Authors: H Ryder
Note to self, grow a lot stronger.
Then I put the kettle on.
Chapter forty-six, Saturday
:
16thnovember2013 – it's bad, but you probably guessed that eh?
As the cruel bitter wind streaks past my office windows, I stare outside into the grey city below my window, looking out I see a mass of men in dark suits running about like a mass of black ants. You can’t buy happiness, but you can buy tea, it’s kind of the same thing.
My thoughts are multi-streamed, the Agatha in me wants to know things, and just won't let it lie: Why did I get this tattoo? Is it another map? Shall I go to the ball? Why did my Dads watch vibrate suddenly this morning? Is it too wet to cut the lawn? Can I get on the waiting list for some of those Isabel Marant short suede cowboy boots in black? Where’s Daniel? And finally, where’s my tea? Well that one is easy to answer.
The steam from my cup of tea swirling and curling until it dissipates into the air. Crushed with an intense feeling of loss, my brain cruelly blames me for this. Every hour I don’t see him, or hear from him turns me inside out. What have I done?
I glance at my huge work screen, hoping there's a mail from him, my little purple icon bounces joyously at the bottom of the screen, glad someone's happy, indicating someone wants my attention at least, if George and Harry could develop software there'd be little bay horse shaped icons jumping and galloping about all day long, the thought cheers me, sometimes my brain can be nice.
I pick up my Wacom pen and agitate it, my mail window pops alive, several mails, but one from an origin I don’t recognise. I have learned enough from a geek ex-boyfriend of mine never to open e-mails from unknown sources especially if they contain attachments, it's like asking for a nasty virus, but this one has a name in the subject bar I recognise. And
I’ve
had my flu jab.
OK, what to do?
I have an email waiting for me that I shouldn’t open, without any name attached, certain IT geeks could trace an IP address, I watch too much crime drama, my curiosity gets the better of me, because the subject reads ‘Daniel photos’. I open the mail and instantly suck in a lungful of air my hand flies to my mouth. Attached are photos from a charity event on gig night, when he had planned to meet me, he was somewhere else, with his arm around another, Jess Stein.
He'd popped by to shove his cock into me for some variety, then went back to her. I have anger building starting deep inside me, I’ve never had these intense feelings for anyone in my whole life, I love him so hard I can’t breathe and hate him so much I am losing my mind, which is it? He is driving me insane, and that’s rich coming from me!
I swipe my phone to life and dial my friend.
“What happened the other night then?” Pete asks me. “I thought you’d be going with Daniel?” She sounds confused, “you two are solid, you’re weird, and he gets that.” We sit in a bar sipping JD straight, nothing else will do not even tea, so I know I must be in a very bad way.
“Nope,” I say with stubborn resolve. “I don’t know what we are,” and I show her my phone, I’d snapped the email photos of Daniel with his ex-girlfriend, and I’m sliding them one after another across my phone screen to show her. I am tormenting myself I know it, but I can’t help it.
“His ex-girlfriend?” Her eyes open wide in disbelief, “the one who keeps texting him, who he swears is old news?” I am shaking my head furiously unable to form the right words, if there are any right words. “Do you want me to kick her ass?” She asks in mock tough girl chatter, “
Because I know where she works!” She begins, pulling a trade magazine out of her handbag, here.
“She's the CEO for this fashion chain, very wealthy, knows everybody. Her brother is a top model, you know, the one you like with all the wing tattoos up his neck?” She asks as if her points are jogging my memory, because of course I must know who she is. I shake my head with pursed lips, and she looks pitifully at me, “Call yourself a fashion person?” She scoffs in delight at knowing something I don’t, which happens quiet a lot when it comes to people.
“I’m not a fashion person,” I tell her proudly and emphatically, “I’m a
denim
person.” True bloody story if there ever was one.
Pete gasps in shock at the final few photos. “And he was with her at this 'do' when he was supposed to be with you?” Shaking her head, my friend will always naturally be on my side regardless whether my doom is my own doing or not. It's her job after all, and what a career I must be.
