I gazed into space. Perhaps my biscuit-coloured trousers and my moss-green Lycra top? Too businesslike. My Edina Ronay knitted dress? Maybe . . . but if it was warm in the bar (and it was sure to be warm in the bar) then my face would go red and would clash unbecomingly with the pink wool. I was still mentally mixing and matching when Jessica Ferris, our managing director, walked into the room.
‘All hands to the pumps,’ she barked. ‘Anyone who’s working on DomElectric get the finger out now. The head honcho and his sidekick are coming in to see us at five-thirty. I want to have something up and running for him.’ She looked at me. ‘You’re working on it, Sadie, aren’t you?’
‘Well, yes,’ I said. ‘And Robert, of course.’
‘OK you guys, get to it.’
I looked at my watch. I could get something up and running by Jessica’s deadline but it would be hard. Also, I was due to be in the hairdresser at five-thirty.
‘You won’t need both of us at half five,’ I remarked as casually as I could.
‘Of course I bloody will,’ snapped Jessica.
‘But my hair appointment—’
‘Sadie, cancel your appointment,’ said Jessica.
‘It’s just that—’
‘Sadie, these people are paying us good money and you will be there. So will Robert. Enough said.’
I groaned. Still, I thought, I only lived a ten-minute sprint away from the office. I could hang around for the presentation, get home and wash my hair myself. It wouldn’t be the same as having it done for me but something usually goes wrong on a big date and missing my hair appointment wasn’t the worst thing that could happen.
Of course it wasn’t. Worse was to come, as Robert and I really struggled with the DomElectric, trying to get the links running as smoothly as we wanted. But we managed, just about, to get everything up and running by half five. Which was when Jessica walked in to say that they’d be a bit late but they’d be here by six. Six was cutting things a bit fine but it still wasn’t a disaster. Even if I didn’t get home till half-past I could have a really quick shower and do my speedy-getting-ready job. And it was a reasonably short hop from Connolly Station to Blackrock. But, I thought bleakly, as I moved the mouse over the image of a washer-dryer and wondered why on earth the description wasn’t coming up like it was supposed to, this wasn’t the preparation I’d wanted for my big night out.
They arrived at a quarter past six. I ran through the basics of the site with them while they asked the stupid sort of questions that people with no knowledge of technology whatsoever ask. And then they moved the mouse over the images themselves and the descriptions came up like they were supposed to, except when they clicked on the bright-green vacuum cleaner and the whole site crashed.
‘No problem,’ said Robert. ‘That’s just a glitch. I can sort that for you.’
His fingers flew over the keyboard while I looked surreptitiously at my watch. I would have to go really soon. It occurred to me that it would have been smart to have rung Richard Clavin’s extension earlier and told him that I might be a bit late. But even if I’d thought of it I probably wouldn’t have done it because he might have read it as (a) I’d changed my mind or (b) I was too busy to come out, and he might have asked Helen or Susan or – heaven forbid – even Noreen instead. So I hadn’t rung him and maybe he was now at home thinking about me while I was still here struggling with images of vacuum cleaners.
‘There,’ said Robert in relief as the site finally came back. ‘As I said, a minor glitch.’
‘It looks good,’ said one of the electric company honchos.
‘I like it too,’ said the other.
‘Good work, guys,’ said Jessica.
‘I’m sorry to rush,’ I said as apologetically as I could. ‘But I have an appointment this evening and I really need to . . .’ I allowed my voice to trail off as though there was nothing in my life more interesting than being with them but that this other appointment was interrupting us and, unfortunately, I had to deal with it.
All the same, Jessica looked irritated. ‘If you must, Sadie,’ she said.
‘I must.’ I grabbed my bag and legged it out of the building. The apartment I was sharing with my friend Ashling was on the quays. I ran down the street and was breathless by the time I’d punched the entry code into the keypad.
Ashling had already gone out. She had a steady boyfriend, the not-too-unattractive John, and she spent more time at his place than ours. In fact I sometimes wondered whether or not I would be needing a new flat-mate soon. A mental image of sharing my apartment with the gorgeous Richard Clavin drifted into my head.
‘Come on, come on,’ I told myself as I peeled myself out of my working clothes. ‘No time for this.’
