Authors: Lana Citron
Trisha answered.
‘All right, Issy?’
‘Fine, how’s Alice?’
‘Aw, it was just a tummy bug.’
‘Yeah? I’m not feeling too well myself.’
‘I think it’s going round.’
Trisha, a divorcee in her late thirties with three kids, spends most of her day ferrying her kids from their various schools to their extra-curricular activities. I can’t make her out at
all – she’s terribly closed. Don’t get me wrong, there’s nothing nasty about her, it’s just we’ve never actually had a real conversation. You know, like when you
trade personal information and talk about feelings. She’ll natter about her gym classes, hair dyes, a skirt she saw and tanning sessions, but that’s about it.
A few weeks back we were down in a city bar, checking out a wayward hubby who preferred ‘working late’ to family life. Within half an hour Trisha had him in the palm of her hand,
whilst I acted the accomplice. She was brilliant, managed to tape him denying he was married, declaring his desire to bang her and that he would wait outside for her. We left through another exit.
As it was only seven-thirty, I asked Trisha if she wanted to go and do something.
‘Like what?’
‘Like watch a movie or have a drink?’
‘Nah fanks . . . got things to do.’
‘It’s just as Maria’s babysitting I thought I could nab a couple more hours.’
‘Oh really?’
Off she trotted and I ended up going to see a film on my own. Bad move actually – it was a fanny flick, i.e. a light romantic comedy for the ladies. A perfect date movie, the place full of
couples, and I felt incredibly conspicuous.
Ho hum, but worse was to come.
Fiona called me the very next day and said in the most patronising of tones. ‘Issy, I know it can be hard being a single mum, but please don’t confuse working hours with your social
life.’
This comment had me gurning: it hurt ’cause it was sort of true. Anyhow, Trisha, the snitch bitch, had obviously blown the whistle on me. Been wary of her ever since, and to be frank, I
was shitting a brick hoping that she, now on the other end of the receiver, wouldn’t be able to see through my bare-faced lying.
I gulped back the truth and hastily explained, ‘Yeah, Trisha, just calling in to let you know what happened last night.’
So far so good.
‘Fiona mentioned you did Bob. How’d it go?’
Oh Christ . . .
‘Good. I mean . . . He never showed up.’
Easy, how easy was that?
But would she buy it?
‘Really?’
The tone of her voice indicated no.
‘Yeah, really.’ I stressed the ‘really’. ‘I waited there over an hour and a half.’
There followed a long silent pause. I was sweating. After all it was her case to begin with and you can get pretty possessive over your cases, especially the big ones.
‘You saying it was a
no show
?’
‘Yeah. A no show. I waited an hour then left.’
‘Oh that’s strange, ’cause Maria said you never got in till 3 a.m.’
‘Well . . . that’s sort of why I’m calling in so late today. Bob never showed, but then I’ – think, think – ‘I bumped into an old friend, from way back,
you don’t know him, college days, and we just got talking. You know how it is?’
My explanation was met by a stony silence.
I know what I don’t like about Trisha: she’s a fucking cow, interrogating me like she was my superior or something.
‘Don’t worry, Trisha, I’ll pay for the extra babysitting.’
‘Right then . . . So I’ll put down one hour on your work sheet?’
‘Well, I was there an hour and a half, but fine.’
So not fine. I needed the money and who the fuck was she to complete my work sheet?
‘Oh and one more fing, Issy. Fiona said you borrowed ’er coat. She wants it back, asap.’
‘Sure, I’ll drop it over. In the next hour or so, would that suit?’
I’d lied through my teeth, though the ordeal was far from over. Bob’s wife would be called and then it was a case of her word against mine. If she said Bob was out on Monday night,
which of course he was, suspicions would be raised, and considering I stayed out to 3 a.m., my position didn’t look good.
I was so doomed.
Still doomed and doing the utmost to ward off a tantrum. Max found it really amusing to watch as my clenched fists pounded my pillows in exasperation. Finally managed to gather
myself together.
‘OK, Maxy, time to go.’
‘No, it’s late.’
Now, the thing most kiddie winkies thrive on is routine, and no matter how laid-back one is initially, by the end of the first year a routine of sorts evolves and, before you know it, you are
planning your days around them. Basically Max was well peeved when I suggested a walk to the office.
