Seven Week Itch

by Victoria Corby

  As I was there I decided I might as well pop into the office for an hour or two. If I’d imagined everyone would be delighted to see me and impressed by my noble effort in coming in, I was sadly mistaken. ‘What the hell are you doing here?’ asked Amanda bluntly. ‘You’re on sick leave. Go away before Stephen begins to think we all should come in when we’ve got a sick note.’

  Jenny nodded wisely. ‘You’ve got to give yourself time to recover, otherwise you’ll have a relapse.’

  Martin looked up from flicking through a copy of Estates Times. ‘I don’t know who you’re trying to impress. You’re no bloody use to anyone only able to use one arm, or is that thing just for show?’ he sneered, looking at the sling which I’d prudently put on just before I went in, to make it absolutely obvious he couldn’t land me with any of his ruddy typing.

  I bared my teeth at him. ‘You’re such a sweetie, Martin. I love hearing the nice things you say.’ Amanda and Jenny sniggered as his mouth clamped into a straight line of annoyance.

  Stephen poked his head around his door to see what the noise was about. ‘Aren’t you supposed to be off until next week? Hadn’t you better go home? I’m sure we can manage without you, Susie.’ So much for any notions of thinking myself indispensable. ‘I don’t want to be responsible for any damage you might do to yourself by coming back too soon,’ he added.

  ‘Is this concern for my well-being or concern that you might find yourself being sued?’ I asked.

  He stared at me blankly, glasses slipping down his nose. ‘For yourself, of course,’ he began indignantly and then laughed.

  ‘I can assure you the only damage done today will be to my head as I beat it against the walls if I go home,’ I said. ‘I had to come into Frampton anyway, so I thought I’d just do a half-day or something.’

  ‘Oh,’ he said, ‘I suppose that’d be all right.’ He pushed his glasses back into place and beamed at me. As you’re here… You don’t know where the copy for the ads for next month’s Country Life has gone, do you?’

  I found it on top of Stephen’s bookcase, jammed between a pension proposal and an Ordnance Survey map of East Leicester in the nineteen fifties, and took the opportunity to remove various important things and take them back to my own desk where I could sort them out at leisure. Amanda was on her feet, about to show someone around a house, shrugging herself into a gorgeous red jacket that I would have given my eyeteeth for. ‘Don’t go before I come back,’ she said, patting her pockets for her car keys. ‘I want to hear all about it, especially-’ she rolled her eyes - ‘exactly what you were doing in the back lanes with the scrumptious Luke Dillon. When I met him it was lust at first sight. If Bill hadn’t been with me I can’t say what might have happened, ripped-off clothing and swinging chandeliers, I expect.’

  ‘Don’t be crude, Amanda,’ said Martin, without raising his eyes from the pages of the Estates Times. ‘It gives a bad impression to any clients who might come in.’

  ‘Dear me, Martin, what a sheltered life you must lead if you think that was crude,’ she said mildly. He glowered ferociously at his magazine and pretended not to have heard.

  Within a couple of hours I began to realise Dr Bob might have had a point when he’d told me to take the whole week off. It was surprising how much more tiring it was doing simple, mindless tasks, like working out what Stephen had done with the bill for his mobile, than lying on a sofa, reading a racy novel. The five-thirty get-up this morning hadn’t helped either and my shoulder was aching dully from the drive in, though if I hadn’t been in a fairly martyrish mood through being in the office when I was officially on sick leave I would probably barely have noticed it.

  I was on the verge of throwing in the towel and going to buy my books when Jenny bit into a toffee and left the crown off her front tooth poking out of it. Her dentist’s receptionist said in a sniffy voice that they couldn’t possibly fit in even an emergency appointment until tomorrow afternoon at the very earliest. And frankly, in her opinion, a missing crown wasn’t an emergency. The normally unflappable Jenny burst into tears. Her husband was having a big office do that evening, she’d bought a new dress and shoes, and now she had a large and visible gap in the front of her mouth. ‘I can’t go out like this, Alan’s going to be so cross!’ she wailed. ‘And he’s going to say it’s all my fault, and it is. I’ve been told not to eat toffees, but I do love them so.’

