Hugo back on his lead, I look around and take stock of the destruction. There is a lot of it, and, like an Escher drawing, the longer you look, the more you see and the more inter-connected everything is. But unlike an Escher drawing, there is a clear beginning. And it all leads back to Hugo. Most of the teddy bears are in the jaws of their new (furrier) owners, the cake is smashed, and wrapped presents are now ripped open, their insides spilling all over the place like roadkill, many smooshed with mud. Even the balloons have made a run for it, caught up in a nearby tree.
Someone who looks a lot like an angry Birthday Girl parent comes over to me, filling me with more dread than I would care to admit.
And so I decide to lie.
‘I am so sorry. You see, Hugo, my dog, is a rescue I recently adopted from the jaws of death in a notorious kill centre somewhere in the … Spain. And he must have suffered a terrible accident with his previous owners, because he’s been left petrified of teddy bears and birthday parties. We don’t know what happened, but it must have been awful.’ Looking at him, you can tell he’s anything but scared. I don’t know if I’ve ever seen him so happy. Part of me is pleased he’s having such a good time. ‘I am so sorry,’ I say again. ‘If I’d known you would be here, I would have been so much more careful. I can sew the unicorn horn back on. Really, I’m quite good at sewing.’ I hear a noise and look over at Hugo. Despite still being on his lead, he’s managed to sneakily get hold of the unicorn horn, and is now callously ripping it up and spitting out the fluff as he goes. If he doesn’t want the fluff, why is he so determined to get it out? ‘Or maybe it would be best if I buy your daughter a brand new unicorn?’
‘Hugo! My love! How was your walkies? Were you a good boy for Bea?’ My mum is at the door the instant we walk into the drive. I can smell roast chicken. Sometimes I don’t know why I ever moved out of home. I detach his lead before he dislocates my shoulder. From the speed of his tail, you would think he hadn’t seen my mum in months. ‘Of course you were.’ She bends down and lets him lick her face.
I don’t want to ruin the perfect image she has of Hugo, but I’m going to need her help.
‘Erm, Mum … I don’t suppose you know where I could get a ride-on unicorn from, do you?’
She looks at me as if I have finally lost my mind.
‘Oh, it’s not for me.’
CHAPTER 17
Are you coming today?
Peter’s message pings in. I read it from my seat on the sofa, and then put the phone face down on the table without replying. I’ve been sitting here for so long that my bum is uncomfortably warm, but I have no desire to move.
It feels like it’s only been a couple of weeks since the last Games Night, but I’m shocked when I realize a couple of months have passed.
It’s hard keeping track of time when you have made absolutely no progress in life. Having sourced the mythical unicorn with Mum’s help, I now have the time to start doing the shit that makes me happy, but I keep having false starts. There is too much stuff I could do, but I don’t really know what I should do. A typical case of analysis paralysis.
But it’s not my lack of life progress that has stopped me from going today. As soon as the date was put in, I knew I wouldn’t attend, although part of me would have loved to see how the May Pole theme manifested. Hosts get bonus points (that carry no value and are purely nominal) for coming up with the most bizarre celebrations and tenuously themed snacks. I wonder if all the food will be served on sticks.
I hope my lack of a reply is reply enough.
Unlike Mum, who escapes to a different country on this day every year, I never do anything on the anniversary of my dad’s death. I can’t be around people in case they smile in the wrong way. So I always take myself off and spend the day alone. Or at least I try to.
Today I plan to do a jigsaw puzzle. Dad loved a jigsaw puzzle.
I can hear him teaching me how to prepare the pieces and follow his instructions. Flip them, face up. Separate the edges. Cherish the corners. Sort by colour. Pick out any special pieces. And begin. As soon as you start, the picture instantly becomes clearer. It’s a kind of magic.
I open the box, tip the pieces on the coffee table and begin flipping.