I jumped under the shower. It was freezing. Obviously Ashling had used up all the hot water. I swore as I hopped around under the icy spray and tried to rinse the suds from my hair. I hugged one side of the shower as I also tried to shave my goosebump-covered legs. I’d have words with the bitch later. Using all the hot water was simply selfish.
It was a quick shower. I got out and wrapped myself in a towel, still shivering. I grabbed my body cream, shook it and squeezed the bottle. A huge glob of white cream shot out and landed on my wet hair. I washed it in cold water again.
Do you want the whole litany of disasters? Do you want to hear about how my hair just wouldn’t, absolutely wouldn’t, dry properly? Do you want to hear about my mascara smudging and leaving a dirty black blob on my made-up face? Do you want to hear about how I decided that my denim skirt and white linen shirt would look good (even though not sophisticated) but how I managed to get make-up on the collar of the shirt anyway so that, at seven o’clock, I was still rummaging in my wardrobe looking for something to wear. I settled on my lilac dress, which actually is quite sophisticated but is a bit clingier than I’d like given the lack of success of my last diet in shifting poundage from my stomach area.
By ten past seven I was nearly ready. I picked up my hairspray to try and do a last-minute hold job on my errant locks. Or at least I thought I picked up my hairspray. What I had, in fact, picked up was my foot reviver spray. I realised this as the waft of mist drifted through the air and settled on my hair. It didn’t make that much difference, I suppose. But it meant that my head now smelled of peppermint and athlete’s foot lotion. I grabbed the correct spray, enveloped myself in a cloud of mist, and dragged my brush through my hair. I hoped that footspray and hairspray weren’t too incompatible. And then I picked up my bag and hurried out of the apartment.
It was twenty-five past seven when I got to the train station which was pretty good going. According to the board, the next train was in twenty minutes. It would be eight o’clock before I got to Blackrock; half an hour was a bit more than fashionably late. I’d been allowing for ten minutes of lateness. I could ring him, though. Everyone in Whizz-Bang had a card with staff mobile numbers on it. This was so that we could get called to some technological disaster day or night.
Does the phrase ‘total nightmare’ mean anything to you? It was a total nightmare when I realised that I’d left the card in my other bag. I was comforting myself with the thought that it didn’t matter, that he might in any event ring me, when I realised that I’d left my phone in my other bag too. The only things in the stupid bag I had with me were my purse (cash only, no credit cards – other bag of course!) and my make-up. (And the footspray. I had to wear high-heeled mules with the lilac dress and they were extremely uncomfortable. But they looked good. The footspray was a last-minute clever thought. Though not as clever as my phone would’ve been.)
Anyway, no more disasters. The train arrived, I got on, there were no weirdos ready to spill Coke or paint or whatever on top of me. The Dart slid into Blackrock at eight on the button. I jumped off the train, landed awkwardly, and fell out of my shoes. The shoe that stayed on the platform was fine. The shoe that fell beneath the train was squashed to a pulp as the train pulled off. I sat on the platform, nursing my ankle that was swelling alarmingly, and started to cry. There was a stupid part of me that thought that people would care about what had happened. And, in fact, a couple of them had stopped when I fell and asked was I all right. I’d said yes, yes, fine, as dismissively as I could because of course I wasn’t all right, I was mortified. They hadn’t realised that my shoe was being pulverised beneath the train. They didn’t know that the only difference between my ankle and a football – well, quite frankly, there wasn’t much of a damn difference. And so they all disappeared out of the station and left me sniffing on the platform as my hair fell in lank foot-reviver tresses around my face.
I couldn’t go to the bar now. I was late and I was a mess and I knew that some people might have been able to joke their way out of it but some people probably didn’t care that I’d had secret fantasies about a date with gorgeous Richard Clavin for absolutely months and that those dreams were now as shattered as my poor squashed shoe. And I couldn’t walk into a trendy bar with my face a mess, my hair still smelling of peppermint and athlete’s foot lotion, wearing one shoe and sporting a swollen ankle. Call me vain, but there you are. It clearly wasn’t Richard Clavin who was the fuckwit in this scenario.
