Imperfect Strangers (6 page)

CHAPTER
8

At the entrance to the office I stand unobserved, looking at my unoccupied desk in the centre, wondering if I should rush back to the toilet for another bout of emptying my guts. People are going back and forth, photocopying, filing, others sit tapping keyboards, shuffling documents from one side of their desk to the other. Amongst this commotion a telephone
rings insistently. It’s coming from my desk. Colleen’s sitting at her own desk, snared by the ringing-telephone.

“Just leave it,” Kerry says, looking up, her voice sharp, as
Colleen rises from her chair and walks to my desk. I’m about to step forward and say, it’s okay I’ll get it, when my stomach churns and a familiar watery sensation floods my tongue.

Colleen
coughs into a loose fist, smiles demurely at Kerry, and picks up the receiver. “Hello, Miss Bradwell’s desk. Colleen speaking.” She listens a moment, then sighs. Her face says it all. The skin between her eyebrows bunches into a frown. “No, Steve, Sally’s not here at the moment.”

“Told you to leave it.” Kerry’s face tightens in on itself, and as she looks up our eyes snag. She looks as if she’s going to tell
Colleen I’m back, but doesn’t.

Colleen
casts a slow glance around the room. Her eyes settle on the large window and the sheets of rain lashing the glass and obscuring the view of the city beyond. “Well, no... I don’t think I want to get involved... Well, it’s not my place really, is it?” She speaks professionally, not with any sign of anger or reproach, but with a subtle note of impatience creeping in. You’d have to know her to be aware. Steve won’t even notice. The phone is by now a couple of inches away from her ear, and she lets out a weary sigh. It’s obvious she wants to end the call, but she is just not that kind of person, not the sort to put a phone on its cradle while someone is talking at the other end.

Kerry marches over, her eyes narrowed into a spiteful squint, and snatches the phone from
Colleen. “STEVE!” she bellows into the mouthpiece. “Piss off!”

When Kerry slams the phone down, Martin Smith, the office manager
, is staring at her from his office door. Colleen stoops as if hiding behind an invisible shrubbery. Her cheeks flushed with embarrassment, she scuttles back to her desk. Kerry elevates her shoulders, lifts her chin, and returns Martin’s stare. She holds his eye until he retreats.

“Men! Atchggrrr!” Kerry growls, as he turns away. “They just don’t
seem to understand the word no.”

I feel like crap – green around the gills, as they say
. I wipe the corners of my mouth with a tissue, convinced that my face is not entirely clean. I’ve been gone for over twenty minutes. The watery sensation fills the back of my mouth and once again I think I’m going to be sick. It’s the taste of it, I tell myself, and fish through my bag for a tube of mints that have been in there for months.

“Sally,”
Colleen closes in, her whispered words landing on my face. “Your Steven’s phoned again.”

“He’s not..
.” I say, a hand shielding Colleen from my sour breath. “We’re finished.”

“Well, I hope you mean that,”
Colleen says, her voice lowered further still, even though she backs away, “because Kerry told him to, er...”

“Piss off. I told him to piss off. Fuck
! Colleen, you can be such a prissy thing. If you say a word like piss, you’re not going to be struck by lightning, you know.” The grin on Kerry’s face contradicts the harshness of her tone, but Colleen still looks a little perturbed. “Anyway, Sally heard me tell him. She was standing in the doorway.”

“Oh, well that wasn’t very nice of you Kerry. To say that while Sally was in the r
oom.”

“It’s alright
Colleen, I’m not bothered. He needs telling straight. Only language he understands.” I realise I’m fiddling with the chain around my neck: the one Steve bought for me in Florence. The token item he felt forced to purchase when I suddenly went moody after he’d confessed to buying that case of wine.

“Steve never used to say piss off.” I smile as my eyes drift to the ceiling. “Not to me, anyway. He always said forward-slash. You know, like jokingly. Like
, if I asked him to get me a cuppa or something.
Forward-slash
, he’d say. Then he’d go and make me a brew.”

Martin is back at his office door, hovering, looking very much like a rabbit at the entrance to its burrow, its eye on a carrot surrounded by foxes. Looking slightly nervous, his mouth twitching somewhat, he heads in our direction. He’ll cough into his hand, any moment now, I think. Sure enough he does so, before inflating his chest and allowing
his managerial voice to emerge.

