day, but they didn’t seem to mind. Instead, they’ve rallied round, not letting me get too blue. Andy calls us the Witches’ Coven and every time we come back from a fag break, he yells, ‘Run for cover, lads! They’ll chop off your balls!’ We all cackle demoniacally at this, but it’s all a good laugh, especially since Sam fancies him.
I take the film out of the camera and look up at Jenny. ‘He delivered a letter last night.’
She grimaces. ‘And?’
‘I burnt it. I didn’t even read it.’
‘That’s my girl,’ she grins, putting out her hand to high five me. ‘I knew you’d see sense. There’s no point in breaking your heart at your age, when there’s so much fun to be had.’
‘Don’t worry, I’m taking a leaf out of your book,’ I say. ‘I’m going out tomorrow night.’
‘Best thing for you,’ she nods. ‘Just remember: death before compromise.’
And that’s why I admire Jenny. Because she takes no shit. Because she does what she wants and sticks to her decisions. She may be in her thirties, but you don’t hear her bleating about needing a man or getting panicky about her biological clock. And if she isn’t desperate, why should I be?
I can be Jenny too.
In spades.
With knobs on.
There’s a good Friday feeling in the office. I join in with all the banter and for the first time since I came back from Greece, I feel myself again.
At eleven-thirty, Jules calls me in for our meeting. We spend ages going over all the work I’ve done and he’s pleased. He tells me his plans for Friers and I feel a surge of confidence, because some of my ideas match his.
Things are definitely looking up.
‘Let’s go and get something to eat,’ he says, eventually. ‘I’m starving.’
I’m just about to agree when Ann, Jules’s wife, calls. I gather up my things from the table.
‘I can’t,’ says Jules. ‘I’m taking my new secretary out. Okay, I’ll see you later. I love you.’
Why can’t I find someone like him? Why can’t I find someone who’s not scared of their feelings, who’s decent and honest? They must exist somewhere. Jules is living proof of that. So where are they?
Married. That’s where.
I’m still brooding about this when we take our seats in a trendy Soho brasserie. The maître d’ is tripping over himself to serve Jules.
‘Ah, Mr Geller. May I get you something to drink?’ he asks.
Jules smiles at me. ‘I think we’ll have a couple of glasses of champagne, Tom.’
‘What are we celebrating?’ I ask.
‘Surviving our first week.’
When the champagne arrives, Jules settles back in his seat. ‘So how’s it been?’ he asks.
‘Great,’ I say. ‘I’m really enjoying it.’
Jules spreads his napkin over his lap. ‘Cut the crap, Amy. I’ve been watching you all week.’
I open my mouth in astonishment.
‘It’s all right,’ he continues, ‘I’m not having a go. The work you’ve done is brilliant, I’m worried about you, that’s all.’
I can’t believe he’s saying this. Whenever he’s been around, I’ve made a super-human effort to be chirpy.
‘I’ve been around the block enough times to spot a broken heart when I see one. Do you want to tell me about it?’ he asks.
‘Is it that obvious?’
‘’Fraid so. You never know, I might be able to help, being a fellow human being, an’ all,’ he says, exaggerating his American accent.
I shake my head. He’s my boss, not my therapist. Anyway, he’s a bloke. What does he know?
‘You don’t want to hear about it,’ I tell him.
‘Try me.’
He does deserve an explanation, I suppose, since he’s obviously sussed. I take a deep breath and look at him, before I start telling him all about Jack, our holiday and how I’ve been feeling ever since. I try to make it sound like it’s not a big deal, but when he starts asking questions, I find myself giving him all the gory details.