“He did show eventually,” I was attempting bravery because I wasn’t at all sure I wanted her to know, or was it that I just didn’t want to hear the words out loud, because that would make it true.
“He fucked me in the Brixton Academy, overlooking the ‘mosh’, and then went back to her.” I say in mock pride of my boyfriend and take a large gulp of Jack. Finishing the glass, I and already feeling the numbness that invariably follows the slippery gold liquid, its doing its job on me. Boyfriend, indeed.
They are close in the last two photos, he looks like he’s whispering in her ear, his arm around her waist, I feel sick, all over again, and in the last one they look like their sharing an intimate joke and laugh. I would be crying but I have no tears left, just a big nothing of emptiness feeling deep inside, like something s been surgically removed.
“How do you feel about this?’ She asks me, “I mean, what have you said to him?” She shakes my phone at me, clearly cross on my behalf, which of course I appreciate, it’s her job to be this way.
“I...don't know what to say.” I manage to whimper between more dry gasps of dry eyed crying.
I need more JD. “She's...she's a very beautiful woman,” I sob.
He has history with her.” I shake my head, down the last dregs of my drink before Pete orders me another. “What would I say?”
“You kick his arse that’s what you'd
say
.” She’s shouting at me, it’s all simple for her she doesn't know him, me with him, I bury my face in my hands, my messy hair tangles around my fingers.
I look up at her, “I am in love with him Pete.” Is all I say before I break
again.
“Then you kick
hers
.” bingo!
Mum’s right about the haircut, note to self, ask her to book at appointment with Gail. Gail is a bloody genius with my hair, which might explain how she can afford to go on month long holidays three times a year to exotic locations. She makes everyone need her, plus it gives her plenty to yabber about whilst she's working, I just fall asleep.
Pete hugs me close and I feel slightly more connected to the world than I had in the last few hours. I am in agony, my heart is breaking, and I don’t understand what I did wrong, what have I done to deserve this?
“Yes, I love him.” I gasp.
“I know you do honey” she comforts me, “stay weird Tharie, it’s what makes you so wonderful” she gets me.
“What am I to do?” In a deliberately pathetic Scarlett O’Hara way.
“It’s obvious Tharie, you get him back!” She winks at me with an engaging smile.
“He'll still want me do you think?” bloody hell.
“Of course, it is obvious he feels the same way, he can’t take his eyes off you, he wants to protect you cherish you, that’s what we all think, what has happened to make him do this?” I shudder at the thoughts I’ve been having, blaming myself, my head rumbles with voices agreeing it’s all my fault too.
Someone is doing this to me deliberately. Someone is sending me
photos
. Why? To break us up? Again, why? Two people spring to mind, that’s where I start. The plan has been revised.
Motive, means and opportunity, that’s the ticket.
“What was he doing with
her
? He promised she was in the past, over, and then I see this.” Shaking my head I am instantly feeling stronger, the blood is pumping through my veins with renewed energy. I have been speaking the things that until now had just been thoughts, my dry sobs making my throat raw and sore, I just wanted to sleep, but now I'm awake. I want this thing fixed either way, once and for all time.
So that’s exactly what I do. What happened to the plan Tharie? I stop, am quiet, and all at once, I know exactly what I have to do to make myself feel better.
TC: “Meet me in twenty minutes for a drink?” Please say yes.
PF: “Babes, that sounds medicinal, you OK” she's very, very good.
TC: “I will be in twenty minutes” hope so anyway.
PF: “Then it must be so, where?” Phew!
TC: “Square Bar” the glasses are reassuringly heavy, I may need to throw one.
PF: “See you then, and good luck babes” very good indeed.