“Do you girls intend to do
any
work today?”

I get the feeling it’s mainly aimed at me, being as I was away from my desk for so long. Or is that just my guilty conscience
? I’ve never been any different. Tipping my head in his direction, I strike a provocative pose and wind a strand of hair around my forefinger. “Sorry Mr Smith. Only I’ve been sick, and I’ve a touch of women’s trouble.”

“Right, well..
. that’s, er... yes, right. Well, either get some work done or go home.”

Martin suddenly l
oses his managerial edge and surreptitiously glances toward the safety of his office.

“Sorry. No, I’ll be alright,” I say standing, brushing creases from my skirt, before picking up a pile of letters from the desk. “I’m just going to frank these for posting.” For Kerry’s
amusement, I curl my upper lip and dip into a mock curtsy as Martin turns away.

“Work to do,” he says, retreating. “Get on now.”

“Forward-slash, Mr Smith!” Colleen says, matter-of-factly, as he walks past her desk.

His eyes, and therefore his attention, are attached to Philippa’s legs four seats beyond, no doubt hoping for a flash of silky pant-V, spattered with hearts. His reaction, therefore, is somewhat delayed. Suddenly he stops and turns, his face screwed into a knot of bewilderment. Kerry looks at
Colleen in disbelief, drawing her cheeks into her teeth, her whole body shaking, as Colleen shrinks into her chair.

“What?” Martin asks her, walking back, placing the flat of his hand on her desk,
and leaning in towards her face. He looks down on her. Her eyes are half-closed and her expression seems to scream
go away. I’m sorry. What was I thinking
?

Colleen
’s expression gradually changes, though. She opens her eyes wide, and looking up, glares at him, unexpectedly fierce, like a cornered animal. Had it been Kerry, Martin would likely have carried on walking, pretending he’d not heard. Had I said it he would have flushed or swooned or both – perhaps made a joke of it. Had Philippa said it he would have laughed, likely leaned forward, used it as a chance to stare at her legs, perhaps he would have dropped his pen and looked up her skirt.

Colleen
firms her jaw, and holding his glare repeats the statement. “Forward-slash, Mr Smith.” Only now, she says it with conviction. There is a distinct tone underneath the words that snarl a suggestion of something like:
you don’t scare me.
She can’t actually say piss off, probably never could, likely never will, but it is conveyed in her tone. “That’s what they call it, isn’t it? The internet address thingy. That!” She points to the keyboard. “Forward-slash?”

Martin turns the colour of putty. The office is silent, and he must realise all eyes are on him. He looks unsure of himself as he stands straight, removes his hand from
Colleen’s desk and looks around the office. There’s no support, not for him, not in here, not for something like this. “Er, yes, forward-slash. Yes, yes it is.”

Kerry snorts, the kind of snort that comes like a sneeze that can’t be held any longer
. She then cackles with delight. “Idiot,” she gasps and shakes her head in seeming disbelief as Martin looks in her direction.

Martin makes for his office, glancing back as if to say what happened? His eyes imploringly stating, I’m supposed to be the one in charge here. “Time’s ticking,” he squeaks, turning away. “Get on now,” he says, disappearing beyond the door to his office.

Several of the office girls mutter the words
get on now
, their eyes rolling as they do so.

“Good for you,
Colleen,” Kerry congratulates, before throwing Martin another stab of her eyes.

He’s already slipped rodent-like into his sanctuary and you just know he’s standing there, his back to the door, thinking he had a lucky escape. He won’t be out here for the rest of the day.

“I wish all men would forward-slash,” Kerry declares, loud enough for Martin to have heard it from the safe side of his door.

“They do
though, don’t they?” Colleen runs a finger over the pearls around her neck, and then checks the set of her hair as if she’s just been engaged in a physical tussle.

“No,
Colleen,” I correct, looking quite serious, but making certain there’s an air of humour in my voice. “Evidence on tiled bathroom floors indicates that most males of the human species spray sideways.”

All the women in earshot
start laughing and nodding with agreement. I have to wipe tears from the corners of my eyes, I’m laughing so much. Always prepared, Colleen rushes forward with a box of tissues. As I take a tissue, my phone rings. Colleen gives me a raised eyebrow look that tips to the phone, which I infer to mean,
shall I?

