‘I’ll take your word for it,’ he grins.
For some reason, I feel the need to drag the conversation back to the question I started with.
‘So, your wife . . . or is it ex-wife?’
‘Technically, she’s still my wife. We’re not divorced yet – although proceedings have begun.’
‘Did you have a happy marriage before this other guy came along?’
He takes a sip of coffee and thinks. ‘I’d say so, overall. I can’t pretend it was perfect, obviously.’
‘Hmm.’
‘The worst thing about modern relationships is our expectations,’ he continues. ‘We
expect
way too much. It’s easy to have fireworks at the beginning. It’s
easy to
fall
in love. But we have this unrealistic notion that it’ll always be like that, without hiccups or hard work.’
‘You don’t think fireworks are necessary?’
‘I don’t think love needs to race at a hundred miles an hour all the time,’ he insists. ‘I don’t think there’s anything wrong with it being quieter and
low-key. That’s what I thought I had with Allison.’ He narrows his eyes. ‘Why do you ask?’
I shrug. ‘I suppose I’m thinking about my ex-boyfriend. There weren’t fireworks every minute of the day. My heart didn’t race every time I saw him. And yet, I can’t
deny I find him
very
attractive. I’m punching above my weight with him.’
Matt raises his eyebrows and smiles. ‘He’s a looker, then?’
‘Hell, yes!’ I admit. ‘It’s not just that, though. I
love
being with him. If I stand back and look at the situation, he’s everything I could want and
he’d do anything for me. I miss him and spend an unnatural amount of time thinking I should get back with him.’
Matt sits back in his chair. ‘You know what I think? I think that sometimes the answer is so obvious it’s staring you in the face.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘People like that don’t come along every day, Emma. You should make the most of it when they do.’
Monday is frazzling. I’m not sure if that’s even a word, but nobody could witness the day I’m enduring and challenge me on it.
The latest series is in the can, and in my humble opinion it’s some of the best work we’ve produced. Even Giles is excited – at least he was last week – and that never
happens unless I bring in Hobnobs
chocolate
(the culinary equivalent of gold plating).
All that remains is for Perry to give it the nod and for us to deliver it to Channel 6. Which is fine, except for one thing.
He isn’t here.
Our esteemed leader announced on Friday that he was considering taking a ‘holistic sabbatical’ for four weeks in Austria, where he hopes to not only discover himself, but also find
the next big thing in children’s programming.
He promised to return
brimming
with ideas – a word he virtually shrieked
,
as if hearing it didn’t hurt enough. I walked away from his desk wondering what I’d
have to eat to induce a violent bout of food poisoning on the day he’s due back, just so I can phone in sick.
What I failed to realise – at that point – was that the semi-spiritual experience he was embarking on was due to happen now. As in
right now
.
Tout de suite
. Without
him having signed off
anything
.
The result is a series of irate phone calls from everyone from the animators to Channel 6 themselves, who quite reasonably would like to get their hands on the programme they’ve paid
for.
The only option is for Giles and me to attempt to track him down, which isn’t easy because he’s apparently switched off his phone so as not to disturb any potential epiphany.
‘This. Isn’t. My. Sodding. Job.’ Giles slams down the phone so hard it nearly cracks the handset. ‘Exactly how can tracking down our bum-wipe of a boss when he’s on
holiday yodelling or praying, or whatever the hell he’s doing, be considered
my
job?’
I open my mouth to answer, but he beats me to it.
‘I make up stories for a living. If I’d wanted a job dealing with
people
I’d have become a sodding salesman.’ The word ‘people’ is pronounced as if
directly interchangeable with the term ‘kitten torturers’.
‘Giles,’ I sigh, ‘I know all this. I know all this
and it’s not my job either
. But we have no choice. What did that woman in the spa say when you phoned her
last?’
‘That he was busy having a hot-stone massage. I hope they singe his nuts.’
We finally receive a call from Perry – in response to my thirty or so messages – at ten past five. His massage has clearly had an effect similar to that of inhaling a potent strain
of marijuana all day.
‘What’s all the fuss?’ Perry chortles as I grit my teeth and thank the Lord that he got through to me instead of Giles. ‘I sent you an email on Friday saying yes –
to everything!’
‘It never arrived, Perry. Did you remember to press Send?’
