Читать книгу Would Like to Meet - Polly James, Polly James - Страница 22

It’s March the 21st today – the first day of spring – but I can’t say I’m enjoying it, so far. It’s pouring with rain when I wake up, and I seem to be pouring, too. I thought all that unpredictable crying had finally stopped after the apricot tart meltdown in M&S a week ago, but this morning I can’t seem to stop because of this secondment thing. If Dan’s not even living in the same town as me any more, then that must mean he’s really gone for good.

Joel’s still pretty fed up, too, though at least he’s stopped blaming me for Dan’s decision now.

“I know it’s a bit shit about Dad moving away, Mum, but maybe it’s for the best,” he says, as he plonks a cup of tea down on my bedside table. “It isn’t easy, bumping into each other all the time, not when you’ve split up. Izzy walked past my shop yesterday and even that was awkward.”

He doesn’t mention Ruby, so presumably Izzy only counts because she’s Joel’s “official” ex-girlfriend, rather than a random naked person on a landing. I don’t say anything, anyway, as I don’t know what to say. “A bit shit” is the understatement of the year, unless it’s being used to describe this cup of tea. Joel never waits for the kettle to boil.

I sit and sip the lukewarm sludge while tears roll slowly off my nose and into my cup.

“You’re in no fit state to go to work, are you?” Joel says, after a while.

I agree entirely, but I’ve got no choice. The Fembot was off sick on Friday, with some sort of unspecified virus, and if she’s still claiming to be unwell today I’ve got to cover for her at the stupid strategy meeting after lunch.

Joel asks what I mean by “claiming to be unwell”.

“I’m not convinced she was genuinely ill,” I say. “She’d already asked for Friday off to have a long weekend at a spa, but the MD refused because we’re too busy. Then she rang in sick that day.”

“Well, if she’s been faking it, then your problem’s solved,” says Joel, passing me a box of tissues. “That’s the great thing about imaginary illness syndrome. You can just say you’ve caught it from her, and then she can’t prove you’re lying without admitting she was too.”

I admire the genius of Joel’s reasoning but go to work anyway, not only because he didn’t inherit his disregard for authority from me, but also because I need to check whether Esther’s got over the Mr Flobby incident at the club by now.

Her face is no longer blotchy, which is a plus, but she’s still in a foul mood with that horrible man, and with me.

“It comes to something,” she says, “when a man thinks someone decades older than you is more attractive, doesn’t it?”

It’s not decades, plural, it’s only one and a half (if Esther’s referring to me, as I assume she is), but I bite my tongue. I suppose I can’t blame her for being upset, so maybe she’ll feel better if I tell her about Dan’s secondment? Then she won’t think she’s the only one whose love life most resembles a pile-up on a motorway.

“Are you serious?” she says, once I’ve finished speaking. “Dan’s gone to Birmingham? Bloody hell, he must have been desperate to get away.”

She doesn’t add, “from you” but it feels implicit, and I’d forgotten how much Esther hates Birmingham, too. It’s where she was living when her last relationship ended badly, though that’s all I know about it, apart from the fact that she now detests anyone with a Brummie accent.

Maybe Dan will hate Birmingham as much as Esther does, and then he’ll come back sooner than planned?

Esther says she thinks that’s unlikely, as she walks back to her desk, humming, while I feel the tell-tale prickle of tears and head for the loo.

By the time I return to my desk, I’m in a much better frame of mind, mainly because I’ve just called Eva who said she’s coming to see me after work.

“It’s time to put Hannah Pinkman Moves On into action,” she explained. “After that, you’ll be too busy having fun to even think of crying.”

* * *

Joel sends a text just as I’m leaving work to tell me to hurry home because he’s locked himself out, so I power walk all the way while talking to Pearl on my mobile. I get horribly out of breath, but Pearl doesn’t notice because she’s too excited. She’s set up her online dating profile and has already been offered loads of dates. I’m impressed, until she admits her profile photo “isn’t one hundred per cent accurate”.

“What d’you mean?” I ask, trying to keep talking-while-walking