Colleen
picks up the receiver and listens in silence. I can hear the voice at the other end. It sounds distant and pathetic. “
Steve
?” I mouth. Colleen nods before giving me the,
shall I
, look again.

She draws a breath of preparation when I nod. And then, in what for her is a shout, blurts, “Steven.
Just forward-slash, will you.”

CHAPTER
9

I’ve been
lying here for hours, thinking about Sally, while watching the luminous finger count away torturous minutes. Finally the alarm rings. Rather than turn it off, I watch the little hammer swinging furiously from one silver dome to the other, the spring uncoiling as the hammer slows, until, eventually, it gives up the fight. Muted daylight would creep around the edge of the heavy green curtains were it not for the burn of the sixty watt bulb. I’ve been wondering, as I’ve stewed in my bed, if this is the day my life will take a turn for the better. Was it really less than a week ago that my heart struck like that hammer, fast and furious, as I listened to the music that’s already escaped my memory and left me feeling wound down.

Things need to change.

I rise from the bed and pad across the landing, scratching a boil on my bum through y-fronts, which have worn and washed baggy and grey. Today is my birthday. It is also a Wednesday. Mid-week. Today, I will have a shower. Bath on Saturday night, and a shower on Wednesday afternoon. Strip wash on the days in between. Waste-not-want-not. I should bathe everyday, just to spite the old bitch.

The bathroom door proves difficult to open this morning. Inch three through to five has a springy resistance, as though the door is attached to strong elastic. Beyond five inches the door’s movement firms to the point of immobility. Frosty air escapes the room and strokes my cheek like a kiss of death as I attempt to peer through the gap. Seeing nothing, more so, knowing there’s nothing in there that could be blocking the door’s movement, I firm my shoulder against the panel and push more vigorously. Gradually the door moves a
fraction. Suddenly it gives, and I tumble into the frigid room. Sprawled on the floor, I turn to see a triangular patch, torn like a tongue from the lino, and realise I should have glued the small rip before it got any worse. As with most things, I ignored it, pushed it to the back of my mind.

Things have to change.

What would Sally make of this? And like the kitchen, it’s as if I’m seeing the state of this room for the very first time.

The ripped lino does nothing to worsen the look of the room. It matches the peeling blue paint on the walls
– blue which was once duck-egg, but has now yellowed toward a rancid hue bordering on vomit-green. The numerous gaps where the paint has peeled show plaster peppered with a sooty looking mould. Amber stripes descend the toilet’s white pan. I’ve often intended to clean the bath, but the vignette of grime around the tub gives the room its finishing touch and perfectly accents the ginger line descending from calcified-tap to fossilised plughole. I let it get like this thinking
She
wouldn’t be able to stand it and would go away. She didn’t.

Having spent twenty minutes in the bathroom, showering, shaving and towelling myself dry, I now feel even more depressed.
A girl like Sally won’t want me. Why would she? The thought unwinds my spring further. Appetite for life is a wound up clock spring. This philosophical realisation fails to please me in the way it once would have. My uniform still feels a little damp, but to be honest I don’t really care. The curtains are still closed, and the naked bulb still harshly lights the room. My reflection stares back at me from the mirror of an old wardrobe. Solid oak, like the furniture downstairs. Once quite valuable, sought after but now extremely unfashionable. I had considered selling it. I had considered selling all the old stuff, but in my usual style I left it too late. Maybe I’ve left it too late to change, and if I can’t have Sally, I wonder if I can even be bothered to. Maybe I should stop winding myself up; let my spring go so slack that I eventually stop. How long would it take before someone discovered me? Unwound. No longer ticking.

Outside a dog barks, a deep loud boom that makes me start. Another dog, higher in pitch, joins in. Shoving a mountain of clothes to the wall with my foot, the once
white pants on top tumbling like a crest of polluted snow, I open the curtains. The two dogs are on the other side of the road, no longer barking but now growling, playing tug-o-war with a chicken carcass. Mrs Seaton is on this side of the road, lounging on top of a car, watching them with contempt, her tail swishing over the windscreen. I once read that dogs can choke on splintered chicken bones. Good, I think, one less mutt to crap on the pavement. A glimmer of pale-yellow light presses against the ashen clouds. I wonder if the light will break through, or are the clouds strong enough to hold it back. Maybe today
will
be a turning point. Maybe not. If this day gives me no hope at all, then tomorrow I will go to bed, stay there, and slowly unwind.