Leaving the black cab idling at the curb, I run into the foyer of the great glass building of the Buntonn Group. I look healthy after a good sleep and I have freshly washed hair from the salon, Gail has worked her magic on my locks and I feel great and alive. I am myself, with my favourite boots on and leather skinny black jeans, an old Ramones t-shirt and my RANDom denim jacket. I feel confident and I’m determined, and have my 'don’t get in my way expression' on. When the desk clerk asks me who I want to see. “Jess Stein please, tell her it's Tharie Charles.”
He makes a call, and speaks in low tones, several questions and answers obviously go back and forth and I get looked up and down, a lot. He whispers into the headset, nods and tells me she'll be a moment. Then I suddenly see her with a phone in her hand appearing from the lift into the foyer. Looking at me with a sly grin of someone who knows something I don’t. (Well, that would be everyone surely?)
Jess looks immaculate dressed in mulberry MiuMiu from head to toe, hair blow-dried cascading around her slim shoulders in a perfectly turned out way, and nails impeccably manicured, Dior's new shade of faux-black. A woman in complete control, this is her company, her building, but I’ve had a crap week and I’m not in the mood for prisoners. She finishes her call and folds her phone up delicately.
She smirks a welcoming smile and approaches hand out to shake my hand, “Tharie, how
lovely
to see you, here.” Her clipped well-educated voice resonates in my skull, it’s a harsh sound that has the beat of someone who reads off a script, with no imagination. Her little flesh coloured Prada sling-backs clack across the tiled floor as she approaches.
I am all smiles and warmth, worth an Oscar nomination for sure.
“Is there
anything
I can do for you, would you like to sit down dear you look a little pale?” She gestures to the sofas in reception, very polite, almost sympathetic. Nice voice, she wouldn't usually have anything to say, I’d be interested in hearing, but today was not a usual day. ‘Dear’? She’s only a couple of years older than me.
I still say nothing, adjust my smile, it's making my cheeks ache.
I follow her direction and sit. “Is this about Dan?” She asks sitting down in a perfectly ladylike way, knees together angled slightly diagonally, skirt swept tidily underneath so it doesn’t crease while she's sitting down. “Because there’s
really
nothing I can tell you.” She brushes a non-existent piece of fluff from her skirt, her eyes everywhere except mine.
I remain quiet.
“When I saw him last night,” she meets my gaze finally with her long lashes and perfectly sculpted brows, and smiles waiting for a response, but I don’t give her one, I remain totally impassive, stoic even, my plan? Let her talk she'll tell me everything I want to know, because that's human nature. I can't tell her mood but she shifts uncomfortably on the sofa, looks at her phone a few times wishing it to call her away.
“We went to a charity thing together, Barb arranges these things you understand,
and you know Barbara Pearse?” She looks at me for a hint of response, clearly she wants me to know she's in with the family, I give her my don’t-give-a-damn smile, and I’m a little hung over so I hope my brain got the selection right. I tilt my head slightly in response, but that’s all she’s getting from me. For now.
She's not sure what to do or say to me, I'm not giving her anything, it's making her cross.
“
Listen
,” she says exasperated at my lack of any response at all, “what Dan chooses to do, and who he chooses to do it with, is his and my business alone Tharie.” She hisses standing. Her knuckles white at holding her phone so tight. The receptionist is looking over, readjusts his headset and dials, Jess's phone rings, I glance over at reception, “I have to take this call.” She tells me obviously relieved that the get out clause she'd instructed from the clerk was going to get her out of talking to me, she lifts the phone to her ear and listens, an odd look flickers over her mask of calm, and the call ends.
She looks at the handset perplexed, what she doesn’t know is her receptionist is Henry's roadie John, him and I are 'acquainted'. He told her to go to hell, well that’s rock n roll types, he is going to quit this job anyway the band is getting signed to a big label. Then she looks back at me, her mask replaced with another fresh one. “Listen Tharie, Dan and I love each other, we go way back, and the minor
distractions
in his life,” intimating that she means me, “come and go, he always comes back to me.” Not this time, I am about to explain to her.