‘Sorry, kid, know you’re tired, but I have to do this and you’re too young to be left alone.’
I bundled him up and off we set.
‘Hello, Trisha?’
I buzzed the intercom, hoping I wouldn’t have to lug the buggy and Max up three flights of stairs.
‘Trisha, it’s me. I’m downstairs with Max. You wouldn’t do us a favour and run down? I’ve got Fiona’s coat.’
‘Give me five minutes.’
Ten in reality. She was really winding me up. And it was freezing. I acted overly grateful when she arrived, smarming at her generosity of spirit that she should venture down three flights.
‘Hi, sweetie,’ she clucked at Max.
‘Thanks, Trisha – it’s such an ordeal with the buggy. You know how it is.’
‘Issy, word of advice. Between you and me, you’d better toe the line. Fiona’s getting pissed off.’
I swear I couldn’t say anything. I was choking on a response that never quite made it. I bit my tongue. It rankled and hurt (my tongue, that is). Just ’cause she’d been working
there the longest. It gnawed at me, making my lips purse and eyes glower. She was jealous – probably fancied Bob. Yeah, come to think of it, their communications went way beyond the bounds of
professionalism. I should take another look in that Bob file. I even considered calling Nadia for a conspiratorial chat.
Cranky, AKA Max, was distracted by a made-up monster story. ‘Trisha the Troglodyte’. Oh, don’t you know it? Trisha is a very stupid troglodyte who comes to a
horrible, twisted demise when her tongue, under the spell of the good witch Issy, begins to grow longer and longer, and in the end strangles Trisha. This twisted tale took us halfway home, then we
spotted several diggers, which never fail to excite, and finally had a minor dispute about whether or not Max was allowed to have an ice-cream. This being the dead of winter. He won, but we made it
back.
The evening rituals thus began. Fixed Max his tea, then played his favourite game of the moment, ‘traffic jams’. I swear, he lines up his cars one behind the other and shouts,
‘Beep, beep,’ and, ‘Get a move on,’ stuff like that. Of course, it all ends in an awful crash. Next up, bath time, with a scrub-a-dub here, a rub-a-dub there, and an unholy
mess in the bathroom. This is followed by a video, one I’ve seen a billion times before. I now know large portions of script from several Disney classics. And finally, finally, a story . . .
oops, almost forgot to brush Max’s teeth.
‘OK, one more story. No, you can’t have any more milk. It’s time for bed now. Go to sleep, Maxy.’ More cuddles, kisses, kisses, ‘I love you,’ and eventually
he goes to sleep.
Time to tidy the flat. Time to collapse.
I really should ring some people, I thought, old friends who by now are mere acquaintances, just to tell them I’m still alive; but as I haven’t kept in touch, it always seems like
too much of an effort. Besides I was whacked. Indeed, since Max arrived, I exist on the precipice of exhaustion. It’s a drip, drip factor of continuous tiredness from which there is no
escape, no respite, and a good night’s sleep becomes a luxury. Christ, but how I look forward to putting my head on the pillow of an evening and escaping into the vast dreamland that has
become my social world.
But, just as I closed my eyes, a zillion thoughts rushed at me. All the stuff I forgot to do, should have done, things to remember. Bob! It was fun, it offloaded many months of frustration, and
yes, I was aching for it. But you know what? There was really no point guilting myself out about it, wagging the finger at myself.
I forgot – it clean slipped my addled mind. Head on the pillow and surrendering to the peaceful night, when thoughts of the finger struck. Specifically, exactly where
I’d left it. Rewound to Fiona telling me where I could stick it and I recalled taking it from the fridge. It was in a freezer bag, wrapped in Cellophane, in my hand and . . . Yes, I’d
put it in the coat pocket. I shoved it in the pocket, ’cause it wouldn’t fit in the clutch bag, along with my keys, phone and fags. Fuck. It was in the coat that was now back in the
office.
‘But wait!’ My irritating Inner-know-it-all pokes my near-somnolent self and whispers, ‘You checked the pockets today, remember?’
Oh yeah, so I had, when I’d chucked out Bob’s number.
‘And nothing else.’
‘What are you trying to say?’
‘Nothing . . .’
So if it wasn’t in the coat, then . . . Got it, must have put it in my bag, may well have, couldn’t recall, but likely, I’d check the bag in the morning.
‘No, do it now.’