The sock drawer is empty. I close it and turn to the pile of unwashed clothes. Kneeling before the pile, raising socks in turn to my nose, I discard the worst smelling into a separate pile. The least stinking are the pair I wore yesterday, and though the big toe of my right foot pokes through a
gaping hole, I settle for them.

Down in the front
room – I refuse to call it living room – following the usual routine, I open the cover of the topmost book from a pile of five. The library stamp inside tells me I have three more days to absorb the text. I select the one I’ve not yet read – ‘One Hundred Uses for Pieces of String’ – and slip it into my workbag as I make my way into the kitchen. I then take out my lunch box and my dead father’s tartan flask – his fishing flask (the one and only thing I have never returned to the sideboard). I put an empty sandwich bag into the lunch box, throwing the used one towards the bin, and put the box into my bag. I tip the dregs of tea from the flask into the sink and flick on the kettle. I’m like a robot, going through the exact same thing, each and every day. Programmed. Stuck in a rut. Wind the clock up, check the time, wake up and turn it off. Wind the clock up, set the time...

A plastic clacking sound comes from the back door. Sure enough
, when I look down Mrs Seaton’s head is pushing the clear plastic flap against the house-brick that I place there to prevent her daytime entry. When I’m out at work – no problem – she can come in and go out as often or as little as she likes, but when I’m sleeping, she’s out. The instant I push the brick aside, Mrs Seaton slinks through and scampers into the room, her tail erect. She stands before me, looking up, mewing loudly.

“Come to wish me happy birthday, have you?” I pick up the parcel from the counter
: the parcel I wrapped for myself, yesterday, in red paper with blue and yellow balloons. I rip the paper away and unwrap the cellophane from a jigsaw box as I move from the kitchen to the front room. “Did those nasty doggies choke yet?”

Mrs Seaton mews her reply as I settle onto the sofa. I push the food cartons to the floor, then sitting before the coffee table, lift the lid from the box and begin extracting edging pieces. Consulting the lid, pushing the fragments of blue-sky to one side, I start at the bottom. That part of the picture has lots of small detail. Small details always provide a good start, and the bottom of this puzzle has white water rushing over moss-skirted rocks
. There’s an interesting mix of turbulence. Referring to the lid – an action mother would have considered cheating – the bottom edge soon grows. The mantle clock counts the passing moments with a pounding tick. Occasionally Mrs Seaton reaches up and paws the pieces as I shuffle them around each other.

“No, silly,” I tell her, tapping her paw in mock chastisement. “That’s a piece of sky. Mother was much better at these than you. She’d have done the sides too by now.”
Life is like a jigsaw.
She’d say things like that on her better days, on the not-so-bad days, the days when she would actually talk to me.
Sort the pieces, Keith,
she’d say.
Put them in the correct order; take them one at a time, and the rest will fall easily into place.

Yes, life is a bit like a jigsaw. But you don’t get a picture to follow as an example, and the pieces won’t always fit where you’d like them to
fit.

“Ah, there it is, hiding amongst these fragments of trees.”
I see the man’s hands on one piece, a section of the willow basket on another, and a length of fishing rod on another. I push these to one side, determined to save that section of the puzzle for last.

The piece of boulder slotted in, I sit for a while as
if gazing at a distant memory.

Hiding
.

With a shudder I glance at the clock. “Time I was off, Mrs. Seaton.” Suddenly I feel
excited. Wound up tight and ticking away. “Don’t want to miss her, do I? Not today.”

Watcherupto
? “What are you up to?” I correct her droning voice. “You really should pronounce your words properly.”
Whoeryerseein
? “Pro-nun-see-ate! Who. Are. You. See-ing? I’m seeing a girl, mother. A beautiful, wonderful girl called Sally. And when I see her, if things go well, who knows I might talk to her. And if that goes well... well, we will have to wait and see, won’t we?”

We will won’t we? Can’t hide sins under cardboard sheeting. End in
trouble it will. Y’mark m’words.