There’s a short silence. ‘Shoot. I’m always forgetting that bit. Never mind, consider it signed off. Great work, team! Right, I’m off to Reiki. I’ve already come up
with an idea you’ll adore and—’
‘Ooh, Perry – the line’s going. Bye!’ I slam down the phone.
When I leave work two hours later, I’m convinced there’s a volcanic outbreak between Giles’s ears – there’s so much steam coming out of them.
‘Giles,’ I hear myself saying, ‘I don’t mean to sound flippant or play down what a nightmare Perry can be . . . but I’m worried that you’re letting this get
to you too much.’
He grunts.
‘It gets to me too but . . .’ I pause, thinking about how to handle this diplomatically. He gets there first.
‘Well, I’m afraid Perry is winding me up way too much these days.’
‘Can’t you switch off at home?’
‘No.’
‘Maybe you need a hobby.’
He flashes me a look. ‘Do I look like a knitter?’
‘I suppose not.’ I turn to go to the door. ‘Bye, then.’
‘Bye,’ he says. Then, after a moment, he calls after me. ‘Emma?’
I turn back and look at him. He shrugs. ‘You know.’
I frown.
‘Thanks,’ he mumbles. ‘For giving a shit.’
Giles and I are not the only ones to have had a bad day. I phone Dad as I’m walking to my car because I know he had a date today – at the Cathedral. I was sceptical
the second I heard that that was the venue. They might have a perfectly nice refectory, but can you really concentrate on whether you’ve got the hots for someone in the presence of the Lord
Almighty?
‘It wasn’t a
dream
first date,’ he says reluctantly.
‘What was the problem?’
‘I’m going to sound uncharitable.’
‘Dad, be brutal. You have to be.’
‘She was very nice in lots of ways. Divorced. Two children. Nice. I think.’
‘Come on, now. What was wrong with her?’
He hesitates. ‘Her feet, mainly.’
‘What?’
‘We barely talked of anything else. She’s got terrible bunions; she showed them to me. And verrucas. She caught those from her grandchildren – they’d been using her bath
after swimming club. And apparently she’s got awful dry skin that cracks and—’
‘Oh stop!’
‘I’d have liked just to get to know a bit more about
her –
from the ankle up. And I must admit all the talk about ingrowing toe-nails did put me off my cream
tea.’
I get a text from Cally on the way home saying that Asha’s coming over and I should pop in if I get the chance. When I arrive, Cally looks both hyperactive and dead-dog
exhausted – a combination only the working mothers of small children seem to master.
‘I can’t even offer you a glass of wine,’ she sighs, holding up one of the few things in her fridge. ‘Strawberry Nesquik, anyone?’
‘I’ll pass.’ I put an arm round her. ‘Have you been put through your paces today?’
‘I have had the day from hell. I forgot to process our managing director’s expenses, which meant his company credit card got knocked back at Manchester Airport this morning. I was
stalked by an irate client over a mix-up with payments – not my fault this time. I was dragged into plotting the restructure of the entire finance department. I spilled a skinny latte on my
computer keyboard. And I was almost late to pick up Zachary from nursery. Not so late, unfortunately, to avoid signing an entry in the Accident Book detailing how he developed a humungous bruise on
his forehead.’
‘Aw, poor Zachary,’ I say. ‘How
did
he get it?’
‘By head-butting another kid.’
‘Ah.’
‘At least he’s asleep before eight thirty. Though, admittedly, that might be concussion.’
‘I don’t know how you do it sometimes, Cally,’ Asha says, flicking on the kettle to make some tea.
‘Well, he’s worth it. And so is the job – most of the time. Besides, I can live vicariously,’ she grins, holding up
Riders
. ‘I’m loving it. Enough to
make me wish I had someone to play naked tennis with.’
‘Let me get this straight,’ I say. ‘Are you saying you’re on the
lookout
for someone to play naked tennis with?’
‘Oh God, no,’ Cally says, then hesitates as Asha puts a cup of tea in front of her. ‘Well . . .’
‘You’re ready to get back in the saddle!’ Asha laughs.
‘The theory and the practice are different,’ Cally replies. ‘I’m happy
reading
about men. How are things with you, more to the point?’