An unquantifiable amount of time later, there is a knock at the door. I ignore it. I’m not expecting anyone. I have no music playing and they won’t be able to see my shadow under the door. As long as I don’t move.
So I don’t move. I even try not to breathe.
The knock comes again.
‘Bea?’ It’s Peter. He found me on this day at the end of second year. I had planned to spend the day with Fred, but I missed the train. He saw me crying on the platform and cancelled his plans. Since then he normally always checks in, by phone if not in person. I’d thought Games Night would stop him from coming this year.
‘Bea, I know you’re there. At least I hope you’re there, otherwise this is very odd.’ I hear a shuffle. I imagine him with his ear against the door, listening for signs of life. ‘You don’t have to open the door, but I wanted you to know that I’ll be here for ten minutes, and if you want to let me in at any point during this time, you can. And if you do, I’ll share my spring rolls with you.’ I can hear the shuffle of a plastic bag so I know he’s telling the truth.
But I hate sharing spring rolls. They always come in uneven numbers, making it so awkward.
‘OK, I lie. I actually bought two lots of spring rolls so we can each have our own.’
Seven minutes have passed and I open up to let him in. Peter is sitting with his back to the door, making this tricky. He smiles up at me and then crawls across the floor before eventually unfolding to a standing position.
‘Hi.’
‘Hi.’
He looks across my shoulder. ‘What jigsaw are we doing?’
He puts the food on the side as he heads to the table. I rip the bag and start opening up the flimsy plastic takeaway boxes before putting the spring rolls on plates, choosing to use the posh guest china that my mum insisted I buy. By the time I reach him, he already has his puzzle face in place. A face that looks both intense and also at peace.
‘Did I miss much today?’
‘At Games Night?’
I nod.
‘No.’ He bites into a spring roll. Evidently it’s still hot; he pulls a face and breathes as if he’s giving birth. ‘Actually yes. Sophie’s pregnant.’ The spring rolls are clairvoyant.
Sophie lived down the corridor from Mia at uni. She has very fine features and married a very handsome man. I imagine their babies are going to be very attractive.
‘Mia was asking after you.’
I try to act casual.
‘She was?’
He nods. ‘She was. She seemed, er, tetchy today.’ He takes another bite. ‘Unusually on edge. I almost felt a bit sorry for Mark. Poor guy couldn’t do anything right.’
I don’t know what to say, so I remain silent.
‘So –’ he draws the word out – ‘what did she say to you? Do I need to go beat her up? Because I would do that for you.’
I smile. Peter would definitely come off worse. Eventually I say the only thing I can – the truth. ‘Nothing I didn’t need to hear.’
There is silence for a while.
‘Well,’ he says, licking his fingers, ‘I’m sure Mark would appreciate it if you called her.’
‘I will.’ But not quite yet. When I go back to her I want to have made some progress, or at least come up with a plan.
It occurs to me that finger food and jigsaws don’t really mix, so I get up, head over to the sink and tear off some kitchen towel. I wander back and pass a piece to Peter, who nods a silent thank-you.
‘So how are things with you and Alice?’
He keeps nodding. I’m not sure what that means, but apparently it’s the only answer I’m going to get.
‘And how are things on the dating scene for you?’
His eyes can be so intense sometimes, I have to
look away. I’m not great at deep and meaningful conversations, particularly sober at 5 p.m., but for Peter I try. Peter, who came all the way here with spring rolls to make sure I’m OK. I think Dad would have liked him.
One of the greatest things about puzzles is that they give your hands something to do and provide a perfect cover for avoiding eye contact. ‘Well, I’ve realized that it wasn’t really dating that I needed. Or wanted.’ I pop in a puzzle piece. ‘What I need to do is work on the things that actually make me happy. The things I want to succeed in.’
I am not entirely convinced these words all go together. Especially because Peter is staring at me, kind of vacantly.
‘So you’ve stopped dating?’
It’s a little bit more complicated than that, but essentially: ‘Yes.’