  Stephen saved the day. He rang his own dentist and, through a mixture of cajolery and threatening to take his teeth elsewhere, persuaded her to fit Jenny in later that afternoon for a temporary gluing job. He told Jenny the good news and then said, ‘Martin, can you cancel your appointment for this afternoon? Amanda and I have to go to Lincoln and won’t be back before Jenny has to leave.’

  ‘No, I can’t,’ said Martin abruptly. ‘The Woodrows are coming up from London to see The Grange, they’re probably already on their way.’

  There was a silence. Stephen turned and looked at me, his eyes saying he wouldn’t dream of imposing on me when I wasn’t even supposed to be here, but…

  ‘Of course I’ll stay,’ I said with heavy resignation, feeling rather annoyed that for once I couldn’t accuse Martin of being obstructive and unhelpful. That’s not to say he probably wouldn’t have given the same response even if his had been an easily cancellable appointment.

  It was almost as boring being in the office without much to do as it had been at home. I whiled away some time playing minesweeper on the computer, knowing I could never hope to match Jenny’s times for every level, and then started idly flicking my way through back files on completed sales. A surprising number of them were password protected, which I presumed meant they must be Martin’s, since he insisted on keeping his clients to himself. What happened if he was out or on holiday and something needed to be checked urgently on one of his files? I wondered vaguely. Probably someone in the office had a master list of passwords. Then the phone went for the first time since I’d been left in charge.

  It was Rose, ringing to check Stephen really was coming to her charity do. She wasn’t best pleased to discover who was acting as telephonist and said so at length.

  ‘I was fed up and needed something to do,’ I said plaintively when she had finished at last. My ear was aching. Rose on her high horse is quite something.

  ‘Hey! I’ve got an idea,’ she said. ‘You’re at a loose end and need cheering up, and so am I. Well, I don’t need cheering up, but I am at a loose end because Jeremy’s had his arm twisted into going to one of these NFU things this evening and I’m all alone. Why don’t we go to see that Meg Ryan film we were talking about?’

  ‘Well, I don’t know,’ I began. I was getting to the stage where flopping in front of the telly in my dressing-gown was the most attractive option for the evening and one of the three books I’d bought in my dash out at lunchtime was sending out a particularly loud siren call of ‘read me’.

  ‘Oh, come on,’ she wheedled. ‘I’ll come and collect you. It’ll do you good to have a really good laugh.’ As I hesitated she went on, ‘I’ll never get to see it otherwise. Jeremy won’t go and I don’t think he’d be very pleased if I started buzzing off and leaving him alone at home already.’

  ‘Well, maybe you should start getting him trained now,’ I said. ‘I thought you had no intention of being the sort of woman who stayed at home attending to her husband’s every whim.’

  She laughed. ‘Believe me, I’m not. But I do try to make the odd concession. And there’s a cocktail bar next door to the cinema. We can pop in afterwards and pretend we’re really sophisticated.’

  ‘I’m not allowed to have cocktails,’ I said primly, seizing on the one concrete objection I could see. ‘No alcohol with these pills I’m taking.’

  ‘There are non-alcoholic cocktails too,’ she said loftily, probably sensing she was winning. ‘Instead of a Long Slow Screw Up Against The Wall, I’m sure they can do you a Quick Peck On The Cheek In The Front Porch.’

  ‘Have they r
eally got one called that?’

  ‘No idea,’ she replied blithely, ‘but there’s bound to be something for good little non-boozers like you. I’ll ring and book the tickets. Which performance do you want? Seven-thirty or nine-thirty?’

  ‘Seven-thirty,’ I said, realising too late that once again I’d been man­oeuvred into agreeing to do something I was unsure about by Rose, even if she honestly thought it would do me good to go out and have some fun. Naturally, she wasn’t averse to a bit of fun herself. I yawned, glancing at my watch. Maybe she was right. If I went home and straight to bed all that would happen would be another five-thirty wake-up. And this was hardly going to be a late night either, more a respectably middling one, since Rose wanted to be home for Jeremy when he came back from scintillating the NFU. Probably even Dr Bob would admit that this mild entertainment could do me no harm.