Asha looks down at her cup. ‘I’m not entirely sure how things are with me, Cally, because I haven’t seen Toby once – literally – in over two weeks.’ Her
expression softens. ‘Oh, I’m being unreasonable, aren’t I? Christina’s dad’s died. There’s no way he could have left her in the light of that.’
Asha glances from one to the other of us. ‘He will do it, you know. It’s just a question of when.’
I stay at Cally’s for another half-hour, before heading home. I’m almost back when I get a text from Marianne suggesting a Skype chat.
I log on just as Brian is leaving the flat.
‘Give me a min,’ she says, standing up to kiss him briefly.
When I hear the door shut, Marianne turns to me and grins. ‘He’s off to meet a friend. They’re collaborating on a new screenplay. I’ve got a really good feeling about
this one – from what I’ve read so far, it’s just fantastic. So . . . how’s it going with you? Getting any better at the guitar?’
‘My skills are a work in progress.’
She laughs. ‘Isn’t it weird seeing Rob all the time still?’
‘A bit.’
‘You’re sure he’s okay with it?’ she asks, raising an eyebrow.
I frown. ‘I don’t know what to do about Rob, Marianne.’
‘Why . . . are you thinking about getting back with him?’
‘I miss him more than I ever imagined. I think about him all the time.’
‘Do you think you would’ve split up with him if he hadn’t asked you to marry him?’
‘No,’ I say truthfully.
‘So what made you anti-marriage?’
‘I’m not anti-marriage! I’m just not ready to decide whether I want to marry someone after only a few months together.’
‘That’s not unreasonable.’
‘The other day I was talking about this issue with . . . a friend. Do you think relationships need to be passionate and all-consuming? For it to count as love, I mean?’
She thinks for a second. ‘I think they should certainly be fairly passionate and all-consuming in the beginning.’
‘Hmm. I always think about you and Johnny – the way you were in the beginning. How mad you were about each other. That’s the benchmark, surely.’
Then I look up and take in her expression.
‘Johnny and I aren’t a good example, Emma,’ she says stiffly. ‘In the beginning, it was amazing, certainly. But that elation . . . the buzz . . . it was all just
hedonism. It wasn’t real. I don’t think that could last for anyone.’
‘But you adored each other.’
She looks irritated. ‘Emma, Johnny and I weren’t perfect.’
‘You
seemed
to be. Look, I know how much you feel for Brian now, but . . . well, it came out of the blue when you split up.’
‘Not entirely – we’d had a three-month break a year and a half before we went our separate ways for good.’
‘You said that was only because you’d been so young when you first got together. Look, I’m just using it as an example, that’s all. If I get married to someone, I want to
feel about them how you felt about Johnny. You’d walk into a room together and everyone could see it in your eyes. You can’t deny it – no matter how much you feel about Brian
these days.’
‘I . . . no, I can’t,’ she says. ‘It was like that, once.’
I pause for a second. ‘What happened between you two, Marianne?’
‘I fell out of love with him, Emma.’
I bite my lip, realising I’ve gone too far. ‘Sorry. I didn’t mean to upset you.’
‘You didn’t. Listen, I need to go.’ And after cursory goodbyes, she signs off, leaving me alone and contemplating another end to another less than perfect day.
Isn’t it weird how you can tootle through life wondering if anything is ever going to change then something amazing happens that blows everything out of the water?
Amazing something number one happens on a rainy Thursday afternoon, when Giles and I have spent much of the day debating the merits of dark chocolate versus milk chocolate. I firmly believe the
former to be the spawn of the devil, whereas he will happily eat it for breakfast, in between his numerous fag breaks.
In some ways, it is a modern miracle, a fairy tale born out of the alchemy of technology and marketing. In other ways, it’s just bloody good news.
I’m talking about a pop-up advert – something that’s ordinarily about as welcome on my computer screen as the message ‘This machine will self-destruct’. Usually, I
despise them. You know how it is – you’re working on a truly urgent document when you can’t actually get to it because you’re too busy chasing a Bingo scratch card ad round
the screen, like Benny Hill pursuing a dolly bird.
But this time it’s different; it’s an advert for a jobs website I’ve never stumbled across before. Which is surprising, given that I’ve redoubled my job-hunting efforts
after Perry’s idea for a show based inside the human digestive system (main character: Percy the Prune, whose adventures in the lining of the duodenum are potentially limitless).