Authors: Kirsten Lee
I didn’t spend much more time thinking about my make-over, but maybe I should’ve. Yesterday morning, on a blue Monday, I found out to my great dismay that Roger and Rose have been moonlighting. They’ve taken on second professions as bookies. Roger is handling the how-late-will-she-be bets and Rose the does-she-match bets.
As hard as I try, I always seem to be late, even if it’s only twenty minutes. What I haven’t realised is that apparently, even though I try very hard, I’m unable to go a day without a fashion faux pas. Either my earrings don’t match or it’s my shoes and bag, or pants and jacket or something else. I’ve only been here a week and my unravelling make-over is becoming a money making business. When I agreed to this make-over thing I really didn’t know it was going to be such hard work to maintain.
Of course I blame
Erin
for all this. Studies have been done and statistics show that when a woman breaks up, gets divorced or have some sort of trauma, the first thing she does on the road to recovery is get a new hairstyle. I don’t know who did these studies, but that is how
Erin
justified the surprise appointment he made for me with Juan – my stylist and hairdresser. At first I felt a bit overwhelmed. Actually, it felt more like I was under attack from hair scissors, measuring tapes and colour charts.
After some contemplation and a lot of convincing from Erin and Juan, it looked like it could be fun and I surrendered. Apart from the go-get-them-tiger wardrobe, I also got a lot of useful tips for hair, make-up and accessories. But as I’m driving to work in Bomb this morning, I long for my linen pants, colourful Indian-style shirt and lime-green sandals. Or my flamenco skirt, gipsy blouse and little black sandals. Sigh.
I give myself a mental shake and think with glee of how many people are going to lose money today. I dressed with the utmost care this morning – even my underwear match and I got up an hour earlier to make double sure that I’ll be on time. Poor Blossom seemed more disoriented than me when my alarm clock screamed at me this morning. I sat up in bed swivelling my head from side to side wondering where the sound came from, and it took me a good five seconds and what sounded like three thousand beeps to locate it and shut it off. I then fell out of bed and stumbled over Blossom who was lying in the doorway. He jumped up with a loud burst of air and I must admit that it was at that exact moment that I became wide awake. I’m still not used to the dog’s intestinal problems. Bless his soul.
My morning proceeds rather uneventful. I slog my way through a mountain of contracts and, once again, unsuccessfully try to get hold of Zondra. We did have contact after which I thought of organising a fireworks display in celebration. We sorted out some logistics and she couriered a few contracts for some of the parties involved in the festival. I’m busy with a contract for portable toilets when my phone starts ringing. I stare at it for a moment, wishing Ray was here to take the call. After another annoying jingle, I pick up the handset only to hear heavy suggestive breathing coming through the receiver. I roll my eyes heavenward and shake my head.
“
Erin
, you will have to be more original than that!”
“How did you know it was me?” He sounds almost angry with disappointment.
“Because you’ve been doing this since I’ve known you and I’m psychic.” I sit back in my chair with a smile on my face. “How’s the leg?”
“Fine. It is such a great discomfort…” and he’s such a baby, “…but everybody’s been so kind.” That translates into everybody’s brought him gifts and alcohol. “But tell me about you. I spoke to Adam, but he didn’t want to talk about your co-operation. Alex, is everything ok?”
“Yes
Erin
, everything is fine. I have not done or said anything majorly inappropriate. Yet.” I cross my fingers and think guiltily of Friday evening and Saturday’s episodes with Mr Wall Street.
Erin
would have a fit.
“Nothing majorly inappropriate, huh? As opposed to what? Little inappropriate comments?” He sighs loudly. “That’s my Alex.”
“At least I am working and not sitting on my designer couch drinking champagne with friends who are painting obscure images on the cast on my leg!”
“That’s low, Al.”
“And true.” We both laugh. I miss
Erin
and this bantering. We spend the next ten minutes catching up on the progress of the festival and then I spend a few minutes fielding probing questions about my make-over before he thankfully changes the topic.
“Have you spoken to Pam lately?”
“We had one of our marathon phone calls on Saturday.”
“Did she tell you about her latest project?”
“Yes, she told me about her new exhibition.”
“No,” it is the drawn out way he says it that has me worried. “Not her exhibition, her project.”
“Oh no! What is she up to now?” Pam is known for starting, and usually finishing the strangest artworks. Last time it was an exhibition of stepladders, which in itself wasn’t a problem, but the fact that she stole a few people’s stepladders from their gardens caused a few outbursts during the opening night. It provided the exhibition with great publicity, but Pam had to face some legal difficulties after that. I was surprised at the mellowness of the exhibition she told me about last week.
“She decided to sell her gallery.”
“She what? She told me about her exhibition with all her most popular works. What is she doing? “
“I know, Al. I’ve tried talking to her, but she won’t listen and made me promise to not tell you, because she usually listens to you. God only knows why,” he says as if to himself. “Would you please phone her today and try to talk her out of it.”
“Of course, but first I want to know why she wants to sell it. And why she didn’t tell me.” This really worries me. “How is she? She sounded fine over the phone, but she always does.”
“She seems to be fine, a bit tired, but that is not unusual. It is this silly idea of hers that has me worried.” We continue to discuss Pam’s reasons for putting her art gallery up for sale and her health, and then return to the festival. “Oh yes, George seems to have come around. At first he was such an ars… unhelpful fellow. At our meeting on Friday, he went through a personality change and has offered to help with the accommodation arrangements and had some other helpful suggestions.”
“Yes, Adam told me about your meeting.”
“He did?” Oh no. Has Mr Wall Street also told
Erin
about the weekend’s disagreements we had?