‘No, I need to sleep.’
‘Won’t let you, I’ll play on you.’
I’ve always talked to myself. It’s not a problem as such, though I suppose it’s a bit strange. I usually disguise it by pretending I’m talking into my mobile. Works a
treat.
‘Check the bag now,’ urged Inner-know-it-all.
‘Tomorrow. I want to go to sleep.’
This went on a fair while, till Know-it-all who knows me so well said, ‘Why make such a big deal out of it? You’re going to have to get up and pee.’
‘What?’ (I pressed my bladder: a dribble, if that.) But of course once the idea was planted I had to put on the light and drag myself to the bathroom. I emptied my bag.
Nada
. Fret befell, and I was back up and in the kitchen, making a cup of tea and anxiously smoking a fag.
Reality was sinking in.
I’d lost the finger.
I’d actually lost the finger.
Or had I merely misplaced it?
How could I be so stupid? No smart-arse comments.
OK, so the likelihood was, the finger had fallen out of the coat.
I checked my bedroom, then the whole apartment.
The very next day, Wednesday.
‘I’d like to report a missing finger.’
In the police station and I was feeling guilty.
‘Pardon me?’ asked the cute copper, licking the nib of his pencil, eager to take down my particulars.
The missing finger and how I came to lose it? I’d ruminated on this question all night. Well, it could have happened at any point of the said evening: standing out on Parkway, the bus
journey up to the pub, in the pub, the thrusting session outside the pub, the shag in the car, or even in the minicab on the way home.
‘You found a finger and then lost it?’
‘Precisely.’
‘It wasn’t your finger, by any chance?’
I wagged my ten digits at him, tempted to parley awhile and tell of the time I sliced the tip of my own off, and being in such a rush just stuck it back on with a plaster, hoping for the best,
and as luck would have it, it stuck.
‘No, my son found it in the garden.’
‘How old is your son?’
‘Three and a half. Almost.’
‘A real finger?’
Does he think I’m crazy?
‘Yes, a finger, a little finger, belonging to a female of advanced years.’
‘You mean you found a finger?’
‘What have I been saying for the past five minutes?’
‘And this was a couple of days ago?’
‘Like I said, I’m a single mum (my excuse for everything). Look, I found it five minutes before I had to dash out of the house and go to work. I’d intended to report it
immediately but due to . . . demands of work I couldn’t, and it was only when I returned home I realised I’d lost it.’
‘Why didn’t you report it missing on Tuesday?’
‘See, what happened was, I forgot all about it and it wasn’t until Tuesday night that I remembered.’
‘You blanked out the fact that you’d found a finger.’
‘Look, my job was on the line. I’d got dreadfully drunk on Monday, was sick as a dog, and it was just hideous,’ I blurted.
‘What was hideous?’
‘The hangover. I was panicking like a headless chicken, dealing with Max, and then I had to get the coat back and then, well, see, I made a mistake.’
‘What type of mistake?’
‘A repercussive one.’
‘What? You mean you keep making the same mistake over and over again.’
‘No, that’s like behavioural patterns. I’m talking about a mistake that could cost me my job.’
‘What?’
‘I broke the rule.’
‘You’ve lost me.’
‘And the finger.’
Before going to the police station, I’d spent much of the morning retracing my steps of the fateful night. I’d called the Phoenix. The landlord of the pub plainly
thought I was a crank, or someone from a TV show, calling in to make a fool out of him. Public humiliation in the name of entertainment. Is humiliation a virtue? I just don’t get it. Video
clips sent in by people who force their kids, partners and pets to fall or trip, or bang their heads in the most obvious of set-ups, and all for a measly fifty quid. Three in a boat and guess what?
They fall into the water. Wow, couldn’t see that coming! Ooops, the hose has gone awry and near drowned the baby, or Dad looks like he’s doing a massive piss . . . hilarious. Clumsy me,
tossing pancakes, and wait for it . . . plop, it fell on my head! Hey, watch out! There’s a glass door in front of you . . . oh too late!
I called the minicab company. Unbelievably, the driver in question had ceased to exist. I guess they must have assumed I was some sort of Customs official checking out his status. I called the
bus company, was kept on hold for twenty minutes, and then a recorded message informed me I should write in, assuring me that eighty-five per cent of complaints are answered within three to four
weeks.