  I got home, sat down for a couple of minutes, and promptly fell asleep on the sofa. I woke up about five minutes before Rose was due to pick me up and one panic-struck look in the mirror convinced me that I’d better do something about my face. Now. Crease marks down the cheeks as a result of sleeping on an embroidered cushion are hardly de rigueur even on the quietest night out with the girls. Except it wasn’t going to be that as Rose, hair pinned up in an artfully messy bun and wearing a new pair of shocking-pink trousers that made her legs look as if they ended in her armpits, casually told me she’d remembered Luke saying he wanted to see the film too and he was meeting us at the cinema. She was sorry she hadn’t rung to tell me, but she’d been too busy to get to the phone.

  Judging from her immaculate make-up, she’d been too busy titivating herself, I thought sourly. ‘I can’t wear this!’ I said, looking down at the skirt and shirt I’d worn to work and which had seemed just about passable a couple of minutes ago. ‘I must change!’ I called, heading for the stairs.

  ‘You look fine,’ Rose assured me, following me at the gallop. She knows my dressing habits, and I expect she wanted to see the first half of the film. She looked doubtfully at my crumpled, slept-in shirt, ‘What about this then?’ She picked up a dark-orange silk jersey top from the top of the pile.

  ‘I’m not sure about the colour,’ I began.

  ‘It suits you, really,’ she said, then, seeing me waver, said with an irresistible firmness, ‘Put it on.'

  I did. But I made her wait while I chose the right pair of shoes.

  ‘I think I’ll get myself a hot dog from the stand in the foyer,’ I said when we’d bought our tickets. I’d missed out on most of my lunch. Stephen had swept my lunchtime sandwich on to the floor with his briefcase as he passed. As it landed bread-side down and didn’t explode its contents all over the carpet, I would have picked it up, dusted it off and finished it if he hadn’t turned round to remind me about a call he was expecting and trodden on it.

  ‘Not a good idea. Luke’s about to arrive and there are few less glamorous things than being seen eating a hot dog, whether or not it has extra onions and mustard,’ Rose said with unnerving practicality. ‘It doesn’t do great shakes for your breath either.’

  With regret that I had to admit she was right and that it wasn’t worth risking chocolate stains around my mouth either. I went for popcorn instead which might have been more elegant, but didn’t do a great deal for satisfying the appetite. In the event, I could have had two hot dogs, followed by a Polo chaser for the sake of my breath, as Luke was so late he only slipped into the seat between us five minutes after the film had begun, causing much grumbling from those in the row behind us.

  I’m sure that the film was very good, I could hear Rose chuckling in several places and sniffing in others, an even greater compliment, though Luke seemed fairly unmoved. Perhaps he’d discovered he didn’t fancy Meg Ryan as much as he’d thought he did. The cinema was overheated and stuffy and I had a disconcerting desire to go to sleep. I’d have given in and taken the opportunity to have a quick cuddle by using Luke’s shoulder as a pillow but he was on my left side and I didn’t want to lean on my bad arm which was aching dully in a way that was making me feel a little queasy. I’d had my pills in my handbag but the man behind us had been so cross about Luke’s late arrival that I didn’t dare annoy him further by rattling the bottle while I got the pills out and made even more noise. It wasn’t until the music was playing over the credits at the end that I was at last able to grab a couple of my lovely pink pills, but by then it was too late. I hadn’t been able to concentrate on the film and, worse, for I could always see the film on video eventually, I hadn’t been able to concentrate on the pleasure of having Luke so close to me for an hour and forty minutes in the dark either.

  ‘Oh, wasn’t that super?’ said Rose with shining eyes as she stood up. ‘That last scene, I thought they were never going to find each other. I felt my heart was going to stop with tension when he got caught in the traffic jam, didn’t you, Luke?’

  ‘Er, yes, it was very good,’ he said.

  She didn’t notice the lack of total enthusiasm. ‘I could watch it all over again, just to see that last bit. I really could.’

  I looked at her in slight alarm, afraid that she might really suggest we see it through again. Luke must have had the same thought, for he said hastily, ‘It’s Friday night, there won’t be any tickets left.’

  ‘You’re right,’ she said equably. ‘Let’s go around the corner and have a drink then. You’re on for one, aren’t you, Luke?’ She looked at me and winked in a ludicrously suggestive fashion. ‘I know Susie is.’