“Yes, he told me that you blew the committee away with your presentation. He sounded very impressed with your work, Al. Well done.” Phew. That really earns
Mr Wall Street
a few brownie points with me.
“The only person still giving me a lot of grief is Zondra Brennet.”
“The bitch?”
“The one and only.”
“But I thought you said Adam spoke to her.”
“He must’ve, but she is still as slippery as an eel covered in axle grease. I’ve never had this much hassle trying to reach somebody during a project.”
“What about Earl Jones?”
“Oh, he’s an angel! George will now be taking over the accommodation arrangements, but he took the initiative to organise most things so far. He’s very much in the background, but is helping a lot. I am actually going around to his pub tonight to drop off some paperwork.”
“Oh yes, I remember he has a pub. Have you been there before?”
“No, this will be the first time.” I sigh, because I know where this is going.
“Have you made new friends Alex? Been out a bit?”
“No
Erin
. I’ve only been here a week and you know how I feel about this and I do not want to talk about it.” I say the part very slowly and not a bit annoyed, but smile innocently at Ray who walks into the office and stops halfway to his desk to look at me questioningly. “Enough chit chat. You can sit with your leg on an ottoman, but this superwoman has a festival to attend to.”
We say our goodbyes and he promises to record my favourite sitcom for me. I’m about to tackle the toilet contract again when I feel Ray’s eyes boring into the side of my head. I slowly look up and lift my eyebrow in a quiet what-the-blue-hills-do-you-want kind of way.
“What don’t you want to talk about?” He leans forward and gives me a coaxing look – a look that says ‘tell me all your dirty little secrets’. A look I never trust.
“My period pains. They’re really bad and I have this bloated feeling…” I put my hands on my lower abdomen and groan in exaggerated feigned agony.
“Fine! Don’t tell me anything. I just won’t tell you about the latest development in the photocopy room mystery.” He gives me a take-that look and turns to his computer.
“Oh come on! You have to tell me what’s happened now. This is too good for words.” The photocopy room mystery started three days before I arrived in Villsburg and has since consumed a lot of working hours in speculation. Apparently the accounting department worked overtime for a few days when this occurred. One morning somebody walked into the copy room to find it in disarray. Among the evidence of shenanigans was the high-heeled shoe print on the wall, the accidental photocopy of a very naked bottom, but the most incriminating was the red lace panties. Needless to say, no one’s come forward to claim the garment and the whole company is speculating who the parties involved were. There’s been talk of getting DNA samples, but we all know that would never fly. I plea and beg, but Ray remains immovable. My secret first.
In the heat of the moment I almost start talking when my phone rings and Zondra’s voice jerks me back to the present. My hand feels cold holding the telephone receiver through which her icy voice reaches me.
“You wanted to speak to me.”
“Yes Zondra. Thanks for getting back to me. There are a few adjustments I would like to make to the contracts for the sound engineer, the cleaning company and several artists. Can I email them to you or would you like me to courier it?” I infuse the warmth and sincerity of Oprah into my voice. To no avail.
“What changes?”
Oh well, I sigh and bravely wrestle my way through this ice jungle. I’m sure someone great once said that in every situation there will always be a dark cloud and in this situation the dark cloud has a name: Zondra .
Erin
has no idea how many favours he will have to do for me until I consider this favour I’m doing him paid in full.
“Ahh, the lady who works miracles! What can I get for you, love?”
“Hi Earl. A beer will do thanks.” I look around his pub while he gets my beer. The no-smoking laws have obviously not reached this part of the world yet and the pub is filled with a blue haze. I know I am going to smell like an ashtray when I leave, but the smoke adds to the pub’s atmosphere and wouldn’t be the same without it. In the corner closest to the door is a jukebox that I am sure can be dated back to Noah and the ark party. If this antiquated piece of machinery isn’t making alarming coughing noises, it successfully fills the air with sad, tired voices singing about lost loves in all kinds of styles. Earl puts my beer on a coaster on the worn wooden counter, still in the bottle – the way I like it. Behind the counter is the required mirror allowing patrons to look at themselves drowning their sorrows and rows of half-empty bottles breaking up that sad view.
“How long have you had this pub?” I have to raise my voice to compete with a very loud pool game close to the door. There are not a lot of people in the pub, just enough to give it a buzz and the couple occupying the booth closest to me adds to the romance of this place. I take another look at them and decide that they should maybe consider getting a room. I turn my attention back to Earl who is shining some glasses.
“It was here when I came to this town thirty seven years ago. I won it in a card game.” He shakes his head remembering a time long gone. “Those were the days. At first I didn’t really enjoy it here, but it grew on me.” We talk business for a while and he tells me about his other three businesses which are where he gets his income from. The pub he keeps for socialising purposes. I laugh at some of the anecdotes he tells me. It is a beer and a half later that I give him the documents he needed for the people who offered their homes for accommodation.
“Hey Earl! I’m sure your girl there can play better pool than this old geyser.” The shout from the pool table brings a smile to Earl’s face and a flurry of protests from the forty-something man on the other side of the table being accused of being an old geyser.
“I’m sure she could whip you all into shape before Sunday.” Earl turns to me. “These guys are rough, but good. They’re here every night and in church every Sunday. They adore their children, are tired of their wives’ nagging and like to think of themselves as real men.”
“We don’t spend money on perfumes for men and fancy suits. No, we save it so our friends can win it at pool.” The ‘geyser’ says to a great amount of laughter. Everyone in the pub is now listening to the exchange. Even the kissing couple has come up for air. It creates a feeling of warmth and welcoming that only one’s local pub can create. I have flashes of watching reruns of “Cheers” a long time ago and smile at the memory.
“How about it, lady? You also want to beat this man at his game?” The geyser’s friend asks me. “It’s an easy win.”