I got to my feet and hopped toward one of the bright-green benches. I didn’t know what to do. The shrill noise from my bag made me jump with fright. It was at that point that I realised that ‘fuckwit’ wasn’t even half appropriate enough a word for me. I did have my phone after all. I’d shoved it into the little side compartment in the bag. But I still didn’t have the card with everyone’s phone number on it. That was in my credit-card folder and I knew that the folder was very definitely in my other bag.
I took out the phone and hit answer.
‘Where are you, Sadie?’ Richard Clavin asked loudly above the beat of a music mix. ‘This bar is crowded and you might be here but I can’t see you anywhere. And if you’re not here then you’re really, really late. And I don’t mind you being late but I do mind if you’ve decided to stand me up.’
I hadn’t managed to get a word in edgeways even if I’d known what word to use.
‘Um, well, actually—’
‘Is there a problem?’
‘Sort of,’ I said.
‘What?’ He wasn’t yelling now and I realised it was because he must have stepped out of the bar.
‘I had a bit of a disaster,’ I told him.
‘What sort of disaster?’
What sort of disaster did I want to confess? That I’d been late and had a cold shower and put cream and then footspray in my hair? That I’d fallen off the train like a gawky teenager and lost my shoe? Or that there had been a crisis at the office and I’d had to stay to sort things out and I was sorry for not having phoned him before now because I’d been so very busy but I’d meant to call him immediately I’d got a moment. Which of those things would make Richard Clavin like me and ask me out again?
‘Just a disaster,’ I said. ‘Sorry.’
‘Where are you, Sadie?’ he asked.
‘Look, it doesn’t matter, I can’t see you tonight.’
A train screeched into the station and drowned out my words. I thought about getting on it until I clicked that I hadn’t crossed the platform.
‘Are you on the train?’ demanded Richard.
‘Look, Richard, sorry. I’ll talk to you again.’
I closed my phone and shoved it back into the bag. I wondered would he ring again but he didn’t. I buried my head in my hands. I was a hopeless, useless fool of a woman who wasn’t safe to be let out on her own. And who clearly wasn’t mature enough to go for sophisticated evenings with men like Richard Clavin.
‘Sadie?’
This time I nearly jumped five metres into the air. Only the fact that I couldn’t actually move stopped me. I looked up.
‘What’s the problem?’ Richard Clavin was standing beside me, doubtless intrigued by my mascara-tracked cheeks, my bird’s-nest hair and my single-shoed state.
‘What’s the problem?’ I almost laughed. ‘What’s the problem!?’
‘There is, obviously, a problem,’ he said. ‘Otherwise you’d have left the station and come to the pub.’ He waved at Topsie’s which was only a few yards away and clearly visible through the rails. ‘I heard the train on the phone at the same time as I saw it go by and realised you must be here.’
‘I’m sorry,’ I said. ‘I’ve had a shit day.’
‘I have those all the time.’ He grinned.
‘And I really can’t have dinner with you because I have athlete’s foot in my hair and no shoes.’
He looked at me in puzzlement. ‘Would you like to run that by me again?’
So I explained about working late and the mix up with the sprays and falling off the train, and I could see him trying very hard not to laugh and I wanted to curl up in a ball and die.
‘I guess Dan McCormack wouldn’t be too impressed if I brought a woman with a headful of athlete’s foot into the restaurant,’ he agreed.
‘Anyway, I’m not really your sort of girl,’ I told Richard. ‘This kind of thing happens to me a lot. I’m a walking disaster area. I split up with my last boyfriend because I reversed his car into a bus stop.’
This time he did laugh. It was gorgeous and sexy. Naturally.
‘Besides,’ I told him. ‘Everyone thinks you’re too good-looking to be decent boyfriend material.’
‘That’s a bummer,’ he said. ‘Besides, who said anything about boyfriends?’
I winced. He was a fuckwit. And so was I.
‘Can you walk at all?’ he asked.
‘I can hobble,’ I told him. ‘My ankle is sore. And I only have one shoe.’
He looked at me appraisingly. ‘We can make it as far as the car park,’ he said. ‘Which is where I’m parked. And then I’ll drive you back to my place and I’ll strap up your ankle and we can order a takeaway. If that’s all right?’
Gosh, I thought. How decisive. That’s probably why he was one of the top guys in the company. He didn’t mess about.