  Susie wasn’t, as a matter of fact. She was far too bloody tired. Not even the thought of seeing Luke for the next hour or so could stop me from thinking I’d far rather be in bed, and given the way I was feeling, be alone too. But there are certain rules between friends, and not being a total party pooper is one of them, so I smiled, hoping she’d notice it was a bit wanly, and said a drink would be lovely. I also hoped she’d notice the emphasis on the singular.

  I could see why Rose liked the cocktail bar. It exuded chic, money and the latest style consultant, who had favoured a designer fantasy of a Tokyo bar. Sliding paper screens hid the customers from the hoi polloi passing by in the street outside, tatami mats covered the floors, and low cream-covered squares, cunningly imitating futons, were grouped around almost floor-level black-lacquer tables. Anybody with rheumatism was going to have the devil of a job standing up again, except that if you were old enough to have rheumatism you were probably too old to go to a joint like this. Even the staff were dressed in black kung-fu outfits. I was quite surprised to see that they hadn’t carried the Japanese theme to the limit by insisting everyone take off their shoes and put on slippers. Needless to say, the place was packed and there were a few hopefuls hanging around the edges, waiting for the opportunity to sit down.

  ‘Those women in the corner are just picking up their handbags. They must be ready to go,’ exclaimed Rose, who has an excellent eye for these things. ‘Quick, Luke! Do a dirty dash and get the table before those men over there.’

  Luke displayed impressive speed and technique, reaching the table just in front of four hooray Henries, who stopped, looking non-plussed and bolshy. One of them began to protest and Luke said something, indicating my arm. The man turned around, looked at me sceptically - I’d left the sling at home - then sighed heavily and stumped off grumpily with his friends to perch on stools by the bar.

  ‘Luke’s always been good at whipping tables away from people who think they have a right to them,’ said Rose in a pleased voice as we began to weave around the tables towards him. ‘Hey!’ she whispered, stopping and nudging me. ‘Over there. It’s Hamish. With a woman. Who do you think she is? A colleague from work or his girlfriend?’

  I glanced over to where she was pointing. Hamish, long legs slanted sideways to fit them in the limited space, was sitting next to a dark-haired woman wearing what looked like a Chanel suit. It had that something about it that said it was no high-street copy. He was leaning towards her, saying so
mething in her ear, leaning his weight on a hand that was virtually on her knee. She’d bent her head to listen, so all we could see was a fall of impeccably cut hair, so glossy it looked as if it had been French polished.

  ‘So much for Jeremy saying Hamish’s love life was on the flat side at the moment. Not with that one around it isn’t,’ whispered Rose. ‘I must find out who she is.’ Before I could stop her she had bounded across saying loudly, ‘Hello, Hamish. Fancy seeing you here. Have you been to the cinema as well?’

  He raised his head, his smile taking a little too long to appear. ‘Rose, Susie,’ he said evenly. ‘How nice to see you both.’ His eyes said he didn’t mean a word of it. ‘You must be feeling a lot better, Susie, if you’re up to braving Leicester on a Friday night.’

  ‘I am, thank you,’ I said. There was a little silence and I was all for turning around and shooting off to our corner as quickly as possible but Rose was standing her ground, staring at him meaningfully.

  When he didn’t respond she smiled brilliantly at the woman. ‘Hello, I’m Rose Ashton, my husband is a great friend of Hamish’s, and this is Susie Gardener.’

  A shadow of resignation passed over Hamish’s face. ‘This is Merial Carstairs,’ he said, indicating his companion without giving us a clue as to who she actually was. It was a particularly annoying trait of his. I’m certainly not sexist enough to say that solicitors can’t look like Merial, but that suit was altogether too stylish and in the mode for a member of the legal profession. Her skirt length would probably have been a severe danger to the blood-pressure levels of the judiciary as well. And the way Hamish had been eyeing her didn’t indicate she was some sort of impersonal colleague. And who could blame him? I thought dully, finding that I suddenly felt scruffy and unattractive in comparison. The only way to describe her was drop-dead gorgeous. I felt an overpowering need to find she had even one fault, but it didn’t seem as if she’d got any, except that perhaps her mouth was too big. She had huge, liquid brown eyes, a flawless complexion, and the sort of beautifully cut blunt bob that will always fall back into place, no matter how much of a gale blows it about.