He goes back to the puzzle and tries to force a piece in.
‘I don’t think that goes there.’ I look again. ‘Actually, maybe it does, but flip it the other way around.’
He does exactly that and it fits perfectly. He looks extremely proud of himself.
‘Thanks for coming over, Peter.’
Today is not my favourite day, but him being here has made it slightly less shit.
CHAPTER 18
Now that I have a vague direction, I really want to get on with my life, but other people still keep getting in the way.
Other people like Joan. Why is she always such a cretin?
Work never gets me angry, but she’s managed the impossible.
She’s also angry back at me. And she’s here, standing over my desk.
Turns out Cathy was so impressed with Emily and the feedback that she wrote an email to our boss suggesting Emily be promoted.
Now, obviously Emily is not going to be promoted, as she still has no idea what she’s doing and has been with us for less than three months, but my boss was so taken aback by the fact Cathy had anything positive to say that she brought it up in the planning meeting, the planning meeting we have just come out of. The planning meeting where Emily publicly thanked me for the help I’d given her.
And Joan, Emily’s ‘manager’, was irrationally pissed. Pissed because apparently I’d interfered with Emily’s training. Personally, I think she’s pissed because the praise and spotlight weren’t on her for once.
‘You have no idea what you’re doing. Emily is my assistant, not yours. I gave her that task so she would purposefully mess up. She’s an assistant; she needs to know what it’s like to fuck up.’
My heart starts pounding and I can feel my face flush with indignation.
‘She doesn’t need to get tricked into messing up by her manager, who is meant to be teaching her. Instead of being so upset your game didn’t work, you might do well to focus on the fact that Emily used her initiative and did a really good job.’
I am standing – when did I stand up from my desk?
‘She’s my assistant, not yours. Back off.’ Her sneer becomes even more pronounced. ‘Need I also remind you that I rank above you here. I could get you fired.’
‘Then get me fired.’ At least that way I would have time to get on with my life.
Joan stomps off round the corner and leaves me, but I’m not alone for long.
Penny’s happy, endearing face appears from over the partition. I assume she wants the gossip, so I turn and face her, clearing some perching space for her on my desk.
‘Ugh. I hate Joan.’
But what appears on my desk is not Penny’s bum, but cake. And prosecco.
I look up. I have no idea how, but I think Penny might have missed the whole fight between me and Joan, and has instead chosen this very moment to rally the troops, who are now appearing behind her, singing me Happy Birthday. A day that I had been even more keen than usual to ignore this year, with no Mia to help me grudgingly celebrate.
I don’t know whether it was my outburst or the two glasses of prosecco that I drank, but I am feeling oddly empowered. And pissed off. And energized. And like I really need to get myself out of this situation. I need to start taking control.
The issue is, I keep putting it off. I keep getting distracted by the small irritating things in front of me, and forget the bigger picture that sits behind. I flash back to my epiphany at the end of Hugo’s walk. The epiphany that came shortly before the de-horning ceremony.
I need to be held accountable.
And so I decide to message Peter to ask, on the off-chance he has any time, for his business advice.
Of course – Saturday?
As in this Saturday?
I kinda hope he says no – this seems very soon.
Yes.
I exhale, and shrug a shoulder.
Perfect. Thanks, Pete. x
‘Well, honey, I want you to have fun this evening. So go out, have some dinner. Why don’t you see if Mia can go, and let it be on me. Just tell me how much I owe you. And go somewhere nice.’
I’m walking home from the tube having left work bang on 5 p.m.
‘Thanks, Mum.’
I don’t tell her that I have no plans this evening. And I still haven’t told her that Mia and I aren’t currently talking.
‘I’m almost home, so I’ll let you go now.’ I lose signal as soon as I enter my building, so I always hang up before I reach the turn in the road. I don’t like the idea of talking right outside and giving my neighbours such easy access to my conversations.
‘Can’t wait to see you this weekend. You’re still coming to Olivia’s party?’
‘Yes.’ Olivia is my niece. Her birthday isn’t for another week, but she’s still at the age where you want to celebrate your birthday, so our joint ‘celebration’ is now dominated by a four-year-old.
‘Great, I’ll give you your card and present then. I love you.’
‘Love you too, Mum.’
And with that I hang up, pop my phone in my bag and get out my keys.
And immediately walk into a wall. Well, not an actual wall, but a human wall.
‘Sorry!’
I look up. And into a face I recognize. His jawline is burned into my memory for all time. It’s Colin, the hot boiler man. I am vaguely aware of the group of friends surrounding him, but his face has me transfixed. A noise escapes my mouth. Part shock. Part awe. Part, a large part, awkward. Eventually I remember to speak.
‘Colin!’ It comes out a few decibels higher than normal and a lot louder. ‘Bea.’ I place my hand on my chest. ‘You fixed my boiler a while ago.’ I make the shape of a boiler with my hands.
Luckily his friends have moved on. I force my hands down and hope the urge to mime has stopped.
‘I remember.’ A man of few words.
‘Right. Yes. Well.’ Accidentally bumping into people you vaguely know isn’t something that happens frequently. And when it does happen, most of the time you should pretend that you don’t recognize them, so both parties can move away without any awkwardness. ‘Thank you for that, by the way. My showers are now the perfect temperature.’ I giggle. This conversation is an uncomfortable one to be part of, even for me, an expert in awkwardness.
‘No worries. If you ever need anything else, let me know.’ He then smiles and holds it there for a long time.
One of his friends shouts at him. ‘Come on, you bell end!’
‘I should go. We’re off to the pub round the corner.’
I raise my eyebrows and nod. I have never and will never go there. I’m not a neat freak, but it looks extraordinarily unclean.
‘Will I see you there later?’
‘Oh, no, I can’t.’
‘Busy?’
Shamefully free, actually, but I don’t want Colin to know that. I draw attention to my bag. It looks big enough to house a laptop. It doesn’t. But it does currently house some lovely 280-GSM linen-effect card in aquamarine.
‘Work.’
‘Well, if you change your mind or, like I said, need anything else, let me know. You’ve got my number.’
An hour later and I’m frozen
to the spot, staring at my phone.
It is my birthday. I should treat myself.
I look down at the takeaway menu from the Chinese round the corner. The number of dishes I’m thinking of ordering is a tad excessive.
But then an errant thought pops into my head, and once it’s there I can’t get it out.
I reach for my phone.
Hey. Are you still at the pub?
I hit send. And off it goes. To Colin.
Oh God, he might not have my number. So I send another.
It’s Bea, by the way. With the boiler round the corner.
To save me from watching my phone and getting increasingly anxious, I leave it on the side while I go to the loo.
As I walk back, it pings, and I cringe inwardly as I think what he could have replied with.
But I’m taking control today, I can do this. Like ripping off a plaster, I open the message.
You done with your work? ;)
A winky face. Surely this is flirting.
My game playing isn’t that strong – it never has been and it never will be – so I might as well be my uncool self right from the start.
I have actually. And I wondered if you might want to go for a drink one night?
I’m proud of myself for hitting send. Even if he doesn’t reply, I think the mere act of sending the message and putting myself out there takes some balls. Or the female version of balls.
Boobs?
Have I finally grown some boobs?
But I needn’t have worried. His reply is instant.
Tonight?
I am brave, but not quite that brave.
I know you’re with your friends, and I thought this might be more of a 1–1 situation. So not tonight but soon?
Most defiantly. Let me know when you’re free and I’ll be their.
I can’t help but judge him for the spelling mistakes but I can hear my vagina singing already. Perhaps she isn’t really dead, but hibernating. Colin and his jawline could be the thing to wake her up.
Just Friends Page 9